tJAMBS BARNE


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The CLUTCH of CIRCUMSTANCE








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'You are a very happy man—aren't you ?'"
[Page 10.]


The C L U T C H of
CIRCUMSTANCE
By
JAMES BARNES
Author of
"Outside the Law'

D.
APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
1908


COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Published April, 1908
t


TO SOMEONE
TO WHOM I TOLD THIS STORY LONG AGO
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED





CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.—The Re-union 1
II.—Misgivings 17
III. —A Pledge of Verity 28
IV. —Vantage Points 41
V.—The Charm of Circe 58
VI.—A Plea for Charity 75
VII.—Confession 93
VIII.—In the Path of Fate 109
IX.—The New Woof on the Loom . . . .124
X.—The Decision 136
XI—The Breaking 151
XII.—The Conflicting Force 167
XIII. —The Rescue 182
XIV. —The End of Silence 191
XV.—Ashes of Hope . 202
XVI.—The Key of Chance 213
XVII.—The Trying of the Ways 222
XVin.—The Last Day 232
vii


CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
XIX.—The Makings of a Mystery 243
XX.—Stopped 252
XXI.—The Arrival 258
XXII.—The League of Silence 271
XXIII. —Anaesthesia 282
XXIV. —A Review of Evidence 292
XXV.—The Swing of the Pendulum . . 303
XXVI.—The Trial 306
XXVII.—The Verdict 338
XXVIII.—The Hope that Dies Not . .346
XXIX.—In Expiation 353
XXX—The Devious Ways 371
XXXI—The Sighted Coast 379
ENVOI—The Harbor 384


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
'You are a very happy man—aren't you?'" Frontispiece
He turned and left her standing there" .... 72
'Don't stay here,'he implored. 'Leave me alone'" . 188
And there the dawn found her" 370





THE
CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
CHAPTER I
THE REUNION
ICONFESS you surprised me. But I see how it
is—the big cities no longer tempt you," ob-
served the Rev. Franklin Bellwood, glancing
out of the window as he toyed with the worn string of
his eyeglasses. Then, abruptly and somewhat ab-
sently, he added: "My! but it is hot to-day! Eh?
Very close and hot!"
The little front garden back of the evergreens ex-
haled a moist fragrance—bees hummed everywhere.
The sunlight was sifting through the vines into the rec-
tory study, scents of box hedge and honeysuckle min-
gling with the odors of old books and tobacco smoke.
"Well, the cities didn't tempt you when you be-
came a country parson," returned the occupant of the
armchair, ignoring the reference to the weather, "and
you see a doctor has an advantage, in a place where he
enjoys a fairly good reputation to begin with. Be-
sides," he continued, pausing an instant thoughtfully,
"you know my position, Frank; it isn't money that I
am after—only a chance to settle down in a place where
I hope to be contented and incidentally, perhaps, to
be useful. I've had enough of big cities!"
1


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
The minister, who had turned to the window
once more, half rose suddenly and sat down again.
Throughout the interview he had shown signs of ex-
treme nervousness. Two or three times his friend had
looked at him with the quick glance of the physician
who is making a clandestine diagnosis of a patient's
condition. Now, as there was no reply, he put his train
of thought into words.
"Frank," he went on, "you've been working too
hard—I know you like a book—you keep things too
close to you. You should let go now and then. How
many times I longed to have you with me in Paris,
Berlin, Vienna, or London! The old firm together:
'Bellwood & Kellogg'! Remember when we burned
our names into the door at college?"
"I remember that you did and paid all damages,"
responded the minister with an attempted smile.
"Rather a neat job; I was quite proud of it! It
seems long ago that we parted company, doesn't it?"
"Twelve years ago—this June."
Lawrence Kellogg half echoed the other's sigh.
Then he brightened, in an effort to lessen the very evi-
dent constraint.
"Do you recollect the long arguments we used to
have?—especially the one in which we nearly came to
blows, because I said Brimfield was a stupid hole of a
place, only fit for clergymen, old maids, and collectors
of beetles?"
"Yes, I think I do. You've changed your opinion
in a measure, now, haven't you?"
"Rather! People over there began taking me for
an Englishman, and I thought it about time to return
to 'My country, 'tis of thee!' I cleared out without
2


THE REUNION
saying ' good-by' to a soul—I suppose they think I've
gone to Thibet again. But I needed rest. I've a book
in my mind, mistily, too. Here would be a good place
to do it."
"You felt that you had a 'call'—is that it?"
"Exactly—no joking; you've hit it! And talking
of that—do you remember another argument we once
had upon the 'Calls of Conscience'—the year of our
graduation? How eloquent you grew when Sprague
defined conscience as 'mental indigestion'! I'll bet
you made a sermon of it."
The Reverend Bellwood lifted his eyebrows and
shot a glance at his friend, uncertain at first if he was
chaffing or serious.
"Come now, didn't you?"
"Let me think; perhaps I may have."
"Same old Frank! Direct questions are a bother!
But now, more quizzing: My arrival was rather a sur-
prise, eh? Don't blame you for thinking I'd never come
back. I suppose people here have forgotten me; but
I intend to open up my father's house at the corner—
it's kept in good repair; old Mary and her daughter
have lived in the kitchen wing. Then I'll get an office
somewhere and hang out my shingle. I can scarcely
believe that I have been but six hours in the town.
There has been a lot of building. The new church,
near the station, they tell me, is yours. You've done
good work here, Frank, haven't you?"
"I fear I've done very little. We finished the
church last fall; there's still a mortgage on it." In
the reply there dwelt a slight note of uneasiness.
"Well, as I intend to become a member of your
congregation, you might let me"
3


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"No! no!" came the interruption quickly. "You
have always done too much for me, Lawrence. I owe
you a great deal now—more than I can ever repay!
You are the one person in the world I cannot take it
from. Please, please do not; I ask you!" He raised
his hand in a gesture of protest.
"Nonsense, nonsense; don't talk like that, old
chap! I won't have it! You know, you never owed me
anything."
The minister carefully arranged the papers on the
desk at his elbow.
"It isn't nonsense," he replied. "I don't want you
to think I've forgotten, that's all. ... I could never
have gone through 'The Divinity' if it had not been
for you. Then you remember how it was at college;
and there are lots of things besides."
"Now, my dear Frank—" began his companion de-
precatingly, and then he stopped.
For a moment there was silence. Despite Kellogg's
attempt to rough it off, there was, underlying their
talk so far, a vague feeling of being, as it were, on
guard. Their first greeting and hand clasp had been
followed by that strangeness of manner that comes,
not infrequently, to old friends who have gone divers
ways, to meet long afterwards. Evidently, also, both
were avoiding a subject that sooner or later they must
touch upon. Each was waiting for the other to begin.
It was the minister who did so.
"Amy should be in now, presently. I can't imag-
ine what keeps her so long," he said, straightening the
papers with the ivory ruler. "She took the children
down to their grandmother's for the afternoon. You
will stay to tea, won't you?"
4


THE REUNION
"It's very good of you, but I'm afraid I can't wait
much longer "—this with a responsive accent of for-
mality. "I promised Judge Hollins to meet him at the
hotel—I am stopping there, you know, till I get mat-
ters settled. He has had charge of all my affairs here.
. . . You said 'children' just now, Frank; there are
two of them, aren't there?"
"Yes, a boy and a girl—didn't Amy write you?
I've been a bad correspondent; I am more than
ashamed."
He looked up appealingly, drew a long breath, and
began again to fumble with the glasses on his worn,
clerical waistcoat.
"We've both been very bad correspondents; let it
drop at that," Kellogg replied.
There was another pause. Not a line had he re-
ceived in the last ten years from Amy Bellwood,
except the strangely short and strangely worded note
announcing her approaching marriage, and one of
thanks for his wedding present. Several of his epistles
antedating this had remained unanswered. Why had
she not explained some things he had asked her? He
had felt cruelly hurt and disappointed and, in regard
to some happenings, utterly at loss to understand.
In Bellwood's letters, subsequent to his marriage, he
had made but little reference to his wife and few to his
family affairs, until, as such things happen, the cor-
respondence had practically ceased. For five years, at
least, no word had been exchanged.
Kellogg began to wonder if Amy had grown into
a settled, matronly person, suited to the home of a
minister with a small and struggling congregation.
He recalled her ambitions, her wide viewpoints, and
5


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
her love of living. She had a soul above sewing cir-
cles and a mind above mission boxes. He had always
thought of her as being capable of great things. He
smiled slowly to himself as he recalled their boy and
girl affection—for he endeavored thus to look at it.
Bellwood, of course, had known. It seemed very long
ago; but, nevertheless, for some reason, Kellogg's
heart beat a little faster at the recollection. He was
to have returned—surely he would have returned—and
they were to be free, absolutely free in the mean time.
That was the compact between them.
Their youthful wisdom, apparently, had been well
borne out—she had decided for herself; there had been
no ground for reproaches. He still possessed a bundle
of letters she had written him during the first months
of his sojourn in Berlin and Vienna before the sudden
announcement of her engagement to the present rector
of St. John's. He closed his mind to the retrospect.
He would keep the letters no longer.
To break the uncomfortable silence he inquired
casually about some of the townsfolk; the intent was
obvious.
As the minister was about to reply, there came
the sound of children's voices from the vine-covered
veranda. Kellogg rose at once. Bellwood crossed
quickly to the door.
"I'd better tell her you are here," he said, speak-
ing in a whisper. "It would be better, perhaps, eh?"
He paused irresolutely, with his hand on the knob.
Kellogg, half smiling, nodded, and stood waiting
by the desk as Bellwood stepped into the hall.
The doctor looked about him. Everywhere else in
the house was the exacting threadbare neatness with
6


THE REUNION
which pride covers the borders of poverty. But here
how well he remembered everything!—the rows of old,
ragged-backed books that Frank had inherited, with
his calling, from his father, the worn leather chairs, the
hanging lamp, the disreputable stuffed owl that had
now lost an eye and looked more disreputable than ever,
the mantelpiece crowded with odds and ends of old
china and faded photographs, reminiscent of college
years and bygone memories.
Something, very foreign to the rest of the sur-
roundings, forcibly intruded itself: a toy horse peeped
from under the frayed edges of the window curtain,
and a work basket full of unfinished sewing was on the
table. He pulled himself together as the door opened.
"Amy, you have not forgotten—" began Bell-
wood's voice, with an attempt at cheeriness. And then
she came into the room.
No, he had not misjudged her; he saw that at a
glance—she was capable of great things! But in that
glance, even before she spoke, he saw much else. She
had changed but little and yet a great deal, inscrutably.
She was not matronly; in fact, if anything, she was
slenderer, she was more beautiful; but the essence of
her, the spirit, had altered. Her face was not care-
worn or lined; it was slightly flushed and very girlish
now, as she advanced toward him with her hand outj
stretched. But the tangle of brown hair, that had been
so gloriously wayward, was drawn back closer on the
temples; the gray eyes had grown steady, they danced
no longer. Something surged up in his heart as she
drew nearer—it disconcerted him.
"Forgotten!" she exclaimed. "Frank must be
taking leave of his senses! So you've come back to us!
2 7


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Who was it?—somebody was speaking of you the other
day, and we were wondering—" She paused and
looked back at the doorway where her husband was still
standing.
Beside him, peering shyly into the room, were two
children; the elder a boy of six, the younger a little
girl of four.
"Come in, come in, young people," she continued,
with the slight amusement young mothers affect when
presenting their offspring. "Here's some one you
must know."
"And some one who wants to know you," cried
Kellogg, bending forward.
It was the first time he had spoken, and the words
seemed to afford a relief from the tension he felt he
must be showing.
The boy held back, viewing the visitor with steady,
observant eyes, one hand clinging to his mother's
skirts; but the girl came to him at once.
Kellogg picked her up in his arms and kissed her
almost fiercely. The little one looked at him in be-
wilderment. Then the boy came forward extending his
hand.
"You were always fond of children, weren't you,
Larry?" said Mrs. Bellwood evenly.
It was a grateful shock of further relief to him
that she had gone back to using his first name so
readily. Woman's natural gift had come to the res-
cue of the awkward moment.
"Yes," he returned, "very, always."
"Do let us sit down. We have so much to talk
about," she continued, at the same time giving the
children a whispered dismissal. The minister edged up
8


THE REUNION
his chair, his eyes following every expression on his
wife's face.
. "What are your plans now?" asked Mrs. Bell-
wood directly, her gray eyes studying Kellogg as if
searching for some change in him. "I suppose that
you will soon be going off again. You intended to
surprise us, didn't you?—perhaps Frank has asked you
that very question."
"Yes, he did," returned the doctor. "As to my
plans, I'll repeat them: I hope to settle down here—
well—for the rest of my life! I'm sending over all my
things, even my dog. That ought to show a perma-
nent idea! Of course, I may run away now and then,
but I intend to make Brimfield my home."
Unintentionally he had given an emphasis to the
end of the sentence. Then he went on and detailed his
plans with a volubility that was new to him. He spoke
of the longing that had been growing for some time
within him, and how, of late, his mind had reverted to
the old scenes and surroundings. He described how,
at last, this desire, this longing, this "call," had been
so strong that he had burned his bridges behind him,
giving up the beginnings of a very good practice that
he had established in London, and turned his footsteps
homeward. Like wandering Ulysses, he had returned
to his Ithaca. "Only," he added, in conclusion,
"there's no Penelope, and people seem to have gone
along very well without me."
There was more desultory talk, more questions and
answers; then the guest rose to take his departure.
Again he had to refuse the invitation to stay and sup,
and Bellwood followed him to the gate of the little
front garden. There the two shook hands.
9


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Larry," said the minister, as if acting upon im-
pulse, "the latchstring is always out for you. You
remember how it was when we were boys together—my
home is yours."
"Thanks, old fellow," returned Kellogg; "you are
a very happy man—aren't you?"
Bellwood flicked a caterpillar from a leaf of the
big rosebush. "Happy ?—yes," he replied; "some-
times so much so that—that I wonder if I could have
deserved it."
"There, you see; that introspective conscience of
yours bobs up again." His friend slapped him play-
fully on the shoulder. "Same old Frank!"
Then, with a laugh and a wave of the hand, he hur-
ried down the street.
As he strode away he was indulging in a little in-
trospection on his own account. As yet he could not
analyze his feelings completely. He was almost angry
with himself for being disturbed—at least for showing
it—upon his meeting with Amy Bellwood. Yet, as he
went over all the sensations of the first interview, they
occurred again. Even the recollection of the sound of
her voice started his heart beating faster. What a
wonderful voice she had! So suggestive of all the qual-
ities of expression, and the same old way of looking
squarely and deeply into one's eyes! But she was
changed—in what he could not determine, nor did he
wish to. Just at that moment he was anxious to shake
off his mood, to change the trend of his recollections.
He rejoiced when he saw Judge Hollins's portly figure
standing near the veranda of the hotel across the street.
"Well, Lawrence, my boy," began the old gentle-
man in his didactic, sonorous voice, "I was saying to
10


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Well, I don't know," responded the old lawyer,
spreading his napkin over his capacious waistcoat.
> "We're a pretty healthy community."
"Jess so, jess so," responded Mr. Slocum. "But
we're glad to have the young man back with us.
Kind of a prodigal's return! I guess you'll soon be
trottin' off again!" He laughed and pushed Kel-
logg's shoulder. "Best way to keep a fellow in one
place is to marry him down! Ye ain't married, are
ye?" Again the gentle push, accompanied this time
by a wink. "Yes! Seems to me, now, I heard some
talk of it."
"No," answered Kellogg tritely, " I'm a confirmed
old bachelor."
"That's the way we all talked once," laughed Mr.
Slocum. "Hullo! hullo! here comes our usual evening
shower!"
A few shutters banged; there was a grumble of
thunder and a sudden, pattering downpour of slanting
rain. Mr. Slocum rose to the occasion.
"I never see'd such peculiar weather," he began;
"seems to me you can't count on it at all. I don't
remember such"
Just then somebody called from the doorway and,
with a final wag of his head, he departed.
The judge heaved a sigh of relief.
"Ellery isn't changed much," he observed. "Chan-
cellor McGee once had him on the witness stand and
'dognozed' his case properly."
"What was that?" laughed Kellogg.
"Rush of words to the face," the judge replied,
"chronic and incurable. . . . Did you see Frank Bell-
wood? I knew you were going there."
12


THE REUNION
"Yes," Kellogg nodded, "and I want to ask a few
questions. . . . How is he doing?"
"Very well, I should say; very well indeed; preaches
most remarkably fine sermons sometimes—wonderful
words, beautifully spoken! He gets a good stipend,
too, thanks to old Esterbrook's endowment. But I
guess for some reason they're pretty hard up just now.
There was a good lawyer lost when he turned parson
—would have made a splendid special pleader! Our
friend Ellery here has joined his congregation; goes,
all togged up, to St. John's every Sunday. I went
to hear Frank once—I ain't much of a churchgoer—
but he would have had the jury with him, I can tell
you that! It was shortly after his marriage to Amy
Winter. The subject of the sermon was 'The De-
mands of Conscience' or something of the kind, if I
remember rightly.""
Kellogg started slightly, but did not smile.
"Tell me of the Winters," he said. "I knew the
old colonel died very suddenly, soon after I went
abroad; I supposed he'd leave the family well
to do."
"Hardly a red cent," was the return. "Like your
good father he didn't have the proper eye for specula-
tion. To be exact, he left two or three government
bonds, a thirty-acre farm, well mortgaged, some debts,
and about one hundred and ninety-odd thousand dol-
lars' worth of stock in a no-good gold mine out West
somewhere. No, come to think, down in Mexico; I
remember the name now—the 'El Cintura'; but
'twasn't worth paper! How he'd have made out if it
hadn't been for his pay as supervisor I don't know!
Mrs. Winter's got her pension and just about enough
13


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
to scratch along on. Her widowed sister-in-law, Mrs.
Blatchford, lives with her; she's librarian now at the
Atheneum. Take it the two old ladies have a pretty
hard pull at times; Mrs. Winter's been ailing since
spring." He paused for a moment and then resumed
thoughtfully: "Amy didn't get a penny! Splendid
little woman, though, worth her weight in gold, and
still the prettiest girl in Brimfield. When she was
studying trained nursing up at Antioch, why, Walter
Smith and half the young doctors— Do you know, I
once thought you"
His friend did not reply. The judge, who had
quick perceptions, changed the subject and soon
pushed himself back, brushing the crumbs from the
folds of his waistcoat.
"Let's go outside and smoke," he said. "The
shower's cooled things off and laid the dust."
Together they went out on the veranda and seated
themselves in the polished wooden chairs. There was
a refreshing breeze swaying the elm branches overhead,
the eaves of the old portico were dripping slow drops
into the little pools in the glistening, graveled walks,
and somewhere from a garden a thrush was piping
blithely. It was peaceful, beautiful, and homelike; and
yet Lawrence Kellogg, as he sat there silently smoking,
wondered if he had found what he was seeking after all!
The judge, who had been watching him, turned sud-
denly and interrupted his thoughts.
"Larry," he said, " suppose we put off any talk we
had for this evening, if it's the same to you. I've got
some papers to look over, and we can take things up
to-morrow."
"All right, sir; to tell the truth I don't feel much
14


THE REUNION
like it myself. I've had a long, tiresome journey to-
day."
"Then I'll say good night and leave you. You'll
want to turn in early."
"I don't think I will sit up very late, judge.
Good night."
They parted with a friendly hand shake, the old
gentleman crossing the street to his office, leaving the
doctor alone on the veranda. The electric arc lamp
that had begun to sputter from its pole in front of the
hotel threw its wavering light full upon him, but the
brilliant glare did not seem to disturb him in the least.
It was rather a remarkable face, Kellogg's—not
handsome, certainly, from a classical standpoint, but
full of the latent suggestion of many things. It was
the humanity of it that was distinctly appealing: the
lurking contradiction of the kindly brow, and the deep-
set, keen-sighted eyes—eyes that could be masterful,
or soft and humorous. The determined nose and chin
belied the curve of the smooth-shaven lips, the restless
lips of a man that might be tempted, not easily, but
strongly, who would enjoy things to the full—who
might, perhaps, enjoy the temptations. Just now the
curve was drawn into a straight line over the white,
even teeth.
The 'bus, that had gone to the station to meet the
ten o'clock train, drew up with a lurch at the portico
steps. A few passengers clambered out. The sound
of voices and the thumping of baggage disturbed Kel-
logg's reverie; he rose quickly. Declining Mr. Slo-
cum's invitation to join him and one or two guests
at the bar, he climbed the stairs to his room. For a
long time after he had gone to bed he tossed uneasily
15


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
—he had not yet adjusted his mental focus to the
changes that had occurred. ... So the Winters had
been in dire straits! Amy had studied at the hospital
—he had not heard of it. There were lots of threads
for him to pick up.
Would he ever be happy here, in Brimfield? Would
it not be better to abandon it all now, before he had
further committed himself? What strange urging was
it that had prompted his impulse to return? Even
now, as he thought of the interview with Frank Bell-
wood and the meeting with his wife, he wondered at the
force of his own complex sensations. Again he felt
half angry at the effect of Amy Bellwood's presence
upon him—that sudden heart gasp that had been so
unexpected! And why had she started when he had
spoken of being "called"? Those questioning gray
eyes, why had they searched him so? Why had he
come? But retreat was easy! He could make some
plausible explanation for his sudden departure, despite
his confident assertions at the rectory. A day or so
would suffice for him to arrange any business affairs,
and by the end of the week he would be once more on
the ocean. The short voyage over, back in London
again, he could take up his life where he had left it.
He determined finally to put off his decision until the
morning, and at last fell into a troubled sleep.


CHAPTER II
MISGIVINGS
AVERY modest "shingle" had appeared at the
entrance to a little two-story brick structure
on Main Street. It announced a name, fol-
lowed by the usual M.D. and, in numerals, the hours
of consultation. It had been there just a week.
In the goodly sized front office on the second floor
Lawrence Kellogg sat in a big leather chair near the
wide-open window. On the edge of the desk beside him
was a large leather portfolio and pile of uncut mag-
azines; a copy of a medical journal lay open on his
knee. His strong fingers were clasped across his
chest, and his eyes looked blankly out through the elm
branches at the clock tower of the new building on
the opposite corner of the square. The strident-voiced
bell had struck the hour unheeded. The lengthening
shadows were creeping over the grass plot about the
Soldiers' Monument, trimmed with its little pyramids
of shiny black cannon balls, but he still sat there,
breathing deep, long breaths.
The retrospect that was apparently so absorbing
could hardly have been enjoyable, judging from Kel-
logg's expression; and his expressions were generally
truth-telling. The fact was that he was looking back
at the strange mixture he had made of life. He knew
17


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
that the only reason that he had ever accomplished
anything—and, by the way, he very much belittled his
accomplishments—was because he had never lost belief
in his dominant will. He had touched many sides of
life—he frankly admitted that he possessed the germs
of most human weaknesses—but born in him had been
the desire to worship and to serve. The first he had
satisfied by a mental obeisance to a somewhat in-
tangible ideal, and the second, increasingly as the years,
by seeing the practical results of his work in his pro-
fession.
It had been here that he most frequently had been
obliged to call upon his will. His interest depended
directly upon the seriousness of his task; he greeted
difficulties with relief, accepting the trivial with a frank
acknowledgment of its boresomeness.
Lawrence Kellogg's inheritance and his early train-
ing might, beyond all doubt, have accounted for
some of his peculiar contradictions. His grandfather,
Amandus Kellogg, whom he just remembered as a
strong-willed old man of eighty, had been one of the
founders of Brimfield, moving from New England to
what was then the almost unpeopled West, early in
1800. He had built the old homestead with its wide-
ranging outbuildings that clung to the outskirts of
the town; and it was his original holdings there and
in the neighboring manufacturing center of Kenton
Falls, eight miles below on the river, that had enabled
his only son to live his life as it pleased him, and placed
his only grandchild, now, if not in the class of the
wealthy, at least in the ranks of the independently
well to do.
His mother was not even a memory to Lawrence.
18


MISGIVINGS
She had died, alas! when she had presented him to the
world. His infancy had been spent among strangers,
subject to the mercies and ministrations of nurses and
governesses, for his father had taken but little inter-
est in his existence until the boy, who had been born in
England, was some seven years of age. It was then
Lawrence had returned with his somewhat erratic parent
to Brimfield.
His father had always been a puzzle to him from
his earliest days; he had had so many interests, so
many friends. From a reunion of the Grand Army at
Shiloh to a National Committee meeting in Chicago,
from the race track at Saratoga to the salle de jeu at
Monaco, the old veteran had drifted. He had some-
thing about him that forestalled familiarity; at the
same time he had the gift of progressing socially with-
out effort, and this his son had, in a measure, inherited.
It had been so in college. He had captained both
the nine and the eleven with no thought to himself of
the unusual honor, and he had spent his large allow-
ance freely with no idea of gaining popularity.
The reason that he had adopted a profession was
simple. His father's advice, given but a short time
before his death, the boy had worked into what was,
more or less, a personal code.
"Larry," the general had said, "you will find
plenty of people eager to help you enjoy life; but
you will only find happiness in being able to do some-
thing worth while, alone and unaided. If, in the doing
of it, you can help others, so much the better. Don't
make the mistake I did—the war unsettled me at the
crucial point of my life. Be something!"
"How about medicine?" the boy had asked.
19


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Capital," his father had replied; " only don't half
learn it; promise me—if you undertake it—you'll put
it through."
And Lawrence Kellogg, from sheer force of deter-
mination, had " put it through," and could look at his
work without the shamed feeling of neglected oppor-
tunities.
But now, as he sat there thinking, he was forced to
the acknowledgment that Amy Winter had played a
bigger part in his life than he had ever confessed be-
fore. He had tried to reason himself out of this con-
viction the first night of his home-coming; but it had
grown to a certainty. Very often during his unset-
tled and, at times, rather feverish existence abroad—
after his decision to remain there—he had found him-
self making an involuntary mental comparison between
the mere memory of her charm and her personality—
this sometimes with a bitter heartlift—and the proxim-
ity of a very tangible physical attraction. Yet, since
her marriage, he had tried to shut her out of his
thoughts. He would not pause to build the what-
might-have-been on the foundations of an uncemented
tenderness. Nevertheless, his dreams had often
brought to him a reality of loss, a loss confirmed in
the force of his present and somewhat startling re-
awakening.
There was no use in attempting to reason himself
out of the situation, however, any more than there was
in dwelling on his present mood. She would never
know—to that he subscribed himself with a firmer pres-
sure of his straight-drawn lips.
He rose from the easy chair and picked up the
portfolio. Taking from it a packet of letters he broke
20


MISGIVINGS
the string that held them and, going to the fireplace,
touched a match to the pile of kindlings.
A drawing, accompanying a banal little poem en-
titled tritely, "Old Love Letters," that he had seen in
a cheap magazine, came to his mind—only these could
hardly be called love letters. But the forced smile
wasted. He caught a few words in the ink, still visible
on a crinkling, blackened sheet that had slipped its
envelope; they were the last she had written him pre-
ceding her strange silence. "Dear boy: I shall never
cease to—" He threw the remaining letters hurriedly
into the grate. For some time he stood there looking
down at the embers.
"Hullo, Larry; hullo!" cried a voice from behind
him suddenly. "A fire! on this warm evening! Well,
well! My stars! What ails you—blood thinning?"
"No," replied Lawrence, looking over his shoulder
and seeing Judge Hollins standing there, almost fill-
ing the doorway. "No fear; just burning some old
papers."
"Destroying no evidence, I hope, son?"
"No, judge; hardly."
"Beg pardon; I was only funning. I was about to
offer you my legal services at a discount! Once lost
a case for a client of mine—'tarnation glad I did, by
the way!—and when we left court he said: 'See here,
Mister Hollins, they told me you were a big lawyer
and a good one, and now I know why: you weigh over
two hundred pounds and you've never yet been in
jail!'"
Lawrence joined belatedly in the judge's laugh—
somehow he did not feel in the mood for levity. The
old gentleman clapped him on the shoulder.
21


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Come, come! don't be so serious! She may relent,
my boy. You know the old adage"
But Kellogg had interrupted him, stepping quickly
to the window. "Look here, judge!" he said.
"You're just the one to answer a question! Here
comes that big car—it's been going up and down the
street all the afternoon—whose is it?"
"Mrs. Ned Rice's," the judge rejoined, drawing
closer, "and that's Mrs. Ned in the back, and sitting
alongside of her is the derndest skunk in this country
—and his name is Wilford Murger, spelt M-u-r-g-e-r."
"Yes, I've heard of him; hopes to be our next dis-
trict attorney, eh? But tell me about Mrs. Rice—who
is she?"
"You remember Rice, who used to own the Upper
Falls Mill?"
"Yes, certainly; I thought he was dead."
"So he is—deader'n a door nail. That's his widow
—people still call her 'Mrs. Ned.' She's a wonder!
Take care of yourself, my boy. I'm an old man—
Hullo! hullo!"
The big Panhard, in charge of the machinist, had
swirled in a circle, and had come to rest with a
burbling, choking spasm, immediately beneath the win-
dow. A man climbed out of the tonneau and stood
talking earnestly with the woman, who, lifting her veil,
leaned forward to hear better what he was saying. A
laugh, hearty and musical, but a trifle loud, perhaps,
suddenly sounded above the slow throbbing of the ma-
chine.
"My stars, they hold hands a long time!" ob-
served the judge, with an amused little chuckle. "Our
friend, Mr. Murger, is a very favored mortal!"


MISGIVINGS
Lawrence looked down and perceived that, sure
enough, Mrs. Rice's fingers reposed in those of Mr.
Murger, or his reposed in hers; which, it was hard to
tell. And just then, for some reason, the lady raised
her head and saw that she was observed. Lawrence
was conscious of a bold pair of eyes and a smile that
flashed white teeth, as she recognized the judge. But
she made no effort to disengage her hand, and waved
the other in an unembarrassed gesture of greeting and
invitation above Mr. Murger's shoulder.
"So much for him!" laughed the old gentleman.
"That gives him his status—plain as a note from
Bradstreet's!" He backed from the window. "I like
Mrs. Ned in her way—but I don't like some of her
friends," he went on. "She wants us to come down.
You'll have to meet her sooner or later; she asked me
to bring you to see her. But all I can say is: Be care-
ful!" He shook his head knowingly, with mock seri-
ousness.
"Have no fear for me," returned Lawrence, smil-
ing; and unconsciously his glance strayed to the pa-
thetic little pile of ashes in the grate.
The judge had caught the look and the momentary
shadow of a saddened reflection.
"You're in no trouble, Larry boy, are you?" he
asked. "No entanglements or anything? Come, now,
'fess up! My affection for your father and my regard
for you may make me seem inquisitive; but believe
me"
Lawrence turned to him smiling.
"No trouble, old friend," he said. "If I ever
should have any, you are the one I would come to."
"Don't ever forget that," rejoined the judge.
3 23


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"And now let's go down and meet the widow—I feel
like a recruiting sergeant, 'pon my word I do."
"Well, I don't feel like a raw recruit exactly," re-
turned Lawrence, resting his hand on the judge's
shoulder, and with a laugh they went down the steps
together.
Mr. Murger had flown by the time they reached the
sidewalk; his retreating figure could be seen hurrying
swiftly down the street. With a half glance behind
him he turned the nearest corner.
Mrs. Rice's greeting was cordial and unaffected.
Lawrence was conscious of the very firm pressure of
a large and well-formed hand, and a sincerely inter-
ested pair of light-blue eyes that gazed, half challeng-
ing, into his.
"The judge has told me something about you, Dr.
Kellogg," said the widow, her red lips parting in a
frankly open smile that showed again her beautiful
teeth, "and I really wanted to meet you before you
left us for good."
"But I don't intend leaving; I've no such idea."
"If I was a betting man," laughed Mrs. Rice, " I'd
lay you two to one that you won't stay here six
months."
"And having moral scruples against betting on a
certainty, I would refuse to accept any such wager."
Kellogg was fully conscious that the bold eyes had
taken him in, not unapprovingly, from head to foot.
"We'll compromise," suggested the widow; "I'm
going away myself, to be gone two months—a flying
trip to Paris. If you are here when I return, you'll
have dinner with me."
Much amused, Lawrence thanked the lady with the
24


MISGIVINGS
easy gallantry befitting the occasion, but inwardly, for
some reason, he congratulated himself that the next
meeting was so long postponed.
"I'll keep you to your promise, remember!" smiled
Mrs. Rice. "Judge Hollins will tell you that my din-
ners are not so bad!"
"The best, madam," replied the old lawyer, bow-
ing; " they belong to the ' meals that will be memories.'
. . . When are you leaving us?"
"To-morrow afternoon; didn't you observe my
affectionate parting from 'the opposition'? Surely
you didn't think that, if I was going to see him very
soon, I would have been party to such an affecting tab-
leau!—wasn't it heartrending? I won't have anybody
to quarrel with now for a long time."
"Is he worth quarreling with? " inquired the judge.
"You seem to have thought so, from what I hear,"
bantered Mrs. Rice. "At all events, he is such an
earnest donkey that he amuses me; he's like a pet vice
that we haven't learned to like and don't approve of,
but hate to give up altogether."
"You should join the Reformers, my dear
madam!"
"I hope you are speaking politically, judge. You
know I belong to the ' Spiritual Independents'—wasn't
that what we agreed to call it? Don't compromise me
before Dr. Kellogg, please, please!"
Mrs. Rice laid her gloved hand on Lawrence's arm,
with more of a touch of good-comradeship than co-
quetry, and turned to him.
"I must be off," she said. "If you are in Paris
during the next six weeks look me up at the Ritz. If
not, dine with me when I come back. Good-by."
25


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
She spoke a word to the man at the wheel of the
huge car, and in another minute was speeding up the
street waving a farewell through the dust, to which
the judge responded with a flourish of his black slouch
hat.
"Mrs. Ned has mighty little of the ' spiritual' and
a good deal of the 'independent' about her," com-
mented the old gentleman at last. "She is most nat-
urally and charmingly earthly; and I dare say she
might be—er—contagiously unconventional. What do
you think of her?"
Kellogg replied nothing just then; but as they
strolled down the street, he asked a question.
"Has Mrs. Rice any children, judge?"
"One daughter about fifteen—goes to school in
New York—seldom or never comes here. . . . How
old should you suppose Mrs. Ned to be?"
"Heavens, don't ask me! How do you tell a wom-
an's age?"
"Well, I suppose she's thirty-five or forty. If you
asked her she'd tell you—and you could rely on its
being the truth, which is more than you can say of
some women. Yes, sir-ee—even on the witness stand!
She once said that 'a man's as old as he feels, and a
woman's just as old as she makes a man feel.' She's
about as honest as they make 'em, and about as erratic!
I don't gossip generally, but her husband left every-
thing in trust to the daughter, only considerately sta-
ting that it was by his wife's request, and another
strange clause: Mrs. Ned has got to spend a portion
of her time, every year, at Brimfield. She enjoys her
share of the income and it's big enough to keep the
pot boiling, and it does boil at times, I reckon—ah,
26


MISGIVINGS
'woman—woman, in her hours of ease'—she, er—does
whatever seems to please! My apologies to the poet!
. . . Hello! there's Ellery; let's dodge him."
They had reached the broad entrance to the old
hotel. Mr. Slocum, lounging on the porch, was cackling
to a horsy-looking individual who made occasional short
replies to Ellery's rush of words.
"Howdy, doctor!" cried the voluble proprietor to
Kellogg, as he passed, at the same time winking to the
judge; "I see'd you!" He followed them into the
hallway. "I see'd you talkin' to the lady in the auter
up the street." Then, confidentially, lowering his
voice: " She's a case, eh? Regular storm-along! Ain't
she?"
There was no reply; the judge's expression was ab-
solutely stone deaf. But Mr. Slocum was unabashed.
"I tell you there's a lot of good in her, though,"
he continued. "The factory folks down to the Falls
just swear by her."
"Supper ready, Ellery?" asked the judge cheer-
fully.
"Go right in, go right in!" replied Mr. Slocum,
waving his hand toward the dining room, and with that
he went back to the patient sufferer on the Mansion
House porch.
"Old gossiping wind bag," grunted the judge.
"But he's right; there's a lot of good in her, despite
all that—" He checked himself, and putting on his
spectacles picked up the bill of fare.


CHAPTER III
A PLEDGE OF VERITY
IT was over two months later. Kellogg had moved
from the hotel, and was living in the big house,
with the white Greek portico, that stood in lone
solemnity back of the wide lawn dotted with evergreens.
His office on Main Street had been found out by a few
of the sick and the halt, and already he had begun to
pick up a little outside practice, despite the judge's
remark about the healthfulness of the community.
One day he had been summoned to Lower Meadow
Farm, and there he had found that Mrs. Bellwood's
mother, old Mrs. Winter, was really very ill. He had
been there to call, of course, in a friendly way, as he
had called upon many of his old acquaintances. Any
number of times of late he had dropped in at the Bell-
woods'; he had lunched, supped, or dined with them
with the privilege of old friendship. But never, yet,
had he found Amy alone—except for one or two, to
him, heart-stirring, silent minutes, or occasional, acci-
dental intervals, when the talk had drifted, as if by
consent, into channels carrying it far from any ref-
erence to themselves. She seemed bent on leaving her
husband and him together, absenting herself on pleas
of household duties usually. To tell the truth, he had
seen her at longer intervals at church than elsewhere!
28


A PLEDGE OF VERITY
Since his coming Lawrence had attended the services
at St. John's religiously—that is, the Sunday morning
services. He had always believed in the capacities of
his friend, the minister; but on two occasions, at least,
he had been surprised by the flow of eloquence, the con-
tagious, spiritual enthusiasm with which the Reverend
Bellwood had swayed his congregation. It was not the
deep reasoning he had shown, but the power of putting
himself in another's place, of giving vent to the ex-
pressions of another's mental attitude.
Not only did Kellogg agree with the judge in his
opinion that the bar had lost a splendid pleader, but
he was convinced that, if acting was ever the truthful
expression of real feeling, the world had lost an artist.
Yet he could not recall that Bellwood had at any time
been on the verge of the sensational. The convincing
part of his discourse had been due to its subdued in-
tensity, its powerful suggestion, and the words, the
beautifully spoken words! Once or twice he had won-
dered if the minister's powers were not thrown away
upon his immediate following; he marveled that he had
not been tempted to a wider field than was to be found
in the little half-town, half-village community.
He was thinking all this over, now, as he drove up
from the street toward the big lonely house. Amy was
happy! That comforted him somehow, even if her sur-
render to the placid vista had puzzled him at first. He
smiled as he recalled that long-ago tirade of his in
the days of his early restlessness, when he had arrayed
ambition and pleasure against peace and contentment;
wherein he had proclaimed boldly for the living joys
of the city, and decried the bucolic existence—above
all such places as Brimfield. Yet, here, he believed
29


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
were two people who had found what few find in life.
It was odd that so often he was forced to argue that
it must be the truth.
The man who was waiting to take his horse to the
stable spoke to him before he climbed out of the buggy.
"Somebody come down from Mrs. Winter's at
three o'clock," he said, "and left a message for you
to come up there as soon as you come in."
"Who was it?" Lawrence asked.
"The hired man, sir. He 'lowed that the old lady
was took rather bad. Mrs. Bellwood's been over there
most of the afternoon."
"Put the horse up. I'll go across lots," said the
doctor, "and tell Mary I won't be back till later."
He tossed the reins round the whip and, jumping
lightly to the ground, squeezed through an opening in
the evergreen hedge and started at a fast walk through
the meadow.
It was only one of those changes that, alarming to
the uninitiated, are merely, to the physician, signs of
the inevitable end. He had spoken but a few words to
Mrs. Bellwood when he had first entered the house, so
he was not surprised, when he came down from the
sick room, to find her waiting at the bottom of the
stairs. As he reassured her, he could feel her eyes
searching him.
"Then there is no immediate danger?" she asked.
"None in the least. It is just a symptom," he
replied.
"There is no necessity for my staying here to-
night?"
"None at all. I think she will rest comfortably.
May I walk home with you, if you are going?"
30


A PLEDGE OF VERITY
She nodded thoughtfully. "I was going to ask
you to—please do." Then she added slowly: "I've
wanted to see you, Larry—wanted to talk with you.
I've been waiting for the opportunity; somehow it did
not come as I hoped it would. But I shall have to
think a little. How shall I begin?"
The pathway led back from the road and across
the meadow to a footbridge over the river. For a
few minutes neither Kellogg nor Amy said a word,
walking on in silence. He wondered if, in her mind,
there was any connection of thought between their
presence and that particular spot where the willows
threw their deepest shadows over the lazily moving
water. There must have been, for suddenly she spoke.
"Do you remember, ever so long ago, a certain
compact that we entered into, Lawrence?" Then, as
if to forestall another recollection that the words
might bring to him, she went on hurriedly: "It was
here—here, on this very spot—long ago."
"Yes," he replied, pausing, with a catch of breath
at the perturbing vividness of the remembrance.
"Here where we stand now."
"You said," continued she, as if he had not spoken,
"that you would always tell me the truth, that we
would be very, very honest with one another—always,
always, no matter what happened. Does that compact
hold good now?"
"It does," was the slow reply; "we have never
broken it."
"How long can my mother live?"
"It is hard to tell—maybe a year; or longer, per-
haps, if she could get away." The bluntness of the
speech was softened by its note of sympathy.
31


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
They had started walking again, but lingered upon
the footbridge. She had made no comment at first,
but now she spoke, so low that he bent down to listen.
"A year! It seems so short a time! Yet a great
deal can happen in a year. . . . She should get away,
you say?"
"Yes," assented Kellogg. "Your mother might
live longer if she could get to a warmer and drier
climate. It is the winter that I fear."
"It is quite hopeless, then?"
"I am afraid so."
"And nothing one can do—nothing, nothing!"
Amy Bellwood stopped, with both elbows on the
rail, looking down at the black water, then she placed
her finger tips to her eyes for an instant. Lawrence
looked at the slender white hands and those finger tips
—marked, alas! with signs of the industrious needle—
and the wonderful, beautifully youthful sweep of her
neck as she inclined her head. His heart began to beat
more rapidly; he longed to comfort her—to help her.
"It is dreadful to be poor," she said at last slowly,
half passionately; then she turned to him quickly, a
swift entreaty in her glance: "No, no; forgive me for
saying that—I mean for showing it. You were kind
to tell me the'truth; always tell me the truth, Larry.
We have to accept life just as it comes to us, don't
we?"
"It is the best rule we're taught—so far as the
world goes," he rejoined, controlling himself by a sum-
moning of will. "Some people call it philosophy. I
wonder why! Does it make it easier? I'm sure I
don't know. It's a bit of a riddle—no matter how we
read it."
32


A PLEDGE OF VERITY
"It's all in what we bring to it," she answered.
"It's not what is written there to read. We must
bring the best in us; yet it is so hard to be patient
at times, isn't it? ... I must tell Frank." She hesi-
tated. "He's not well—Larry, you must try to help
him. That's what I meant to say to you—what I
wanted to see you about. You must get him to talk
with you. Has he spoken much about himself?"
"No; but you are right, he is not well; he should
take a long rest—worry is bad for him. He feels too
keenly; you are right, Amy—and things dwell with
him. He is one who should save up his sympathies."
"Can we do that?" she asked bravely. "Surely,
if we didn't see and feel with others, life would be very
hopeless. We are either lifting or leaning; there is no
middle way. . . . But I want you to tell me—what
to do. Always be the same good friend of his—and
mine you used to be. I shall not exact too much of
you."
"You could exact nothing that would be too
much," answered Kellogg slowly. "Nothing."
She looked up at him. Had she ever exacted any-
thing? Dimly it seemed to her she had. And had he
ever failed her? Unconsciously there was a question
in her eyes.
"What is it?" He stood there gazing down at
her. "You were going to say something. Don't hold
it back! Ask me."
"No." She said it very gently. "No—I was just
thinking—wondering."
"What about?"
"Many things—we've both changed, haven't we?"
"I have, I dare say; I hope so! You haven't—
33


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
as I look at you. But— No, really, you haven't
changed, in any way I could define."
"Oh, yes, I have; a great deal. People don't stand
still; some show changes less than others; but every-
thing we go through leaves a mark, inside or out. We
may forget it or hide it for a time; but it's there."
"But you were going to ask me something—you
said that you were 'wondering'— Please go on."
He had been thinking of a plan; he hoped that she
would lead the way to his proposing it.
"I was wondering if you had been happy." Her
eyes sought his face with an unspoken offer of swift
sympathy. "I had so hoped"
He hesitated now. The question opened so many
dangerous passes. He parried. "Do I look unhappy?
Is that what you see in me?"
"Yes, sometimes. But your chief change is that
you can make up your mind now. You are sure of
things. . . . But I will ask it! Have you been un-
happy?"
He tried to smile. But she saw that he did not wish
to go on—if the subject was himself.
"Do forgive me," she murmured softly. "You
see, you should not have let me ask— I only wish that
I could help. ... I can't, can I?"
He shook his head and turned to her again. "It
is you I want to talk about," he said, meeting her eyes.
"I know it may be tactless; but I always wanted to do
things my own way—won't you let me manage things
now?"
"You can—you're going to."
"You mean about Frank andi"
"Yes; you will try to get him to give up here,


A PLEDGE OF VERITY
for a time, and rest. Advise him to drop his work,
won't you? He must, really he must. And you will
tell me just how it is with him?"
"Of course I will; I'll give him an overhauling,
and you must back up all my sage instructions. But
now listen to me, Amy: that's not all I want to do!"
"Well?"
"Let me make it seem possible—I mean easier—
for him to drop work, as you say; advice is so cheap
that it is less than nothing."
"Oh, no, no; please don't," she interposed. "I
know what you are going to say. We couldn't accept.
We couldn't! I'm just as grateful—don't mistake me
—I'm ever so grateful. But it couldn't be done that
way! If you could persuade him to go somewhere
and rest; then he could return, perhaps, and go on
again, strong and well. Then I might take my mother
South this winter; I—we have a little saved. I've been
preparing for it—since—oh, long ago; and Mr. Lewis
—he's the senior warden—he knows Frank's not in
good health. The congregation might—I am sure they
would"
She stopped, almost in dismay, as a person does
who, in a self-argument, runs up against the blank
wall of the unanswerable.
He stood silent, thinking hard. He knew that the
congregation had all they could do to meet the inter-
est on that millstone of a mortgage. He saw the
despair in her face. He reasoned to its source, but
perceived he must not show his pity—though her head
was bowed again.
"But, Amy, doesn't our old compact that we made
here, so long ago, mean more than just simply being
35


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
truthful? You once gave it a name, a name like a
story: 'The Great Friendship '—wasn't that what
you called it? Let me just be that friend, won't
you?"
"Why, of course, you will always be ' that friend.'
You are the very one—the only one! How could it
be otherwise? You know when you returned so sud-
denly it was as if you must have known how much I
—we needed you—needed you just now."
"But—unless one is given a chance—how can the
need be proved? And you have made up your mind
not to let me help." Although it was a simple state-
ment it was keen with questioning.
"But I've told you how."
"Not practically. Frank has an absurd preju-
dice; he won't listen. It's worry that's the greatest
part of his trouble. Worry kills quicker than pace—
Now, please, won't you listen to an idea of mine, a
suggestion? It is just as easy"
She anticipated his words and checked him.
"Please don't begin that way; it is the wrong way to
begin. We must be in your debt for friendship; that
is something we can repay." She smiled a pathetic
little smile. "Don't you see?" she asked.
"I won't say I see—but count on my aid."
Their eyes met again. "Always," she said, "and
you must trust me, too—to understand." Again she
hesitated. "Something very big, very great, has come
into your life. That's what has changed you, Law-
rence!"
"Yes—something bigger than I ever knew, or
thought."
"Poor Larry! And I had so hoped you would be
36


A PLEDGE OF FERITY,
happy. I had longed so to hear of it. I thought
perhaps you might like to tell me. I used to keep say-
ing: 'Some day, perhaps, I'll hear.' But I never
heard."
"There is nothing to tell, Amy."
Unknown to him his voice had shaken. He stepped
back and half turned away to smother the impulse of
heart and tongue. He was frightened at his sudden
exaltation, wrung through and through by the stirring
of his great unspoken longing.
"I wish I could help. I am so sorry." She had
half extended her hand toward him; he seemed to feel
it, although he did not see it. By all means it was
better so just then that he did not touch that
hand!
"We must be going," she said at last.
The lights were beginning to show in the windows
of a few of the outlying houses, and the illuminated
front of the clock tower in the big building on the
square showed that it was after eight. They walked
on again in silence, a silence he felt grateful for, as
he left her at the gate of the rectory. But the pres-
sure of her fingers, as they rested in his for a minute,
stayed with him a long time; the thrill of the low voice,
the pathos of the brave gray eyes, haunted him. How
her beauty had been enhanced by the twelve years! It
was, too, as if he had a fresh gift of understanding of
her soul and mind. Again there swept over him that
overwhelming sense of loss, untinged as yet by any
thought of jealousy! And he was puzzled by her atti-
tude. He would have to watch his own more carefully!
He felt the subconscious gratitude that a man does for
an accidental, but timely, warning. But there had been
37


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
some guarded intention in her questioning. What
could it be?
When he reached home he picked up the letters on
his desk in the library and brought them into the din-
ing room; placing them beside his plate as he began
his lonely and belated meal.
One, written in a strange, bold hand, attracted his
attention. He opened it before the rest and, as he
read, abstractedly, he first frowned, then half smiled and
tossed it carelessly aside. But before he came to his
coffee, which he brewed himself in a little bubbling
French caldron, he read it through once more.
Dear Dr. Kellogg:
So you are still here! and I have returned! Come and
dine with me as you promised? Have lots to talk about—
Paris was delightful as ever! You will be longing to be
there soon! Have you a good memory? If so, you can
prove it to me! I will give you four months more—or is
your certainty still certain? Come Thursday at eight; or
Friday, or any old time— But come! Dis-moi ce que tu
manges, je te dirai ce que tu es!
Yours hopefully and faithfully,
Catherine E. Rice.
The note was certainly familiar in its rather sudden
offhandedness. But at last it seemed to him that its
very good nature outweighed anything else, although
there was something in it that perplexed, even as it
amused him. Every sentence ended with a question
mark or exclamation.
He opened the rest of his mail. Three letters bore
foreign postage stamps; one was from Vienna, another
from Brussels, and the third from London. He looked
38


A PLEDGE OF VERITY
them through carefully, without a change in his ex-
pression, and took up the others. There was an invi-
tation to lecture at the Medical College at Antioch, the
big city twenty miles away on the lake front; and one
requesting a contribution to a surgical journal. He
gathered them impatiently together; then, hastily ris-
ing, went outside and, lighting a cigarette, seated him-
self on the portico steps.
A cold damp something touched his hand.
"Hullo, Robin Adair," he laughed, slipping his arm
about the rough body of the big Airedale terrier.
"You don't have any problems to face, do you, old
chap?"
He fell to thinking of that strange conversation on
the footbridge. One thing was clear: he must lead
Frank Bellwood to talk about himself. Then he would
see what could be done. There was some lurking
trouble that up to this time had been unsuspected by
him.
His thoughts drifted back to Amy: her wifely de-
votion, her loving solicitude, the fear that she had so
bravely tried to conceal, the attempt she had made to
encourage her own hope and that had shown so plainly
its futility.
He made no concealment of his own position to
himself. He had loved her in the old days with the
love of a frank-hearted, reckless boy—he had felt so
sure of her!—the playmate love that signals over
hedgerows and whistles under windows, the romping,
hand-swinging affection of rejoicing, untried youth!
It had been strong enough to have lived intangibly
through the long, unhearing years of separation. But
now! Well, he could serve—that was left to him! It
4 39


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
would be a trust as sacred as if she herself had placed
it in his keeping, a trust to be guarded from himself
as well as its existence kept sacred from the eyes of
others. And she had given him a task also—a responsi-
bility that showed her confidence. It made a bond be-
tween them, no less because it raised a barrier.


CHAPTER IV
VANTAGE POINTS
IT had been a long pull up the steep, winding path,
but at last they had reached the bare knoll that
crowned the wooded hill overlooking the valley.
Often, as boys, they had made the journey, and now,
on their first day's outing, they had chosen this for
their excursion.
"It begins to look like fall," panted the minister,
stooping to pick up a blood-red maple leaf that the
wind had drifted to the summit. Then, after a pause,
between long-drawn breaths, he continued slowly: "I
don't like to see it come—it saddens me."
"I love it," returned Kellogg, seating himself on
the ledge of a big gray bowlder. "There is no sadness
in it really. Everything bursts into a diapason of
color, like a grand finale that leaves you contented to
rest and remember it. I have been longing for the sen-
sation; one misses it abroad. Man! could anything be
more beautiful!" He swept his arm out in an all-
embracing gesture.
Three miles away, and many hundreds of feet be-
low them, lay the town of Brimfield, the white houses
showing through the trees and orchards, the clock
tower and two or three church spires rising above the
elms. The big red factories at Kenton Falls could be
41


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
seen in the distance, and here and there shining ex-
panses of the river. Up the stream, in a little valley
to the eastward, the great, unsightly standpipe of the
waterworks was softened by the distance into the tower
of a feudal castle; the only blot was an ugly gash of
excavation and unfinished masonry across a cuplike
meadow, where the new dam was in process of con-
struction. The woods all about had begun to show
patches of autumn coloring; the hillsides everywhere
were touched with haphazard spots of purple, red, and
yellow.
Bellwood, still breathing hard, leaned back against
the rock, twirling the leaf stem in his fingers. His
eyes gazed out into nothingness, for, despite his phys-
ical exhaustion, his thoughts were busy. Lawrence Kel-
logg turned from a rapt enjoyment of the view and,
for a full minute, watched him closely. He saw the
laboring chest, the flush on the pallid face, and the
trembling palpitation at the throat and temples; the
hard climb up the hill had told on the minister's vi-
tality; the clockwork was out of gear; the pendulum
swung unevenly.
"Frank," he suddenly exclaimed, "I never meant
to set you such a pace! you're out of condition;
you've got to look out for yourself. Let's hear the old
heart?"
Bellwood smiled.
"Something's been wrong for a long time, Larry,"
he returned, as Kellogg slid down beside him and placed
his ear against his chest. "Too much tobacco, too
much coffee—go on"
"Too much worry, too much many things—too
little rest," broke in Kellogg. "I'll have to take you
42


VANTAGE POINTS
in hand, Frank, old chap; you need a thorough going
over."
"It's the same old trouble. That's all!" Bell-
wood was drawing himself together. "You remember
I never could go in for athletics. I'm a bad risk; no
company will take me; I've tried several. Don't let's
talk about it."
"All right, if you don't wish to; but I repeat—
you need looking after."
"I need something, yes," Bellwood murmured pa-
thetically; "indeed I do."
"What is it, old chap?"
"I can't tell you in so many words; but if I should
try, I should say I needed peace, peace!—God give
me peace!"
He stopped suddenly, panting as hard as if he had
again climbed the hill; he turned to his companion as
if half in fear, expecting him to say something, to
search him further. But Kellogg had seated himself
on the ground, apparently without noticing the sudden
outburst; it was better to let him finish without press-
ing him just then. Bellwood, recovering slowly, sank
down beside him. The shadow of a bitter smile was on
his lips; his fingers trembled as he laid them on Kel-
logg's arm.
"You see," he said, "you cannot help me; no one
can help me! Pray forgive me all this, won't you?
—and forget it."
"I'm going to help you a lot," said his friend
earnestly.
The minister shook his head and, clasping his knees,
leaned back against the stone in silence, with closed
eyes. Kellogg stole a long look at him.
43


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
It was a beautiful face—Greek, almost, in its pu-
rity. Only the wrinkles across the brow, and the lines
downward from the eyepit, and the drooping corners
of the lips, prevented its being youthful. The long,
dark lashes against the cheeks that were now pale
again were curved and fine, like a woman's. Yet, there
was nothing neutral in its combination of strength and
weakness; it possessed certain marked elements of
power.
There was a young actor, Kellogg remembered see-
ing often in Paris, whose resemblance to Bellwood had
been striking, and whose appearance had been the sub-
ject of much discussion. He repelled some people as
strongly as he attracted others; there was no mere tol-
eration of his individuality. Women either loved him
or detested him; men were enthusiastic partisans, or
out-and-out detractors. He appealed in his acting,
also, directly to individual temperaments or passing
moods; he aroused the sensations, not the senses. Per-
sonally he had been both a libertine and a coxcomb.
Bellwood shared few of these characteristics with
this outward appearance. He certainly had some con-
trol over women, from his good looks alone, and to
these he added the quality of brains and a tenor voice
of rare quality which would have made him doubly
dangerous had he chosen knight errantry for a
pastime; seemingly, however, he possessed no desire for
adventure. His nickname at college, " Saint Anthony,"
quite aptly described him so far as his feelings for the
gentler sex were concerned. With men his influence
had its limitations; he had been unpopular as an under-
graduate with the mass of his fellow-students, yet he
possessed not a few firm friends, and a number of de-
44


VANTAGE POINTS
voted followers among those who went in more for
books than for brawn. The only time he had attracted
popular attention was once when he had appeared in a
serious old English morality play, given by the Dra-
matic Association. Then for a week his name was on
all lips. It was his first and last appearance.
Frank Bellwood's intimacy with Lawrence Kellogg
had puzzled many. At a hasty glance they seemed to
have little in common; but they had been fellow-towns-
men, old schoolmates, and were inseparable during the
four years of their university life. That Lawrence's
father had paid their joint bills was known only to the
Registrar of the Faculty.
Neither of the two on the hilltop had moved or"
spoken for some minutes. It was Bellwood at last who
broke the silence.
"Had we better be moving?" he asked. "I feel
all right now."
"No; let's sit here a little longer, Frank; there's
no hurry. I want to talk to you about something."
"No questions about health, or habits, or tiresome
medical advice, please. I refuse to answer on any
grounds. There's nothing the matter."
"No, I don't mean to touch on that subject just
now; it's something else. Do you happen to know a
Mrs. Rice who lives at the big new place on the river?
'The Hill,' we used to call it."
The minister turned on his elbow and regarded Kel-
logg curiously.
"Mrs. Ned Rice? No—that is, I have not met her
for a long time. Years ago we had just a speaking
acquaintance. Everyone here knows her by sight,
though."
45


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Then she's not a member of your congregation?"
"A member of my congregation! man, dear!—
she's a Pagan, out and out! She never goes to church
—she—" Bellwood checked himself suddenly. "I
suppose she has redeeming qualities, saving graces; I
hope we all have," he concluded. "She comes of a
good family on her father's side; her mother was the
daughter of a hatter in San Francisco."
"I am interested," put in Kellogg. "That's the
only reason I inquired; but I had no curiosity in her
pedigree."
"Do you want my opinion of her? I haven't any
to express," rejoined Bellwood slowly. "She sub-
scribed largely to the Atheneum and to the Work-
ing Girls' Home we started at Kenton Falls. I wrote
her a letter of thanks—but I never would let Amy call
upon her."
"Why not?"
"Well, to be honest, I couldn't bear the thought of
it! She may be maligned, of course; but she's too
reckless of public opinion; people say so many
things!" He paused, evidently distressed.
"I don't wish in the least to hear what people say,
old chap," smiled Kellogg. "Nor to extract gossip
from a man who hates it. You know me better than
that. Let it pass!"
Bellwood thought for a moment and then went on
nervously: "Well, I'd just as lief tell you, there's no
reason why I shouldn't. She's supposed to be a sort
of a freethinker—I mean a free lance. You know
my colleague, Remsen Bache, of St. Mary's at the
Falls?"
"No, I don't think I know him."
46


VANTAGE POINTS
"An able man—rather high church, but he has a
cutting tongue at times—he calls her 'Catherine the
Great.'"
"Does he know her?" asked Kellogg, mentally
forming an opinion of Mr. Remsen Bache.
"I haven't the least idea; I am—er—sorry I've
said what I did; I don't usually"
"I understand, old man; you didn't say it," Law-
rence interrupted.
Bellwood started to rise and then sat down again.
"May I ask why you are interested?" he inquired.
"Have you met her? She is here quite seldom; I—I
thought she was still in Europe."
"She returned two days ago; I'm dining with her
to-morrow night—" He stopped at the look on the
minister's face, and went on hurriedly: "I've only
seen her once in my life, here. I could not call myself
a friend nor, as yet, a champion of hers. Don't feel
bad about it."
"Larry," said the minister earnestly, "don't go;
I wouldn't go!" He laid both hands on Kellogg's arm.
"Can't you get out of it? She's not the kind of a
woman that does a man any good; men are her game,
she is a destroyer of lives, an obliterator of ideals.
What good can come of knowing her? I tell yon she
is out of her sphere—out of her century! Who are
her friends here? whom does she go with?—Men who
drink with her openly at the Antioch Country Club on
the Sabbath! Some few people who are afraid to
offend her because she has money! What does she do
on her excursions to New York? How does she con-
duct herself at Paris and Monte Carlo?"
"Hold hard, Frank; you've been talking to women
47


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
—you'll make a champion yet of me. Judge Hol-
lins"
"Judge Hollins!" repeated Bellwood, interrupting
fiercely. "He's one of them—and old enough to know
better! But mind you"
He stopped suddenly with a catch of labored breath,
his face hidden in both hands. Kellogg watched in
some alarm; here was some trouble he could not
understand! But Bellwood recovered quickly and, as
he raised his head, all his passion had left him.
"Who am I to talk this way?" he said at last,
almost whispering. "Does the punishment we may
suffer hereafter equal the punishment we may suffer
on earth? Who am I to judge thus of my fellow-
creatures! By what right may one sinner judge of
another?"
The preacher had disappeared, although the words
were set and clerical; it was the man thinking, talking
—talking more to himself than to his listener.
Kellogg looked at the drawn white face; the lips
were moving as if in ejaculatory prayer.
The concerned interest of the physician, suddenly
aroused, faded into the pity of one friend for another
in distress. Lawrence let his arm fall upon the min-
ister's shoulder, but the latter evaded the kindly meant
caress.
"Come," he said almost harshly, "we'd better be
going."
"Right—O! Up we get! Easy, down the hill
now," returned Kellogg, rising.
Bellwood ignored the proffered hand and pushed
himself to his feet.
Slowly they descended the path, winding through
48


VANTAGE POINTS
the maple grove, interspersed with the black masses of
the pines. Crossing a steep pasture, filled with hard-
hack bushes, they came to a rocky lane down which
they made their way to the well-traveled road that led
to the railway station.
The Antioch local was just stopping at the plat-
form, the few passengers were descending; the stran-
gers the object of attack of the rival hotel runners, and
the Brimfield citizens making their way to the line of
waiting vehicles.
"There is one of Mrs. Rice's particular cronies—
a nice kind of a creature for a woman's intimate asso-
ciate!" said Bellwood, indicating a tall, thick-set man
of forty who was climbing into a rubber-tired run-
about. "A divorce, a gambler, smirched in connec-
tion with the bribery scandals, whose price in politics
has been known for years, and whose lack of personal
morals is notorious!"
Kellogg half smiled; it was almost the first time
the minister had spoken since leaving the hilltop.
His words were in marked contrast to his bitter self-
arraignment of an hour before.
Mr. Murger—for it was none other—caught a
glimpse of Bellwood and his companion, and turned to
a large, red-faced man who sat on the narrow seat of
the runabout beside him. The red-faced one, laughing
over his shoulder, included Bellwood and Kellogg in a
long, insolent stare.
"Barney McCutcheon, the labor leader—candidate
for mayor of Kenton Falls," remarked the minister.
"Murger is on the ticket for district attorney. A
fine pair of rascals! They both have tacitly en-
couraged threats and violence when we've had strikes.
49


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Trouble is expected any day, now, at the water-
works."
"Judge Hollins has told me a little something of
the situation," Kellogg rejoined. "They are not
elected yet!"
"But they will be, unless something unforeseen hap-
pens," said Bellwood. "They have the lawless element
and some money back of them, and that means votes in
this part of the country. I've heard more than one
person express a wish that your father was alive to
handle the situation. Why don't you declare yourself,
eh? and go in for politics?"
"I've neither taste nor bent for it," answered Law-
rence lightly. "I've lived away so long, and being
born over there, I hardly know my status as a citizen;
you know I never could make a speech to save me. I
always trusted you to do that for me, in the old days,
didn't I?"
Bellwood hesitated.
"Yes, I believe you did," he said slowly, a strange
note in his voice. His step lagged a little and Kel-
logg, shortening his stride, looked down at him. There
was an expression on his face as of one in sudden
physical pain.
"Frank," suggested the doctor, "stop at my of-
fice, like a good chap, won't you? There may be a
message for me. And then I'll walk home with you.
It's only a minute out of the way."
On the slate that hung at the door were scribbled
a few straggling sentences. Kellogg read them through
as he took out his keys.
"I've got to go down to the Tevelins' at The Bend,"
he said. '"Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble!' I
50


VANTAGE POINTS
should think there were enough children already! But
come in; I want to have a word with you."
Bellwood stepped through the door into the little
hallway, off the consulting room.
"Are you attending the Tevelins?" he asked.
"They're a bad lot—the whole family. I wish they
would clear out of the neighborhood. They begin all
the diseases, and Tevelin's been twice in jail."
"So I understand," answered Kellogg, as he raised
the blinds in the front office; "Pat was predestined—
a man with a wide envy for other people's property—
especially dogs! Come in here, Frank."
The minister entered nervously. Kellogg turned
and, seating himself on the corner of the desk, motioned
him to the easy chair.
"Frank," he said, "why don't you take a vaca-
tion? You need it. Speaking as a physician and re-
peating what I probably will repeat again, you've got
to take care of yourself."
"Vacation!" exclaimed Bellwood, passing his fin-
gers through his long, brown locks—his only external
affectation—" I really couldn't think of it—really!
. . . Has Amy been talking to you?" he asked quickly,
shooting a half-suspicious glance at Kellogg, as he
raised his head. "You've been meeting her frequently
at her mother's—has she?"
"I've only seen her once there; but I want you to
listen to a proposition: Mrs. Winter is an ill woman;
you're not a well man— Hold on now! I may be
abrupt, but I know what I am talking about! Why
don't you and the old lady and Amy and the children
go off for a season? Rest and take it easy for six
months."
51


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"' Rest and take it easy for six months!'" The
minister quoted the sentence with a bitter laugh. "I
wonder who you think I am—what you think we are?
It is more than out of the question; such talk is ab-
solute, downright rubbish! Rest!"
Again he laughed, this time contemptuously, with a
toss-back of his head.
"No, I don't think it is such rubbish. Won't you
—won't you, as an old friend, let me put something
before you and listen? Let me do this. You could
get some one to fill your place; it could be made to
appear as if it came from the whole congregation.
I'm not qualified for a warden, but I am a pew-holder.
Won't you let me?"
"No, sir!"
The vehemence of Bellwood's reply was absolutely
startling. Kellogg looked at him in sheer amazement.
He had risen to his feet, and his slight form was trem-
bling with hardly repressed emotion.
"Do you think I can go on forever accepting
largess from your hand?" he continued hoarsely. "I
tell you, if I was in poverty and distress, I could ac-
cept nothing further from you—I couldn't, I couldn't
take anything more! It would kill me to think of it
—I forbid you to offer it—or to speak of it to Amy
—I forbid you!"
Kellogg looked at him undisturbed. Bellwood had
always been more or less elusive, even to him, but now
it was more marked than ever. His conceit had a hair
trigger that demanded careful handling.
"Sit down, Frank, sit down," he said quietly. "I
had no wish to offend you. If, as you say, it's out of
the question, well and good; we'll drop it. I won't
52


VANTAGE POINTS
trouble in that way again, of course. But—and don't
let your pride stop me here—I must tell you certain
things. I must warn you. If you resent my sugges-
tion as a friend, you must take my advice as a doctor;
you need it. Go and see Smith at Antioch—I know
him—and he will tell you the truth. You must avoid
overwork, excitement. You fainted twice after the
afternoon service last Sunday, in the vestry room.
Barton, the sexton, told me so."
"It was nothing; it was very hot, and I had had no
luncheon. There is nothing the matter that can be
mended."
"There is something the matter and it must be
mended."
Bellwood, who had sunk down in the seat again,
leaned his elbows on his knees and bent forward. His
shoulders heaved as if he was on the verge of a com-
plete breakdown. Kellogg took hold of him gently.
"Come, let's thrash this all out," he said, dragging
up a chair with one hand, the other still resting on his
friend's arm. "Let's begin at the beginning."
"No, no! Not now!" cried the minister, drawing
himself erect. "Another time, not now!" Something
akin to fear showed in his voice.
He rose and stood, half swaying, fumbling for his
hat and stick on the desk. When at last he found
them he turned, with an effort controlled himself, and
spoke calmly, apparently voicing a heartfelt sincerity.
"Don't think that I fail to appreciate your kind-
ness. I spoke hastily—bitterly; and I crave your par-
don! You are the bigger man, Lawrence—the bet-
ter man; you can forgive me. I may not have long to
live— But let me ask you something: Don't, don't,
53


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
I pray, force me deeper in your debt! Some day, if I
should ask"
"Ask it now," interrupted Kellogg, seeing that he
had paused as if at loss. "As for being in my debt—
you're not! And as for being a bigger or better man
—I am not worthy to tie your shoes. I've gambled
and drank, and done those things that I ought not
to have done, and I dare say I've given you no end of
worry over my spiritual condition. So we will cut all
that out of the argument. You have got to take care
of yourself; that's all I insist on!"
Bellwood now had himself well in hand. Only his
intense pallor and a nervous twitching of his lips be-
trayed his effort to appear at ease.
"I must hasten home," he said. "I'm afraid they'll
be wondering what has become of me. The Dorcas
Society meets at the rectory this afternoon; I've got
to speak to some of the members. Good-by!"
He extended his hand and Kellogg took it, notic-
ing that his fingers were cold as ice. "Don't worry
over me, please don't," he continued with a piteous ap-
peal in his eyes. "I can assure you it isn't necessary."
Another moment and he was gone. From the win-
dow Kellogg watched his tall, slight figure crossing
the square.
"Poor old Frank," he said to himself. "A phys-
ical need and a spiritual quandary make a bad combina-
tion."
He had failed in his first attempt to relieve the
situation—failed utterly—but he was not disheartened.
There was some mystery about it all. He could not
help wondering if Amy knew anything definite of the
trouble, whatever it was. She was so strong, and yet
54


VANTAGE POINTS
so instinctively feminine in her swift intuitions. A
man in Bellwood's position needed something more than
even his religion could supply. He needed the tangible
evidence of another's abiding faith in his work, his
future, and in himself. But surely he had that, if ever
a man had!
Lawrence crossed to the rosy western window and
stood there looking out. It was not the strong glare
of the noble sunset that made his eyes glisten; it was
not the scent of the late mowing that swept in with
the breeze that made him draw that long, quivering
breath.
Suddenly he remembered the message on the slate.
The Tevelins were the black sheep—and incidentally
the scapegoats—of the community; but that had noth-
ing to do with the fact that they needed assistance.
He packed some things in his bag and telephoned for
his trap to pick him up at the office. This done, he
threw himself down in the easy chair.
Thinking of the Tevelins had brought him back
once more to the standing subject of his thoughts.
The association of ideas was not without cause. He
smiled a little as his mind flew backward to a day a
score of years before.
He was a slim-legged little boy just in his teens,
dressed in an imported Eton roundabout and a big
white collar. It was a rainy day in early spring. He
was walking along a Brimfield back street, holding a
small umbrella with such chivalric generosity that his
shoulder caught most of the drippings. Huddled quite
close to him was a little girl of ten. He remembered
how her hair seemed to curl up tighter by reason of
the dampness. One hand held the crook of the um-
5 55


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
brella beneath his. As they went chattering by the
corner near the blacksmith's shop (how it all came back
to him!) Jack Hogan, the blacksmith's son—the young
cock of the school and juvenile bully of the village—
addressed him from the shelter of the hitching shed in
terms contemptuous with unmistakable opprobrious
intent. It may have been the collar, it may have been
the Eton jacket, it might have been the umbrella.
He tingled red, he remembered, but went on. This
had been enough incentive for "Fisty Jack" Hogan.
A muddy stick, hurled perhaps at the slim legs in their
long gray trousers, caught the little girl on the hem
of her white skirt. She turned with him and took in
the situation.
"Go for him, Larry," she said. "I'll hold the
umbrella."
Never did knight go forth to do battle under
prouder prompting! At the end of five minutes, dishev-
eled and muddy, with a fast-closing eye and a strange
warm taste in his mouth that kept him swallowing, he
stood above the prostrate Hogan in the middle of the
muddy street. And not until then did he notice that
the little figure under the umbrella was not the only
spectator. From the shelter of the blacksmith shop,
a number of hard-featured men had stood and watched.
He remembered now the strange words of encourage-
ment and appreciation, addressed to himself, or his
antagonist, he could not tell; but when the fight was
over a big hand had rested on his shoulder.
"Blood'll tell," said a rough voice in his ear.
"Blood'll tell, me b'ye! You're a great fighter, son,
and you'll live to prove it! And if ever you want a
hand in your corner, call for Paddy Tevelin; I'll be
56


VANTAGE POINTS
there! And now home, my dear, an' a bit o' raw beef
on the eye; that'll take out the swellin'."
Oh! that journey home through the rain! He did
not realize until halfway there that his little com-
panion was sobbing soft sobs of fearsome pride. When
they had reached the gate to her father's house he re-
membered now that she looked up at him, the tears still
in the long, dark lashes.
"Oh, your poor eye!" she murmured sympathet-
ically.
"Never mind that!" he had replied. "My eye's
all right."
"I'll kiss it and make it well," she said, and there,
under the umbrella, was the salve administered. Never
had soldier borne the scar of courage with less shame
than he, as he carried that blackened orb for a fort-
night.
Tevelin had always remembered that little im-
promptu mill; he had always claimed, as it were, a
feeling of respectful brotherhood, and when a few days
before he had told the "new doctor" of the coming
trouble at The Bend, it was with an appeal as power-
ful in its reminiscence as the freemason's signal of
distress.
Lawrence glanced out of the window again. The
trap was there waiting.


CHAPTER V
THE CHARM OF CIRCE
MRS. RICE turned, as she entered the dimly
lighted hall, and drew aside the portieres for
a last look at the dining room.
It certainly was most inviting. The two high-
backed Spanish leather chairs fronted one another
cosily at the small round table—which is much more
intime than a square one! She had seen to the icing
of the champagne, sincerely hoping that her expected
guest drank champagne instead of whisky and soda.
She had carefully selected the most beautiful glass,
and chosen the most becoming petticoats for the wax
candles in the little Dresden candlesticks. The din-
ner had been a matter of some discussion between Henri
and herself—she had all French servants—and now she
was satisfied there was nothing more to be done. Giv-
ing a fidgety glance at the clock she devoutly hoped
that doctors were punctual people.
Mrs. Ned had spent as much time on her gown-
ing as she had on the dinner, but, at first glance, it
might not appear so. The final effect had a comfort-
able carelessness that could hardly be called studied.
The wide, open sleeves showed her smooth, round arms
above the elbow, and the drooping lace threatened to
slip from the curves of her splendid shoulders; the
58


THE CHARM OF CIRCE
pillar of firm, white throat rose above the magnificent
expanse of her bosom. Her dark hair was massed to-
gether in some wonderful fashion that seemed inno-
cent of pins, and a red rose, thrust, as if by inspira-
tion, at exactly the right angle, in exactly the right
place, gave a finishing touch that was distinctly pleas-
ing, as she glanced at herself in the big hall mirror.
Mrs. Ned's natural color needed no retouching;
but, if the truth be told, the arch of her eyebrows was
just a little bit fine, and somewhat suspiciously dark.
As the big ormolu clock began to strike, the
crunching of wheels sounded on the graveled driveway.
Mrs. Rice stepped to the open door and greeted Kel-
logg as he descended from the buggy.
"On the very stroke!" she said, as they shook
hands. "Tell your man to drive to the stable; he can
wait there. Henri—he's my chef and a dear, crotchety
old soul—will owe you a vote of thanks for your
promptness. Isn't it a heavenly evening? I'm so glad
you could come!"
At first Lawrence, as he removed his coat, won-
dered if Mrs. Rice was nervous or was endeavoring to
set him at his ease by the informality and the volu-
bility of her welcome; but a second later he concluded
it was only her natural, hospitable manner. It was
too dark in the hallway to see that his hostess, as she
was speaking, had flushed to the very roots of her hair.
"You've never been here before," she went on,
"have you? You should see the view on a fine even-
ing; Mr. Rice named this place 'Elmside,' but I like
the old name,4 The Hill.' The moon will soon come up;
we can sit out here and see it after dinner. Look! she's
just showing over the tops of the trees!"
59


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Mrs. Ned had gone to the big window that opened
on the stone-flagged terrace, and was standing there,
outstretching a jeweled hand, the lace sleeve falling
gracefully from the point of her elbow. She beckoned
to him.
Lawrence joined her and they stepped slowly out
into the open air.
"Hadn't I better get you a wrap?" he asked.
"Heavens, no!" laughed the widow. "I never
take cold. It seems quite balmy—and we will only be
here a minute. Pray don't prescribe for me! I want
you to forget your calling and all your learning to-
night. Too much knowledge, like self-analysis, is a
bar to enjoyment. Please don't be wise or clever. I
hate wisdom and cleverness. I detest definitions!
Doesn't this make you wish you were a poet—or some-
thing quite nice and ignorant?"
"I would make a bad fist at poetry, though I con-
fess to reading it," said Lawrence, smiling. "I could
never rhyme 'cat' with 'bat,' and I get quotations
badly mixed, so I never quote. But before I leave my
calling—or at least before I forget it and you dis-
cover my ignorance—I want to tell you how good it
was of you to do what you did for the Tevelins. I
was so surprised when I saw you there last evening
that I didn't have time. They told me that you got
the nurse from Antioch, and sent all the rest of those
things. If you only knew how grateful they were"
"Poor people! everybody's down on them," inter-
rupted Mrs. Ned; "they're quite beyond the pale of
common charity it seems. However, I find it pays to
keep on the right side of Pat! If you ever have a sick
cow, or horse, or dog, he's the best vet in the county,
60


THE CHARM OF CIRCE
and such an awful scamp that I positively admire him.
They say he's got another wife somewhere. But let's
drop it—with one question. How are things?"
"All right—a boy."
"Good! May he live to be a credit to his family
—there're too many women in the world."
"There're too few of certain kinds."
"Well, it's a blessing we're not all alike, isn't it?"
"Yes," laughed Kellogg, " I agree with you on that
point."
"Which may have a covert meaning, not compli-
mentary to the only member of her sex present," re-
joined the widow. "But she will let it pass. . . .
Here's Eugene with the cocktails and dinner is ready."
The heavy hangings were drawn aside at the din-
ing-room door, admitting a flood of light into the hall.
Lawrence paused and looked about him. The obsequi-
ous Eugene, who disdained the strutting form of
servitude, had disappeared.
"Taste it slowly," said Mrs. Ned, with her glass
to her full, red lips. "It's the invention of a friend
of mine from Virginia."
"That is one thing we learn from a residence
abroad, too," answered Kellogg. "I mean to sip pleas-
ant things, not to gulp them."
As he spoke he glanced about him again.
The decorations of the hall could hardly be called
feminine; a tall bronze of the Flying Mercury stood
poised on the broad newel posts; there were some dim
oil paintings, and, on green marble pedestals, two
beautiful figures of stone-age warriors, one letting fly
an arrow and the other carrying a young bear by the
scruff.
61


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
The piano, draped with a rich, gilt altar cloth, was
covered with photographs, mostly in silver frames,
many of them signed. There were officers in uniform,
actors in costume, civilians with orders, a Highlander
in kilts nursing a huge feather bonnet, and a well-set-
up English bishop who was not in the least ashamed of
a finely turned leg. Men, all men! True, on the man-
tel were one or two portraits, certainly not belonging
to the " family" order. He recognized the gay Coun-
tess de Baleinier, and a fine likeness of Sara as Ham-
let. But he could pause no longer. Mrs. Ned took
the empty glass from him, putting it down with hers
on the edge of a little onyx table, and led the way into
the dining room.
"I saw you looking at my collection," she laughed,
as they sat down. "Some friends of yours, I dare say,
among them—we can shred them at our leisure some
day. Lady Camilla Macdonald says I parade them as
boldly as if I was a head hunter of Borneo, and she
ought to know; she's hunted heads in every country
under the sun. Do you know, an American woman
asked me where she could buy them! I told her where
I thought she might, without a tremor."
Mrs. Ned's laugh was certainly contagious, and it
was accompanied with a little fluttering upward ges-
ture that caused the lace sleeves to display almost the
length of her beautiful arms.
If there had been the slightest feeling of constraint
at the meeting, thus far, it had now faded completely.
Even Lawrence's sensation of being somewhat expect-
antly on guard vanished, and in its place had come
to him a sense of enjoyment of the present, complete
and all satisfying, with just the slightest suspicion of


THE CHARM OF CIRCE
a delightful excitement. He realized, all at once, the
subtle, warmth-compelling influence of sex.
"Do you know, they say that melons take away
your taste for champagne," remarked Mrs. Rice.
"But I've discovered an antidote—a big swallow of
brown sherry taken immediately after the soup."
"Sounds like a prescription."
"Or the advice of a truly scientific gourmet—I
don't know the feminine for the word," returned Mrs.
Ned. "Oh, by the way—how about the wager? You
have still four months more to serve."
"I never made any wager. I suppose I couldn't
convince you that, as I have told some other people, I
have burned my bridges behind me. ... I seriously
intend to remain here and turn into a commonplace
country doctor."
"A la Balzac?" interrogated Mrs. Rice. "I can't
imagine it. Wait until you have a craving that the
applause of your well-behaved conscience won't sat-
isfy."
"You mean a desire for the fleshpots of Egypt?"
"No, the sweetmeats thereof; they have a stronger
hold."
"I don't feel it yet," returned Lawrence.
"Oh, of course; if you brought your will into it,
you might turn hermit, if you chose to. You've got
a very nice chin that tells me you have plenty of—"
She studied him through half-closed eyes. "What
shall I call it?"
"Obstinacy?"
"Yes, obstinacy; but there is a cleft in it that
shows—well, shows lots of things. We will meet some-
where else than at Brimfield."
63


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Mrs. Ned made again the fluttering movement with
her arms and laughed musically. Then, with her eyes
full of merriment, she continued:
"That sounds like an improposition, a threat, or a
comforting reflection, doesn't it? I only meant it as
a prophecy. You know people do meet in other
places."
"Yes; most unexpected places," returned Law-
rence, thinking of the Tevelins. "Hark! What's
that?"
"Listen!" whispered Mrs. Rice, holding up a
finger.
From the hall, or rather from the terrace outside,
came the sound of music, sweet, but thin and tinkling,
soft but penetrating. It played a quaint little air,
with a throbbing undercurrent of accompaniment and
sweeping, liquid runs of melody.
"What is it?" asked Lawrence in pleased bewon-
derment.
"S-sh! Listen again," cautioned Mrs. Rice.
"Have you ever heard it before?"
"Yes; it seems to me I have; but where?"
"Think."
"I can't remember; it's a harp, isn't it?"
"Yes; but the funny little tune!"
"I know, I know; but where was it?"
"I see I will to have to tell you a story," said the
widow, leaning toward him, her chin resting on her
clasped fingers and her elbows on the table. "There
is an amusing little place, not far from a big city;
and there is a great tree, and in the tree are little
platforms on the big branches, and there are tiny
tables"
64


THE CHARM OF CIRCE
"Robinson's, at Seaux!" exclaimed Lawrence, in-
terrupting.
"And there was a man with a guitar, and he sang
that song the harp is playing!"
"The same song"
"And there was a gay little party on one of the
lower limbs, who were much interested," broke in the
widow; "and they were directly underneath."
"Underneath what?"
"Underneath me," rejoined Mrs. Ned. The red
rose in her hair shook as she laughed.
"There were three of us!" exclaimed Lawrence.
"I remember now."
"But the other chap didn't count; I met him after-
wards. There were only two of us." Again the rose
shook.
"I didn't see you"
"No, I suppose you—er—thought it would be
rude to look at a lady when she was up a tree! But
I could have dropped a pat of butter on top of your
head. I'll never get a chance to do it again."
"The world is a funny little place," said Kellogg,
"isn't it?"
"The world is a very nice place, if we don't worry
too much over how wicked it is, and if we only remem-
ber that we are only here once. By the way, she was
very chic."
"Yes? He's stopped playing!"
"He won't play any more; he's gone."
"Why?"
"I only got him to come up and play that tune
three times. I happened to hear him and it in the
village, on the street, to-day, and I engaged him for
65


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
the evening. I suppose he'd have played all night.
'Tout finit par des chansons.' Do you want him
back?"
"No," said Lawrence, wondering. "But it was the
other fellow's party. I was a guest."
"I wasn't cross-questioning you," replied Mrs.
Ned. "But I found out from him who you were.
Only, when I did, you had left Paris; you'd just re-
turned from a shooting trip to Asia or somewhere. So
the dinner was postponed until Brimfield. Now, let's
have a glass of champagne. I hope you like it brut;
is there anything better?"
"As wine, no; this is excellent."
"Perrier-Jouet, Special Reserved, '89," said Mrs.
Rice. "Aren't you glad you came?"
"Yes, very."
"Only on that account? Don't answer me!"
"All right; I won't."
"You know lots about women, don't you?"
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "No."
"Oh, yes, you do! There is that kind of a female
person who resents a man claiming to know anything
at all about her sex, but resents, still more, any man
claiming that no man at all knows anything. I don't
resent, Pm not porcupinish; but I agree it's better not
to tell."
"I make no claims to knowledge."
"I know you don't; that's one way of asserting
them. . . . Here's to us!"
As he sipped his wine Lawrence was conscious that
Mrs. Ned was silently questioning him. He raised his
head and caught her long look over the rim of his
glass. Mrs. Ned was holding hers in both hands and
66


THE CHARM OF CIRCE
her elbows were still on the table. His eyes were the
first to ower; the blood had flushed hot to his temples.
"What funny, great big boys some men are!"
purred the widow softly. There was a pause. "Eat,"
she said at last with a little laugh.
The dinner went on. Eugene glided in silently
with the salad and then, as silently, glided out.
"Weren't you afraid he was going to knock?"
whispered Mrs. Ned, leaning across the cloth.
"He's quite like a spirit or a ghost," said Law-
rence, choosing to be obtuse.
"Well, I'm not afraid of him, and I might be of
a ghost! You'll find some cigarettes there in that sil-
ver box. He won't be in again. We'll have our coffee
and liqueurs on the terrace, or have you lived so long
in England that you say 'lekure'?"
"Oh, well, I speak French," said Lawrence, open-
ing the silver box and taking out a long Egyptian.
"So I suppose I pronounce it in the American
fashion."
"I've seen you 'talk' French," smiled Mrs. Ned,
"and you appear to talk very well; that is, judging
from a bird's-eye view. Do you know, I rather like
Frenchmen, for a short time, and as other people's
husbands. I was with a most charming one all alone
that day. Now, I've shocked you dreadfully! But I
never met his wife—he told me all about her—he'd
married her for money. She spent most of her time
at Nice—and had cut down his allowance, which he
spent in Paris. Thank Heaven, American men don't
do that sort of thing—I mean exact money—and they
don't talk about women that way, especially their
wives!' By and large,' as the saying is, American
67


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
men are the best, if they don't get too highly senti-
mental, or go in too much for money-making. Women
are all the same the world over—mostly cats—with
now and then a stray saint, or a faithful maidservant,
among them. . . . But please don't think me a pessi-
mist. I enjoy life and living; I only hate a few
things."
"What do you hate most?" asked Lawrence, try-
ing to hold Mrs. Ned to her mood.
"I hate the small unkind things that hurt other
people—done or said; I hate to see suffering, or to
think about it. I'm an awful coward that way."
"What do you like most?"
"Foolish question! I like a good time and a men-
tally responsive elbow. I hate people who never act on
impulse and who study everything out. Come, let's go."
She touched his arm as she rose, then actually
caught his hand and led him into the hall. They
stopped at the piano, and Mrs. Rice, her eyes shining,
pointed at one of the photographs.
"There's the man I was with at Seaux. Don't
you think he's good-looking?"
It was the likeness of an individual in a light frock
coat, holding a tall, white hat, a cane, and a pair of
stiff gloves. The single eyeglass and the simpering
face, the mustache brushed up from the half-open lips,
irritated Kellogg; the man was of the kind that made
his toe itch.
"No; I think he is a beast," he growled bluntly.
"Good!" laughed Mrs. Ned. "That's just what
he was—an amusing, interesting, little insect-beast!
much the sort one would discover with a microscope
and wonder what he would be like if he were larger.
68


THE CHARM OF CIRCE
He wasn't a bit dangerous—any woman could keep him
under her thumb"
"I should think you would have wanted to step on
him," grunted Lawrence.
"He was awfully jealous of you," cooed the widow,
her eyes again full of laughter.
"Jealous of me!"
"Yes; I threatened to drop the butter and then
to have him bring you up so that I could make you a
proper apology. But let's drop him now. There's a
man, if you like!"
She picked up another photograph.
"Pardon me, don't you think you'd better let me
have a catalogue, with names and dates, weights and
colors?"
Lawrence asked the question with mock seriousness,
to which Mrs. Rice replied with mock reproach.
"I never supposed you would be so rude. I am
quite surprised."
"I was only displaying an interest in your speci-
mens."
"Poor Archie Carrisford!" went on the widow,
looking at the photograph. "You remember him?"
"Yes," said Kellogg. "Killed at the Vaal River.
I used to know him in Leicestershire. Let me see it."
He took the silver-mounted, black-leather panel,
and Mrs. Ned looked over his shoulder.
"Such a dear, good fellow—although inclined to
be domestic and, therefore, serious," murmured she;
"and such a fine figure. Did you ever see such shoul-
ders! I wept when I heard the news. He really
touched my heart; poor Archie!"
There was feeling in Mrs. Ned's voice; Lawrence
69


THE CHARM OF CIRCE
to drink it deep. Why should we have care—why sor-
row—why old age—when we are given this!"
"To-night seems like a present from the gods!"
Lawrence was slowly rising to her mood. "' And
every moon this glory lends—' There, you see, I am
quoting!"
"It's worshipful!" whispered Mrs. Ned. "It's
worshipful, Orlando."
She seemed to draw nearer to him for an instant.
He could feel the cool length of her arm trembling
against his side. The dark, sweetly odorous hair
touched his cheek again, then swept across his temple.
His blood grew riotous—but the moment passed; he
had hardly dared to look. He could hear her breathing,
count his own leaping pulse! But the moment passed!
Mrs. Ned dropped his hand and crossed the stone
flagging to where the silver and glass shone on the
little table in the corner of the ell. She sat down on
the divan beneath the Turkish awning. For an in-
stant Lawrence stood still; then he turned slowly, came
nearer, and sat down beside her.
"Sillies!" said the widow. "It was the moon—I
suspect!"
Her voice wavered slightly and she jingled the sil-
ver things nervously with the sugar tongs. Her com-
posure came to her by degrees.
"Just as I told you! It is slops! I mean the cof-
fee—cold and muddy. Why don't you smoke?"
"Don't you?" asked Lawrence, taking out his
case.
"Seldom, except under protest—for the sake of
good-fellowship; but, please, you go on. Will you
have brandy, menthe, chartreuse, kummel?"
6 71


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Nothing just now, thanks."
He was fumbling for his matches and yet wonder-
ing at himself—wondering why? And then it came to
him! It was the memory of the pressure of another
hand that had held him from replying; the swift recol-
lection of another voice—another face—the face of
another man's wife!—the wife of his best friend!
"Can't you find a light?" asked the widow evenly.
"Yes; I forgot I was going to smoke."
"Let's talk," she said. "Do you know, I saw you
the other day—walking with the rector of St. John's.
Something strange about him, isn't there? He's the
living image of Marti, the actor. You and he are old
friends."
"The very best and oldest, if you mean Frank Bell-
wood."
"I used to know him quite well a long time ago.
I quite agree with some one who said that there were
three sexes in the world—' men, women, and clergy-
men '—one might almost include actors, too. ... I
suppose he told you he doesn't approve of me?"
Lawrence was silent.
"He isn't the only one; so that doesn't matter!"
she continued. "Do you know his wife? I saw her
this morning. Of course, you do; how foolish! Do
you know, I think she is one of the most beautiful crea-
tures I ever saw. What a figure! What eyes, what
color! And so youthful—she must be nearly thirty.
And to think she's had two children! That gener-
ally— She would be wonderful if she was only prop-
erly gowned and dressed—and had a chance. Some-
body told me that she had attended a fashionable girls'
school in New York; did she?"
72



He turned and left her standing there.





THE CHARM OF CIRCE
"She was there for three years, I think."
"Was she ever abroad?"
"Yes, six months in Europe, traveling with
friends."
"Where were you then?"
"I was in college."
"They say Walter Smith, of Antioch, was awfully
in love with her," insinuated Mrs. Ned.
"Indeed?"
"And he was not the only one," she mocked lightly,
"was he?" She paused, but Lawrence made no re-
ply, so she continued: "And to think of her having to
spend her days in this poky place. It seems a crime!
What a success she would have had! She looks good,
too. She has that air about her that other women will
not own up to envying. I'm sure she's cold. She's
very good. Isn't she?"
"I hope so—I mean I'm sure of it." He was be-
ginning to rebel at the trend of the questioning.
"I don't think I ever wanted to be good—no, no;
I'm not good, Orlando!"
She leaned toward him, her hands clasped at her
neck. Her eyes were searching him.
"That depends," said he.
"That's true," she replied; "it depends."
The rose fell from her hair; she picked it up,
crushed it against her face, then threw it from her.
There was another pause. From the direction of
Brimfield came the long, sonorous sound of the big bell
in the tower, softened by the distance.
"Gracious!" cried Mrs. Ned. "Is it as late as
that?"
"I'm afraid it must be."
73


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"There's an electric button just inside the door;
press it twice, they will understand," motioned the
widow. "Then come back to me."
He rose, softly crossed the flags, and returned.
She was standing now, looking thoughtfully out over
the moonlit garden.
"I'm going to say good night to you here," said
she. "What are you doing to-morrow? I thought we
might take the big car and go careering down to Mait-
land Springs for lunch. It's only thirty miles. Or
maybe the Country Club; that's nearer."
She touched his arm softly, slightly appealing to
him by word and gesture.
"I'm afraid I can't to-morrow."
"What are you doing?"
"Well; I'm going to church in the morning."
"Church!" echoed Mrs. Ned. "Well, well!"
"Don't think I'm putting on godly airs," explained
Lawrence. "I'm not. In the abstract, I'd rather go
automobiling; but I have an engagement afterwards."
He was going to lunch at the rectory; he was going
to see her! but he did not see fit to explain further.
"Oh, I understand. Good night, Orlando."
"Good night, dear lady."
It was a firm, kindly shake of the hand she gave
him, and he turned and left her standing there, the
moonlight all about her, the rose still lying on the
stone pavement at her feet.
On the drive home he felt grateful somehow—grate-
ful for something, he could not exactly fathom what.
And yet again—he wondered.


CHAPTER VI
A PLEA FOR CHAKITY
LAWRENCE woke to see things clearly in the
. light of early dawn—his way lay plain in
* flight! But flight from what? The trite old
saw about temptation came to his mind. Where was
that indomitable will of his—that will that he had felt
he might build upon so strongly! His faith was
slightly shattered! Only the unexpected help from
that intruding memory had held him the night before.
In his unbiased honesty he saw it so. And in that sav-
ing memory—that in a few short hours would become
a living presence, a presence growing stronger day by
day—lay his sure danger. Clear-headed, he acknowl-
edged it.
Into his mind there flashed a sudden thought—the
shadow of a thought, so mean, so cowardly, that it
brought him up all-standing, as it were, upon the rock
of his resolve. But he had cast it from him so quickly
that it left no taint.
In the swift revulsion, he decided. He almost
reveled in the task he set himself. His old belief came
back—the old trust in his self-command, his captaincy
of soul!
Frank Bellwood must live! He was an ill man, no
doubt of it; but worse-behaved hearts than his had
75


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
been helped by science, by careful treatment, and by
strict regime. There was Nauheim, there was Sir
Claude Munson, and there was himself. When he had
wished he had always dominated Bellwood's will, and
there was an ally he could count upon in Amy. How
much she knew of her husband's condition he had no
idea. But the old compact, forever binding, was in
force; the truth at all times, between them, "always,
always," as she had said—and she had his promise.
As he dressed he planned and weighed matters care-
fully. It must be done at once—to-day! Frank must
be made to see his duty; he must give in to common
sense. Lawrence conjured up convincing reasons to
break down that absurd prejudice against receiving
further aid. He rehearsed arguments that could not
be answered, and, as he walked to church later, he went
over them again.
St. John's was a pretty little edifice, albeit that it
was glaringly new. When the vines, that now were
sprouting a foot or two above the ground, should cover
the tiny buttresses and the new-sown grass seed take
a firmer hold on the little lawn, it might be quite beau-
tiful. Bellwood had persuaded the architect to copy
the well-known little English church at Wryburne, and
the result was pleasing. The windows were not all of
stained glass—only one was in fact, the memorial to
the wife of old Esterbrook, the mill owner—but the
gray and red paint that covered the lozenge panes
made no bad apology, and the oaken pews and the well-
balanced choir and chancel lent an air of age and dig-
nity that spelled comfort to the parishioners, even if
they suggested a bit obtrusively the unpaid mortgage.
76


A PLEA FOB CHARITY
The bells were ringing from all the churches in
Brimfield—from the First Congregational, from the
Baptist, the Methodist, and the Roman Catholic down
the river. The streets were crowded with vehicles, and
the sidewalks with people. Lawrence, as he hurried
on, passed Ellery Slocum, Mrs. Slocum, the little Slo-
cums, and the married daughter. Ellery wore his Sun-
day suit, and was chewing a palpable peppermint drop
to conceal the strong evidence of not having forgotten
his morning horn. They were all bound for St. John's.
Before the door were standing groups of young
people gossiping, and a few carriages, with long-tailed
horses, for Brimfield was not a fashionable place and
claimed no notice in the society columns of the daily
press; yet on Sundays people came from Kenton Falls,
from the neighboring hotels—even from Antioch.
As Lawrence entered the vestibule, Amos Barton,
the sexton, who was ringing the bell from a niche on
one side of the entrance, nodded to him, and a minute
later beckoned with his head to Mr. Slocum. Ellery
joined him. The rest of the Slocums rustled down the
aisle toward the family pew.
"Look and see who's in church!" panted Mr. Bar-
ton, as he gave a downward swing at the bell rope.
"Who?" asked Ellery, swallowing the last of the
peppermint drop.
"Look and see," rejoined the sexton, this time
reaching upward. "I gave her the seat she wanted—
over there in the corner on the left."
Mr. Slocum entered hurriedly and stood transfixed!
There sat Mrs. Ned Rice in a large and very becoming
hat, fanning herself with an ordinary palm-leaf fan, like
a common, everyday churchgoer, and looking quite as
77


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
much at home—which meant betraying a lively interest
in every new arrival.
Lawrence, not having been warned of the startling
presence, did not notice her, and Mrs. Ned, having
chosen the farthest seat in the darkest corner, was ap-
parently unobserved by the majority of the congre-
gation, who now poured in as the bell stopped ringing
and the young organist began to play a somewhat vacu-
ous march, evidently, from his rapt expression, of his
own immediate composing.
As Lawrence appeared, Mrs. Rice had hesitated
between two impulses: one was to cough and attract
his attention, the other to hide behind the palm-leaf
fan that she had picked out of the rack in front of
her. The result was, womanlike, she did neither, but
gazed fixedly at the young man at the organ who was
glancing alternately from one foot to the other, as if
to make sure they were properly attached to his per-
son. Thus Mrs. Ned missed seeing the effect of her
presence upon the astonished Mr. Slocum.
Kellogg's pew was on the main aisle, and from it
he could watch Mrs. Bellwood and the two children
who sat in front of him on the side aisle near the cor-
ner of the chancel. They were entering from the ves-
try room at the very moment he took his seat.
Amy was one of those women who animate their per-
sonal belongings with a particular individuality. From
her simple but well-fitting gray gown to her flower-
crowned hat, everything she put on seemed to suggest
herself, to become her perfectly. Richer stuffs might
enhance the value of what she wore; but the values,
never. The unobtrusiveness of her framing, so to
speak, made more striking her qualities of face and
78


A PLEA FOR CHARITY
figure. Mrs. Rice's criticism of her gowning, Law-
rence had thought not only severe but ill merited.
Amy needed neither rich laces nor costly jewels, as
adornments, any more than she needed rouge or pow-
der; if she had possessed the wealth of a princess she
could have disregarded them and held her own by the
very distinction of her presence. She had a serene, un-
studied grace, from her walk to her slightest movement.
The poise of her head was exquisite.
As the two children preceded her into the pew,
Lawrence feasted his eyes on the picture, and his heart
leaped. He loved her children! They seemed insep-
arably connected with his love for Amy. In the mys-
terious charm of her motherhood he seemed to feel a
deeper, holier affection. The spiritual domination of
his soul was mingled with the natural instinct for
paternity. He craved the touch of little hands, the
clinging trust of childish hearts. The direct, un-
voiced demand for protection, for understanding sym-
pathy, appealed to the strongest and to the simplest
part of his nature. They were beautiful children!
The boy had his father's clear-cut features, only
broader and less delicate, perhaps; there was a bold-
ness in his brow, under the brown curls, that his father
lacked, a sturdier set to his upright little shoulders.
The girl was like her mother, even to the poise of her
head and the luminous depths of her steady gray eyes.
Without any overtures they had given him manifold
tokens of childish trust and affection, admitting him to
the freemasonry of their comradeship.
The service began. The rector was a wonderful
reader. His voice was musical without singsong, level
without monotony. The slight affectation of his school
79


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
had developed into a mannerism that was rather pleas-
ing than otherwise. It was artistic, it fitted well to
the grand old English of the prayer book, it cadenced
properly with the psalms and lessons. It was a pleas-
ure to listen to him. Bellwood, who disdained the use
of his glasses during service, looked well, also, in stole
and surplice. He was priest all through, from his bent
form at the altar steps to his gesture of benediction.
He might have stepped from the cloisters of an old-
time monastery, fresh from some devoted task of
illumination, with his pale, ascetic face and his exalted,
soulful air; or, cowled and sandaled, he might have fol-
lowed with his brethren, genuflecting, in procession to
some shrine. Modern he was not; the ancient forms
of things became him, dignified him, as old costumes
and ancient forms become and dignify some distinctive
types of men. He betrayed in the pulpit none of the
self-consciousness, the nervous shyness he showed in
everyday surroundings. He displayed unsuspected
power; he almost rose to the heights of inspiration.
But it was the hectic fever, not the natural heat of
zeal.
The choir was singing the offertory anthem. Kel-
logg was claiming the advantages of the position of-
fered by his seat; his eyes were dwelling on Amy and
his thoughts were also. He was unconscious that
another pair of eyes were on him, following his look
and marking his expression. Mrs. Rice was smiling to
herself—a smile that changed from one of startling dis-
covery to one of assured conviction. Perhaps the lady
she had appreciated and criticised was not so "cold"
as she had thought her, after all! At that moment,
from the intensity of Lawrence's gaze, perhaps, Amy
80


A PLEA FOR CHARITY
turned and looked at him. Mrs. Rice was as excited as
if at a play. She moved, leaning sideways, to see the
better. Then suddenly she was sorry she had done so.
Whether it was the sweep of the long-plumed hat, or
the fact that she had dropped the palm-leaf fan, that
had attracted attention, it made no matter. Mrs. Bell-
wood had seen her! Without a change in her expres-
sion she had turned back to the chancel.
Bellwood was just entering the little pulpit. He
looked paler than usual; his lips were moving in prayer
as he paused before he gave out his text. He unfolded
no sermon, carried no notes, announced no reference.
"' And the eyes of the blind man were opened, and
he saw.'"
The words were spoken almost in a whisper; the
mystery of the miracle seemed to live in them. The
awed announcement of the simple fact was thrilling.
Quietly, but intensely, he went on. He described
the blind; the groping hands, the death of all hope
of ever greeting dawn, of feeling freedom. And from
the cloud upon the mind, the body, he merged into the
cloud upon the soul, the hampered, darkened soul, as
pitiful, as hopeless, as constrained—but far less pa-
tient, so much more prone to suffering—so keen to feel
the galling sense of the imprisonment.
He lived his words, and as he came to the awaken-
ing his own eyes opened as if he saw and welcomed life.
He expanded in a burst of gratitude. His face took
on a radiance of thankfulness; he praised the living
moment, gloried in the awakening truth. He seemed
to feel the falling chains, the release of the binding fet-
ters; he almost leaped into the sunlight of his hope.
Lawrence had never ceased to watch him. Under-
81


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
neath the swiftly forming words he saw the actual suf-
fering, the torment of mind and body. The white,
slender hand grasped over that throbbing, ill-tuned
heart, alarmed him; the swaying of the slight figure
meant much to him; the physical man would pay for
the license allowed the spiritual expression. Many
moments of this kind were bad for Bellwood's chances.
The reaction would surely come. Lawrence almost pre-
pared for it—he anticipated the sure collapse.
He stole a look at Amy; her face was pale; in
her eyes, that were on her husband, was a note of
fear.
Mrs. Rice, from her corner, was leaning forward,
both elbows on the back of the empty pew before her;
she was enjoying a keen sensation. Half fascinated,
she looked on, as if at some drama—the delineation of
some living tragedy. The emotional side of her nature
was pulsating in sheer enjoyment. She saw the beau-
tiful face, transfigured in its ecstasy, she heard that
wonderful, pervading voice; a tremor almost shook her,
but it was not the words that reached and touched her.
Again it was the man, the suffering, living man! Once
she cast a swift glance at Lawrence and at Amy, then
back to Bellwood. This time a great pity for him
rose within her, and, such was her peculiar nature, she
felt a strange sense of coming tears.
Bellwood had stopped. His eyes, with the light
still in them, swept over the silent congregation. Law-
rence almost stirred at his next words, so unexpected
were they, so close to his own recent thoughts. There
was no sign of weakness, no hint of the dreaded pros-
tration. His tones were firm, his accents filled with a
sweet, convincing force. Almost as in relief, the words


A PLEA FOR CHARITY
were quiet, well sustained; yet underneath them lay the
strange, appealing power.
• "The Touch will come to you, perhaps to-day—
not here—you've felt it—to-day as you awoke! For
all of us the early waking hours possess peculiar qual-
ities; the mind seems more alert to judge the actual.
The moral eye lifts to view life, uncolored, undisturbed
by imagination or surroundings, to see it as it is! The
nude soul, judging clearly, unerringly, hears also, in
prophecy, its sentence. There has been no time for
argument, excuse, extenuation; no time for self-ap-
plause. All who waste life's chances, all who stand un-
forgiven, unabsolved of the living sin, burdened by the
wrong unrighted, can see the dreaded debit column
loom large in the pages of the Book! The choking
fingers of remorse clutch at the heart, only to be re-
laxed by the interposing hands of new resolves; re-
solves strengthened by an appeal for clemency, for help
and fortitude to stand the test of absolute confession!
Confession to thy God, to thyself, and to thy brother,
to whom belongs the restitution—the truth, the right,
long, long withheld!"
His voice thrilled again, his whisper lifted in plead-
ing tones, then sank to swift entreaty.
"Confess thy sin! Confess! And in the measure
of thy newborn sight—beseech forgiveness!"
He turned for the final sentence to the cross in the
big memorial window. The words were hardly audible,
the upraised hand trembled slightly. As the congrega-
tion left the bent figure still knelt at the altar rail.
To his relief, when Lawrence joined Bellwood in
the little vestry room, there was no sign of either re-
action or collapse. The minister was yet in a strange,
83


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
exalted mood. His eyes shone with the luster of spir-
itual excitement; the replies to his friend's few words
of congratulation were almost incoherent. He moved
slowly, as if dazed. He acted like the man he had de-
scribed, the man who had regained his sight, the sen-
tenced one who had obtained his pardon.
At the door, Amy, who had sent the children on
ahead, was waiting alone. She looked from Lawrence
to her husband, questioning them both with anxious
eyes.
"I was afraid he had overtaxed himself," she said
at last. "He was not well this morning, and he had
a bad night—he sleeps so little."
She took her husband's arm, but looked at Law-
rence steadily, hiding the fear that was back of her
slowly spoken words.
"But I'm going to do much better now," said Bell-
wood, smiling faintly. "I am going to be much better.
Larry, here, is going to take me in hand. Perhaps he'll
make a new man of me."
"We'll see what we can do, Frank."
"Yes, yes—good, good—you know you're going to
spend the day with us. Come, let's be walking on.
Oh, I hope no one is going to stop me, to speak to me
—I'm afraid they will."
"We can go back through the gap in tha hedge,"
suggested Mrs. Bellwood, "and across through Bar-
ton's garden; we did it once before."
She turned and led the way about the corner of
the church; Lawrence followed. They passed through
the scraggly evergreens, opened a little gate and, fol-
lowing a path that led through lines of currant bushes
and garden patches, came to a narrow lane.
84


A PLEA FOR CHARITY
Bellwood took Kellogg's arm and walked between
him and Amy silently. Somehow he had surrendered
himself to the idea that they were guiding him.
No one spoke. Lawrence felt as if, by the very si-
lence, he was being initiated into the innermost secrets
of the lives of the two who walked beside him. He
could not speak his thoughts just then; to launch into
some commonplace would have been almost a trans-
gression of their intimate relations. But BeUwood
needed rousing; his eyes had gone lack-luster, his step
was unsteady.
Amy glanced across at Lawrence as if to read his
mind. Her face was pale, but again she controlled the
fear that welled within her.
"Frank, Frank," she said bravely, "did you see
who was in church?"
She repeated the question, shaking the minister's
elbow.
"Who? Oh, yes; the people from Antioch, you
mean. They were there again."
BeUwood was exerting his will, controlling himself
with an effort.
"No; somebody else—somebody more surprising.
Mrs. Rice, from Elmside!"
Bellwood lifted his head, his interest, for the in-
stant, thoroughly alive.
"Mrs. Rice was there; did you ask her to come?"
He turned to Lawrence suddenly.
"No, Frank; I had no idea of it. I didn't see
her."
"He dined there last night," said Bellwood to his
wife. "Probably you spoke about me, eh?" Again
he addressed himself to Kellogg.
85


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Your name was mentioned casually. I told her
you were my best and oldest friend."
Bellwood grasped his arm tightly but replied noth-
ing. The trancelike expression returned to his face
again. Amy made no further attempt to rouse him;
something that had been said had turned her thoughts.
Not a word was spoken until they reached the end of
the grassy path. They would soon be meeting people
on the road.
"Let's wait here a minute and get our breath; we've
been going quite a pace," said Lawrence quietly.
As they had walked down the lane he had been
forming his opinion. A new complication had risen in
the last half hour. Why he had not guessed how mat-
ters stood before he could not have told. It seemed to
be plain enough to read, taking it all in all. And a
great deal was accounted for in his belated discovery.
Before the day was over they would be on even ground;
it depended upon how he approached the subject
whether the handling of it would be difficult or easy.
At all events he felt the relief of the surgeon, about
to operate, who has been spared the danger and
worry of hazardous exploration. The new complica-
tion was specific and tangible, and he was saved, also,
from the delicate necessity of being secretive in a
direction where it might have pained him to be so.
Amy knew everything without his telling her. This
was the reason! Now he understood the change in
her. The mystery was explained; it was the constant
air of being on her guard—on guard for another's
sake!
They had paused for a minute or so in the shade
of a big apple branch that stretched from a neighbor-
86


A PLEA FOR CHARITY
ing garden. Bellwood had removed his broad-brimmed
hat and was mopping his forehead.
"Now we're quite right," he said, "and when I
get home a little nap and a rest will set me on my feet
again. I'm sorry to be such a bother!"
Completely himself, to every outward appearance,
he started down the street, disdaining all assistance
and walking strongly. Amy and Lawrence fell in be-
side him, neither speaking, both watching him.
Before they had gone a dozen yards, a short, thick-
set figure slouched out of an alleyway near the livery
stable. It was Pat Tevelin, a depressed-looking set-
ter at his heels. He paid no attention to Bellwood,
but, seeing who was with him, he lifted his cap and
stood respectfully to one side as the others passed.
At last they reached the rectory. The minister did
not pause to return the greeting of the two children
who met them at the gate. Hurriedly he passed in first
and entered the house. The little ones, now tugging
at Lawrence's fingers, were dismissed to wait in the
back garden until they were called; then he and Amy
followed into the narrow front hall. Bellwood was
already at the head of the stairs.
"I'm going to lie down," he called; "don't let me
be disturbed till luncheon, please."
"But, Frank," said Lawrence, "I want to talk
with you."
"Not now; later, later." There followed the shut-
ting of a door and the sound of a key softly turning
in the lock.
Alone in the study they faced each other. She
waited patiently for him to speak.
"You know what the trouble is, Amy?"
7 87


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
She looked at him puzzled, striving to overcome the
sudden desire to hide her own knowledge behind his,
to put off the bitter moment of divulgence!
"I do—and I don't; tell me."
"He has heart trouble; he has had it a long time.
You know that, of course?"
"Yes."
"He is taking something—some drug. Do you
know what?"
"No; you must ask him. He intends to tell you
everything to-day—to confess it all. I'm sure of it."
He loved her the better for her loyalty; he loved
her the better for her shielding devotion. But even at
the risk of cruelty he must pursue his questions. He
must be armed with facts.
"How long has this been going on?"
She winced. "Two or three years — perhaps
longer. On one occasion he— At times I think he
stopped—he's fought hard truly. No one knows of it."
"You did."
"I pretended not to—not to understand. There
was no one I could go to. It seemed the best way to
help him. You see, he would not let me suppose that
it was conquering, for fear that if I knew I might lose
hope with him. I wished to hope—I wished to think
he still had strength! He— Oh, you must find out
from him—all, everything. Oh, how I prayed for you
to come; you were the only one. Mind you, I would
not ask too much; but I do not want to be deceived.
I would not have him feel that he—you, had to—keep
it from me now."
"I would tell you everything—the truth—always;
anything you might wish to know."
88


A PLEA FOB CHARITY
She looked up at him, and gazed deep in his eyes
unflinchingly a moment, her lips parting.
"I believe you might," she said slowly. "I believe
you would."
"Surely you trust me."
"But of yourself, what would you tell?"
"All my hopes, my fears, my sins if you asked
them."
"Your own troubles, your own sorrows?"
"Yes—but, why?"
"You are sharing mine," she murmured, still look-
ing at him. "You are making my burden yours. I
wonder if—if you would misunderstand?"
She paused as she spoke, irresolutely, and then
swiftly crossed the room. From the lower drawer of
the bookcase she took an old silken bag full of odds
and ends; at the bottom she found the thing she was
searching for. Clasping it in both hands she brought
it to him and laid it on the desk.
It was a small photograph, evidently the work of
an amateur, of a group of three: a man with a little
infant in his lap, and a young woman bending over
him, watching. They were seated on the ground with
flowers and trees about them.
Where had that picture come from? The day, the
place, came back!—the old days in Vienna! The ex-
cursions along the banks of the Danube. The smiling
bearded figure was himself. The woman
"Trust me. Tell me about her, Lawrence."
Suddenly an icy chill swept over him, succeeded by
a hot rush of blood from heart to brain. It was all
clear! The curtain that hid the puzzling past lifted.
He understood. He clutched the desk; he dared not
89


A PLEA FOR CHARITY
and then—ah! you might have told me, Larry. I
would have understood!"
"Yes, but I— Pardon me, please go on."
"And then I wormed the story out of Frank; he
was living with us then. Forgive me; mother told me
to go to him; she insisted—she demanded that I should.
It was just after you—you stopped writing. He de-
nied it at first, but when he saw I knew—I mean, that
I understood—he only defended you; truly he did.
. . . Tell me, Lawrence; did you, did you—love her?"
"Very much."
He spoke with closed eyes, standing erect.
"Where is she?"
"I don't know. Don't ask me any more."
He bent his head this time. Amy put her hand on
his shoulder. Her low voice seemed to caress, with its
sweet chord of sympathy, yet it thrilled with the over-
tones of even deeper feeling.
"Poor Larry! I am only asking because—because
I—ah, I cannot help it! I have longed so to ask; I
have dreamed of asking. I felt that you might tell me
—might like to. The child, is it alive? Ah, don't—"
She recoiled, drawing back, as if from bad, heart-
breaking news.
"The child is alive—in Vienna."
"I should love to see your child, Lawrence—some
day; perhaps I may." Her very soul seemed speaking
in her tenderness.
He raised his hand and clasped the fingers that
were still on his shoulder.
"God bless you, Amy," he said. "God bless you,
dear—good friend!"
Her grasp replied. She gazed at him—long after
91


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
he turned away. There came the faintest quiver of a
sob in her throat. Then she tried to speak, as he
looked at her again; but her drawn lips only responded
with the smile that holds back tears. Her eyes were
shining wet, as she drew her hand from his.
Some one came down the stairway, just outside the
door.
"Will Dr. Kellogg come up and see Mr. Bellwood,
ma'am?" faltered the nursery maid, from the lower
step.
"Go!" said Amy. "Be good to him. Let us work
together to pull him through; he needs your help—
we need it—both of us. God bless and help you! Save
him, Lawrence."
There was no entreaty, no supplication; only a phy-
sician, in his line of duty, urged to do his best.


CHAPTER VII
CONFESSION
THE most pitiful sight in all the world is a be-
seeching human soul groveling for mercy, in
the depths of just self-condemnation—pitiful
because it excites less pity in man's breast than suffer-
ing bravely faced. Sympathy is so mingled with con-
tempt, the forgiveness of the injured one so mingled
with distrust, that it takes a lofty spirit to extend, un-
falteringly, the merciful, uplifting hand. Confession,
noble in the abstract, may be almost stultifying in its
act of cowardice. The very weakness of nondefense
may be its strongest plea; but after the reaping, it re-
quires strong handling of the weakened soil to grow
the crop of self-respect, strong evidence of purpose
to convince belief in him who shares the unsought
burden.
As Lawrence mounted the creaking stairs, all his
past affection for Frank Bellwood shook off him like
some foul, contaminated garment, long worn in ig-
norance. If it were not for the woman waiting down
below, he could have burst in the door and crushed him,
flaying him with reproaches! Not only because he felt
he had been robbed, but because it had now been forced
upon him to be a party to the robbery. Yet it was of
his own free will that he had steeped himself in the
93


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
consequence of the initial wrong; there had been no
self-argument, no hesitation.
He was not so much stunned at the discovery of
Bellwood's treachery, as sickened by the thought of it.
His sense of injury, his anger, was swamped in his
feeling of disgust; the base ingratitude revolted him.
But the request she had made of him to save had
sounded, unknown to her, an imperative demand to
spare, not only the wretched traitor, but herself. No
matter the cost; he could not disregard that unvoiced
plea.
Lawrence knocked hurriedly; the door was un-
locked; he entered. The minister lay on the bed, his
face in the pillows. He glanced up, frightened.
"You wished to see me, Frank?"
"Larry, Larry," exclaimed the craven, stretching
out both hands. "Help me; oh, help me! I am hope-
less—my misery is hopeless! I am lost unless you help
—unless"
He rose and would have knelt, but Kellogg stayed
him and pushed him back upon the bed, on the edge of
which he sat writhing, with straining fingers clasped
between his knees. The friend who had once held such
undoubting faith stood above him, unbending, un-
pitying.
"Now, out with it, out with it! Keep quiet, don't
go on that way! From the beginning—everything!
And—be a man!"
He was not sure what confession might come first,
or whether one would come at all; but he spoke the last
words with a conscious effort, as if aware of their re-
echoing mockery.
"I will not help you speak," he went on, for a
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CONFESSION
groan was the only reply from the cowering figure.
"But I will tell you simply this: I will help you live!
That is my duty—that I will do—must do!"
"I do not want to live! God help—forgive me!
I want to die!"
Lawrence gazed down at him.
"No more of that, I ask. Begin."
"I don't know how!" The abject voice prayed
brokenly, its owner rocking from side to side.
"Come, come; we waste time."
Bellwood dropped his head lower and at last, as if
in desperation, he blurted out short speeches, each
following fast upon the other, with a caught breath in
between.
"I have wronged you, Lawrence, robbed you. . . .
I was weak. I could not resist temptation. ... I be-
trayed you! I took advantage of a cursed circum-
stance—I slowly allowed a deception to take place—I
fostered it at last. I did not build it—I swear to you
—it came ready to my hand—in a moment of great
weakness I lied—I worse than lied! Oh, how I've suf-
fered"
"That goes without saying! How did you lie?"
To save himself he could not help giving the tor-
turing screw a turn. For the first time Bellwood
looked at him.
"I loved Amy—loved her ever since she was a little
girl. But I had no chance, no hope. When you and
she were together"
"Pray leave that out."
"I cannot—when she and you were together, I used
to go mad, mad with jealousy. I envied you—I hated
you. I felt that if you had married her, I should have
95


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
died. You went away—you were not engaged—she
was not pledged. I did not think you loved her as I
did. I—" He paused and then went on hurriedly:
"After my father's death I went to live with the Win-
ters. I saw her every day. It grew to be torture—
Mrs. Winter found out. She pitied me; she liked me.
She thought you would never be coming back—and I
agreed. She said that you would never live here—I
agreed again, although I seldom spoke of you. She
implored Amy never to leave her. She was afraid that
if—that if she went away, she would never see her
again. . . . Do you remember a letter you wrote me
describing the gay life of the students, their license,
their temptations?—and how you had been tempted,
once, yourself; and how"
"Yes, I remember all that—you showed it to
Amy?"
"No, I showed it to her mother—she did."
"Well, go on."
"I fell very ill; Amy nursed me. One day as I was
recovering she brought me a photograph—of you and
a woman, and a child. I don't know what became of it
—you were sitting"
"I remember the photograph and all about it—
well?"
"Some one had sent it to Mrs. Winter—I'll tell
you who—Mrs. Sprague, mother of Sprague of our
class—he was with you in Vienna—he had written home
a lot of gossip"
"Damn him," said Lawrence. "Pardon me—don't
stop."
"Amy asked me if I knew anything. I denied any
knowledge—I denied it." Bellwood was breathing
96


CONFESSION
hard, his voice, weak and hoarse, had the thirsty rattle
of a burning fever. "She pressed me, appealed to me
—and then the temptation came—I could not face it.
I tried to tell her how things were different over there
—of how young men lived—I let her think I knew—I
asked her not to write to you."
Lawrence was bending over him, his muscles stiff-
ened in his folded arms; but at last he filled the long
pause with a question spoken low.
"And she?" he asked, with no change in his atti-
tude.
"She said nothing—she went away. After that I
had a relapse—I was very ill—afterwards her mother
feU ill, too. And"
"You kept my letters from her?" There was a
menace in the other's tone this time; his fingers flexed.
The mean cowardice of the trite, age-worn expedient
struck him as he repeated the question again, more
slowly this time.
"No, I did not—as God is my witness as a sinner,
I did not! You seemed to stop writing. When I be-
gan to get well they told me she had nursed me back.
I tried to thank her and, almost forgetting—for it was
like a dream—I told her that I loved her—and—and
she accepted me. O God, forgive me! I know you
never can!"
"Hush! How much did you know about that
story, about that woman in the photograph?"
"Nothing."
"I can forgive you; what you said was true!"
The effect of the words was startling, because the
words carried no effect at all! If Kellogg had ex-
pected them to clear the situation, to save the future
97


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
of some difficulties, he was mistaken. Again Bellwood
looked up at him.
"No, no," he cried. "It was not true! Don't lie!
Don't make me take up a deeper shame; don't give me
your honor as you would give me my life! It would
not mend matters—curse me, curse me, if you like!"
He drew his handkerchief across his lips.
Lawrence was cornered. The words were so sin-
cere that, for the first time, real pity was uppermost.
He softened.
"All right," he said; "there was no other woman
—up to then there had been no other in my life. The
woman in the picture was the mistress of a friend;
although I was with them often, and people may have
talked, she was nothing to me. The child belonged to
some peasants out for a holiday. There is that story,
the whole of it. I intended to deceive you—not for
your sake, but for your wife's. But this is not all—
there's something else. Don't be afraid."
"Oh, I wish I had died, died, died," reiterated Bell-
wood, shaking in a spasm of mental agony. "Promise
me that if I do, you will marry Amy and take care
of the children—promise me, Lawrence."
"You will not die; you've got to live."
"To live and suffer more! What shall I do?"
"I will tell you that—after you tell me the rest."
"What do you mean?"
"The drug you are taking—what is it?"
"Drug?"
Bellwood was on the defensive now. A new phase
of the strange interview had arisen, but one that Law-
rence was expecting, was well prepared for. He turned
to the tall, old-fashioned chest of drawers in the cor-
98


CONFESSION
ner; from the keyhole of a little compartment hung a
bunch of keys on a silver ring. The compartment was
unlocked; he opened it.
"It is only some sedative, something to quiet my
nerves—something to help me sleep," began Bellwood,
faltering.
"So I see. You first began with this patent nos-
trum, eh?—and increased the dose—it was guaranteed
harmless."
"Yes; it seemed to relieve me."
"Of course it did."
The matter-of-fact manner was reassuring; the
tone was almost soothing. Insensibly Bellwood was in-
fluenced; his mood changed, the hunted, frightened
look began to disappear.
One after another the doctor picked up empty
boxes—and then some small half-empty vials. In one
was a powder, in another some little pellets, a third
held flat, white tabloids.
"Your heart must be stronger than I supposed;
you should feel much encouraged, Frank!"
"Encouraged?"
"Yes; you intend to stop all these some day, eh,
don't you? You seem to have run the gamut. When
did you begin with this nerve tonic, this sedative?"
"About three years ago."
"These other things came later? You denied to
Amy you were taking anything, of course? She must
have asked you."
"Yes, no—but"
"Taken one this morning? More than one, didn't
you?"
"Yes; before service I felt very bad."
99


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"I thought so."
"Perhaps I've been taking them too frequently;
you're quite right, I intend to stop to-day."
Lawrence closed the lock of the compartment
quickly and tossed the keys on the bed. He was thor-
oughly convinced that during the last few minutes,
even while he was talking, Bellwood had managed to
slip something to his lips; but it made no matter, prob-
ably it was best for the moment. The minister was
calm and rational now, no doubt feeling the promise
of the relaxing nerves, the approach of the soothing
brain waves. He sat up, smoothing back his hair.
"Some time this week or next, Frank, you and I
are going off for a little trip," said Lawrence casually,
leaning on the window sill and talking over his shoul-
der, "and when you return you won't know yourself,
I take it. You won't need any more of this stuff after
a while. Let me tell you, the end of it is death or the
madhouse. And you must win back your wife's belief"
—he had almost said "respect "—" in you. Think of
her, can't you? How she must have suffered; she
knows!"
"Did she tell you?"
There were signs of impatience in Kellogg's face.
"No; I told her. About that other matter, that is an
affair between you and myself—it concerns me mostly;
it's past and gone—and over. Never on your life
must you breathe it to a living soul!"
"That will be part of my cross," said Bellwood
slowly. "I've carried it long now." The histrionic
sincerity of his pulpit voice sounded there.
"Call it that if you like. I told you that if you
still think you wronged me—I forgive you."
100


CONFESSION
He was wondering what he was going to say to
Amy! Their relations were altered! He had broken
the compact of honest outspeaking between them. For
the future he would have to play a part. He knew
her abhorrence of a lie, implied or spoken. But lies
are things that destroy! In the deception he had prac-
ticed lay the only hope of building up her faith in her
husband, a faith that he could see was wavering. The
downfall of it he believed would mean the complete
downfall of her hopes of happiness. Never for an in-
stant could he bring himself to doubt her love for this
man who had robbed him. He only wondered at it,
with a dumb unquestioning pity, but never could he
help to undermine it. God preserve him from the
thought of that!
The relief the interview had afforded Bellwood was
evident—he was like another man. Already he was
putting his own sensations into words, balancing
phrases, choosing turns of speech. The cross upon his
shoulder irked him little. As his exaltation grew, he
almost forgot the degradation he had just passed
through. The horror of being discovered, found out,
in all the squalor of his soul, was gone. The haunt-
ing dread of becoming more and more a slave to the
alluring panaceas that in his self-deceiving mind he
called "sedatives," "palliatives," "tonics," anything
but what he knew they represented—Vice! That dread
began to dwindle! More and more he began to lean
on Kellogg's promised aid; he would have accepted
anything in the rebound of his release. But he had
tact enough to feel that now was not the time for a
display of gratitude. And for that, although he did
not know it, his mentor, guide, counselor—but friend
101


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
no longer—thanked him from the bottom of his
heart.
A knock came at the door; there had been so long
a silence that both men started.
"Well?" asked the minister tremulously, hoping
that it was not his wife, and wondering what he should
say if it proved to be. "Who is it?"
"It's me, sir," returned the voice of the young
maid servant. "Mr. Remsen Bache is here, sir; and
lunch is ready."
"We'll be down in a moment," said Lawrence, an-
swering for him. Bellwood had gone to the glass and
was examining his face as a woman might who feared
showing the trace of tears.
"You go," he said; "I'll be with you right
away."
Lawrence left the room without a word. He was
glad there was going to be an unexpected guest at
luncheon—unexpected guests relieve awkward situa-
tions quite as often as they make them.
Alone, Bellwood stood for a moment irresolutely;
then he picked up the bunch of keys and looked them
over. One was broken short off; the other half re-
mained in the lock where Kellogg had snapped it with
a twist of his strong fingers! The minister sank down
at the window in an attitude of prayer. His weak-
ened will required the evidence of extraneous aid to
help him withstand the insidious temptation. The evi-
dence was there! Help was forthcoming! His own
words in the morning's sermon came flooding back to
him. He had confessed. Confessed all that was neces-
sary for anyone to know! What he had held back
concerned no one but himself—his poor weak self—he
102


CONFESSION
could put it to one side—he could add it to that cross
he had to carry and no one would be the wiser! Even
to himself he was like the spendthrift, given a chance
by an insistent guardian, who finds it impossible to
submit an exact account of his debts. He could not
be sincere.
There were three things he had not told—to the
telling of which he could not have brought himself.
One was that from the stairway he had overheard the
talk between Amy and Lawrence in the study. He had
heard the latter assume the shielding untruth that
afterwards he had tried to force upon him also. The
second was that he knew his wife no longer loved him
—perhaps had never loved him really. She had pitied
him, had tried her best, had cared for and strengthened
him, had been a good mother to his children; but now,
since three years—he glanced at the broken key in the
lock—she had been only his helpmate, his protecting,
uncomplaining friend. Lastly—and here he would
have denied his own convictions, if he could—he knew
one other thing that was his alone to know. But,
despite everything, as he trusted in the tenets of his
faith, he trusted her.
Calm and apparently collected, he descended the
stairs.
The Rev. Remsen Bache was a young man some
two years Bellwood's junior. He had a big nose, a
long, lean face with a habit of working the muscles of
his mouth when talking, a stiffening of the upper lip
over his large front teeth, with accompanying contor-
tions at the corners. He was very shortsighted and
his light-blue eyes were watery. A natural tonsure,
8 103


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
of which he was rather proud, adorned the back of his
head, and his hollow cheeks and receding chin were ash
blue from a closely shaven, heavy beard. Mr. Bache's
manner differed according to his surroundings; he
adopted an amusedly familiar air with his inferiors, a
rapt attention with his bishop, and, with his equals—
especially with laymen—a style of the anecdotal con-
versational that he considered extremely fetching. He
believed himself, moreover, quite a wit, and would
range, in his monologic efforts, from tales suited to a
corner of the smoke room to those suited to the side
of an old maid's tea table. He had been a year at
Oxford—from the effect of which he had never entirely
recovered—and bleated fervently through his services,
while he leaped from everyday topics to metaphysics in
his sermons which he modestly denominated "little
talks."
So much nearly completes the foreword regarding
Mr. Remsen Bache. He had one thing in common with
Bellwood; that is, the " religiosity "—as a great Eng-
lish novelist has called it—that, with some types of
men, supplies a large condiment in their preparation
of religion. His mental attitude resembled that of a
predestined, but unprepossessing, coquette—and was
about as alluring.
It was a strange luncheon party. Lawrence sat
with his back to the window opposite Mr. Bache; Bell-
wood at the head of the table; and Amy, with the chil-
dren on either side of her, at the foot. From the
beginning of the meal the visitor did most of the talk-
ing and all the entertaining, even condescending to do
a trick with his napkin for the benefit of little
Jack, who regarded him with grave and somewhat sus-
104


CONFESSION
piciously disapproving eyes. Amy was very silent, the
minister distrait, and Lawrence kept up his feigned in-
terest by an effort of his concentrated will. On Mr.
Bache ambled:
"So we hear lots of things to-day, my dear Mrs.
Bellwood! I was buttonholed by your husband's de-
voted parishioner, Mr. Slocum, as I stepped off the
trolley. I hope the dear, good Lord" (Mr. Bache was
very familiar with the Deity) "will forgive me for rid-
ing on the trolley on the Sabbath; I firmly believe it is
the invention of the devil, but it was the only way I
could get here, and 'needs must,' you know. Well, I
was held up, 'stand and deliver' fashion, by our well-
intentioned gossiper, and told that the mountain had
come to Mahomet! that Mrs. Ned Rice had appeared at
the service at St. Johns! Perhaps she may be there
again this afternoon! The next thing, my dear rector,"
turning to Bellwood, " she will be in the thrall of your
eloquence and joining the 'Willing Workers' or, per-
haps, 'The Little Mothers'—you know that story,
don't you?" (this to Lawrence) "Poor Catherine, she
needs some spiritual influence in her life, a woman of
her"
"Do pardon me, Mr. Bache," interrupted Amy,
"but there is a very large fly fallen into your tea;
won't you let me give you another cup?"
Mr. Bache handed it over without looking for the
offending insect, and would have gone on, but this time
Lawrence took a hand in stopping him, inquiring about
the facilities of the new trolley line, which launched the
gentlemen into a dissertation on the time-table, the
public indifference to proper service, and from that to
the recent labor troubles. But this momentary di-
105


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
version could not last. Before the meal was over Mr.
Bache was once more back to the subject of Mrs. Ned.
"I hope the lady—who could be most useful, by
the way, a thing we must not forget—profited by your
sermon this morning, my dear Bellwood. From what
I hear it was—er—most eloquent and—er—most con-
vincing, and preached as if at some one directly. That
is what tells, Dr. Kellogg—preaching at people, reach-
ing for them, grasping them. My 'little talks' fall
far short of the mark, I know; but it is my earnest
endeavor to make at least one of my hearers the better,
the stronger, for my poor halting words. . . . By the
way, I understand the committee from the Church of
the Incarnation were there again. I shouldn't wonder,
I shouldn't wonder! Your congregation would hate
to lose you, but duty calls us often to larger fields,
harder work, to greater endeavor. Should you like
Antioch, Mrs. Bellwood, do you think?"
Lawrence looked at Amy almost with tears of min-
gled anger and sympathy in his eyes. The thought of
it! She having to live in this canting, soul-warping
atmosphere! She, with her brains, her capacities, her
true-ringing affections, her hatred of the small and
the untruthful, the false, the narrow—hiding her se-
cret tragedy all the time behind the poise of her self-
command, the dignity of her long self-repression.
How could she have stood it? How could she stand it
now? Then for a moment her eyes met his; it seemed
as if she had spoken, as if she had implored his help.
"I don't think we shall leave Brimfield," she said
evenly. "Frank needs a long vacation before he thinks
of harder work." Ac she spoke she had risen and was
pulling back the children's chairs.
106


CONFESSION
"Bellwood is going away on a trip with me," broke
in Kellogg. "That's all but arranged for."
"Indeed, indeed!" quoth Mr. Bache, as he rose
from the table. "I more than envy him. Ah, the
delight of traveling with a sympathetic soul!—the joy
of it!"
Amy was already leading the little ones out of the
room. Bellwood still sat in his seat, an exalted, far-
away expression on his face. He was thinking over
his address for the afternoon service; he was beginning
to feel the effect of his own incipient inspiration.
"Come, Frank," called Kellogg. "Come along."
Bellwood rose with a nervous assumption of brisk-
ness and joined Mr. Bache. The two clergymen walked
arm in arm into the study, but Lawrence, seeing Amy
outside on the veranda, turned at the door and hastened
out to join her.
They were beyond the view of the library windows;
the children were down in the garden out of sight.
Again, bravely, her glance met his; she almost leaned
toward him. His spirit seemed to flow from him to
meet hers halfway. Neither spoke.
With all the determination he could command he
called that spirit back—controlled the impulse to voice
the surging, clamoring cry of his swiftly beating heart.
He lowered his eyes; almost he hated himself for the
discovery he half feared he might have made—for the
very suspicion of it! But the pause was quite as dan-
gerous; the spell must be broken. He looked up again.
Amy had turned and was gazing out through the
vines on which the leaves were crinkling under the
touch of the early autumn. Her gray eyes were glis-
tening with unshed tears, her marvelous beauty seemed
107


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
enhanced by the outward signs of the shrouded, haunt-
ing trouble she would have hidden if she could.
"Did he tell you everything?" she asked, not
moving.
"All, everything—he kept back nothing."
"What will you do?" She brought out the ques-
tion quietly, as if she believed already in the efficacy of
any suggestion he might make.
"Do the best I can—take him away with me at
once; I'll save him—trust me."
"Trust you?" she repeated. "Yes, as long as I
live I'll trust you. Thank you for helping me, to trust
in—other things."
"Oh, here you are! We wondered where you had
gone to," called the voice of Remsen Bache, from the
doorway. "Bellwood went back into the garden to
look. I don't think anybody would see us if we smoked
out here, eh?" He dragged up a chair.
Once more, as Amy passed him, Lawrence felt the
reaching of that invisible hand, but the danger in
touching it was over. The second warning, he be-
lieved, had made him doubly strong.


CHAPTER VIII
IN THE PATH OF FATE
JUDGE HOLLINS sat at his ink-bespattered desk
in his dingy private office, poring over some
papers, when the telephone on the wall near the
window rang shrilly. He rose and, putting his pen
behind his ear, crossed over and took up the receiver.
Like some people of most amiable dispositions his man-
ner at the telephone was gruffly discouraging to pro-
longed conversation.
"Well?" he half grumbled, his voice rising.
"Hello! hello! who is it? ... I say, who is it? . . .
What! My stars! this you, Lawrence? . . . Speaking
from Three Ponds! . . . Yes, I hear you! . . . What!
you don't say so? Good Lord! you don't think that—"
A long pause. "Oh, you have. . . . Well! well! . . .
Believe he took the train, eh? . . . No! they have no
telephone. . . . Yes, I'll have her here in half an hour.
. . . Yes, I understand. I hear you plainly now.
Probably started for home; where else would he go to?
. . . All right! I'll call you up in half an hour if I
can't find her. . . . Perhaps you'd better come on here.
. . . Good-by."
The judge hung up the instrument and stood look-
ing at it over his glasses with an expression that was
a mixture of awe and astonishment. "Well, well!" ex-
109


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
claimed he to himself. "I wonder what has happened?
There has been something going on that I don't under-
stand."
He went back to the desk, picked up the big gold
watch with the heavy fob, noted the time, compared it
with the clock in the tower, and then, pulling on his
cuffs and putting on his hat, walked out of the door
with the pen still behind his ear.
A few minutes later he was at the gate of the rec-
tory. He stood there irresolutely, gazing up and down
the street for a full minute. Very often it had come to
him, in the line of his profession, to be the bearer of
tidings, good or bad, and he had found it better policy
to begin with the shortest possible preamble. But here
was a difficult case! He had absolutely no knowledge
of how matters stood, and his friendship with Amy had
been that of an old man with a woman he had known
from childhood, whose beauty and character he had ad-
mired, but whose personality he had never come in con-
tact with, and women were such erratic creatures that
he could never tell what would be the best manner of
approach—an explanation perhaps of his being still a
bachelor. However, he had come for a purpose that
must have a definite result. Swinging open the gate,
he marched up the gravel path and knocked loudly on
the front door, that was open, for the day was warm.
It was Amy who appeared from the little study on
the right. She welcomed him with a smile and extended
hand; but anxiety—that thinly spread out fear—
showed plainly in her eyes.
"I was just going by," the judge began, looking
beyond her into the hall, "and I thought— Are you
alone this morning?" He removed his hat and the pen
110


IN THE PATH OF FATE
fell on the door sill. He was bending to pick it up,
somewhat confused, when Amy reached swiftly and was
before him.
"Come in, judge," she said. "I'm so glad—"
Then suddenly her tone changed. "You have some-
thing to tell me." Her face had grown pale, but the
words were spoken evenly. "There is no bad news, I
hope. . . . No matter what it is—tell it your own
way."
"No," said the judge, taking the pen from her
fingers. "Lawrence called me up on the 'long dis-
tance' and wants to speak to you later. He thinks
that Frank is on his way home. Seems to have left
him — perhaps a little misunderstanding — or some-
thing."
"They've been away almost two weeks now. I ex-
pected he would soon grow tired of roughing it," Amy
rejoined, her pallor showing that she was still keep-
ing herself under strong control. "You say Law-
rence wishes to speak to me? Tell me, so far as you
know, what has happened."
They were still standing in the study. Hearing
some one moving outside the door, Amy softly closed it.
"Now, please go on." Her gray eyes studied the
judge's face. "When did he leave?"
"I know very little. It seems that last night, some
time, Frank took one of the boats and rowed away
from the camp without saying anything to Lawrence.
Of course, at first, he was frightened, but soon found
he had taken the trail to Three Ponds, and that there
somebody answering his description had boarded the
morning train. But if you will come over to my office
he will call me up at 12.80."
Ill


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"We'd better be going, then," said Amy. "But
first I must tell you that Lawrence induced Frank to go
with him much against his will. He has not been well—
has not been himself. It was I who really persuaded
him."
"I hope it has been nothing serious," said the
judge.
Again he was surprised at Amy's reply.
"Yes, it is quite serious. I intend to ask Lawrence
to tell you. Perhaps we may need your help."
"You may call upon me, my dear." The judge,
in a fatherly manner, put his hand on Amy's that rested
on the desk.
"That I knew without your telling me," she re-
plied quietly.
The judge noticed that tears were in her eyes as
she walked beside him down the street. Before they
had reached the corner a big red automobile flashed by
through the dust. He recognized Mrs. Rice and, sitting
beside her, his enemy, Mr. Murger, so he took out his
watch and looked at it fixedly as an excuse for not bow-
ing. It lacked but a few minutes of the half hour.
Lawrence Kellogg sat waiting in the central office
at Three Ponds, his eyes following the hands of the
clock. The disappointment at the total failure of his
efforts to reclaim Frank Bellwood rankled him. It had
been as he partly suspected! The case was one of a
complex character. He had known of such before.
Absolute seclusion, constant watching, every minute,
would be the only means of breaking the hold of the
insidious vice. Bellwood, despite his promises, had de-
ceived him—bitterly had he regretted that soul-wither-
112


IN THE PATH OF FATE
ing confession! Only two days before Lawrence had
found and confiscated his hidden supply of morphine,
and since then the minister's conduct had been that of
a sick and sulky child. There was no use of appealing
to his moral forces, they were absolutely dead.
That he would attempt to throw off the scent anyone
who tried to follow him, was evident. But where was
he going? Lawrence could not answer the self-asked
question.
Suddenly the manager of the office informed him
that he had Brimfield on the wire.
Lawrence closed the door of the booth behind him.
How he should open the conversation he did not know.
He doubted if Amy had said much in the way of ex-
planation to the judge, and he was wondering what he
would soon be thinking of the whole affair, not know-
ing that the old gentleman, after handing her the re-
ceiver, had left Amy alone—when all at once he heard
her voice. It was clear and firm. As usual she asked
him to tell her everything. So he started simply with
the facts. He told her at what time he had first dis-
covered Frank's disappearance, and the hour that the
express had left the Three Ponds Station with him as a
passenger.
In response to his questions she had replied that
once, two years previously, Bellwood had disappeared
for a week, an absence that she had explained to his
friends and parishioners in some way of her own. She
had ever maintained it as a secret. What had hap-
pened between her husband and herself on that occa-
sion she did not vouchsafe to say, but she gave Law-
rence the name of a hotel in Albany, the letter head
of which she had found in the rectory study shortly
113


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
after his return. Undoubtedly Bellwood would go
there again; at least the clew was worth following. So
he told her that he would go on to Albany—probably
the mysterious source from which Bellwood received his
drug supply—by the next train and report from there
by telegraph. The words that prefaced the perfunc-
tory " good-by " were almost a repetition of words she
had used once before, upon an occasion that he never
should forget: " God bless you, Lawrence—find him and
save him if you can!"
He could hear the slight tremble in the clear, even
voice; he could imagine how she looked as she spoke!
How brave she was—how loyal! There was hardly an
hour of the day that he did not think of her, never a
night but his dreams were filled with her presence. His
one comfort was that he was serving—the mere feel-
ing that she had trusted him—was his sole reward. Her
blessing was the unseen scarf he wore upon his arm.
The nobility of her character, the loftiness of her soul
inspired him—guarded him, ennobled him also, in a
strangely youthful, unworld-touched way. Yet he knew
that it would grow harder for him to maintain the false
position that he had assumed; that ever-reaching, in-
visible hand that he seemed to feel even in his slightest
thoughts— How often he had held it and caressed it
in his dreaming!—the tumult of his heart when near
her, that unvoiced cry that suffered so in its stifling—
what would be the end of it? In his great love for her
he was grateful that in his deception he had raised that
barrier even higher against himself. But the deception
rankled none the less. That fictitious entanglement
revolted him; the other woman who had never lived! the
child, that the one woman had so longed to see, that
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IN THE PATH OF FATE
had never been born! Could he look in the eyes that
haunted him and lie again? Could the gray eyes look
in his and not read the truth?
Yet for him, just now, there was nothing but a
clearly defined task; he could not step aside. He must
keep his purpose straight. As he walked up and down
the platform of the straggling station and thought of
all these strangely mingled thoughts, he tried to bring
himself down to the problem: How best to find Frank
Bellwood, and how to treat the future so far as he was
concerned. His contempt was tinged with anger and
disgust; but to abandon him now would be like leaving
a man blindfolded on the brink of a precipice. Find
him he must—save him if he could. He halted in the
sentry-go he had made of the platform and looked at
his watch—nearly three hours to wait!
There was a sawmill screeching and snarling at the
end of a big lumber yard across the way, a panting
switch engine drilling flat cars up and down the laby-
rinth of tracks. Lawrence stood and watched the scene.
He almost envied the grimy-faced engineer whom he
had just seen receive a dinner pail from a slip of a girl
in a gingham dress, he almost envied the smart young
station master who lived with his wife and babies in
the second story of the station. How simple life was
to some people; how little they appreciated their hap-
piness!
Suddenly there was a commotion down the plat-
form. The telegraph operator, followed by the bag-
gageman and a waiting-room lounger, ran out and
called to the station agent who was talking with a lum-
ber checker at the freight house on the opposite side.
What he said Lawrence could not hear; but the agent
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
made a jump over the tracks and the checker, calling
to two or three freight handlers, followed him, join-
ing the excited group at the station door.
Lawrence walked toward them. The agent was lis-
tening to the operator with staring, frightened eyes;
the rest, with dropped jaws and pale faces, stood about
him.
"What is the matter?"
"Matter? My God, sir! number thirty-four—that's
the express—jumped the track and piled up at the
bridge, just below Beaver Junction! She was delayed
at the junction over forty minutes—something wrong
with the engine—and started to make up time— They
say it's an awful wreck, sir. It's burning now!"
The horror, the unreality, of the situation seemed
to strike all dumb. One of the freight handlers broke
the silence with a slow mutter of incoherent profanity.
"When did it happen?" Lawrence was surprised
at the sound of his own voice.
"About fifteen minutes ago, I guess," put in the
operator. "They can't get much help at the junc-
tion. There is nothin' but the station and two or
three houses. They're telegraphin' all along the line
for help. My God! it'll take two hours to get a wreck-
ing train made up at Buskirk, but the Fulton local
will soon come along. She's due here in about three
minutes."
"How far is the wreck from here?"
The station master answered this time. "It's
twenty miles to the junction and about a mile to the
bridge. Ain't it, Jim?"
"About a mile," answered the baggageman
hoarsely.
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IN THE PATH OF FATE
"Are there any doctors here?" Lawrence looked
at the little main street with its two or three stores
and forty or fifty dwellings ranging out toward the
scrub pines and the lake.
"One, sir, lives with the druggist over yonder.
Guess he's the only one."
"Go fetch him, and get the druggist, too. . . . Tell
him what has happened. Get all the bandages and
clean linen you can! . . . Here, Mr. Station Master,
send one of these men to the sawmill. Call for volun-
teers with axes. We'll go down on the local when she
comes."
"The west-bound through train will be due on the
other line at the junction just about when we'll get
there," said the station master. "I'll wire them to
hold her and give us right of way." He ran into the
waiting room.
Lawrence hardly heard him. In his mind there was
growing, into hideous shape, a thought that had only
flitted across it heretofore: Frank Bellwood was on
that train! Supposing that—! He fought the in-
sidious suggestion, and the whispering tempting devil
of the moment left him. Soon there sounded the whistle
of the approaching local; it roused him to a sense of
the present.
It was a fearful sight! On the bank was a white-
faced, helpless crowd; some were bending over figures
on the ground. Every car had left the rails! Long
masses of ironwork and overturned trucks were piled
high in hideous shapes. Driven back by the heat, the
train crew and the volunteer rescuers could only work
about the edges. A heavy Pullman sleeper had crawled
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
over the baggage car. The flames were licking its
brightly painted sides, the black smoke sifting away
into the woods. The engine, its wheels in the air, lay
in the deep borrow pit, like a huge tumblebug on its
back. The steam was yet roaring from the boiler, and
the fuel in the tender that covered the cab was glowing
fiercely. A few minutes before there had been groans
and cries from the twisted and broken mass, but now
they had almost ceased, except from one place, where
a colored porter, his clothes singed and smoking, stood
wielding an ax. Some men, toiling up the bank from the
stream, were throwing water on him from their hats.
"There's a man in there!" some one shouted
hoarsely in Lawrence's ear.
But there is no use of going farther! The papers
the next morning told the story—a story that only
swelled the list of all the others soon to be forgotten.
There were the descriptions of survivors and eyewit-
nesses; there was the list of casualties, the dead and
maimed, the missing and unidentified. Before the
wrecking train arrived, after the wounded had been
taken away and the charred remains examined, a man
with white face and staring eyes made his way on foot
up the track to the junction. Another west-bound
train pulled in as he reached the station. The pas-
sengers descended and listened with horror to the story
told by the junction people; but in a few minutes the
engineer clambered back to his cab and the train
started on its way. The man with the staring eyes
swung himself on to the last car and huddled down
into a seat.
He had not found Frank Bellwood!—unless—un-
less!—he shuddered at the recollection of the awful
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IN THE PATH OF FATE
sight—he was among them. He had searched care-
fully there, too—a frightful, sickening search, as one
might probe amid the warm embers of a ghat. No
clew! and yet from his questions among the passen-
gers, and his oft-repeated description, Bellwood had
been on the second carl In the reaction that followed
the strenuous work of the last two hours Lawrence's
senses were benumbed. He could not bring himself
to think of what it all might mean. There had been
no use of telegraphing, or sending word. Before long
he would be telling her, and then—and then! He
closed his eyes and clinched his hands. What was
before him? A thousand thoughts, as the numbness
of his mind wore off, thronged and crowded his brain.
He would get away, away from it all—it was over!
He saw himself in England again, he pictured the little
place on the wild Cornish coast—he still owned it, it
had never been rented—and he was walking there, but
not alone. It was she—she was with him! Now he
could feel for the reaching hand and have the right to
take it in his own! The path of fate led by strange
turnings to goals that could not have been foreseen.
And then, the picture changed. Poor Frank Bell-
wood! harassed and weakened by the last pitiful sur-
render, fighting in that stifling, crushing holocaust—
the awful end! And yet through it—and again he
almost groaned in the conflict that rose within him—
shone the hope star of his happiness! Leaning his
head forward on the back of the empty seat before
him, he drew his breath in long, convulsive sobs.
The news of the wreck arrived at Brimfield as the
local evening paper had just gone to press, but before
9 119


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
long the casual rumor of it had reached the ears of a
few, coming through Antioch. It had created little
stir, however; such things happened almost daily, and
it was miles away, on another road, a fact that made
the occurrence have little moment for the town.
Judge Hollins leaving his office late that evening
had not heard of it. He walked across the square, lit
by the sputtering incandescent light, just as the trol-
ley, with a few passengers on board, came in on the
line from Antioch. A figure passed him at the corner.
The judge had just stepped into the shadow of one
of the elm trunks as it went by. He turned an instant
and watched it. Under the sort of brakeman's cap he
caught a glimpse of the face a little down between the
shoulders. Whether it was from the thoughts that
were in his mind, or because of the dimness of the light,
he could not make out the reason, but what he had
seen of the face had somehow reminded him of Bell-
wood. But, no, the walk was entirely different! He
cast the idea aside and crossed the street to the hotel.
Mr. Slocum met him at the door.
** Been a big wreck over on the main trunk line,"
he volunteered. "Montreal and Albany Express. . . .
Nineteen killed and thirty wounded."
Ellery gave out the figures as if they were a score
from a ball game, triumphant in the fact that he was
detailing news.
"Too bad! too bad!" said the judge, without turn-
ing his head. "Life is uncertain; 'stay at home' is
good policy."
He passed on his way and climbed the stairs. The
judge had lived at the old hotel in the days of Ellery's
father. He was as much at home, and as much of a
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IN THE PATH OF FATE
fixture there as the old, polished wooden chairs. Many
a law case had been discussed and planned on the wide
veranda. He had brought some legal papers to his
room with him, but after reading them over absent-
mindedly and sleepily, he tossed them aside, yawned,
and went to bed.
About midnight he was awakened by a sudden, im-
perative knocking; going to the door, after hurriedly
turning up the light, he opened it.
"My stars!" he exclaimed, "Lawrence, boy! what
ails you? Come in! Come in! . . . Why, look at
you! Where have you been?" He pushed him into
the rocking chair. "Quick! tell me!" he ran on.
"You're not ill? . . . Where's Frank?"
Lawrence raised his head. "Frank Bellwood," he
said, steadying his voice with difficulty, "he's killed—
killed in that wreck this afternoon. . . . I've just come
from there."
"Lord! Lord!" exclaimed the judge, with a little
sound of horror and commiseration made by tongue
and teeth. "Lord! Lord!" he repeated. "Poor Amy!
poor girl! poor girl!"
"I must tell her. . . . She does not know."
"I'll go over with you," said the judge. "Tell
me about it while I put on my clothes."
Before he had finished dressing there was another
knock on the door. It was the night porter. He
seemed astonished at finding the judge up, and at his
having some one with him.
"A little boy's downstairs, judge," said he, "who
wants you to come over to Mrs. Bellwood's on Deane
Street, soon's you can."
"My God! She's heard, then!" exclaimed the
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
judge, lifting himself into his coat. He turned to the
porter who had just given Lawrence a nod of belated
recognition.
"We'll be over, right away."
Then he hesitated, half closed the door, and spoke
in a low, awed whisper: "You know the very stran-
gest thing—this evening—" For some reason he
stopped short, said nothing more, and put out the light.
When they had reached the street the messenger
had gone. The judge took Lawrence's arm.
"It must have been horrible, horrible!" he said.
And then, as if to close the dreadful picture out by a
sudden change of thought, he asked a question that
had been in his mind ever since Lawrence had begun
the story.
"What was he doing on that train—if he was com-
ing home?"
"He wasn't coming home, that is—not directly—
at least, that is my idea."
"Perhaps he thought the train stopped at the junc-
tion, where he could make connections for Antioch."
"Perhaps."
Again the judge changed the subject.
"But how could Amy have heard the news?" He
halted. "Good Lord! perhaps she doesn't know at
all—! But she wouldn't be sending for me at this
hour, unless it was something of great importance.
Poor child! she's gone through so many troubles."
Lawrence did not reply. Despite himself his
thoughts had flown on ahead. He was glad the judge
was with him, and yet he hoped that he might see her
alone. Never before did he feel the desire so strong
within him to take that hand in his.
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IN THE PATH OF FATE
True friends are those who understand our silence.
The judge had pressed his arm closely and they walked
on through the darkness.
"Here we are, at last! Perhaps I had better go in
first and let her know that you've come. You'll wait.
Eh, Larry?"
They had gone through the gate that was open
and were standing at the steps. The lights were lit
within the house and the shadow of a figure crossed the
window of a room in the second story.
"I'll wait." His voice sounded dry and harsh.
The judge knocked. The door was opened immedi-
ately as if some one was expected. It was the maid-
servant. Her attitude showed perturbation. Her
voice was shaking and frightened.
"Come in, sir," she said. "Mrs. Bellwood wants
to see you. Come right upstairs."
Lawrence followed into the hall. The judge whis-
pered something to him that he did not hear, and then,
preceded by the maid, the old gentleman climbed the
creaky stairs.
An overpoweringly strange feeling came over Law-
rence as he stood there. He was weak and dizzy; his
knees began to waver. He grasped the newel post for
support. It had not occurred to him that he had not
touched any food since the evening before. He had
never fainted in his life, but for an instant he feared
it and calling upon his will with all his might he drew
himself erect.
The stairs creaked again. He looked up. Judge
Hollins was coming down, one hand on the banister as if
to soften his footsteps.


CHAPTER IX
THE NEW WOOF ON THE LOOM
STEADY, now steady," said the judge. He had
taken him by both elbows and was standing in
front of him in the little study. "Steady," he
repeated; " is anything the matter with you, Larry?"
"No fear, sir; I am all right—just a bit shaky for
a moment."
The reply was with an effort. When he had come
in from the hallway he could not remember. "I'm all
right," he went on. "Is she coming down? Does she
know?"
The judge's grasp tightened.
"There has been a mistake," he panted. "Listen
—he's alive! He was not killed! He's up there now!"
The room swam. Something flashed and tingled in
Lawrence's brain. He got an echo of the judge's fol-
lowing words as if they came from a far distance.
"He's very ill. He's been through something aw-
ful—some terrible ordeal in his escape. She wants you
to come up to him. She's waiting there at the head
of the stairs. Do you need my arm?"
"No—thank you; no, sir."
He was in the hall again. The stairway seemed to
rock and sway before him. He was ascending it slowly.
He found some difficulty in lifting his eyes. But she
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THE NEW WOOF ON THE LOOM
was there on the landing. An instant later and he had
taken the outstretched hand. He paused—faltered—
another step—and her other hand was on his shoul-
der. It was all he could do to prevent that heavy head
from falling forward on her bosom. But again his will
came to the fore; he leaned to one side against the wall,
then straightened slowly.
"Larry! Larry!" exclaimed Amy, half support-
ing him.
Her voice trembled in his ear, her figure quivered
against him. It was only for an instant, but their
souls seemed to sway together. He broke the spell of
the breathless, laden silence.
"How is he? " he asked.
She did not remove her arm from his, never resent-
ing that he had drawn her closer.
"He's very ill, delirious. . . . But you, too—you
have suffered. You are not injured? . . . Oh, I have
been so afraid! so fearful! Were you with him?"
Her eyes sought his face, and for an instant he could
not make reply, but his strength was returning.
The judge, standing a step or two below them, re-
mained silent drawing deep breaths.
"No, no—there is nothing wrong with me. . . .
Come! Let us go to him." Lawrence found voice at
last. "He has had a terrible experience—there was an
accident—I was not with him. . . . I'm all right now."
He stepped past her and turned at the door of the
bedroom. No sooner had he entered than he smelled
the pungent odor of stale smoke that will cling to
clothing after a conflagration. A Norfolk jacket the
minister had been wearing and the rest of his clothes
were flung upon a chair, and on the bed, swaying his
125


THE NEW WOOF ON THE LOOM
were no bones broken; but the minister was bruised
and badly shaken. There was a great contusion on the
left side of the head. But the fever meant more than
these, and the heart was fluttering and uneven. Law-
rence looked grave as he rose and straightened out the
coverlet.
How quickly he had sunk all feelings other than
those of his profession! And yet it afforded him a
merciful relief from his own complex sensations.
"Is it his brain?"
It was Amy speaking. She stood at the head of
the bed, apparently calm, suggesting in her word and
bearing the strangely reliant attitude that is the gift
of women called upon to face the great emergencies.
"Yes, I fear some brain trouble, and he has a fever;
but it may pass off. You were doing the right thing."
He noticed the cracked ice in the bowl.
"I did not know but what it might have been"
He understood her before she had finished the sen-
tence.
"No; not that. Maybe the lack of it has aug-
mented the trouble; he was in a bad condition to with-
stand a strain. But there is nothing immediate to be
feared—I am convinced."
The professional tone was unconscious. He watched
her as she placed the cool bandage on the sufferer's
head. She had done it as deftly as a hospital nurse
might perform a perfunctory duty.
"There is nothing more for us to do?"
"Nothing more, until my medicine case, or one of
the other doctors, comes."
They stood there silently facing one another, as if
neither knew just what to say. Then, at last, she
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
pointed to a chair and, drawing up another close to it,
sat down. Suddenly she took his hand. He moved
and, very slowly, took both hers in his. The situation
appeared to lose its unreality; their mutual attitude
seemed strangely natural, despite the near presence of
the moaning figure on the bed!
In a low voice he began to tell her of the day. But
he left out much, and when it came to the relating of
the search, when he could find no trace, he faltered.
"I could not help but fear—" he said, "I could not
help but fear—and I thought of you, and so I came
at once."
He was unprepared for the sudden movement; but
before he knew it Amy had bent toward him, her fore-
head on his hand. He felt her hot tears, he almost felt
her lips. He lifted her gently, but lowered his own
head until her soft hair was pressed against his brow.
His tongue seemed to be crying her name over and
over. Wild whispered words of endearment seemed to
be clamoring in his own voice in his ears! But had he
spoken? Never could he tell!
There was a gasp and sudden cessation of the mut-
tering from the pillows; neither noticed it or moved;
then it began again. There sounded a sharp, hurried
knocking on the door downstairs. Both rose.
"You have been so good, Lawrence—so kind to me
—so thoughtful always."
She was very close to him, her fingers were still
clasped in his, her beautiful lips were quivering, her
eyes searching his face. He could find no reply; he
dared not speak. The moment was not meant for
words. The guarded portals of his understanding had
opened wide!
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THE NEW WOOF ON THE LOOM
The stairway was creaking again. A strange voice
was talking to the maidservant almost outside the
door, and at this moment the sound of wheels and
horse's hoofs came from the roadway. They stopped
quickly and the gate clicked.
The first comer was Dr. Rublee. The second was
the man from Lawrence's house, and with him was the
judge, who stated as an excuse for his not returning
that he had walked there in order to see that the mes-
sage had been properly understood.
The doctor had entered the room with a nod of
professional salutation and a whispered greeting to
Mrs. Bellwood; he seemed somewhat surprised and dis-
appointed at finding Kellogg there, and forthwith be-
gan a short explanation of his delay. He was a fat,
pursy man, with a thinly straggled and unkempt gray
beard, but a finely shaped head like an antique bust.
His breath was heavy with the dead fumes of brandy.
Lawrence drew him out into the hall; they talked there,
softly, out of earshot of the others.
In an hour Dr. Rublee had left and the judge had
returned to the hotel. But Lawrence still stayed on,
sitting alone in the sick-room. The maidservant had
brought him some food and, after eating, his dizziness
had left him. His mind was clear, he could reason
calmly; but he could arrive at no decision. With him
was the lingering touch of that slender hand; the se-
cret the gray eyes had confided. He endeavored to
keep his thoughts away from the thrilling truth he
had been so long in discerning. How blind he had
been! It changed everything, filling the future with
unforeseen perplexities, new dangers and doubts, fresh
trials. He tried, as if to gain relief from the dear
129


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
torment of his discovery, to dwell on other things. He
forced himself at last to go over the events of the
day, the crowded moments, the swiftly changing scenes!
He kept wondering how it was that Frank had escaped
from the wreck without having been seen by the others.
The hour that he had arrived at home was a mystery;
he had let himself into the house, and the first sign
of his presence was when the frightened servant had
discovered him moaning in his weakness and delirium.
She had gone immediately to find Amy. But the lat-
ter had arrived at the rectory during her absence and,
afraid to leave, she had roused little Jack out of bed
to send him to the doctors' homes again and to the
hotel. All this Lawrence had learned; but how Bell-
wood had reached Brimfield so long before him he could
not imagine. Then all at once there occurred to him
the earlier train that they had just missed meeting at
the junction. Bellwood might have come on that; there
was no other way to account for it! He tried to think
of the man on the bed as an abstract personality—
a human theorem, something to be worked out, con-
sidered, apart from his own existence. That was the
only way.
The patient was resting more quietly, the fever had
somewhat abated, but his face and limbs contracted
every now and then nervously, and his breath faltered.
Despite the fact that the clothing had been removed,
the odor of smoke still clung to the room.
Not a word had Lawrence and Amy had together
since Dr. Rublee had departed. She had appeared so
pale and tired that he, together with the judge and
Lawrence, had insisted on her going to her own room
and resting. Strange to say, she had seemed noth-
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THE NEW WOOF ON THE LOOM
ing loath and had made a pretense, at least, of
obeying.
But there was no rest for her that night. She lay
fully dressed on her bed with wide-open eyes looking
into the darkness, never moving. She was not strug-
gling against her thoughts, she had abandoned herself
to them, in a complete, unqualified succumbing.
Nothing that had happened could change her sense
of duty, nothing would alter her manner of living;
she would face life on the morrow exactly as it came to
her, living for the day, as it became her. But she had
gone through more than the trials that the night sug-
gested; the last ten hours had been hours of bitter
heart conflict. The tottering castle of her faith—the
small faith that had been left to her, and that she so
wanted to preserve, had fallen—and she could look
calmly at the ruins. Her eyes were opened, unap-
palled, unfrightened, filled with dumb suffering. She
had spent the afternoon and evening with her mother
at Meadow Farm. Mrs. Winter had had a very bad
turn in the morning and had hardly slept the night
before; but Amy had not told Lawrence of this, nor of
how she had sat with and quieted her mother all that
afternoon. They had talked long. No one would ever
know what passed between them! But when her aunt,
the tired, thin-faced little woman, had come back from
her duties at the Atheneum, she had found Mrs. Win-
ter resting more peacefully and quietly than she had
for some time past.
As she lay there Amy would have given a great deal
if she could have found relief in weeping. But the
tears would not come. Never, or at least very seldom,
had she wept alone about herself. The quick sympa-
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
thy that she felt for others had often dimmed her eyes,
but self-pity was a luxury she would not allow. She
had deliberately chosen her road, and of her own will
had followed it. Although she had gone on from
a false start, she would follow it still and, as long as
her strength held out, she would not groan at her bur-
den or complain of the steepness of the path. But she
saw things so clearly now! Many abstruse passages
were translated until she understood the meaning, the
import, of much she had passed over in her perplexity.
The past seemed to lapse into the present with perfect
reason for things as they existed; no effort of hers
could change them. There was no use in looking back!
She tried to face the future, but the plan of it all was
indistinct; she could not penetrate the blinding mists.
"It must be from day to day," she thought, "from
hour to hour."
There was no feeling of disloyalty in the self-
acknowledgment of her love; she would, long before
this, have owned to it purely in her prayers, with never
a thought of sin. But now, mingled with this great
love, was a gratitude founded on her sense of justice,
her love for truth. It had been all for her—always
all for her! Whether what she had found out that
day could be kept a secret from him—from either—
she did not know. She made no vows; she trusted in
him, believed in his strength. It was not necessary to
count on her own, although, as yet, she did not fear
its test at all.
So far as her husband was concerned, except for
the fact that he needed her care and nursing, his po-
sition had hardly changed. The haunting fears and
doubts that she had so hated to harbor and had fought
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THE NEW WOOF ON THE LOOM
against had become just dead, unthreatening embers,
never to be disturbed, impossible to be fanned into a
flame. She knew everything: his base disloyalty, his
deception, his weakness! But then she knew his suffer-
ing; she pitied him without a shred of hatred, without
a twinge of revengeful feeling. In her great brav-
ery she almost forgave him, as she had already for-
given her mother, but without telling her of the hope-
devastating extent of the conspiracy.
All at once her mind turned to Lawrence, sitting
alone there in the sick-room. She would go to him!
It was not fair that after all he had gone through he
should still be called upon to give out more! As this
thought came to her, her arms extended into the dark-
ness; her heart forced up unspoken words from the
depths of unsounded passions. With a sense of sud-
den danger that frightened her with its deliciousness,
its nearness, its freedom from all shame, she turned
and buried her face in the pillows. A long sob, part
of thankfulness for the warning, part a bitterly sweet
surrender to her own self-knowledge, shook her from
head to foot.
The door opened softly; she looked up startled.
There stood the children in their white nightgowns,
hand in hand. Without a cry or a sound they ran to
her, and she gathered them close in the soft embrace
of a great gratitude and mighty love. Here would
she always find her refuge! Here were her guardians;
here the safe guides along the hard road and through
the mists!
She comforted them with caresses and low-spoken
sentences, lip to cheek, and after a few minutes led
them to their nursery and tucked them once more in
133


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
their cots. She sat down between them as she had done
so often, waiting until they were asleep. At last after
bending low over each little figure to make sure, she
went back to the sick-room.
Her husband was resting quietly; Lawrence had
fallen into a tired, motionless slumber on the sofa. She
stood there a moment, looking from one to the other.
Then, moving softly over to the armchair by the bed,
she sank slowly into it, stilling her breath for fear of
awakening them.
One thing bore upon her with a growing certainty:
everything was known to all three in that hushed room.
Their mutual relations, with a few differences, were ab-
solutely understood!
Suddenly she gave a start. Her husband was awake.
He had raised himself on his elbow, and his trembling
finger was pointed at the man he hated; pushing back
the covers he strove to reach the floor.
"Tell him to go!" his voice shrilled loudly. "Tell
him to go. He'd like to see me dead!"
Lawrence jumped to his feet and reached him
quickly, bending over him, paying no attention to his
words. But Bellwood would not be quieted; he raved
on incoherently. . . .
At last she had stilled him! As Lawrence pressed
back the fluid from the merciful needle into his arm
his voice faded slowly and he sank once more into un-
consciousness.
They both were panting as if the scene and the
struggle they had just passed through had taxed them
beyond the limit of their strength. Still they did not
sit down, they stood there facing each other without
stirring from the bedside.
134


THE NEW WOOF ON THE LOOM
"He will rest now?"
"Yes." He stepped toward her.
"O Larry! will you help me?" She leaned back
against the wall.
"What is it?" He strove to take her hand; he
would have drawn her close.
"Leave me—you must go now."
"But, Amy"
"Please go—wait till I send for you—wait till you
hear from me. Please go."
10


CHAPTER X
THE DECISION
LAWRENCE had been away almost a fortnight.
. He had written from New York that he ex-
pected to return to Brimfield on the express
that arrived Saturday afternoon, and Judge Hollins,
who early in the day had received a telegram from him,
met him by appointment at the station. It had been
arranged that they were to dine together at the big
house back of the wide lawn and the evergreens.
"My stars! but I'm glad to see you, Larry," cried
the old gentleman, grasping his hand as he descended
to the platform. "You could not have returned more
opportunely. I needed you. . . . You got my reply
to your wire? Of course, you must have."
"Yes, it was handed me on the train at Rochester.
We'll have a long evening together, judge."
They climbed into the two-seated buckboard and
drove down the quiet village street. The judge's si-
lence now appeared rather strange after the enthusiasm
of his greeting; but his companion did not seek to inter-
rupt it; his face, usually full of healthy color, seemed
drawn and pale. Soon they reached the big white
house and drew up at the portico. Lawrence Kellogg
looked about him with a sigh.
The declining day was full of October, but warm
136


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
strong jaw reminded the judge of Larry, somehow. He
had never noticed it before.
"Now, fire your guns. You speak first, judge."
The old gentleman settled down in an armchair and
took out a big notebook. "It's generally the custom,
in consultation, for the youngest—to have that privi-
lege, isn't it?"
"Yes, sometimes; but we'll waive it." Lawrence
seated himself on the window sill. "Now, please"
"All right, then." The judge looked over his
glasses. "There has come up out of a clear sky, Law-
rence, the most unsuspected situation here; a situation
that I don't exactly know how to handle—that is, how
to meet. Catch the point? A—er—man came here
from New York this afternoon and, after making some
inquiries at the hotel, where he, of course, ran afoul of
Ellery and got the history of the county back to the
Indian wars, he asked where Mrs. Winter lived."
"Yes?"
Lawrence moved quickly from the window and drew
up another big chair fronting the judge, who con-
tinued:
"His name was Louis A. Gunsberg, and when I
met him I found he'd been out to Meadow Farm, and
although,, of course, he couldn't see Mrs. Winter—the
old lady is pretty low—he saw Mrs. Blatchford, and
she, of course, referred him to Amy and to me."
"Well; go on, sir."
"You remember my telling you that Colonel Win-
ter left a lot of stock in a Mexican mine named the
'El Cintura,' and that I thought it was worthless,
eh?" The judge paused .to make sure his hearer took
in the full import of this. "You remember?"
138


THE DECISION
"Certainly." Lawrence looked at him curiously.
"Well, sir, it turns out I was mistaken! Larry,
my boy "—the old lawyer had paused and was speak-
ing with slow deliberation—" this fellow, Gunsberg,
has made me such an offer for that stock that it makes
me feel funny all down my spine to think of it! He
beat about the bush at first and then came out with
a bid of—what d'ye think?"
"I don't think at all; what?" Again his eye
sought the judge's; a strange smile was on his lips, but
he was not aware of it.
"One hundred thousand dollars!" Judge Hol-
lins leaned back in the big chair gasping; he repeated
the sum to himself beneath his breath.
"What did you do? Did you talk it over with
anybody?" His lack of astonishment the judge passed
over in his eagerness to proceed.
"With Amy—yes. She was all for accepting it at
once, and then I told her I thought I'd better wait
till I'd seen you, and that gave her an idea, apparently,
and she said—er—something that I took to mean to
'do nothing' till she'd seen you, too. I can tell you,
son, never did anything happen that means so much
to so many of the salt of the earth—I mean the two
old ladies and Amy and the children; not him—the
text-quoting skunk! If Bellwood should lose his po-
sition—he gets a good salary—he'd never get another.
I know what's the matter. It's all bound to come out.
They haven't saved a dollar. The mortgage on the
farm would be foreclosed, Mrs. Winter and Mrs.
Blatchford would go to the poorhouse, and Amy
and the boy and girl—good Lord! what would become
of 'em!"
139


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"She wished to see me—did she? I mean did she
say so?"
"Well—er—yes, Larry; you've—er—got to see
her. I don't know what's happened altogether, of
course; but she told me some things that clear up much
that puzzled me. I know what's been the matter with
Frank—what's the matter with him now."
"There's a good deal I intend to tell you, too, old
friend; but let's get back to the mining stock. You're
the trustee of the property, aren't you?"
"Yes, and I'll tell you now what I did "—the judge
was panting in excitement—" I told him that if he'd
make an offer of one hundred and twenty-five thousand
we'd talk about it. You see, he said that he had to
know to-night. There was no way of my finding out
anything about the value of it; may be worth more,
for all that I know. I believed it best to be cau-
tious."
Lawrence raised his eyebrows slightly. "You did
right in getting all you could, of course; how does the
matter stand?"
"He's to let me know before eight o'clock; he's
going to leave at midnight—must accept or refuse my
offer before he goes. I don't know much about these
sorter things; my tendency is to hold over and investi-
gate. You know I have a right, under the terms of
the will, to dispose of this property without consult-
ing anybody, but Amy, too, she says—er—just as much
as says—' wait' till she sees you."
"I don't think that is necessary," replied Lawrence
hastily. "You see there has been a newly awakened
interest in these Mexican mines; but it is mostly specu-
lative. My advice to you and to her is to get as much
140


THE DECISION
as you can, of course, but close up the deal as quickly
as possible. I'd do it to-night, if I were you."
"I'd better be going back, then."
"No; stay to supper, judge; there will be plenty
of time after; it will be ready in a minute." And then
slowly as if to collect his friend's wits for him: " Whom
did you say this Gunsberg represented?"
The judge walked to the window and drew out the
notebook; he could just read the name in the failing
light: "Kahn, Davis & Co., Broad Street; ever heard
of 'em?"
"Oh, yes; good firm; they've been my— Hullo,
here's Mary to tell us supper is ready!"
Arm in arm Lawrence and his old friend walked
into the dining room. At the door Judge Hollins
paused.
"Do you know—I think we take this good news in
a mighty unenthusiastic way, Larry—don't we?"
Lawrence smiled: " I tell you what we'll do, then, to
make up," he proposed; "we'll open a bottle of that
Lone Star Madeira my father prized so and drink
a health to Mr. Gunsberg and the—what did you
call it?"
"The • El Cintura,'" replied the judge.
"Right," said Lawrence. "' El Cintura.'"
It was done in proper form but with rather a
thankful gravity on the part of Lawrence and a forced
exuberance on the judge's. One might have thought
that neither appreciated the full meaning of the situ-
ation embodied in the lifting of their glasses. The
fact was that it seemed to oppress them with its weight
of suggested promise.
"You know, Larry," half meditated the old lawyer,
141


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
speaking very slowly, "that this news has so dwelt
upon me that it has discounted other things that I
wanted to tell you, and has rather put out of my mind
some questions that I wished to ask. I have been a
man of one idea for the last few hours; but now, if you
will forgive me, my boy, I am going to be very
frank, and if I ask anything that you don't care to
answer just put in an objection and it will be sus-
tained."
"Go ahead, judge! Mind you, nothing you might
ask me can offend."
"You're going to leave Brimfield, are you? I be-
lieve I can read your mind."
"Yes, I expect to be in London in about three
weeks."
"London! You won't come back here, boy?"
Lawrence looked at the judge and slowly shook his
head. "I don't think so, sir. It has been a great
failure. I can see no reason for returning."
His friend did not pursue the line of reasoning sug-
gested by the interpolation. Instead he returned the
gaze for a moment, then lowered his eyes. A look of
sadness came over his handsome old face.
"Things often go wrong in the world," he said
slowly. "There is no use of railing at fate, of course
—no sense in repining. It is often better to swim with
the current than to fight for a far shore." He paused,
slightly hesitating, then resumed, smiling kindly: " But
the tide turns, my boy, and if we keep afloat and save
our strength, we may reach it after all."
The understanding sympathy was so plain that no
comment was required. Lawrence sat in silence, and
the judge poured himself out another glass of Lone
142


THE DECISION
Star. He sipped it slowly, and then, putting down
the glass, leaned an elbow on the table.
"I want you to tell me," said he, " the actual state
and condition of Franklin Bellwood's health; that is,
if there is no objection."
"None in the least, judge. . . . I'm not attending
him any more, you know. Dr. Smith, from Antioch,
has taken hold with old Rublee here. But there's noth-
ing much to be done. He won't submit to restraint
or treatment; and the law can't touch him. He has
heart trouble, but it is one of those remarkable cases
about which nothing definite can be predicted. As to
the other matter; he will probably live longer if he con-
tinues the use of morphine or opiates under proper
direction, than if he stopped them. He may go on this
way for years. Of course, there may come a break-
down of the faculties preceded by slow retrogression,
or it may come suddenly. In either case, of course,
it would mean putting him away in some place where
he can be taken care of. That you will have to look
out for. Amy understands. It is needless for me to
tell you that he and I no longer occupy the positions
that we once did—the relations, I should say. My
hand must not be felt by him in the attempted control'
or suggested management of any of his affairs. That
.is all."
"He's up and about now, Larry—going strong,
it appears, the contemptible canting sneak! Just think
of the fine men in the ministry who haven't a tenth of
his talents! How a"
"Yes; Smith says that the case is one that is most
unusual; he never met with one like it, nor did I."
"I heard a strange bit of gossip to-day," began
143


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
the judge, smiling slightly; "but, considering the
source, I don't think it worth repeating; still"
He paused. His hearer was evidently paying no
attention; he had risen and had gone to the window,
standing there with his back turned. The old gentle-
man seemed to catch his mood; he settled deeper into
his chair, a frown of preoccupation took the place of
his half-amused smile.
Then followed a long silence.
Lawrence was recalling the awful scene that night
at the rectory, when Franklin Bellwood had been on the
verge of an accusation, so terrible that even in his
half-delirious fury he had left it unpronounced. And
how bravely she had spoken when she had stilled his
words! It was as if her personality, the aroma of
her character, filled the air like some peace-bringing
spirit breath. Her husband had looked at her and
hushed, his wide, dilated pupils searching her face.
There was no suggestion of the understanding of any
accusation that concerned her conduct. In the tre-
mendously dramatic situation she had been as calm and
sure as if she was only trying to comfort a sick person
disturbed by the illusions—the agri somnia of a dream.
And that strange parting, when she had besought his
help—so pathetic in her weakness—her words still lin-
gered: "Wait till I send for you—wait till you hear
from me."
And so he had left them together! But Franklin
Bellwood's words had wounded him like a knife thrust.
"Tell him to go—tell him to go! He knows he'd
like to see me dead! Yes; those were his words: 'He'd
like to see me dead!'"
"Heavens, Larry!" cried the judge, awakening
144


THE DECISION
from his reverie, "it's nearly eight! I must hasten
back. Mr. Gunsberg will think it strange. . . . Good
Lord, if I should lose this chance I'd blow out my poor
old apology for brains! Just think; that money, prop-
erly invested, would give Amy and the children enough
to live on for the rest of their lives, in more than com-
fort—no matter what might happen. ... I have an
idea! Suppose you come down with me to the hotel
and meet him; will you?"
"I don't think I'd better appear in the matter,
had I? I couldn't offer you any advice, but of course
I'd like to know the results. ... I tell you what: come
into the study and use the telephone. That's not half
a bad idea—and then I'll know, you see, just what
terms you arrive at."
As Lawrence was speaking he had turned; taking
the judge by the arm he half led him from the dining
room.
It did not take long to get into communication with
the hotel; Mr. Gunsberg appeared to be within calling,
for he quickly responded. The judge, as usual, was
gruff.
"This is Judge Hollins—yes—yes. I'm now at
Dr. Lawrence Kellogg's. . . . What?—hold the wire."
The speaker faltered, a look of consternation on his
face; at the same time he closed the transmitter with
his hand and placed the mouth of the receiver against
his cheek. "He wants to know if I have spoken to you
about the matter; he didn't ask me not to. . . . But,
good Lord!"
"Better tell him that you have talked it over with
me. It can't do any harm."
The judge nodded. "Yes," said he aggressively,
145


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
into the instrument, " I've talked it over with the doc-
tor; he's an old friend of all the parties concerned—
I beg your pardon, you exacted no secrecy in the affair,
Mr. Gunsberg. . . . All right—I'll take one hundred
and fifty thousand dollars for that stock—not a cent
less!"
The judge made a gesture with his foot in Law-
rence's direction, accompanied by a glance of the eye.
His face was flushed with excitement. All at once his
jaw dropped and he swung about.
"Good Lord!" he whispered loudly. "He wants
to know if you could overhear what I was saying!"
This time the judge forgot to cover the transmitter.
"Better say that I'm here in the room. I don't
see what harm it can do, either." Lawrence spoke
clearly. "Let him know that we have advised together.
I agree in anything you say."
Mr. Gunsberg was doing the talking now, the judge
signifying that he was listening by grunts of assent.
"All right, I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He hung up the telephone. "Phew!" he exclaimed,
patting his brow loudly with the palm of his hand.
"I don't know what to make of it! . . . Good idea—
my tacking on that other twenty-five thousand—eh?"
"Yes, I told you to get all you thought you could
get."
"By the golden harp! Larry, I might have got
a million for all that I know!"
Lawrence laughed oddly. "I hardly think that,"
he said quietly. "A million is a large sum of money.
Will I call a trap for you?"
"No, I think I'll walk. It will do me good. Just
think a hundred "—the judge shook his head with an
146


THE DECISION
excited chuckle and slapped Lawrence on the back—
"and fifty thousand, my boy! Where in the devil is
my hat? I am going to do the fastest bit of walking
I have done in many a year. . . . Tiddly dum te dido!
feel gay as a lark on the dew-spangled grass! Turn ti,
tiddly dum "—he made a strangely youthful jig step.
As they reached the hallway he took down his soft
black sombrero from the elk antlers that served for a
rack, and quieted himself. Then the smile of amuse-
ment once more crossed his face.
"By the way, Larry," he said, "I think I will tell
you that bit of gossip I heard: That old gas bag
Ellery told me he'd seen Frank Bellwood with Mrs.
Rice in her automobile to-day, and that he'd been out
at Elmside. Hardly believe it, do you?"
Lawrence did not return the smile, merely dis-
missing the news and the question with a shrug of his
shoulders that suggested a volume of comment on El-
lery's character. He had opened the front door and
was about to start the judge on his way, with a prom-
ise of a meeting on the morrow, when all at once there
sounded from the road beyond the pines the sound of
loud, carousing cries and the jabber of angry drunken
voices in broken English.
"Those confounded strikers from the waterworks,"
said the judge, pausing on the veranda. "There's
going to be trouble, they have been drinking now for
days. They assaulted one of the contractors and nearly
killed him Thursday; they're a menace to the neigh-
borhood. I hear that they're going to import new
laborers this week and drive this lot out of their filthy
camp up there. If we only had decent county officers,
most of this murdering, chicken-stealing gang would
147


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
be in the lockup! . . . Well, good night, Larry; come
to my office in the morning. I'm going to try and
persuade you to change some of your plans—but not
now. I say, that's rather funny about Bellwood and
Mrs. Ned, eh? I don't suppose you're going to church,
are you?" He had changed the subject suddenly at
Lawrence's shake of the head.
"No, not to-morrow. Good night, judge."
He followed his friend's retreating figure until it
had disappeared in the gloom, behind the evergreens,
and then, closing the door, he went back to the lonely
library. Once more Mr. Gunsberg was called to the
telephone for a few minutes' earnest conversation. The
short talk concluded, Lawrence took out some papers.
Before seating himself, however, or looking them over,
he straightened up and folding his arms—his habit—
remained there standing deep in thought. Franklin
Bellwood and Mrs. Rice! Here was a strange mixing!
Of course he knew, and Amy knew, of the widow's con-
tribution to the church; it could not be otherwise.
During the first week of Bellwood's illness Mrs. Ned
had "kindly inquired" almost every day and once or
twice sent flowers. But supposing this gossip was
true? His wide experience taught him much as he
reasoned it over. It might be another phase of the
minister's retrogression—the sudden diversion in a new
direction of a partly dethroned moral sense, meeting
the whim of an unbridled nonmoral instinct. Both un-
balanced from different causes leading to the same
effect. And Amy! How would she meet this? The
rankling, poisoned words that her husband had mut-
tered that night of their parting sang in his ears over
and over: " He'd like to see me dead!" Why had not
148


THE DECISION
the wreck on the road claimed him? Oh! the tempta-
tion of dwelling on that thought! He leaned forward
on the desk, his eyes closed; his shoulders rose and fell
with the force of his deep breathing. At last he calmed
himself. The words of the note she had sent him that
had begged for no answer drove out again the whisper-
ing devil. "We must not see each other, we must not
even write—it must be never again. I see it all now.
We must be brave. Always you will be in my thoughts,
always in my prayers. God bless and keep you, Law-
rence, knight of mine! The thought of you will keep
me away from you—the thought of me, I trust, and
know, will make you understand."
Oh! the sweetness and purity of the soul that
gleamed through every word! the wonder of it! Who
could doubt now that there existed on the earth the
essence of the teaching of the Greatly Good? How
small and unworthy he was in his groaning, tempted
spirit; and yet how rich in the knowledge of such a
purity of love! The ancient man in him would have
possessed her, would hold her, clasp her close, fight—
kill for her! And yet it was his soul that knew her,
infolded her—and kept her safe.
The tempest was over! His eyes and throat pained
and choked him, but he forced himself to concrete
thought: Yes, he was doing everything he could—and
yet as he had once lied to shield and save her; he was
deceiving her now—because he saw no other way!
All at once what the judge had said came to him
like a flash—she wished to see him! After all that had
happened—she wished to see him! Could the old law-
yer have been mistaken? Perhaps in his kindly way,
and in his generous, chivalric interpretation of his
149


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
knowledge of how things were between them, he had
invented the suggested bidding. How odd it was he
had not suspected anything in the purchase of the
mining stock! Perhaps it was better that he had not.
At all events, it was rather late in the day to tell him
now.
But Amy! He must be sure before he made a move.
The relief of feeling that, come what might, she would
at least be placed beyond the grip of want and distress
warmed him with a glow of comfort.
He sat long into the night writing and arranging
his papers. It was only the lowering of the oil in the
lamp that sent him to bed before daylight.


CHAPTER XI
THE BREAKING
IT was Sunday, but not bright and warm as the day
before had been—a cold morning with the wind
blowing and the sun slipping occasionally from
behind fast-moving clouds.
Amy stood at the window of her room in the rec-
tory, looking out at the leaves as they drifted from the
branches of the elm trees. She had finished her break-
fast and had sent the children off to Meadow Farm
with a note to her aunt, Mrs. Blatchford. All at once
she turned from the window and listened. She heard
her husband steal down the stairs and make his way
back to the dining room. She had not seen him to
speak to since the morning before, when he started out
for a walk. She had lunched and dined at her mother's,
and part of the afternoon she had spent at Judge Hol-
lins's office, going over the important news concerning
the "El Cintura." At nine o'clock at night she had
received a late visit from the old lawyer, who had told
her that the bargain was concluded, and that as trus-
tee he would deposit on the morrow in the bank at
Antioch the check of Kahn, Davis & Co. for one hun-
dred and fifty thousand dollars, to be subsequently di-
vided between her mother and herself, according to the
terms of the will.
U 151


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
The news, that seemed to her to be impossible at
first, incapable of being understood, she had not yet
communicated to Franklin Bellwood, for the reason
that his whereabouts had been unknown to her during
the day—a fact that had occasioned her no little
anxiety. Upon his return, in her absence, he had gone
to his room, and at the hour of the judge's call he was
lying in a deep stupor, from which she deemed it best
not to attempt to rouse him. For an hour, now, she
had been waiting for him. All night she had lain awake
thinking.
Her horizon had changed most wonderfully between
the last sunrise and the one that greeted her this Sun-
day morning. She could see beyond the four walls of
this room, beyond the rectory hedge and the hills that
surrounded Brimfield—and these had been her bound-
ary and her rounds for long, heavy-trudging years,
during which, the day just gone was like the day to
follow. Now all was to change! The country into
which she looked was strange to her; it gleamed for a
minute bright with promise and then clouded dark with
threatening shadows—the roads and the valleys, clear
for a certain length, ended in the ever-present mists.
But as she had seen her duty under the dead weight
of things as they were, she now saw it under the altered
motive power given to her will and thoughts. It had
taken a new direction, that was all. Lawrence Kellogg
was in town; and he was going! She would never see
him again, but he knew of the sudden change in her
fortunes. That only gave her added reason for abid-
ing by her decisions. The judge had given full rein
to his imagination in describing Lawrence's joy at the
tidings. Somehow the picture did not seem to fit into
152


THE BREAKING
Amy's mind as being clear or definite. She knew how
he must share with her in the good news, but his ca-
pacities for rejoicing, she believed, were not of the
sort to show outwardly in any such spectacular man-
ner. But
"Why! you should have seen and heard him!" the
judge had exhilarated. "He would have thrown his
cap into the air—if he'd had a cap and we hadn't
been sitting in the library—right under the stern eye
of old Amandus's portrait. I don't know how to
describe it better than his giving silent cheers—that's
it, ' silent cheers.' And what do you suppose! What?
Nothing would do, Amy, but he must get out a bottle
of the general's Lone Star Madeira—there can't be
more than half a dozen left—and we must drink to
old Gunsberg and ' El Cintura'! Yes, ma'am, and we
clinked glasses; and I tell you we held a ratification
meeting—gad! he was just like a boy! I thought he'd
be chasing out here right away! You will see him, my
dear, of course; he doesn't leave till Tuesday morning,
maybe not till Wednesday. How foolish! Of course
you will! You can wager he wants to see you!
He'll be at my office to-morrow. I wish I could head
off this idea of his of clearing out! Hang it all!—
pardon me—that'll be about the time you'll be at
church!"
"I'm not thinking of going to church, judge,"
Amy had replied quietly. "I'm going to be down at
the homestead ; Lawrence will be very busy making his
preparations for departure, I feel sure. I may not get
a chance to see him. Believe me he will quite under-
stand our not meeting again—so will I." Even in her
own ears her words sounded forced and hard and un-
153


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
bending; but at least, the explanation was intended to
convey the truth.
"My stars!" exclaimed the judge. "If I was
you—I mean if I was he—" He halted, not knowing
how to finish. The fact was he had begun to think
aloud, which is usually embarrassing, and had caught
himself just in time. His confusion, that Amy seemed
not to notice, had hastened him to his departure.
During the long night that had just ended, despite
the mistiness of the future, Amy Bellwood had reached
a number of definite conclusions. And these urged
upon her the necessity for immediate action. There
would be no parleying on her part with any tempta-
tion to put off matters or to refuse to accept the con-
sequences. This Day of Rest would mean to her almost
more than any other day in her life had meant; the
self-chosen journey lay before her—if not into the
land of her Desire, at least toward the country of New
Hopes.
She descended the stair and walked slowly to the
door of the dining room. Her husband gave a start
as he looked up from toying with the food on his plate.
He forced himself to a greeting.
"I made my own coffee," he said. "I supposed
that you were busy somewhere. I overslept myself."
The maid servant was just leaving the room with
a tray of dishes, swinging the door into the kitchen
open with a push of her knee. Amy waited until she
had disappeared.
"Frank," she said evenly, "I must see you in the
study as soon as you have finished. Don't leave with-
out seeing me."
The minister frowned. "We'll have very little time
154


THE BREAKING
before service, and surely you are going," he said,
chivying a bit of toast about the tablecloth with ner-
vous fingers. "Couldn't we put it off? I feel well
enough to conduct part of the service, at least. Bache
will be there, of course, to relieve me if necessary."
A look of sudden weariness crossed Amy's face.
"We won't discuss things here," she said. "I'll wait
for you in the study. . . . Nothing that you have
heard for a long time, Frank, is so important as what
I have to say to you."
Bellwood glanced furtively over his shoulder toward
the kitchen door. "Now, please," he began, " we never
have had a scene but once. Don't you"—and then
his courage forsook him and he leaned his head for-
ward on both hands. "You know, I'm not well yet,
Amy, I'm not strong—I'm not myself. ... I was not
accountable that night."
"It must be done, now, it can't be put off," she
replied; "we must talk together. You are able to
stand it. Have you finished?"
He rose and started toward her, his footsteps lag-
ging, his head lowered. She waited at the door of
the study and closed it behind him. He made a pre-
tense of regaining his self-command and walked over
to the loud-ticking little clock on the mantelpiece.
"We will be late," he said, blinking in the bright light.
"I must hasten. They are expecting me, and—and—
Wait here, I will be back in half a moment."
"No, Frank; Mr. Bache will conduct the service.
They will understand your not coming. I have ar-
ranged all that." She pulled the easy chair out from
the desk and drew down the blinds through which the
bright October sun was for the moment flooding the
155


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
little room. Bellwood looked about him as a man might
who was judging his chances of making a desperate
escape.
"Thanks. Perhaps you are right, Amy; I was
really terribly afraid I'd back out at the last moment.
I think—yes—I'll go take a walk; better, eh? My
favorite old walk up near the quiet old burying ground
to the observatory."
"There is no use of our standing," she said. She
motioned to the big chair and drew up one closely
fronting it. Her husband relaxed the rather dramatic
attitude he had assumed upon her not answering his
question, and slunk sulkily down with one elbow on the
desk. Nothing but the weakness seemed to be left in
Iiis finely molded face. Well did Amy know why he
wished to walk on Cemetery Hill—long she had sus-
pected that there he kept a hidden supply of drugs.
"Frank," Amy began, "let us talk like reasonable
beings who have to face things as they exist, and who
must put imagination and false sentiment to one side.
I am willing to start afresh—to begin a new chapter
in our lives, if you will agree to help. It cannot be
done without mutual help, and I dare say, although
things have changed, what you may think great con-
cessions. Shall I go on? Are you willing to listen?"
"I am listening," Bellwood replied, twirling his
watch chain nervously. "What are the concessions?"
"You must resign from your pastorate here at
Brimfield, and— Stop, please, I want you to hear me
out."
Bellwood had half started to his feet.
"It is best that we take all this calmly and quietly,"
she went on. "We must leave here, and you must go
156


THE BREAKING
somewhere where you can "—she paused—" get well—
get stronger. Things cannot go on with you as they
are now. It will all end in wreck and ruin."
Again her husband started to say something, with
a movement of impatience; but she restrained him, and
leaning forward placed her hand gently on his arm.
"Don't you see—can't you understand—that I am try-
ing to give you another chance?" she murmured ear-
nestly. "Don't resent it. Remember what I said of the
new chapter. I want to prepare all the pages clean and
white for the writing we may do together. . . . Will
you help me, Frank?"
For an instant it appeared as if Bellwood was on the
point of softening—was on the verge of breaking down.
Although he did not know it, the crisis of all his life
had come to him, but something flashed across his mind,
and, blindly, he dashed it all aside.
"Nonsense, Amy; you're talking rubbish! I must
stay here and—and go on with my work. Everyone
has said how good it has been. You know that, or they
wouldn't be wanting me to take the parish at Antioch.
Why, only a month or so ago"
She interrupted him, shaking her head slowly. "No,
it won't do, it will never do, Frank, to talk this
way. We must be absolutely honest—absolutely truth-
ful—we must understand. Don't you see? Won't you
try?"
"No; I don't see any reason for all this—and, be-
sides, it is all rubbish, as I said. It is you who are not
talking sense! How could we live? Where could we go?
We get this rectory free. What would we do without
my salary? It is impossible."
"No; nothing is more possible. I shall come to that
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
later, in due time. I do not want to review the past. I
do not want to turn back one single page. I only want
to talk of the future, what it can bring to us, not what
it may."
This time Bellwood remained silent, his eyes shifting
from her face to the floor and back to her face again
as she continued, her voice deep and tremulous.
"We have been walking on glass stilts, Frank. At
any time a little stumble might bring us down together,
and we could never get up again. But now all is
changed. Don't you wish to get on your feet once more,
and stand firm and strong? Don't you wish to be—I
will say it—cured—so that you can try to win back
my regard—my respect for you? There is a part of
you, Frank, that is dying—it may not be long before it
is absolutely dead. Pray for strength, pray for your
soul, as well as for yourself— And face the reality!
You may have concealed this from those about you.
True! But I have helped you conceal it. I have been
the one who has drawn the screens and covered the hid-
ing places."
She stopped. Bellwood had closed his eyes and was
drawing labored breaths. How true her words had
sounded to herself as she had spoken; but how dif-
ferently she could have presented the existing facts.
Without her help he would have come to the end
long ago. She had kept him going actually from
year to year, from month to month, from day to day.
No one knew this. She had plenty of friends in
Brimfield, many dependent upon her sympathy and
aid; but she had no confidants, no intimates. She
had hidden her loneliness as she had hidden her trag-
edy. The parish accounts, the school classes, the no-
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THE BREAKING
tices of meetings, all the business outside of the mere
writing of his sermons and the delivery of them from
the pulpit, had been done by her. Without her assist-
ance the rector of St. John's could not have answered a
question as to the affairs of the parish. If she refused
to assist further he would be forced to an acknowledg-
ment of his impotency, so far as accepting responsibil-
ities was concerned. But it was not in her nature to
make her attack from this standpoint. She hoped to
stir some latent feeling of responsibility within him,
to clear his vision, if she could, by holding out hopes
that might tempt him, if he would view them from a level
standpoint.
"But, Frank," she continued, after the lengthy
pause, stirring him to attention with a pressure on his
arm. "I do not wish to recall all that. I am going
to make you a simple proposition; so clear and simple,
and so full of hope for all of us, that you must think
and take it in."
"What is it?" said Bellwood. "Go on! quick—
I'm listening."
"We will leave here and go somewhere where we can
all be near together, and where you can be taken care
of. It can be done—the means are ready to our hand,
as you shall see. Then when once we have started clear
again, we will begin all over."
Bellwood's nervousness now was painful. He was
shuddering and trembling. "I must—I must," he
muttered. He shook her hand from his arm and
clutched her wrist fiercely. "You know the doctor says
that I can take it now and then. I have studied the
matter, too, myself. It is dangerous to stop too quickly.
You know it is. Listen! I must take one now, or I shall
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
scream—I can't sit still any longer. I am suffering,
suffering—God help me! how I am suffering!"
It was pitiful! pitiful! But even now Amy would
not abandon her purpose, or the method she had decided
it would be best to use, because it came most natural
to her. She looked at him and there crossed her face
such a mingled expression of despair, sorrow, and dis-
gust that she felt as if it would ever mark her features.
"I will get you some water, Frank. Have you the
pellets? But you must not leave until you have heard
me out." ,
"No! no! I'll stay—I'll stay," he muttered, "only
let me have it now. Otherwise "—he began to talk
feverishly, almost incoherently—" I'll jump out of the
window—I'll crush my head against the chimney. I'll—!
Oh, let me go—let me go!"
He worked to and fro in his chair, his hands clinched
until his finger nails were deep in his palms. It looked
as if he was going to lose the last control he had upon
his tortured mind and limbs. The pains had begun.
The clamoring, aching nerves were demanding their
noxious food.
Amy had never seen him like this before. She rose
frightened. Bellwood was fumbling in his vest pocket
fruitlessly.
"Frank," she cried, still resting her hand on his
shoulder, "be quiet. Call upon your will; be brave!"
"No, no," he said; "you'll find some on the top
shelf in the closet in the hall—a little bottle in the fin-
ger of one of an old pair of gloves, tucked away in
the corner. Bring it me and some water."
She hastened out and in a few minutes returned to
find him pacing up and down the study floor. How
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THE BREAKING
often she had heard his footsteps thus at night and had
never gone to him, hoping that he could win alone; feel-
ing that the sight of her and the knowledge that she had
discovered everything, might deprive him of the prop
pride gives those who fight the lonely fight. She had
often heard him praying, too, and, unknown to him,
had joined her prayers with his! . . . She gave him the
little glass bottle, no bigger than a slate pencil, and
watched him take two of the tablets and break off an-
other between thumb and forefinger in a rough measure-
ment. He dropped them into the glass, and almost be-
fore they had dissolved he drank the potion in great
gulps. She turned her head away. She could not
watch, and stood there trembling, waiting. She did
not know that he had taken enough of the drug to
kill three ordinary men, not inured to its habitual use.
And this time it was Hyoscene—the only thing he could
procure—but it did not sicken him.
"Thank you, Amy, dear."
She took a step backward as she turned. His voice
was so calm, so steady she would not have known it.
Except for the fact that he was panting as if he had
indulged in heavy exercise, he was like a different per-
son. He walked over to the chair and sat down. She
stood beside him, looking at him in wonder that was
tinged with a sense of horrid fear.
"Now, we will go on," he said. "You were say-
ing"
It was she who felt now like giving way.
"Oh, Frank," she cried, "it is dreadful—it is too
dreadful! Where will it end? Where will it end?"
"I'm all right," replied her husband. "Now—
Don't take on so, Amy. I'm using them less and less.
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Soon I shall break myself of it completely. And I shall
do it alone—alone—without the help of any devilish
watching and restrictions! Don't fear for me. I must
have a little, and then still less, and then some day, God
helping me, I'll put it all aside—throw it away, and
never want to touch it. . . . But, oh, just now the re-
lief, the blessed relief! I feel as if I could preach again
—and they want me—they want me!"
He opened his hands wide and stretched his arms.
The ego of the man was the only thing that loomed
through the fog or flare of his drug-depressed or drug-
stimulated personality. She still stared at him, her fin-
gers to her pale lips.
"Can't you go on, now?" he said. "See, I'm all
right. You were speaking of going away somewhere
and I said it was rubbish—don't you remember?"
"Yes, Frank, I do, but"
She did not know how to continue. It was harder
to talk to him thus, than to reason with him as he had
been before.
"Sit down, Amy," he said. "I'm sorry to have had
you see me the way I was, but you insisted on my com-
ing in here, and it was my time for— I am reasonable.
Why don't you go on?"
He turned and looked out of the window and a
change came into his expression. With a droning hum
and a cloud of dust, Mrs. Rice's red auto car had
flashed by.
"Frank," said Amy, " I am going to sum it all up
in one question: Will you go away with me? Frank,
listen to what I have to say— I haven't"
"And where, and how, and with what? Where can
we get any money to travel with? I told you that if it
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THE BREAKING
was not for my salary here— Haven't I always given
your mother some of that? The ravens fed Elijah, but
alas! impecunious ministers have to help feed them-
selves."
"But, Frank, I have money now, and so has my
mother. We have plenty! Judge Hollins says that we
ought to have nearly eight thousand dollars a year!
Think of it! Think of it! What it means to her, and
to the children, and to you and me."
Bellwood's face darkened. He rose from the chair
and pushed it back.
"And where did you get this money?" he asked.
"Where did this miraculous fortune come from?"
To see him no one would have recognized the hud-
dled cringing figure in the chair of less than an hour
ago.
"It was some stocks—some mining stock," she re-
plied, " that my father left. We had thought it worth-
less, but now it seems it has come to be of value, and
yesterday Judge Hollins sold it for one hundred and
fifty thousand dollars. Don't you see how it changes
everything?"
"Yes," said Bellwood, " I see how it changes every-
thing. . . . Let me ask you a few questions."
His voice was as clear and decided as a lawyer's
might be who examined a witness on the stand.
"You only heard of this yesterday?"
"Yes."
"And Lawrence Kellogg is in town again? Did you
know that?"
"I did," said Amy, her gray eyes steel blue in their
intensity.
"And you never thought that this wonderful' value
163


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
received' might be connected with his being here?
Judge Hollins is a shrewd lawyer, but he's no fool.
Such things are easy to be arranged. Oh! I know—
I know— You've said ' good-by ' to him, and all that,
and you would have me go away!" His voice was ris-
ing. "Yes, go away, and be locked up with my own
consent in some place where they cure people affected
with troubles of the nerves. Yes—cure them? They
kill them there! Know that? I remember what I said
once—' He'd be glad to see me dead'—and you—
you"
"Stop it, I command you!"
Never before had tones like those come from Amy
Bellwood's lips. It had been long since a laugh had
sounded from them—laughter had seemed locked out—
but never before had they closed the way they did behind
that stern, imperious order.
Bellwood turned and faced her. The forceful side
of his dual personality that had been awakened by the
strong draught he had taken, had given him a certain
poise, but now even that was slightly upset. Before he
caught his balance again, she went on.
"How dare you speak to me like that? or insinuate
such a thing? How dare you! I don't wish to upbraid
you; but let me tell you that I know the truth, and had
it not been for my mother—and I forgive her—I would
have told you before this! You! who have talked to
people from the pulpit, and prayed to a God whose just-
ness you commended! How could you! when you were
guilty of the lies you told, and the lie you made me
live? Yes"—and she came nearer to him—"and the
lie you forced a brave man—a true man—to tell, to
save me—yes, to save me, because he loved me with a
164


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
count of his behavior. That had rung false to her at
the time, but she had placed another construction upon
it—another meaning. To her, then, it had seemed but
a well-meant plea that they should meet, and she had
answered it in terms that had told her story—explained
openly her position. Now, all was different! Again
the castles that she had reared, this time herself, came
tumbling about her—turret and wall and battlement,
and the high spires of the chapel in which she had hoped
to go and pray; the weight crushed her—almost bore
her down! The mists, the blinding mists, that had al-
ways closed out the horizon of her Hope Country were
so close that she could not see one footstep before her
on the way. She felt that if she moved she would stum-
ble, and fall amid the ruins that she could put out her
hands and touch.
Bellwood had not broken the long silence. All at
once there sounded from a distance back of the house,
toward the lane that ran to the valley road, a sharp
and continued hooting of a horn. She kept wondering
what it was. The bell of the little clock on the mantle
whirred and struck loudly. A shadow crossed the floor,
the hinges of the door creaked, carriage wheels and
horses' hoofs sounded from the road.
Service would soon be out at the church, she thought.
No; it could not be so late as that! She looked up. She
was alone.


CHAPTER XII
THE CONFLICTING FOECE
SCRUBBY-LOOKING setter dog padded in
and out among the stunted oaks and birches
^ that lined the wood road following the crest of
Snake Hill. In the road itself stood a rough-looking
man with a gun swinging in the hollow of his arm. The
fact that it was the Sabbath, and that being out with
a gun afforded an opportunity to break the law, may
have been one of the inducements that had started Pat
Tevelin out so early. At all events, Brimfield's black
sheep had been tramping the hills since early dawn, and
not fruitlessly, as the bulging side pockets of his dirty
canvas shooting coat betrayed. The reports of his gun
had started the echoes long before anyone in the village
was astir.
The scrubby setter was already tired; his lolling
tongue and lowered flag showed plainly a lost ambition;
he had investigated a thicket where the traces of a flown
bird had lifted for an instant his tail and his spirits,
and giving it up, came scrambling out through the
branches of a fallen beech tree into the road ahead of
his master, who with a wave of his hand sent him in
the other direction, snuffing and pottering over the
All at once the hunter turned and with a start threw

leaves.
U
167


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
back the hammers of the cheap breechloader. Then a
smile crossed his face.
Standing stockstill in the road, with head and tail
up, the stiff bristles on his back erect with inquiry,
was a big, rough-haired terrier. They stood there
watching one another, the admiration, it must be con-
fessed, all on Mr. Tevelin's side. Suddenly the setter
broke from cover, and the terrier, as if a man with a
gun counted for nothing, came forward, gingerly and
haughtily, to investigate.
While the two dogs were making a suspicious ac-
quaintance, a figure came in sight, striding strongly
along up the rough path.
"Hello! Good morning, doctor!"
"Good morning, Pat! Any luck to-day?"
"Four old ones, sir; two down in the holler, and
two back of Schultze's. Somebody's been shooting here
yesterday; there's fresh shells all through the woods.
Birds ain't plenty; last spring was too wet. . . . That's
a fine dog of yours; I seen him often."
The two men were now close together and shook
hands.
"How's the baby, Pat?"
"Doin' fine; and the woman's well, too. All of us is
well. . . . D'ye ever shoot, sir? The woodcock ought
to be comin' in with the next moon."
"I'm very fond of it," Lawrence said. "But I
haven't been out here since I was a boy. I could find all
the good covers, though."
He began to ask about them, knowingly; there was
not a foot of ground within miles of Brimfield that he
had not explored in the way that only a schoolboy does
explore, familiar with each fallen log, each big gray
168


THE CONFLICTING FORCE
bowlder, and all the stepping-stones at the brook
crossing.
"You might be wantin' a good bird dog some day,"
Mr. Tevelin suggested, with a meaning look at the
scrubby setter.
"I'm afraid not just now, Pat. I'll be going off
very soon."
"Shure, that's too bad. There'll be many here
that'll miss you. But you'll be comin' back again?"
"I don't know about that. Not for a long time any-
how."
"It's a dead, dull place, sir, shure. I don't blame
you. And the meanest lot of people on the face of the
green earth. And with all their importing them Dagos
and rotten foreigners, it's all an honest man can do to
get a day's work. I'll leave a couple o' birds at your
house as I go by. Oh, no, don't think o' that, sir. I
wouldn't take money fer 'em—not from the likes of
you, anyhow. You're a gintlemin and they're scarce—
scarce as this year's birds—and that's sayin' a good
deal. . . . Well, good day to you, sir."
Mr. Tevelin's salute told that at some time in the
past he must have been in service. When in his cups
—which was frequent—Pat had often referred mys-
teriously to a knowledge of great men and good
horses, and if, in his judgment of the former, he had
been somewhat soured, his knowledge of the latter
stood him to good advantage, for his reputation as a
veterinary ranked even higher than that of McGrath,
the farrier.
As Lawrence strode away, whistling to the terrier,
who had concluded that the setter was not his class, and
after the preliminaries had dropped the acquaintance,
169


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Pat followed the retreating figures of man and dog
with a judging eye.
"Them's two thoroughbreds," he said to himself—
"and thoroughbreds is few. . . . Come on, Tim! Hey!
quit that! If you'll find me another bird, I'll buy you
some flea powder."
Tossing his gun on his shoulder, Mr. Tevelin and
the setter disappeared in the oaks.
Lawrence was walking at the top of his speed, his
shoulders thrown back, and an African knob-kerri that
he carried for a walking stick, tucked under his arm.
His mental condition was such that only the most stren-
uous exercise could afford him any relief. He had
started out early, with the firm determination of bring-
ing at least a tired body to his couch, hoping that the
fatigue might help him to sleep better than he had
for the past few nights. After stopping at the post
office and mailing a bulky, registered packet, he had
sent word to the hotel that he would not see Judge
Hollins until the evening. He had purposely taken him-
self beyond the danger and the temptation of a meet-
ing with Amy Bellwood. Could she possibly suspect -
his hand in the purchase of the Mexican mining stock?
If she did, he knew that he never would become possessed
of that excellent material for fire kindling, and he half
feared, also, that the knowledge of his attempt to place
her unconsciously in his debt might give her some of-
fense.
But what else was there to have done? He could not
leave Brimfield feeling that at any time she might be
thrown upon the charity of the neighbors, with a wreck
of a husband, a dying mother, an aged aunt, who would
soon be too old even for her light duties at the village
170


THE CONFLICTING FORCE
library, to take care of, and the two little ones to feed
and educate! It was only a question of time when Bell-
wood would bring things to a crisis through his own be-
havior, and then what? Amy seeking for work! Per-
haps having to live on a nurse's or a schoolmarm's
pittance, or, if worst came to worst, applying at the
mill. And the children! God! How the thought of it
shocked him! He remembered the feeling that he had
experienced at the sight of those tapering fingers
scarred and roughened with needle pricks. Perhaps
some day Bellwood might take an overdose! That would
be"
He started walking faster than ever, raising his
eyes, that had been following the path before him, seek-
ing for something visual that might distract his
thought. He was at the end of the wood road, where
it dwindled into the clearing. The ground sloped
steeply and he had a clear view of the valley, away to the
straight horizon that marked the edge of the great lake.
To his left ran the river, and on the farther side rose
the wooded hills, rusty and brown in their autumn cover-
ing, patches of pines showing dark along the summits.
A few of the maples still kept their gorgeous gowns and
gleamed here and there, like points of fire.
He stopped for a minute and, lifting one foot to a
tree stump, leaned across his knee. In two weeks from
now he would be on the ocean, and then where? The
Riviera? Egypt? No; the place came to him sud-
denly! No! There among the seekers of pleasure, it
was too soft, too balmy, all too easy. Yes, that was
it! The cold, the ice, the long, long day, and the long
night; the place where the stars stood still and the
sun and moon traveled the rim of the world, where it
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
would be fight—fight, for the things to eat, and work,
ever work, toward the great indefinite; where degrees
of latitude added glory to men's names! There came
to his mind the expedition that would be fitted out that
year by a wealthy British patron of the sciences. They
would need a surgeon. He knew some people whose in-
fluence could be brought to bear. It was not the North,
though, it was the Antarctic. Well, what was the odds?
It was the same thing; it was the actual, and the fight
would be there! There was another thing which he did
not dwell upon, in fact, would not let come into his
mind. His manner of living abroad would necessarily
have to be changed, his expenses cut down somewhat.
He was not a wealthy man, but now his fortune was lit-
tle more than cut in two. At least, with all his soul, he
hoped it was.
Having something before his mind other than the
immediate present seemed to give him comfort. He drew
a long breath and took up his walk. As he crossed the
clearing he stopped once more to look at the familiar
view. The chances were that his eyes might never rest
on it again. About five miles away a big white edifice
crowned the top of the smooth hill that rose sweepingly
from the brown masses of the woods—the Antioch
Country Club, made possible to the dwellers of the
county seat by the new trolley line and the auto car.
It lay twelve miles from the town itself, whose position
from the hilltop could be plainly seen. When he had
first come back to Brimfield he had been asked by some
Antioch acquaintances to become a subscriber. He had
been there only once, but the idea occurred to him that
he might walk there and get his lunch, then afterwards
back to Brimfield, and that would put a good bit over
172


THE CONFLICTING FORCE
twenty miles to his credit for the day. It gave him
a definite object, too, and he strode along less stiffly, his
muscles more relaxed. In an hour or so he had come
to the entrance gates. For the last few minutes he had
been following the dusty highway. It was a relief to
get away from it.
There were many people on the links; girls in tam-
o'-shanters and crumpled panamas; young men, for the
most part bareheaded, their older fellows given to thick
stockings, deer-stalker caps, and brilliant-hued, sleeved
waistcoats. He knew none of them, which suited his
mood exactly. The sight of a tall young woman, whose
figure somehow reminded him of Amy, gave him a sud-
den pang of hopeless loneliness.
Robin Adair had trotted across one of the putting
greens to make overtures of friendship to a much-
betrimmed poodle, when suddenly Lawrence heard his
name called. He turned. It was Dr. Walter Smith
from Antioch beckoning to him from his French run-
about. Lawrence approached.
Dr. Smith was, by all means, the best-known surgeon
in that part of the State. He was a tall, slender man
four or five years Lawrence's senior, a bachelor, prema-
turely gray, with a distinguished-looking brow and
eyes.
"Hello, Kellogg!" he hailed warmly. "I wish
I'd known you were coming over. You are a stranger
here. Did you walk?"
"Yes, I came across country."
"That's sensible. With all the methods of trans-
portation supplied by horseflesh and gasoline, the leg
muscles of the future generation would become atrophied
if it wasn't for golf, or tennis. I expected to put in
173


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
a day of it myself, here, but got a confounded call to
get back to town in a hurry. That's the worst of our
profession, isn't it? Our time is never our own." He
lowered his voice. "By the way, how is that poor crea-
ture, Bellwood? Oh, I forgot, I beg your pardon)
I remember now you told me you're not attending him.
There's no accounting for the whims of those twisted-
minded dopers. Strange that the people over there are
not onto the trouble; they ought to know. That beau-
tiful wife of his has kept him up, though; for my part,
I don't think he's worth a nacker's rap." The two men
flashed a simultaneous glance.
"I have been away," said Lawrence, standing close
to the bubbling, shuddering car, "so I can give you
no news, but I would like to ask about it. What do
you think are his chances?"
"Chances? He's a goner. That's my opinion. But,
then, everything taken into account, his vitality is sur-
prising. He may live ten years! There is only one
thing to do, of course. He ought to go to Peyton's
Sanitarium. It may kill or cure him, or he may pop
off some day, all by himself. You know "—the voluble
doctor smiled and drew Lawrence closer to him—
"they're still talking of asking him to take the church
here. I think they want a Sabbath sensation as an an-
tidote for all this!" He waved to the links. "Funny
secrets we doctors have, aren't they? I don't think he'll
preach much longer. I'm looking to see him take a bend
in some other direction, but you never can tell. ... I
must be going. Hope I'll see you here some day.
Good-by."
The doctor hauled in the clutch lever and the car
shot forward.
174


THE CONFLICTING FORCE
Lawrence stopped at the stables and left poor Robin
Adair to howl in a box stall, and went on up to the
clubhouse. It was early for luncheon, but he was hun-
gry. After furbishing up a bit, he came out on the
veranda and seated himself at one of the tables inside
the glass-closed space. He had almost finished his meal,
eating in the preoccupied way of the lonely man, when
suddenly looking up, he almost started.
Only two tables from him sat Mrs. Rice! She was
not looking at him, but was listening to what the
man opposite to her, whose back was toward him, was
saying. The widow's face was slightly flushed and
she was toying with the stem of a cocktail glass.
The man was talking earnestly, leaning forward, his
big shoulders drawn up, both arms sprawled on the
table.
Lawrence took a good look at Mrs. Rice's face. It
was certainly handsome in its way, heavily handsome,
because of her fine eyes and rich, full lips. But he
noticed something he had never seen before—two little
hard lines at the corners of the mouth. Her face was
rather set, and suddenly when she spoke, although he
could not hear, the words seemed to snap bitterly, almost
angrily, from her, as if they had burned her tongue.
The man in front of her said something and half turned.
Lawrence recognized the florid, strong-willed face of Mr.
Murger. The widow had given a petulant toss to her
head at what her companion was saying, and just then
her eye caught Lawrence's. Her expression changed.
She gave a startled little smile, and then spoke across
Murger's shoulder.
"Well!" she cried, "you've come out of your
brown study, have you? I tried to attract your atten-
175


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
tion when I first came in, but you were boring holes in
the tablecloth. . . . What are you doing here?"
"I just walked over; it was a good day for it."
"I thought you were in New York," smiled Mrs.
Ned.
Mr. Murger had lolled back in his chair, half listen-
ing. All at once he swung about and gave Lawrence
a short nod of recognition.
"Do I win my bet?" asked Mrs. Rice. "Or are you
going to continue playing John the Hermit for the
rest of your life? Do I win my bet?" Mrs. Ned re-
peated.
Lawrence was rising. He had finished all he wanted
of his luncheon and rather wished to end the colloquy.
"Yes," he replied, " I think you may win, now."
"Ah, ha!" laughed the widow. "I told you so!
I want to see you! I've a crow to pick. You'll forgive
my saying it, but you're looking awfully well!"
He thanked her, and with a short bow that included
Mr. Murger, who hardly replied, went into the club-
house. He had stopped at the desk to pay his bill,
when a waiter halted at his elbow and spoke to the
steward.
"Who's that for?" asked the man of importance,
addressing the waiter.
"Mrs. Rice; she's going to take it with her." The
man held in his hand a paper parcel. He dictated its
contents—" a cold bird, lettuce sandwiches, a pint of
champagne," and so on. Getting his check, he departed.
Lawrence strolled into the reading room to wait a few
minutes before beginning his homeward journey. He
had picked up an illustrated paper and settled himself
in a chair, when all at once the same waiter he had
176


THE CONFLICTING FORCE
seen before entered and attracted his attention with
a polite cough and a bow.
"Mrs. Rice would like to speak with you, sir. She's
at the entrance to the ladies' room—this way, sir."
Wondering what the widow might have to say, and
not a little irritated, Lawrence followed down the hall-
way. Mrs. Ned was waiting at the door, the paper par-
cel held under her arm; her face was flushed, her eyes
excited.
"Well!" she greeted nervously. "How d'ye do?"
She extended her hand, waiting for the servant to get
out of earshot. As soon as she was assured of it, she
gave a look behind her into the empty room. Her man-
ner changed; she spoke with nervous quickness.
"Listen—you must do something for me! You must
be ' a squire of dames' for my sake, if only for a min-
ute—you must! Don't refuse me."
"What is it? What can I do?" His tone was a
little cold.
"That fool! that meddling ass you saw me with
is behaving!— Oh, I wish I was a man!" The hard
lines at her mouth deepened.
"What can I do?" It was by an effort, now, he
did not show his disinclination.
"He wants to follow me; he— You see I have my
car waiting in the back road. I walked up here a few
minutes ago, across lots. I didn't wish to— I sent
my chauffeur off on an errand and told him to meet me
there; it's time I got back; I've got some luncheon for
him here." She paused and tried to make her manner
more easy. "Now I'll tell you where you come in."
"Yes?"
"I don't want him to follow me. I'm sick and tired
177


THE CONFLICTING FORCE
Rice. It was better perhaps that he should hurry. It
might prevent a disagreeable meeting with Wilford
Murger; he did not seek for that under the circum-
stances.
Mrs. Rice was waiting for him, standing close
against an angle of the clubhouse, apparently absorbed
in watching a foozling putting match between two old
gentlemen, who straightened themselves up after each
stroke with grunts of self-derision.
"Oh, what a lovely dog!" She snapped her fingers
knowingly. Robin Adair, although he generally re-
garded women with suspicion, and cared little for ca-
resses, sidled toward her and jumped up against her
skirt. "You dear old darling!" she went on, roughing
the bristles on his back. "Isn't he fine? Oh, they
know, don't they?"
To hear Mrs. Ned speak one might have thought her
an enthusiastic schoolgirl. In truth, her enthusiasm
was not in the least put on, and having found her way
out of an immediate trouble she had forgotten it.
"Come on, Orlando; you do look well in hose! I was
sure you would. We'll stroll along."
He thought it better not to offer to carry her bun-
dle; she did not seem at all eager to relinquish it: They
slowly made their way over the well-kept turf that sloped
to the edge of the woods. Somehow he felt uncomfort-
able, but it did not show in the least except by his si-
lence. Mrs. Ned was entirely at her ease. She pointed
out a group of young people and told him their names,
with the addition of some gossip; he displayed a polite
interest. Before they descended from the crest, when
the clubhouse would be out of view, she turned, looked
back, and laughed mischievously.
179


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Aha! there he stands! Oh! such language—as
he is thinking! How I hate that man! a bear, a boar,
a bull, and a snake rolled into one!—with a good deal
of an ass thrown in," she added. "He has all the bad
manners and insistence of a connection by marriage!
How he ever could have thought that I . . . He'll
love you after this—I don't think very much! He'll
be your enemy for life!" Mrs. Ned looked Lawrence
up and down. "But I guess you can stand it. You
see that comes of helping ladies in distress! Seriously,
though, I'm greatly in your debt. I can never repay
you."
"Don't mention it, pray. I don't think there was
any love lost between Mr. Murger and myself before
this happened."
"So? He wasn't very cordial, was he?"
"Not very. He and I were on opposite sides."
"You mean the election; I wish I was a man. I'd
have beaten him if it took every vote I had. I didn't
expect to see him here. I've avoided him for weeks.
... I don't think you need come any farther, Orlando.
Here we are in the wood—quite the proper place to part.
I'd offer to take you home if I could; but I'm going
to make some calls and pick up some people, and any
farther would take you out of your way. Good-by."
Mrs. Ned extended her hand, took his and held it.
Lawrence withdrew it gently; she took no offense.
"How is a certain affair progressing?" she asked
unabashed. There was no answer. "I wish you had
liked me," she added, "but you didn't; I'm not your
style. You like slender women, don't you?"
Lawrence made no reply; he gazed up at a blue jay
that had commenced its "stop thief" from the top of
180


THE CONFLICTING FORCE
a maple, and waited for the widow to answer her own
question, stop, or go on.
"We've got to part, Orlando."
"I've a long walk ahead; yes, I'm afraid so."
He lifted his cap, and avoiding the lady's eye turned
and left her, taking a path that led in the direction of
Brimfield and that would not bring him again in sight
of the clubhouse.


CHAPTER XIII
THE RESCUE
HE had heard the faint roar of the starting en-
gine before he had gone many hundred yards,
but even if he could have seen the car he could
not have told much. The canopy and back were up,
and in the recess of the tonneau was a man with a big
pair of goggles with flaps; the widow, laughing heart-
ily, was unfolding the luncheon in his lap.
The wind that had blown hard at intervals during
the morning had gone down entirely. The woods were
silent, so silent that a busy nuthatch, bustling and
thumping at the dry bark of a tree, sounded like a reck-
less robber breaking into an empty house; the "chug-
chir-rr " of a red squirrel, who scolded at the far-rang-
ing Robin Adair from the limb of a spruce, was loud
as a watchman's rattle.
Lawrence's fast footsteps beat up the dry leaves in
short surges of sound, like the steady panting of ma-
chinery. He struck a hollow trunk a blow with his knob-
kerri, and it echoed like the report of a gun! At last
he broke from the woods at the highway and, in order
not to return by the way he had come, whistled for
Robin Adair and, turning to the left, crossed the old
covered bridge over the river and took to the hills again.
He knew of another path that led along there, climbing
182


THE RESCUE
the western slope, and that came out into the cuplike
meadow, two miles away from where the river curved
under the railway bridge opposite Brimfield.
He was a good walker, and never once did he stop
for breath. The exhilaration of his expanding lungs
started the blood through his veins and lessened the
pressure he felt at his temples; for he had been thinking
hard—thinking as fast as he had been going! Did
Amy know of her husband's defection? Had she really
wanted to see him as Judge Hollins had suggested?
What a lot of harm and what a lot of good were
wrapped up in some natures! There was Mrs. Rice!
He felt no resentment toward her. Why should he?
Most of what she did, that was harmful, was not her
fault. She had been born, as a great many women and
not a few men are born, with an absolute unappreciation
of the value of consequences. That kind of a nature
was the least selfish in the world; because it never rea-
soned either about giving or taking. It gave and took
without conscience; and what it did not feel or appre-
ciate in itself it could not appreciate or feel in others.
"Men were her game." Bellwood had said that! Yes!
Sometimes she played with them as if they were toys and
sometimes as if they were weapons—which added a zest
to it. But she never reasoned that toys broke and
weapons were really dangerous. She played fair, ac-
cording to her lights, which meant that if she cheated
she was not aware of it. And she took her gains, like
a true gambler, with a pleased feeling that it was right,
and stood her losses without any crying or bitterness.
She wouldn't have drowned a mouse, and she would
have taken a lame street dog to her bosom with tears
of commiseration and much practical bandaging. But
13 183


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
she took no more thought of her dealings with masculine
human beings—except to pay a dilatory attention to
a few conventions, that in her heart she detested—than
would a kindly giantess of the manlets she fattened to
tempt her appetite, or let go free out of whimsey. He
knew her kind; only generally they were so placed by
circumstances in the world that they did more taking
than giving! No; he felt no resentment toward her.
Brains and good looks, in her belief, were only a means
of attack and defense—and a good reason for both.
Ignorance was a valid excuse for not playing the game
at all, and was to be pitied and left alone. The lack
of delicacy in her parting insinuation he had hardly
noticed.
But Franklin Bellwood! the damnable habit might be
accountable for his behavior, his bold disregard of du-
ties, and his surrender to his baser, lower, long-concealed
other self. Corruptio optimi pessimal Only was he
ever of even a good alloy?
Mrs. Rice was incapable of understanding such a
nature and soul as Amy Bellwood possessed any more
than she could be supposed to understand the ethics of
Mars. Despite her mental alertness, Mrs. Ned had never
a thought above her eyebrows—except, perhaps, as to
how she might arrange her hair. But Bellwood again!
If he had been doing this out of reckless perversity,
and if he had still believed Amy loved him, Lawrence
could have twisted his neck as he might that of a pipped
chicken—past saving—and sheer good riddance. But,
of course, all that was beside the question! Bellwood in
his suffering moments of sane thinking realized that
he was an outcast and, in his obsession, was content in
the forgetting; and Lawrence appreciated this also, al-
184


THE RESCUE
though he realized that it meant absolute hopelessness
and deepened the misery.
He halted so suddenly that the tired terrier, who
had done with his roaming, collided against his heels.
He struck madly at the bushes with the heavy stick.
Oh, no, no—no! He would never dare do that! She would
never listen to him; it would cause even greater ruin
than all that had gone before. But, oh! why were
people so hemmed in by cruel circumstance? Why was
it ordained that there should be so much undeserved
suffering meted out to those who were unmeriting of
anything except the good? In the pathetic little note,
that he would carry to the day he died, she had spoken
of him as her "knight." Would he let that knight-
hood lapse? Would he run the risk of destroying it?
Again he reiterated an emphatic negative in his own
self-parleying. He threw back his head and started
down the hill. A partridge burst with a heart-lifting
whir at his feet. He hardly followed its flight, he was
so absorbed. On ran his thought. Before the evening
was over he would have seen the judge, and then? He
wondered if it would not be best to tell him the whole
story to secure his cooperation in carrying out the
future. It might be better. But he answered "no"
to this again; he had been so genuine, so disinterested,
so childishly delighted. It was better to leave things
as they were.
He had been keeping up such a gait during the
early part of the afternoon, that he was surprised at his
own speed and the ground that he covered. To his left
was a thicket of pines, the open spaces underneath their
boughs fragrant with resinous odors and soft with the
fallen needles. If he left the path here and worked
185


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
his way through, he would come out at the end of the
pasture that sloped down to the cup-like meadow, and
there he could see what progress had been made in the
completion of the waterworks; for the meadow itself
was soon to be transformed into a reservoir for the
supply of water both to Brimfield and Kenton Falls.
The river, owing to the pollution from the mills above,
had been declared unsafe for a year. A clear, large
brook that had never gone dry ran through the mead-
ow and between the hills that dipped together to its
lower end where the dam was building. The late trou-
bles there, owing to the labor situation, had filled the
columns of the Brimfield local paper for months. Poli-
tics had been mixed up in it, and there was bitter feel-
ing. Lawrence had heard the judge talk about it by
the hour!
He ducked under the low boughs and, with Robin
Adair still close to heel, forced his way into the open
through the tangle of blackberry bushes and came to
the stone fence surmounted by its decaying rails. He
paused in astonishment. The meadow was no longer
there! In its place was a sheet of water that ran back
for half a mile, and was almost that in width. The
great iron standpipe rose at the edge of the dam and
below it he could see the roof of the little brick pump-
ing station with its chimney. Lining the bank on the
opposite side was the settlement of the rebellious work-
ers—mud huts and tar-papered shanties. The post
road from Antioch curved at the bottom of the hill,
and then, swinging like the letter S, crossed the narrow
valley the brook followed, in an old-fashioned wooden
bridge. Two miles away ran the river and, on the far
hill and in the nearer hollow, lay the white houses of
186


THE RESCUE
Brimfield. He heard the bell in the clock tower—how
mellow it sounded! He could make out some of the
outbuildings on his own estate, and to the southeast
the red gables of Elmside.
He had paused to take all this in, as he had the
view of the morning, not knowing when it would greet
his eyes again. How fine it would be when the pines
would show black against the snow! How beautiful
when the spring swept blossoming northward! He
might long to see it some time, very possibly when he
should be feeling the biting winds of the ice floes; for he
had settled the question of his ulterior destination in
his mind, when first he thought of it.
A shout attracted his attention. He glanced nearer,
at the dam. There were some figures moving there, and
a man ran out from among them toward the road. Two
or three followed him. The running figure turned.
Lawrence gave a cry of consternation! Apparently,
without any warning, one of the pursuers had lifted a
heavy club and felled the man before him to the ground.
Then all the others swarmed around, jumping, kicking,
and stamping, at the prostrate figure.
Lawrence Kellogg let a roar from his lips, part of
warning and part in mad protest. Blood all atingle,
he started down the hill, flourishing his heavy stick,
the fight lust rising! The terrier ran beside him, bark-
ing in an ecstasy of excitement. The first fence, four
feet in the clear, he took like a steeple chaser in his
stride; but it was heavy going there, the ground filled
with tussocks and moss hags. Beyond rose a high fence
of barbed wire. He was clambering over it, when he saw
another figure cross quickly from the road and run down
toward the surging group whose voices, wild with fury,
187


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
reached him. It was a woman! She plunged at the
beasts as a trainer might, who knew her power lay in
not showing fear! They fell back, surprised into a stum-
bling, half-cowering retreat. Swiftly she bent, lifted
the fallen man against her knee and turned, daring
them to come nearer!
It seemed as if something burst within him. Every-
thing went crimson-colored. . . . God! God! It was
Amy!
He dashed across the intervening space, leaping a
ditch that would have staggered him in his college days
and jumped the full ten feet to the ground below the
dam!
Never had the miserable, cowardly assailants seen a
man like this before. He roared at them like a charging
bull! The first went down—only his uplifted arm sav-
ing his skull; the second drew a pistol, but before he
could raise it, the knob-kerri caught him across the
throat, and staggering, he fell backward across a bowl-
der; the third, bending, picked up the dropped weapon,
and with a snarling face snapped it twice! It failed
him, and a crushing blow—the fist this time! a swing
from the hip, the weight of the shoulder—made ruin of
his features! Another man slunk out from the base
of the standpipe and scurried off, plashing through the
water, Robin Adair snapping at his heels! The rest
now turned in flight, running along the edge of the
masonry that rose above them, calling in wild, for-
eign tongues, as a driven-in outpost might to alarm
a camp.
He turned to her swiftly now. She was watching
him with large eyes, her lips moving. Why should not
her knight have come to her in this hour? She was
188



'Don't stay here,' he implored. 'Leave me alone.'





THE RESCUE
still half lifting the beaten, bleeding figure on the
ground and did not rise to meet him.
"Amy! Amy!" he panted hoarsely. "What are
you doing here? For God's sake, what is happening?
Who is it?"
"Oh, the cowards! the cowards!" she replied, her
voice vibrating strangely. "Larry! Larry! I can't
tell you. They were murdering him! Oh, he's alive!—
Listen! he's saying something he wants us to hear—
Yes, yes, we are helping you!"
The man had put one hand on Lawrence's knee as he
sank down beside him, the other was shaking Amy's el-
bow. He raised eyes that did not look human, out of
a face a jumble of blood and dirt, but they caught
his words: "They're—going—to—blow—up—dam.
Quick! Call the—town— Wire—water!" That was
all they could make out before his head fell back.
"It's Timms, the constable. I know him," Amy
said breathlessly. "They've almost killed him! Did
you see them? O Larry! Larry! to think of your
coming!" She cleared the wrecked face with the edge
of her skirt. "What shall we do?"
In reply, Lawrence stooped and picked the man
up in his arms and, despite the weight of his burden,
carried him up the bank to the roadway and across
it halfway up the slope on the other side where a
spring trickled out of a wooden pipe driven into the
bank. He laid him down and dashed some water in his
face. The man spoke again, but painfully and indis-
tinctly.
"Telephone—in—power house—they—drove—me
—out. . . . Call up town— Factories—don't stop—
for—me—help—help— Have—they—cut—wire?"
189


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Lawrence glanced over his shoulder. No; there it
ran from the ridge of the power house to the pole only
a few feet away! He jumped to his feet and scrambled
down the slope. The door of the little house was open.
He ran inside, giving a glimpse along the dam. He
could see, at the farther end, a group of men working
furiously, one plying a heavy sledge. There was the
telephone instrument on the wall! one of the kind that
require a twisting of the handle to call the central office.
He rang sharply! . . . Oh, would they ever answer?
He almost tore it from the wall in his anxiety to get
connection. . . . The door that had closed behind him
opened. He whirled about with closed fists and a swift
glance for a weapon.
Amy stood there at the entrance.
"It isn't Brimfield he wants!" she cried. "It's
Kenton Falls—the factory there—they're mending the
dam at the mill—the Esterbrook. It will go out—and
sweep the valley! Call them up! oh, call them up!"
He had the connection now! ... A voice was an-
swering! Before he replied he turned to her.
"Don't stay here," he implored. "Leave me alone.
Go back to the road!"
She shook her head.


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
He threw his weight against the door. It would not
open, though he felt it shaking as if under a giant hand!
Water spurted over his feet from the lintel. He glanced
at the window to the left. From every crevice streams
were spouting and behind the glass, that had stood the
shock, climbed a yellow, leaping flood. It rose higher
and higher—he realized what had happened! The
masonry support for the standpipe had been blown out
and the huge tower had fallen! The tons of water were
escaping from the top as if from a mighty bottle fallen
on its side. He turned and looked at Amy, who had
clutched his arm. "We are caught like rats!" he
groaned. "We can't get out! Why did you follow me?
Why? God help us—we can't get out! O Amy—
Amy—love!"
There was so much turmoil outside from the bub-
bling, boiling water that she did not catch the words.
She simply looked at him; her other hand stole across
his breast and found his shoulder. He drew her close.
. . . There was a loud, splintering crash! The glass
panes of the window back of the iron bars could not
withstand it longer. The force burst in, flooding the
pit below, swamping the banked fires, in a roar of steam,
muddy spray, and swirling water. In an instant it had
filled the place and rose swiftly to their knees. Another
second and it had reached their waists. Yet not a word
was spoken—not a whisper. Once he sobbed helplessly!
He drew her still tighter, both arms about her, and
looked down at her white face—so lovely pure, so
young! Her eyes were shut; but her lips were quiv-
ering. The current, whirling, inside the building, as it
might inside a turbine case, swept them off their feet
and carried them staggering against the farther,
192


THE END OF SILENCE
smaller window which had gone out like the first.
He caught the bars with one hand and thrust back
against the pressure. He could look out down the
valley. It was filled with a raging, yellow torrent as
far as he could see. And as the water rose the roar-
ing ceased!
"Are we going to die?"
She was speaking in awed tones, but not in fear. He
looked into her eyes, and as he did so she stole her arms
about his neck and pressed her face to his.
"Let me tell you," she murmured. "I know! I
know! there was no other woman— You would have
come back to me! Tell me! tell me! Let me hear you
say it— There was no other, then—■—"
"No! no!" he cried, his kisses quenching his broken
words. "I lied to you! There was not— There never
was! It was you—you—always you. O Amy—love!
love! why did life treat us so? Why were we robbed?
God! we must live! we must—we must!"
"It's better this way," she replied. "I know all
you've done for me—all, everything! You are mine
now, mine. Ah! that dear, blessed lie! I love you, Law-
rence, so much, so much, so much! I am glad to die
with you. Just think!—together! you and I. . . . Ah,
at last! at last! . . . See how brave, how glad I am.
. . . Look, dear! Look at me. Hold me close to you!
Close! Close!"
He wrenched at the bars in a burst of wild, sobbing
anger at this fate. After all his care for her, after
all his thought, that it should end thus! Even her pas-
sionate, loving words, the touch of her clasped fingers,
could not prevent him from trying to think, from seek-
ing to do something. It was the difference between man
193


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
and woman—the man who acts by instinct and rebels so
fruitlessly and dies so hard!—and the woman so brave
in her acceptance of life's exigencies, so satisfied—if
in the end she gives! Again the water seemed to gain
fresh impetus and rose higher. He was standing on one
foot, his other knee upon the sill. The torrent was
pouring around their shoulders. Soon it would close
out the wild view from the window. The ceiling was
low. Ah, God! to think of it! like this! like rats in a
sinking cage—and he could do nothing! He heard her
voice again. She was praying—praying for his soul
and hers—and her children, too—O God, take care of
them—and forgive her sins!—a few words he caught.
Again now she asked a question: "Are we going to
drown?" He could not answer, but lifted her to him
and their lips met. And thus he held her, his eyes
closed.
He felt a strange sensation, as if something had
touched him on the shoulder, and then again upon the
elbow. He turned his head and looked at life once more!
It was a bit of wood caught by the current and drifting
against his body. The flood was going down! . . .
It was wonderful how quickly it subsided. In a mo-
ment it was only waist-deep, then to their knees, and
then it but lapped the window sill and was slowly
sinking.
"Amy! Amy!" he cried. "We're saved! we're
saved!" She opened her eyes slowly, as if she had been
asleep, drew a long breath, gasped, and her head fell
back. He called her name, kissing again and again her
lips, her brow, her eyes; but now she did not reply or
move.
Her limp body still clung against him, and every
194


THE END OF SILENCE
moment, inch by inch, the water lowered. Out of the
window the valley looked like a muddy roadbed after a
cloud-burst. The old wooden bridge was gone! noth-
ing but the stone abutments showed. The water hardly
covered the concrete flooring. He carried her to the
door. He could open it a foot or so. In front yawned
the cavernous black shape of the iron tower. The dam,
except at the edges, was completely swept away!
It was with difficulty that he squeezed himself with
his burden out into the air; staggering and plunging
through the mud and debris he made for the bank and
struggled up it to the road. Just as he reached it,
Amy stirred in his arms. He heard her speak his name
and, stooping, placed her on the dry, dusty grass,
crouching beside her. She lay against him, her head
on his breast, drawing weak breaths. He put his
face to hers, his arms about her shoulders, crush-
ing her to him as if his contact could bring warmth
to her.
Now she spoke. "O Larry! Larry!" she mur-
mured, "so we've got to live."
"Yes, live! live" he repeated, lips to her ear.
"Live for each other. God has brought it about so.
We've seen the way. . . . Nothing will part us, now—
Life is before us! O my beloved!"
She shook her head. "No, no," she said. "No,
no," and yet she did not draw back from him; in fact,
drew closer as she spoke.
They seemed to have forgotten poor Timms lying
up the road near the spring on the opposite bank. They
seemed to be the only two left on the earth—as if all
others had been swept away by the raging yellow
waters.
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Don't you see, heart of mine," he went on, "it has
been all ordained—nothing else counts. What is the
world to us? I will hold you—never let you go!"
"No, no," she repeated feebly; "we cannot—we
must be strong again. God help us to be strong." And
still praying for strength herself, she reached up and
bore his face down to hers. "The last time," she fal-
tered.
"Never the last time," he cried, "never the last
time! Do you think I will let you go? Let us dare
everything! Hear me— Listen to me!"
"Larry "—she drew away weakly, grasping his de-
taining hands—" we must not! O dearest—dearest—
don't make it too hard for me. Don't—don't!"
"I want to make it easier," he rebelled. "I want
to have you forget all that has gone—we can forget
together; we must not deny ourselves—to our best
selves—we must be"
"No, Larry." She held him off, her eyes looking
deep into his. "Help me, as you came to me just now
when most I needed you. Help me, dear! If it was
only I myself! But there are other lives—I've vowed
to think of them—I never could forget! O strong man
I love, help me to be strong again!" She was sobbing
in pleading half-helpless breaths.
He bent to kiss her. She placed her fingers against
his lips.
"Don't, don't, I pray of you. There, give me
your hand—help me up. . . . Oh! please—please,
don't."
She rose to her knees, and then struggled to her
feet, her wet skirts clinging, her fingers linked in his
that drew her to him.
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THE END OF SILENCE
A bent figure lurched down into the road and stag-
gered back on seeing them.
"Ah, look! there's Timms!" she cried.
"Oh, praise God!" the man gasped weakly.
"You're not killed. I feared you both were drownded
there below. Did you get word to 'em?"
"Yes—they got word," said Lawrence hoarsely,
dropping Amy's hands, but still supporting her. "Sit
down, Timms—you're too badly hurt!"
"My ribs is stove in—but I heard a wagon coming,
sir! I hear it now!"
Round the corner, shrouded in the alder bushes, came
a white-topped butcher wagon, a man in a long apron
driving. He pulled up in astonishment at the sight of
the devastation and the group in the road before him,
gasping, stricken, absolutely dumb!
He gazed from the constable, holding on to the
bushes for support, to Lawrence's soaked figure and
Amy's, who were approaching him. Lawrence spoke
first.
"The dam was blown up! This man is injured.
You must drive us to the village. Hold on, Timms, man.
Don't try to stand! . . . Here, you get out and help
me."
The man in the apron descended to the ground.
"I want to know! I want to know!" he kept re-
peating in a dazed, stupid way. "I heard the 'xplo-
sion—thout they was blastin'— God! Constable,
you're hurted, ain't ye?"
The wagon was empty. Lawrence spread the horse
blanket on the floor and with the driver's help lifted
the wounded man. Timms never groaned.
"You're mighty good, sir," he mumbled. "Christ
197


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
be thanked, you got 'em in time at the mill. Oh, some o'
them Dagos'U go to jail for this! The low-lived,
murderin', damned— Pardon me, ma'am"
Amy was reaching in, arranging the blanket. The
driver, standing at the tailboard, found his tongue.
"I was wonderin' why they was blastin' on Sun-
day. I heard it far back on the road— Lordy! they
played hell!— Look, sir!" He had interrupted him-
self, pointing out at the valley. "See them yonder!
They're clearin' out, and they've set fire to the camp.
Yes, sir! See the smoke?"
Figures carrying bundles slung across their backs
were hurrying away from the direction of Brimfield,
heading for the line of the other railroad about twelve
miles off.
Lawrence glanced hastily across at the retreating
forces—truly, labor troubles had resolved themselves
into warfare!
"You've got to take this lady and me along with
you," he said, turning to the driver. "And we've got
to get this poor fellow to where he can be taken care
of. Don't stand there gaping—pick up those reins."
"All right, sir; you and her get up in front. I'll
make out."
As Lawrence helped Amy to the seat their hands
met—her fingers were icy cold, her face colorless. He
clambered up and sat beside her. The man in the apron
huddled himself on the footboard.
"Don't spare the whip; there's a good road ahead!"
The old horse started at a gallop, heaving up and
down in the harness, back and legs protesting. The
wagon rattled, and the swinging scales behind jangled
as they went down the hill.
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THE END OF SILENCE
Amy was holding on to the supports of the canvas
top. Lawrence put his arms around her to keep her
in. Since the arrival of the wagon they had not ex-
changed a word. She did not turn to look at his hard-
set face that watched hers so intently. They were
leaving the Great Half of their lives back there at the
curve of the road—not the dead past: the great half
that would live forever!
They had reached the end of the incline and had come
to heavy going. The old horse refused to move at a
faster pace than a shambling walk, despite lashings and
much clucking. The voice of the wounded man lying
back in the blanket suddenly attracted Lawrence's at-
tention. He turned and looked over his shoulder.
"We're getting on, Timms. We'll soon be there."
The constable, who was made of soldier stuff, re-
sponded bravely.
"I'm doing fine— Too bad you lost your dog,
sir!"
He had forgotten all about him! Poor, plucky lit-
tle Robin Adair would chase no more squirrels. He had
followed his master to the power house and, finding the
door shut on him, had gone around to the other side
to investigate and had been swept away in the flood—
poor Robin Adair!
In his present mood Larry almost envied him. Oh,
the cursed circumstance that had ruined the past and
surrounded and clutched the future! It was to go on
again in the old, hopeless way—he could see that—
the old hopeless way! He looked at Amy. Her lips
were white; she was shivering slightly, but her head
was turned from him. His whole being seemed to rise
in rebellion— No, he would not permit it! He'd fight
14 199


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
it—win—over all the circumstances in the world. He
could never let her go! He would see her, he would
continue to see her; besiege her until she gave in. Noth-
ing would matter—nothing!
Involuntarily he had drawn her closer; she did not
respond. Her eyes were straight ahead, as if she had
turned from the sunset to the afterglow and was look-
ing far beyond that to the dawn of a dull, dreary com-
ing day. The past was gone, the present did not exist;
it was the future that she saw—the hopeless, endless
future!
What had happened down in the valley in conse-
quence of the flood they could not tell; they had met no
one and had passed no houses. On the opposite side
they could see some people moving and standing about,
looking at the wreck and the destruction wrought by
the mighty rush of water. But when they had gained
the top of the slight hill they could see where the road
turned off to cross the old wooden bridge to the left.
There was a small brown frame house here and a man
and a woman were standing at the gate. The man was
pointing and the woman, her hands rolled in her apron,
was following the direction of the gesture. They
looked in astonishment at the butcher's wagon as it
drove past with its strange load. And now from the
direction of the village they could see some people near-
ing, headed by two men trundling bicycles. Lawrence
could feel Amy trembling against him. She turned
her head and their eyes met—only for an instant. Once
more he clasped her cold fingers. This time they replied
convulsively.
"Stop here, at the corner of the lane," she said,
controlling her voice. "I can go home on foot."
200


CHAPTER XV
ASHES OF HOPE
THE streets were strangely deserted; here and
there a few women were standing, talking over
fence and hedge. Almost everyone had gone to
the river bank, or to the iron bridge, below which the
flood from the brook valley had swept into the stream.
But as Lawrence turned the corner near the Soldiers'
Monument, he saw a group listening to the story that
a man in muddy rubber boots was telling. He was
stepping back from the others, as if measuring a dis-
tance to emphasize a point in his narration. Lawrence
recognized him: Mr. "Bill" Gould, the newly elected
sheriff. He thought for an instant that one of the lis-
teners called to him, but he crossed the street on pur-
pose to avoid them and hurried on.
In a few minutes he had reached his own gate
and cut across the lawn to the entrance of the big
white house. The faithful Mary met him in the
hallway.
"Oh, Mr. Lawrence," she cried—Mary Dimock
had known him since boyhood—" they've been callin'
you and callin' you, sir, on the telephone—Judge Hol-
lins, I think it was."
"From where, Mary?" Lawrence asked, pausing
at the door of his room.
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ASHES OF HOPE
"From Deemer's—the little saloon place the far
side of the wooden bridge."
"Was there any message left?"
"No, sir—and later they called you up from 'The
Hill,' I think it was. It was a great flood they had
in the valley, sir, and a blessing that none of the poor
folks below was not drownded! Margaret was down in
the village to church and came home to tell me of it."
He did not wait to hear any more. Sending her to
get whisky and hot water ready, he quickly changed
his clothes. A few minutes later he entered the library;
a bright fire was burning there, and, after pouring
out a strong brew, he dropped wearily into the big arm-
chair.
The happenings of the afternoon had been so un-
real, so sudden in the succession of climaxes, that as
yet he had had no time to reason over them. But what
was Amy doing there? What had brought her to that
place at that hour? There had been no explanations.
The incidents remained in his mind as a confused jumble
of events, out of which rose the one dominant idea that
life and death, too, had cheated him. The reprieve had
been followed by more torture. That was all! He could
look forward to no certainty. Where would it end now?
He was still in a state of rebellion. He knew the
strength of Amy's will and back of the pathetic repe-
tition of his name at their strange parting he had read
again her determination. He marveled at her strength!
A hatred for convention, for written laws and social
rules grew fiercely within him. A mad hatred for the
miserable, worthless creature, the cause of all! To
think of it! She still linked by her sense of right, her
vows, to the robber who had wrecked their lives!
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Yet it was not her fear of transgressing mere con-
vention that held her back; she was bigger, braver than
that! It was this: she would meet the indorsement that
she had been tricked into giving, as if pledged in all
honor to redeem it with her life; because she could not
face living otherwise! She had faced death bravely
enough! God! could he ever forget the touch of her
hands and lips, the words she had spoken? How much
more greatly did women feel great moments! How
proudly, grandly, freely they gave all! And there came
to him the murmured prayer he had overheard, "God
take care of her children and forgive her sins." Her
sins! The whitest soul that ever gleamed in the sun-
light! How she had kept her faith in Heaven he could
not understand. How could a just and all-wise God
permit such things to be?
He could hear Mary and her daughter Margaret,
the maid of all work, setting the table in the dining
room. He felt too tired, almost, to rise as he caught
the sound of wheels outside the window. Then he heard
voices and recognized Judge Hollins's, giving directions
to have his horse put up in the shed and blanketed. In
another moment he had come into the room, followed by
Mary, who lit the lamp.
"Been away all day?" asked the judge as Law-
rence stood to greet him.
"Yes; but I returned some time ago."
"Then you know what's happened."
"Yes, I saw some of it." He wondered at his own
lack of interest. It seemed difficult for him to concen-
trate his mind. The old gentleman walked over to the
table where Mary had placed the whisky and hot water.
Lawrence motioned an invitation.
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ASHES OF HOPE
"Pretty awful, eh?" muttered the judge, as he
poured himself out a drink and stood there holding it,
untasted, in his fingers.
"Yes; rather fortunate that it didn't do more dam-
age."
The judge started and looked at him curiously.
"Well, perhaps—my stars! That's a strange way
to put it!" he began; then he branched off. "They
tried to find you here and then called me up to see if
I knew of your whereabouts—and they were looking for
Rublee; but he was off somewhere. That's the way I
heard of it. Lord! I tell you it was awful, awful! When
I got there, of course, I saw that nothing could be done;
but I shall never forget the sight—never! never! never!
Poor thing! she lay there in that dingy, reeking hole of
a barroom"
Lawrence roused himself. "What are you talking
about?" he said. "I don't understand."
"Man! didn't you hear?" exclaimed the judge,
starting in consternation. "Mrs. Rice was drowned—
killed, at least—there at the old wooden bridge. She
was crossing it in her car when the flood caught
them. She was pinned down under the wreck in the
water."
Lawrence swayed. "Was she alone?" he asked
hoarsely. "I hadn't heard of this."
"Only her chauffeur—he escaped somehow and got
some people from Deemer's to help him; but it was too
late. Poor Katherine!"
"You're sure she was alone?"
"Oh, yes; I talked with her man. He said they had
just dropped somebody across on the other side on the
Antioch road. I wonder if it could have been that
205


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
skunk Bellwood! But no, I suppose he'd be— What's
the matter, Lawrence?"
"Nothing, judge. Don't let's stand. Sit down
here; tell me the rest."
He had sunk down, himself, into the big armchair
and lowered his head in his hand. Yes! yes! it was
true— He had hoped—hoped!'
The judge drew up a chair and his voice softened.
"Why, Larry! my boy! I didn't know that you'd take
it so hard. I had no idea—in fact, I thought"
The old gentleman had lost his bearings, but Law-
rence's next words put him on his course again.
"Oh, don't let me lead you into any unconscious
error, judge. It isn't that. You'll understand it later
when I begin to tell you what happened with me. . . .
But it will wait. Please go on. You said they brought
her to Deemer's."
The judge continued with the story.
Poor Mrs. Ned! Truly it had come unawares!
She had little time to fear, little time to prepare, and
little time to suffer. ... It seemed that something had
gone wrong with the engine halfway across the bridge,
and the man had descended from the car to straighten
out the machinery, when the flood caught them. The
big car now lay in the muddy bed grooved by the cur-
rent. It was that that the man at the little brown
farmhouse had been pointing out to his wife when the
wagon had driven past that afternoon.
As he listened Lawrence found it hard to realize that
the recital was one of actual occurrence! Only a few
short hours ago he had been talking to Mrs. Rice at the
Country Club—she so full of health, ever spurning the
thought of responsibility and of the two inevitable
206


ASHES OF HOPE
things in life—old age and death. Yet the misery of
the story was swamped absolutely by the living trag-
edy of his own. His personal experience had benumbed
his appreciation. As the judge had gone on with the
details it was evident that not only his feelings had
been aroused—the responsibility of any action had de-
volved upon him. He had attended to all the necessary
matters, telegraphing to the daughter and to her father's
relations in Troy, sending for Mrs. Rice's legal repre-
sentative in the city, even wiring to some distant rela-
tions of hers—for she had no immediate family—in
California. During the whole of the telling Lawrence
had not made a single interruption. The judge had
glanced at him more than once, in doubt as to whether
he was still listening. His silence, under the circum-
stances, especially when it came to Dr. Porter's be-
lated verdict, for the homeopath was the only one who
had been called into the case, so far, was strange.
"And now," said the judge, as he ended, "I have
told you all there is to tell. ... I don't wish to go
through another such a day. Man! if you could have
seen her lying there, so changed, so—you see one of
the big wooden beams—it was horrible, horrible! And
the grief of her servants, and that poor incoherent
Frenchman, sobbing like a great, mustached baby.
How is it the verse goes ?' Ye know neither the time nor
the hour*—something like that, isn't it? How the Bible
does hit things off in that way! The directness of legal
phraseology holds nothing in comparison. . . . But"—
and he changed his manner suddenly—" it is my turn
to be a listener. Tell me of the day with you. Where
were you? What have you been doing?"
Lawrence drew a long breath. How should he be-
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
gin? His utter weariness of body, and the reaction
from the sensations of those soul-searing moments,
when he and the woman he loved had looked together
at the face of sure-approaching death, left him men-
tally uncertain. He could not gain the starting point.
He felt like a person in a dream who finds difficulty in
keeping afoot along what might seem to be a plain un-
broken road. He was afraid of lurching into some by-
path from which he could not disentangle himself. He
could diagnose his own case clearly—brain numbness
—but he could think of no prescription that might suit
the exigency; the strong fumes of the whisky only
seemed to deaden him. The judge began leading him
as a lawyer might deftly lead a client who was over-
come, or partly stultified, by the formidableness of his
expected testimony.
"You went for a long walk this morning? Where
did you go, Larry?"
"I went to the Country Club—walked across the
hills."
"It was a long walk. What time did you get
there?"
"About luncheon time."
"See anyone you knew?"
"Yes. Dr. Smith and Mrs. Rice and Murger, who
were lunching there."
"Oh, then, it was he who was with her."
"No. It was not he; it was some one else."
"Frank Bellwood?"
"I am not certain—maybe so. There was some mys-
tery about it. Yes, I think it was."
So it went on until at last it seemed that the judge's
kindly questions had stirred him to the point of telling
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ASHES OF HOPE
without effort what had happened. Though he spoke
quietly and calmly, the effect upon his hearer was re-
markable. The judge was seated on the very edge of
his chair, a large hand on each knee. He rocked back
and forth slowly, and when he asked a question he did
so soothingly, with a great effort to conceal the in-
tensity of his interest. Unknown to Lawrence, who sat
looking into the fire, Mary had appeared, entering
hastily from the dining room. The judge had waved her
off with a gesture that partly implored her and partly
drove her, tiptoeing, into the kitchen. Lawrence was
telling of seeing Amy and her rescue of Timms from
the hands of the would-be murderers.
"Just like her," murmured the judge. "No sol-
dier that ever lived faced dangers or rose to an emer-
gency the way some women have."
Inch by inch, word by word now, he got the story
and read between the lines. Lawrence was inclined
to hasten over the time when the rush of water had
closed the door of the power house, but the judge held
him.
"There was no way out, nothing for you to do?"
"Nothing for us to do."
"Was she frightened?"
"God, no! Frightened! She"
There was silence. The first thing he knew the
judge's hand was on his shoulder.
"I'm glad," he said, "glad to be alive in a world
where some people live; and mind you, Larry—I sup-
pose I'm a fatalist—things are ordained to happen. I
am not a religious man, but there must be"
He stopped. Lawrence could feel his fingers mov-
ing, half caressing, full of intent to comfort. He turned
209


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
for almost the first time and looked his old friend in
the face. The judge's eyes and cheeks were wet.
Talking with a true friend is thinking out loud, and
suddenly Lawrence realized how much of his own
thought he must have shown—how much he must have
said. But sagely the judge had made no comment; he
went on with his questioning, his voice mellifluent.
"And so you got out and found Timms on the
bank again?"
"Yes, and a wagon happening to pass—a butcher's
cart, at least—we put Timms into it and drove him
home. I did the best I could for him. Amy had left
at the corner of the lane that leads back of the rectory.
We had just got poor Timms into his house when I
saw old Rublee and Ellery Slocum driving by and called
them in. Rublee packed me off—I told him to call at
the rectory."
The judge grunted. "Ellery'11 be waiting up at
the hotel to tell me all about it, I suppose. Did he see
Amy?"
"No; she'd left me some time before, I told you."
The mention of her name seemed to set Lawrence
off in another reverie, in which after a few minutes he
thought aloud again.
"What was she doing there, I'd like to know," he
half asked.
"That puzzles me," rejoined the judge; "unless
perhaps "—he chuckled in an endeavor to lighten the
key of the talk—" it was to escape a visit from the Rev-
erend Remsen Bache. I went by the rectory this after-
noon about five, just after church was out, and saw
him sitting on the veranda, as if waiting for somebody
to return. Maybe she'd gone out for a walk; nobody
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ASHES OF HOPE
seemed to be at home, and the children, I know, were
down at Mrs. Winter's."
Strange truths are often guessed at, or arrived at
semihumorously. Entirely unknown to himself, and
never to be substantiated by any evidence, direct or
otherwise, the judge had hit upon the explanation when
he referred to Mr. Bache. Amy had stayed at the
lonely house, braving her troubles out alone, for she had
not attended either service; but late in the afternoon,
upon seeing who it was at the rectory gate, she had
made her escape to the lane, and, finding that the ex-
ercise and the fresh air cleared her mind, she had con-
tinued up the unfrequented road until she had arrived
at the dam, just in time to see the onslaught on the
constable.
Minutes had meant so much to her that day. If
she had left the house but a little later she might have
met her husband returning—hangdog, up the lane.
Still later, she would have seen the sight of the rushing
water, the destruction of the bridge, and, left amidst
the piled-up debris, the red sides and flashing bright
work of poor Mrs. Rice's auto car.
"Oh, I nearly forgot something, judge." Law-
rence turned, breaking the silence, and laid his hand on
his friend's arm. "She wants you to come and see
her—as soon as you can. It was about the last thing
she said to me. You'll go to-night?"
"Yes, I'll hurry down there. . . . Mary came to
the door a moment ago. I smell a steak, too."
"Won't you stay, sir?"
"No; I had something at the hotel. I will be off.
See you surely in the morning. Come to my office, won't
you? I had an engagement—guess I can get out of
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
it; any rate I've the afternoon free. Now, let me tell
you what is my firm belief: Everything in all this is
going to—" He had begun cheerfully enough, but
could not finish it out; his tone changed: " D'ye know—
there is something fundamentally wrong with laws and
life, Larry; things seem all built askew so often. Why
the devil that worthless, miserable, incumbrance on the
earth wasn't drowned I don't— No; of course, I don't
mean that, exactly— If it had occurred under the cir-
cumstances it would have made such a nasty scandal
and—and, Lord knows, Amy's had enough to bear. She
ought to leave him—only you know and / know, she
wouldn't take that step! There are only two insur-
mountable things in the world—a prejudice and a will!
But"—the judge tried to end up in a less bitter strain
—" it may all work out. Don't let's haul down our
flag. Now I must leave you, Larry. Go eat some-
thing. . . . Don't come with me, your man's just out-
side; he'll get my horse."
The old lawyer hastened out into the hall. Law-
rence heard the quiet closing of the back door; he knew
that the judge had perceived that he had rather be left
alone. A sentence he remembered reading, or hearing in
a play, kept recurring to him: " If only love were all!"
Why shouldn't it be all!


CHAPTER XVI
THE KEY OF CHANCE
IT was past midnight, but Amy had not gone to bed.
It relieved her to be doing something, and she was
slowly and methodically packing things into the
big trunk in the corner of her room, wrapping up arti-
cles separately with great care, as if there was a long
journey ahead of her. Once she had stopped and had
gone to the door. No, there was no sound from her
husband's room across the hall. She tiptoed over the
worn carpet and listened. She could hear his low
breathing. Dr. Rublee had told her he would probably
sleep through the night and would be stronger in the
morning. Whether he would be able to get up or not
he could not tell. She came back to her room again.
The open door of the deep wardrobe showed rows of
empty hooks; she looked slowly about her and caught
a reflection of her face in the mirror. . . . Did she look
like that? No wonder that Judge Hollins had started
at sight of her. It frightened her—her own face! It
was like a colorless, hollow-eyed mask. Even her eyes
looked pallid, and they stared back at her so life-
lessly.
She could not stand it! She tilted the glass so it
caught no reflection but the ceiling. But even there
was her shadow, monstrous, hanging over her like some
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
figure of black care—always to follow her. She put
both hands to her eyes, as if to shut things out, and
sank down on the floor against the bed; motionless she
remained there, scarcely breathing. Then she lowered
her hands slowly and they fell to her knees—palms up-
ward in a gesture of complete helplessness. Her face
did not change, her head did not move from where it lay
back against the coverlid. Her mind was working
strangely.
Yes; that was the trunk she had had with her when
she had made that journey to Europe; there were all
the tags and posters. She had just put her hair up
and looked older than she really was, and Sally Porter,
the girl she had traveled with, had married an English-
man in the diplomatic service and then got a divorce
and married a rich mining man from Nevada, or some-
where; but she had no children. And she, Amy Winter,
had married a—the man in the room across the hall,
and she had two children—and
She roused herself and, half crawling over the rug,
took up her packing. When she had finished there was
nothing left out but the gown she would wear the next
day, and the things she would need in the morning.
Then without a glance around her she turned out the
light and threw herself limply on the bed.
Had anyone ever lived through such a day before?
She wondered that she could think about it. Neverthe-
less things had succeeded one another until they were
at least definite and clear. If they had not been, she
felt that she certainly would have broken; the pains in
her head and over her eyes, the sensation of the tightly
drawn wire through her brain would have been too much
to bear, something would have snapped! But she must
214


THE KEY OF CHANCE
keep up her courage, keep up her strength to do what
she had to do on the morrow.
She had won part of her fight, and one haunting
suspicion had been lulled. As to what had happened at
the power house—she did not wish to blot that out!
The memory of every moment was dear to her. But God
had preserved her life for some purpose—she would meet
the purpose face to face.
Frank was going with her. As soon as she had
changed her things, upon returning to the house, she
had found him in his room—in a state of collapse! At
first she could not understand his broken sentences. He
had spoken of being saved "a second time." He had
knelt at her knees and implored her forgiveness, begged
her not to leave him, mingling with his words prayers of
thanks to the God he had served so ill, and prayers for
help! Abject, terror-stricken, cowed by remorse and
fear, he clutched his hands and beat his head. He would
go anywhere!—they might lock him up!—only let him
have time to show his repentance. Then he would be
glad to die and leave her free!
She had quieted him by the time the doctor came.
But the old physician had looked at him gravely as he
lay on the bed exhausted. He had rallied under the
stimulant, however, and passed the crisis, as he had
done before.
Then the doctor had turned his attention to Amy.
But she met his emphatic advice, his orders, with as-
surances of her continued strength, not knowing that
this strength was merely nerves and will. She asked
about Timms, as soon as she had found out he had seen
Lawrence, and he had given her the shortest but most
cheerful of answers, and commanded her to go to bed.
15 215


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
She shook her head at him. Would her husband be able
to take the train in the morning? He didn't know—
couldn't tell until he'd seen him. . . . Yes; Peyton's
Sanitarium, that was the name—on the lake, a few
miles from Antioch. Of course he'd call up Dr. Smith
and have him arrange things; but she must go to bed—
"take this draught and go to bed!"
With that he left her. But she did not obey. She
was past fatigue! She had gone to her room and lain
down for a few moments, only to rise suddenly and call
the maid, who met her at the door bearing some tea
on a tray. She had looked at her mistress frightened.
"Have the children come home? " Amy asked.
Yes, they were down having their supper. Ellen
would look after them. ..." Missus had better rest."
Nothing would do, however, but she must go and sit
with them. But before she went downstairs she turned.
Would the maid get the trunks from the attic—she de-
scribed them both minutely—and put one at the end
of the hall and the other in her bedroom?
She was like the captain of a ship, who, battling
for hours through heart-breaking dangers with his ves-
sel on the shoals, unresting, still had the strength and
judgment to take advantage of a lull and get away his
boats—forgetting nothing.
Ellen had looked at her in alarm as she entered the
dining room, and had fled to the kitchen; it was a full
minute before she returned; then she could not control
her tongue.
"Mrs. Bellwood, ma'am—you'll be after killing
yourself," she half wept. "I heard what the doctor
said. Why don't you be sensible? What's come over
this house, anyway!"
216


THE KEY OF CHANCE
Amy had silenced her with a gesture, and took her
seat; she asked the children of the day at their grand-
mother's; how would they like to go there and spend
a longer time? Would they be good and obey Ellen,
if she would go with them, too?
The little ones saw something was wrong; they ex-
changed glances. But Amy persevered, and they at last
seemed to forget. She led them upstairs and put them
to bed as usual, hearing their prayers.
"Your lips are awful cold, mummy," said little
Amy, as she put up her face for the good-night kiss.
The boy would not let go of her fingers. "Please go
—get warm," he kept repeating. She half promised,
and left them, but remained standing outside the door
after softly closing it. Yes! if it were not for them—
those anchors to her duty—she might be tempted to let
go and drift!
Ellen and Sarah, the maid, soon came up to see
her—was there anything they could do? No; she would
pack things up alone; she knew where everything was;
Mr. Bellwood and she were going away for some time.
Ellen would go to Meadow Farm with the children and
Sarah would stay and look after the rectory, and take
care of Mr. Bache—he would probably be there for
some weeks. Now she " had some letters to write "; she
ordered them off, kindly but firmly. They left, but
stood whispering together on the back stairs. She could
hear their soft Irish sibilants of commiseration, and
closed the door of the hall. They knew of the catas-
trophe at the wooden bridge. It was Ellen who had
told Bellwood of it while Amy was changing her clothes.
As Ellen had put it, the minister "had taken on
strangely." But Amy did not know.
217


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Seating herself at the little desk in her bedroom she
began her letter writing. The first addressed to the
vestry and Mr. Lewis, senior warden of St. John's,
tendering Frank's resignation. It was impossible, "in
his state of health," to continue. She had begun one
to the Rev. Remsen Bache, when she heard knock-
ing at the front door, and soon voices from below.
Ellen was protesting that her mistress had gone
to bed.
Amy hurried to the top of the stairway.
"Is that Judge Hollins?" she asked.
The judge himself replied.
"I'm here—but don't come down; I'll come early in
the morning."
"No; I must see you to-night."
She descended the stairs, and it was then that the
judge had started at seeing her.
"You're in no condition to talk now," he averred.
"You're worn out—utterly used up—I really just
called to ask how you were; but there's no need of ask-
ing! Now, like a sensible child, go and turn in. I vow
I won't talk to you!"
"But you will." She summoned a wan smile.
"Come in here, judge. . . . Ellen, light the lamp in the
study."
"I shall do no such thing, ma'am," responded the
old servant stoutly, when she saw that she had gained so
important an ally. "She come home, sir, wet as a rag
—and just look at her! fit for her own wake and no
less—and tending to Mr. Bellwood, who had one of
his turns, and packing his things and her own, and
never touching a morsel. She's like a— There—look
now! Sure there's no reasoning at all with her!"
218


THE KEY OF CHANCE
Amy had gone into the study and lit the lamp her-
self.
"Ellen, stop scolding. There is no use in your
waiting; Judge Hollins and I have to talk; it's hardly
nine o'clock. Please come in, judge."
The old lawyer entered, and Ellen, utterly routed,
went back to Sarah in the kitchen.
"I want you to tell me something." She was still
standing looking at him with her pale tired eyes. He
was spinning his hat in both hands like a discomfited
schoolboy.
"Well, Amy, I think"
"No; I don't want you to think. I just want to ask
you something."
"Go on, my dear."
"Did Lawrence buy that mining stock from you?"
"Well, bless my soul! what put that idea in your
head? Of all—! Really, Amy, child, you'd"
"Did he?"
"Amy Winter, I always thought you the most sen-
sible"
"But did he?"
"No. Of course not, if you really want me to an-
swer such a question! But, my stars! Well, well,
well!"
"You're sure of it? sure? sure?"
In a flash he had seen it! What an innocent, gulli-
ble, blind old ass he had been! What must Lawrence
have thought of his power of perception? It was all
as plain as the simplest brief he had ever written—
plainer! What a dull, lump-headed old fool! But it
is a part of a lawyer's calling to dissemble—at least
to cover his surprise. Judge Horton L. Hollins, whose
219


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
word was as good as his bond, whose statement was as
good as most men's affidavits, began to lie; simply, mag-
nificently, grandly, to lie. Not too glibly, but with
finesse worthy of Leoperello himself! He was hurt, not
only hurt, but politely outraged at the suspicion of his
connivance in any such deception! Pho! Why, Law-
rence had never heard of "El Cintura Mining Stock."
Didn't know whether it was coal or diamonds, whether
it was in Pennsylvania or South Africa. He had warned
him against asking too much for fear of losing the op-
portunity and scaring off the purchaser. The judge
winced a little as he made this statement. That there
was such a person as Louis A. Gunsberg had been news
to him. He had heard of Kahn, Davis & Co.; but who
hadn't? ..." Amy, Amy, you poor child; you're sick
for sense!" No, he didn't mean that! but the events
of the day had probably upset her so that she was an
easy victim to strange ideas and imaginings. He re-
turned to his former advice about her resting, and then
suddenly asked her plans. Yes, that was the proper
course—" Peyton's Sanitarium "; they knew what to
do there; and, if necessary, he'd go with her and Frank.
No one need know where they had taken him. They
had started the right way now; everything would work
out. And then he came back to his advice about sleep
and rest again, and under cover of that, had beat his
retreat.
As he had gone on with his astute denials, the judge
had felt rejoiced and rewarded; he noticed more life
come into her face, her tension seemed to lessen, and she
looked less white and ghostlike as he bade good-by to
her at the door—with a final injunction.
But when once out of sight of the house, on the
220


THE KEY OF CHANCE
dark street, he leaned against a tree box and silently
arraigned himself in a manner that would have been
shocking to have heard.
He ought to be locked up for life, "hung up in a
tree for the birds to peck at"—and so on to no end.
Now Mr. Gunsberg's strange smile was accounted for!
And Lawrence! The only thing to do there was to make
a clean breast of it. . . . But, how well, how cleverly,
he had dissembled! that was one comfort. He couldn't
be such a helpless old imbecile after all!
"I wonder if anyone has ever written a work on
'Scientific Prevarication,'" said the judge to himself,
as he walked on again. "Good subject; one axiom
would be: 'A slow brain maketh a bold lie.'" He ad-
dressed an imaginary Lawrence: " But, Larry, my boy,
my boy! what must you have thought of me? cackling
away like an idiot, and reaching down into your pocket
—when you had already been so generous!"
Amy, before utter exhaustion had closed her eyes,
felt, growing out of her desolation, this one thought—
that something had been saved. There was the last
chance left—and she held the only key.


CHAPTER XVII
THE TRYING OF THE WAYS
WHEN the train had disappeared round the
curve, the judge stood for a moment on the
station platform wiping his eyeglasses. An-
other chapter in the story had ended or begun, he could
not tell which; but whether it was the ending or the
beginning it had left him in a most depressed state of
mind. The future was perplexing, and his part in it
would have to be that of a mere looker-on. Circum-
stances had bound his hands in the matter; he could
neither lead nor suggest. As to advice, that also was
beyond him; he would not know what to advise. Things
would have to take their way.
He had reconsidered his decision of the night before,
about making a clean breast of his stupidity to Law-
rence. He felt not a little angry, during his first mental
summing up, that the latter had not told him the whole
plan. He might have known that he could have counted
on his cooperation. But his sense of justice—and,
oddly, his sense of humor, too—told him that his own
excited enthusiasm had blinded him. One thing more,
also, he was forced to acknowledge. If he had been
prepared for Amy's sudden question, she would have
found him out! He had simply translated his surprise
at his own denseness into surprise at her suspicions,
288


THE TRYING OF THE WAYS
and in the stress of the moment discovered in his own
resources unsuspected depths of subterfuge. Now he
stood committed; it made no matter which way it had
come about.
"Morning, judge."
He replaced his glasses and then gazed over the
rims. It was young Tom Lewis, son of the senior
warden of St. John's, the usual cigarette hanging from
his lips.
"Morning, Tom; you're out early to-day."
"Yep, rather; got to meet a feller, comin' in on
the next train. You remember him, always stops at
the hotel—Eb. Colson? Travels for Hirsch Brothers
—general millinery and feather goods—writes some-
times for the papers."
Mr. Lewis's cigarette beat a staccato time to his
words, for both hands were in his pockets.
"No, I don't think I have the honor of his ac-
quaintance."
The judge was starting off. Young Tom caught
him by his coat sleeve.
"Mr. Bellwood's a pretty sick man, ain't he?"
"He hasn't been well for a long time; he is going
away now for a rest."
"Looked kinder dotty to me; old Rublee going with
him?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Mrs. Bellwood's goin', I suppose; she looked as
if she needed it, too—kinder worried like."
"Think so? Perhaps she has been worried."
"Seen the Gazette this morning, judge?"
"Yes—I've a copy. Good morning to you, Tom.
Here comes the train."
223


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
This time the judge broke free and, taking the
long step down from the end of the baggage platform,
in order to avoid passing the station, headed for his
office.
When he had opened his desk, he took off his cuffs,
placed them in one of the pigeonholes, then hung up
his big gold watch on the little hook and wiped his
glasses carefully. Every day for over thirty years he
had gone through the same performance, but now, in-
stead of reaching amid the jumble of papers to begin
his morning labor, he sat there teetering back and forth
in the squeaky old spring chair.
It was thus that Lawrence Kellogg found him and
shattered his brooding with welcome suddenness.
"They told me at the hotel that you had gone to
the station, judge," he said quietly, taking the prof-
fered hand. "I feared that you might have been called
away to Kenton Falls."
"No, Larry; I just went to the station to see 'em
off." The judge remarked his calmness with grateful
but well-concealed surprise. "You know Amy and
Frank went this morning, with old Rublee. D'ye
know, there's a lot of good stuff and horse sense left in
that old cuss, and he's let up on the tippling lately.
They are going to take ' the incumbrance' to Peyton's
—my stars! he looked a dreadful wreck. Lord, Lord,
what a tragedy!"
"How is Amy, judge?" Lawrence's tones were
even; only the intensity of his gaze gave to the words
the weight of deep care. After the spiritual upheaval,
the waters of his judgment had settled, as the sea might
over a sunken volcano, leaving no trace but the floating
ashes.
224


THE TRYING OF THE WAYS
"Well, if anything, she looked worse than Bellwood
did. I won't deceive you, Larry, boy, she looked like
death; but she holds on just like it, too. She'll go to
the end."
"What end? Yes, my God, what end?"
The tones, the words, held bitterness unspeakable.
The judge reflected, rocking back and forth. "I'll
tell you something," he said slowly, at last. "I had a
talk with Rublee last night; he says Bellwood won't
last much longer. Another strain of any kind would
take him; that's certain. And he'll never be cured,
either. He hardly knew anything this morning "—the
judge touched his head—"just about gone. . . .
You're still going abroad, are you? Haven't changed
your mind?"
"My passage is engaged on Thursday's steamer for
Southampton."
"Well, I think you'd better go, Larry—for a time."
"There's nothing here to keep me. I can't help in
any way. I've thought it all out—fought it all out.
There's no use staying."
"No; and I think she'd come back if you weren't
here. She can't stop long out at that place and she'd
be better down at Meadow Farm with her mother and
the children."
"Did she—did she ask anything about me?"
"This morning? No."
"But last evening?"
"Yes." The judge swung round and fronted him.
"She asked me if you had paid for that 'El Cintura *
stock."
His eyes took in the swift change in Lawrence's set
face.
225


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"And you told her?"
"That you'd never heard of it, but was afraid I
was trying to squeeze too much out of old Gunsberg;
that you were deadly scared I'd upset the apple cart
by my grasping. She was awfully suspicious at first."
"But—don't keep me in suspense—when you left
her?"
"She was convinced that you had no more to do
with it than our friend in the moon. Why, how could
you?"
He did not expect an answer, but the two sat there
looking at each other without blinking. Then Law-
rence extended his hand and his old friend infolded it,
his eyes moist behind his glasses.
"Some things are better for no explanation," he
said a little hoarsely. "But it dawned on me that I'd
been a blind old bat!" The judge looked at him curi-
ously from under his bushy eyebrows. "You see, I
looked at things like a modern; you dated back to King
Arthur. If I really told you what I thought of you,
I don't know how you'd take it. We'll drop it with the
assurance that things are all right now."
"But you are sure, sure?"
"That's what she asked me—what she wanted to
know. Don't worry, it's settled. It is the belief that
I told her the truth that is keeping her up now. I was
magnificent, masterly, and effective, and I know I'm
forgiven in heaven! If not, I've paved hell for a good
purpose, and I'm as proud as a little boy in long pants."
A smile came to Lawrence's draWn lips. He caught
his breath. "So that's over," he said.
"It's signed, sealed, delivered, and recorded—thank
the Lord! Did you see the Gazette this morning? It's
226


THE TRYING OF THE WAYS
got a long, garbled account of the doings at the water-
works and of poor Mrs. Ned's death—poor woman,
poor woman! But they've given Timms the credit for
calling up the Esterbrook Mill, and you and Amy were
not mentioned."
"Thank Heaven for that!"
"No, thank me. I went to the printing office and
looked things over. . . . Stayed there till four o'clock
this morning and helped garble up the account myself
—fixed it with Timms, too. He's reporter-proof.
Unlucky devil, they did whang him about!"
"Did you write that eulogy of Mrs. Rice?"
"Yes; nothing to be ashamed of, or denied. She'll
be missed by the poor and the rich, too, I reckon. 'Let
the dead past bury its dead!' . . . Rice's relatives who
live in Troy have telegraphed for the ' Stahlmeyer Di-
recting Corporation' of Antioch to take charge of
matters—strange names they call things nowadays!
They're going to have the funeral to-morrow, here at
the old burying ground. Do you know, Amy did not
hear of the accident until just before she left the
house for the station—strange, eh? She hadn't any
idea where Frank had spent the day—doesn't know
now."
The judge glanced at Lawrence and fell responsive
to the look on his face during the long, silent pause.
Then he broke in on both their thoughts: " Oh, by the
way, they caught five of those murdering strikers over
near the Springs— Glad I'm not prosecuting attor-
ney; I'd have to subpoena you."
"I'll be off before the trial."
"Yes, I guess that's the proper caper; and I'll
manage to keep Amy out of it. . . . Now here comes
227


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
a pesky client who's driven in to see me about a claim
against the railroad." The judge rose. "I'll be down
at your house this afternoon, Larry, and we'll close up
any matters that demand attention."
Lawrence picked up his hat and passed the " pesky"
one at the door, the judge signaling a farewell with his
handkerchief and glasses, held between thumb and fore-
finger.
After a short visit to the little office on Main Street
to see that everything had been properly packed for
storing at the house, he walked hastily homeward. But
he was not to escape one interruption to his painful
thoughts—he met Ellery Slocum face to face!
Ellery was smiling as he held him up, but his coun-
tenance changed, mimiclike, to reflect Lawrence's se-
rious expression.
"Well, doctor, we've had some pretty sad goin's-on
here, ain't we, last few hours?"
"Yes; things happened very unfortunately and un-
expectedly."
"Did you see her?"
"See who?"
"Mrs. Rice; I didn't know, bein' a physician, as to
whether you'd gone out to see her."
"No; there was no reason for my going there."
"I suppose not. Jes' didn't know. Her daughter's
coming on the afternoon train; several people from New
York and Troy an' elsewhere telegraphed for rooms in
the hotel. There'll be a big funeral to-morrow after-
noon. You'll go, I suppose?"
"Yes, I suppose so—but I must hurry."
"You're goin' to leave town, I hear."
MYes."
228


THE TRYING OF THE WAYS
"Sailin' abroad?"
Lawrence nodded.
"What steamer?"
Lawrence gave it with a hint of something danger-
ously near exasperation and stepped past quickly.
Later he had occasion to remember part of the con-
versation, but now as soon as it was over it went out
of his mind.
There was some distraction in the multitude of
things he had to do at the big house, where Mary and
Margaret, assisted by Enoch Walker, the hired man,
and the stable boy, were engaged in rolling up carpets,
packing boxes and cases full of books and other be-
longings; his departure was to be as final as he had
intended his stay to be lasting. Old Mary's grief at
his going had made her almost sullen; as to Margaret,
she was in a mood that verged on tears. The hired
man's feelings had been placated by the gift of the
white-faced roan horse, and he was anxious to speed
his parting master in order to sell the valuable keep-
sake without hurting anybody's feelings.
Late in the afternoon the work was finished. Law-
rence sat in the partly dismantled library alone. He
had determined not to go to the hotel, but to spend
the last day in his own house. The idea, the tempta-
tion, better, came to him not to delay his departure.
Why not go on the early train on the morrow instead
of waiting until Wednesday? His steamer sailed on
Thursday in the afternoon, and he might as well spend
the time in New York as in Brimfield. There were only
one or two little things he had put off doing, and they
could go undone. But after thinking it all over, he
decided to adhere to his original plan and remain over
229


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
until Wednesday. And this was the most momentous
decision he had ever made in all his life.
The judge, who arrived early, stayed to dinner,
during which the conversation was desultory, and the
subject uppermost in their minds they avoided as if by
mutual consent. Afterwards they sat and talked under
old Amandus Kellogg's portrait again—but the stern
face of the old gentleman in the stock was hid behind
a ghostly drapery of white. It may have pleased him
that he was one of the few things to be left out of the
intended appraisement.
The house had such an unhappy air of abandon-
ment in its aspect and cast such a gloom over the
judge's spirits, that, for the first time in many years,
when he arrived at the hotel that evening, he stopped
at the gallery of circuit champions and surprised the
bartender by ordering a stiff nightcap of Medford.
It was while he was standing there at the end of the
bar close under the picture of Sam Patch—2.22%—
that Dr. Rublee entered and his face lit up with
pleasure.
"Caught in the act! Haven't seen you in this place
for over ten years, judge!"
"That was just about the time, doctor." The
judge seemed to refer to something specific. "I don't
know what possessed me to-night. Don't think I felt
very well. I'm mighty glad to see you, however!"
"Won't you let me prescribe another?"
"Thanks; no, I'll just sip this. . . . How did
things go to-day? Did Dr. Smith meet you?"
"Yes, I was going to see you in the morning. Hold
on, Fred, I want a little more water!—but it can be
told in a few words: Bellwood was in pretty good shape
230


THE TRYING OF THE WAYS
until just before we got there, when Smith—d'ye know,
there's a fine fellow and a darned good surgeon—had
to give him a little jab. Everything was all ready.
Peyton understood all about the case, you know; Smith
had taken care of that, and -"
"What about Amy—Mrs. Bellwood?"
"I'm coming to her. She intended to stop at the
boarding house just outside the grounds. But when
Peyton saw her he kinder beckoned me one side. 'Why,'
says he, 'she needs looking out for much as he does.'
Tell the truth, she looked like a wraith! So the upshot
of the whole thing is that he persuaded her to put up
at the sanitarium—nice place, fine rooms and all the
comforts, and just the thing for her—and I left the
two unhappy young people there to try it out. I'm
going to drink to the pluckiest little woman I ever met!
And I'm going to add—' Here's hoping!'"
"Here's hoping!" returned Judge Hollins absent-
mindedly, and thus they parted.
ia


CHAPTER XVIII
THE LAST DAT
HOW Lawrence hated the once cozy library! It
seemed to be associated in his mind with long
and lonely hours of mental suffering. He had
sat there at night so often, unable to work, unable to
read, until it seemed to be a cell in a hopeless purga-
tory. Now it was worse than ever! The furniture had
been partly removed, the pictures covered, and the
books, what there were left of them, backed with news-
papers behind the glass cases. The only cheerful thing
was the fire that burned in the brass-knobbed Franklin
stove, and he was sitting before it, his feet on the
fender, smoking moodily.
It was late Tuesday afternoon, the end of another
uncomfortable, almost bitter day. He had not at-
tended St. John's, where the Rev. Remsen Bache had
bleated and hawed through the beautiful service; nor
had he gone to the cemetery on the hill where the stone
mausoleum of the Rice family, a diminutive Greek tem-
ple with gothic fretwork and a colonial iron grille,
stood in a corner surrounded by suggestively luxuriant
pines. The church had been thronged and a large gath-
ering had followed to the burial. Judge Hollins had
described the scene to him.
It must have been a strange sight! The curious
282


THE LAST DAY
crowd of idlers that spring from nowhere to grace such
occasions; the sincere mourners among the villagers
who had received her bounty and her personal aid; the
weeping servants, and, to one side, the Troy relatives
and the daughter, in decorous black.
"Strange-looking girl, the daughter!" commented
the old lawyer. "Nothing of her mother's good looks
or personality—for all the world like her father! Bad
complexion, kinder ingrowing face—you know what I
mean—bulging forehead, big cheeks, small eyes, little
nose; but plenty of determination, and she never shed
a tear! She stood 'round with the folks from Troy
who looked like a flock of crows—expected 'em to ' caw'
before they got through with it! But one strange
thing: there were three or four fashionably dressed
women—at least they were dressed so—and quietlike,
too, who held together—seemed to know one another
—and a half dozen men no one knew, some old, some
young. Two or three were real swells, I could see that,
and the others kinder would-be's. They kept aloof and
afterwards vanished—hardly seemed to be acquainted!
There were lots of strange rumors floating about. Poor
Mrs. Ned—this is the end!"
That was a fact; the summing up was in that short
description! Lawrence recognized it and the meaning,
just as if he had been there to see.
"Now," resumed the judge, mentally changing
tracks, "let me see if I've got your plans: you leave
early to-morrow a.m.—seven o'clock—get to New York
at night, and go on board the steamer the next after-
noon. Is that it?"
"Yes, thank Heaven! I could wait till evening and
still get there in time, but I'll be glad to get away—
233


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
from everyone—from everything here! . . . Forgive
me, that seems rude and thankless; I don't mean to be
so—but"
"Oh, I understand, I understand, son; some things
are better for no explanation, as I once said before.
What are your further plans—when you get over
t'other side? Don't go rushing off to the ends of the
earth. Wait within call. What's the matter with
Florida if you like warm weather? They say Quebec
isn't half a bad place if you like it cold. Stay this side
of the water."
"No, I've thought of some things I may do after I
get to England, judge. If they seem possible, I'll write
you. You've got the address of my bankers."
"I suppose you'll put up in town where you did
last time?"
"The Holland, yes; but you talk as if you were
going to say good-by to me at once!"
"That's just what I'm going to do, Larry. I'm
not casual—you know that—but I must explain: I've
got to leave for the West this evening to get some
testimony on an important case, and got to get it be-
fore the other feller—which means to-morrow. . . .
We're going to part, boy, here in a few minutes.
But "—he halted—" I've some news. I saw Rublee last
night—" The judge detailed the conversation held in
the Mansion House bar uninterrupted. "And now,"
he concluded, " there's just one thing else; it's"
"What, sir?" Lawrence was a little surprised at
the suddenness of the stopping.
"I wish you wouldn't address me as 'sir' every
now and then, Larry; it gives me a jolt—suggests some
kind of mental disparagement."
234


THE LAST DAY
"It slips out; I can't help it; I mean just as much
affection as respect. You've been brother and father
to me, and confidant and counselor, too."
The judge drew out his pocket handkerchief.
"I wish I had a son like— But I'm only a well-
intentioned old flub, somebody ought to shoot in the
back. However "—he blew his nose loudly—" I feel it
in my bones that it won't be long before we see one an-
other again. By the way, I've got something here for
you to take along." He reached into his pocket. "A
picture that I think just beautiful—just beautiful."
He handed the " something" to Lawrence, who turned
to the light. He had spoken awkwardly enough, but
his words were pliant with feeling.
"Did she—did she send it to me?" Lawrence's
voice shook.
Judge Hollins hesitated. "No; to be honest, I just
asked for it at the house yesterday. I told her I knew
somebody—that, er— And she just picked it up and
gave it to me without a word. I was holding it
back for the last day, the last minute—and—and I
guess it's come, boy." He rose. "Nothing more
I can do?"
"Nothing more, judge."
"Just one little 'verbum sap' then: Somehow it's
got about that you saw the blowing up of the dam, and
it's known you're going to leave. If I were you I'd
take the train at Kenton Falls or Antioch. Your bag-
gage is all checked now, and they may try to subpoena
you at the station. I know a young assistant in Mur-
ger's office, Charlie Wilcox, so I've got a pretty straight
tip. Why not take the early trolley and avoid the pos-
sibility?"
235


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Thank you; I'll do that. I've only a bag; the
rest of my things have gone."
The judge rose and Larry did likewise.
"Well, son, I'm leaving. I kinder feel you'll be
called back here soon."
"I don't think it, judge. I'm afraid it's good-by
for a long time."
The Anglo-Saxon parting or greeting has nothing
of the spectacular or sentimental about it. Only the
initiated know the undercurrent flowing and mingling
in a simple hand-clasp.
That was all! the old lawyer's fingers moved on
Lawrence's shoulder in the way they had; their eyes met
—not quite dryly—their hands gripped, and when they
parted neither turned to look again.
Lawrence closed the door of the study and took the
picture to the window—Amy Bellwood with her two
children at her knee! The boy was gazing at his
mother, and Amy's cheek rested against the little girl's
sunny head. They both were looking straight before
them, and the resemblance was very marked. There
was nothing posed, nothing strained, in the attitude.
The judge had described it correctly, and Lawrence
had made no comment upon it whatsoever at the time,
which was the most comprehensive thing he could have
done. Even now he stood there, feasting his eyes; his
face did not change. The possession of it seemed to
calm him; no extravagance of expression or of gesture
could have told his feelings. At last he turned slowly
and, walking into his bedroom, which was on the same
floor as the library, he unlocked his bag, placed the
photograph in a little leather portfolio, and closed the
bag again.
236


THE LAST DAY
He wandered out of the house to the stables and
down past the big empty barns through the kitchen
garden to the pasture where in his boyhood he used to
watch the herd of Guernseys—his grandfather's pet
hobby. Everything seemed deserted and depressing.
For the first time he missed Robin Adair. There had
been so many things that had filled his mind since Sun-
day that the lost companion had been forgotten. But
now he would have given a great deal for a touch of
the stiff bristly head and a look into the honest yellow
eyes. The parting with the judge had left a void that
pained him; he had begun to feel for the old gentle-
man an affection quite as strong as he had felt for his
own father—stronger, perhaps, in a way—for there
was nothing puzzling about him. He was like an open
book to those who touched his big, boyish heart and
got inside the guard of his reserve. When would he
see him again? How could he ever repay him for all
the delicacy of his thoughtfulness? Lawrence had
given up forecasting any future that depended upon
the contingency of Franklin Bellwood's going out. He
might live, as he had said, for years. He had driven
from him the lurking, taunting hope, fearing its obses-
sion, hating himself for its recurrence.
But the news that the judge had brought of Amy,
and Dr. Rublee's report of the arrival at Peyton's, were
not altogether reassuring so far as she was concerned.
It started him worrying—thinking. . . . How duty held
some types of women! How many unnamed, unknown
female martyrs there must have been since the world be-
gan! His knowledge told him that the wonderful
strength of mind and body she had displayed must
surely have called so deeply upon her resources, that
237


THE LAST DAY
"Had he been drinking?"
"Well, he was talkative. You didn't go to Mrs.
Rice's funeral, sir. Sure there's tales all about town
of her bein' buried with her rings on her fingers and a
diamond comb in her hair."
"I wouldn't pay much attention to tales like that."
Lawrence had never seen Margaret so voluble; but it
was all leading somewhere.
She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. "If Mary
isn't back by nine, it's bad news she'll be bringing; and
John's horse is lame."
"We'll wait, and if she doesn't come I'll send for
her," said Lawrence, and with that he went into the
library. For over an hour he paced there to and fro.
. . . But nine o'clock came, Mary had not returned.
A sudden idea seized him. Yes; it would give him
something to do! He called from the door into the
kitchen.
"Where does your brother live? " he asked.
Margaret, her face lighting up, told him. "Over
beyond the hill—three miles "—he must know the place
—" next the old schoolhouse."
"Is Enoch out at the stable?"
Margaret thought so; if not, she could harness the
horse! She seemed to anticipate his intention. But
Enoch was there, and in twenty minutes the white-
faced roan was at the door. No lantern was needed;
the moon was almost at the full and was climbing above
the eastern ridge. The damp cool air with the promise
of frost in it cooled his brow as he drove away. He
was glad of the impulse now—anything was better than
the sepulchral study!
He drove through the town, getting glimpses
239


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
through lighted windows of family groups—fathers
reading, mothers sewing; and once a crowd of children
gathered about a talking machine, whose metallic notes
reached to him as the horse began to walk slowly up
the long incline. Somebody on foot, whom he did not
recognize, passed by, greeting him suddenly out of the
darkness, halfway up Cemetery Hill. He thought of
the scene that had taken place there that afternoon.
He could see the top of the gray granite obelisk that
marked his own family plot. His depression was
intensified! Everything seemed to increase it, to
force the burden of his loneliness more heavily upon
him.
Visible in the moonlight beside the road was a big
gray bowlder, upon which some religious enthusiast had
scrawled the words in white paint: " Turn back! Hell
yawns for sinners." The words half indistinctly caught
his eye. Why should the disfiguring sentence linger in
his mind? "Turnback!" He repeated it over to him-
self. That was exactly what he was doing, "turning
back." As for the further threat, he had been saved
from making a personal application of it, not from
fear of the hereafter, but simply because it takes two
to make some " sins." How strong and wise and faith-
ful to life's duties she had been! He remembered his
impassioned entreaty on the bank after the escape. It
was better as it was! She had been right! The awak-
ening, hard as it had been, might be nothing to the
sure-coming morrow that would have greeted them.
The fire of his fierce passion had changed to the steady
burning of an altar flame. If he could serve no longer
here, he still could worship—no matter where he'd be!
But oh! the pain of the world, the joylessness of life!
240


THE LAST DAY
Whatever was his place in it? why? why? . . . The
horse seemed to be in a thoughtful mood also; he was
walking slowly, his head pitched low. At this medi-
tative pace he gained the crest of the hill at last. The
moon was dodging in and out behind swift-floating
clouds. He did not see a tall figure in a long coat
walking some distance ahead of him in the road. It
was dark as he reached the cemetery gates. On one
side rose the stone wall, behind which the tops of a few
white marble slabs shone dimly. On the other were
thick bushes, and beyond an orchard, now bare of
leaves, through which led a path to a rustic observ-
atory; the view from there was far renowned. The
moon burst from behind a stout black cloud, and for a
moment flooded everything. Lawrence pulled in the
reins and turned.
Surely he had heard something? He listened care-
fully. Yes, it was the clink of metal, ringing in steady,
but half-muffled, blows. Then, all at once, his blood
chilled. Yes, there! He could not be mistaken—just
before the moon was hid again, he had seen a figure
standing on the wall fling up its arms and disappear!
He tried to pierce the gloom, but the shadows now hid
everything. He listened intently, his heart beating in
his throat. No sound. But he could not have been
deceived, his eyesight and his hearing had never played
him false. He stepped slowly to the ground, and mak-
ing no noise, turned into the bushes until the back
wheels of the buggy were off the road. He tied the
horse there with a twist of the halter to a branch, and
in another moment he was climbing the stone wall op-
posite.
He had not stopped to reason—in fact, he could
241


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
hardly have explained his actions to himself. After the
first shiver of excitement was over he went on mechan-
ically. It was blind dark beneath the pines, but he
made his way under the limbs into the open, and has-
tened forward, stumbling across the grassy mounds.


CHAPTER XIX
THE MAKINGS OF A MYSTERY
iHE roan horse whinnied from the bushes as he
heard the sound of hoof beats. A rubber-tired
runabout, on the narrow seat of which were two
men, stopped suddenly.
"What's that?" exclaimed one in a thick voice.
"Well, I'll be— Here's a buggy in the bushes!"
"Get out and see," said another voice, still more
thickly.
A large man descended and stood unsteadily, half
holding to the wheels for support. The roan turned
round to look at him and moved uneasily.
"Whatsh doin'?"
"It'sh all right, he's tied," said the one on the
ground.
"What d'ye make of it?"
"I don't know." The man was coming back into
the road again. "Seems to be all ri'."
"Is it one of Kenyon's rigs ?"—Kenyon was the
keeper of the Brimfield stable. "Funny sort of place
to tie horse."
The other lurched from the step into the seat.
"Drive on!" he said. "It's none 'f our business."
The roan whinnied slightly again as the buggy
went on down the hill.

243


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Could you give me a room here for the night,
Fred? " he asked. "See that I get up for that early
train?"
"Why, cert," said the bartender, who often acted
as night clerk. "Sure, I can."
"Barney," said Mr. Murger, " think you can drive
home alone?"
"Easy," returned the mayor of Kenton Falls, wav-
ing a far hand; "'f you'll help me get horse out of
shed."
The bartender, a grin on his face, saw them through
the door. Then, putting out the light, he went into
the office while the two lurched down the portico steps.
In a few minutes Mr. Murger returned, took the key
and, renewing his admonition about being called in the
morning, swayed himself upstairs.
A figure crawled down the stone wall and stumbled
out into the road. The horse in the bushes whinnied
again, turning his head as far as the halter would allow
him. A moment later Lawrence Kellogg was untying
him—the knot seemed hard to undo; his fingers were
shaking and his breath, drawn through his clinched
teeth, rasped harshly. Before he backed the roan out
of the bushes he went to the edge of the road and
listened. Hearing nothing, he cramped the wheels, and
turning the horse's head, led him up the hill by the
bridle, pulling him after him, as if the empty buggy
was a heavy load. He stopped at the cemetery en-
trance, which was open, and led the horse through,
closing the gates behind him. Shortly afterwards he
opened the gates again and, getting into the buggy,
drove down the hill.


THE MAKINGS OF A MYSTERY
Brimfield had gone to bed, but more than one per-
son was awakened by the heavy hoof beats going at full
speed down the deserted main street.
When he arrived at the stable, Lawrence unhar-
nessed the horse, with small regard to sequence of
straps or buckles, left the buggy on the grass, and
put the roan in the outside box stall. Then he let him-
self softly into the house through the back door, and
going directly to his bedroom turned up the light. His
clothes and hands were stained and muddy. He took
off his coat with some difficulty—the movement pained
him—and going to the basin washed his hands carefully.
All the time he kept breathing hard, as if he had been
running. It was cold, but, still in his shirt sleeves, he
tiptoed across the hall to the study and seated himself
at the desk, on which were a pile of envelopes addressed
and stamped. Searching in the drawer, he found a
printed form and began to fill in the blank spaces, the
pen held rigidly in his straining fingers. This done,
he searched the drawers again and, finding some large
sheets of paper, began to write, never pausing to cor-
rect or to reread. At last he finished, and, folding the
writing and the printed form together, put both into a
large envelope, addressed and stamped it, and sealed it
with a dab of wax. Rising quickly he went to the bed-
room again and changed his clothes and boots, crushing
the things he had been wearing into the bag without
folding them. He sat down on the edge of the bed for a
moment, bolt upright. Then pushing himself to his
feet, he went back to the library, where he paced up
and down, his arms hanging straight at his side, his
fingers snapping nervously. The tense expression
never left his face. Oh, if the judge was here! If he
17 247


THE MAKINGS OF A MYSTERY.
He would be starting in a few minutes now; all he cared
for was a cup of coffee. He left the kitchen, and, bare-
headed, walked to the stable.
Enoch slept in a little chamber over the harness
room with Tom, the stable boy. They had just awak-
ened when they heard a voice call up the steep staircase.
Enoch was red-eyed and logy—ashamed of himself for
having been so precipitate in starting on his spree.
But his master did not appear to notice any signs, or
ask any disturbing questions.
"Harness up at once. I want Tom to drive me to
Kenton Falls—and I want to see you in the house."
Without another word, he turned and left.
He was drinking his coffee, standing, for he had
refused to eat even the tempting omelet, when Mar-
garet announced that Tom and the trap were ready.
The hired man stood shuffling on the back-door step.
Then, for the first time, Lawrence noticed his condi-
tion, but still he said nothing. He handed him some
letters and a big envelope, all stamped for mailing.
"Enoch," he said, "post these at the office this morn-
ing without fail. I have given you the horse and buck-
board and harness. Get out your things to-day, yours
and Tom's; lock up the stable and leave the keys with
Margaret." With that he turned. Margaret was at
his elbow. She started to say something. "Tom will
drive to your brother's when he comes back," he said.
"You and Mary take care of things. Judge Hollins
will see you. Good-by." He shook her hand. The
girl said something he did not hear.
The big bag had been placed in the back of the
buckboard; he shook Enoch's hot, unsteady hand also.
The man would have burst into contrite thanks if he
249


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
had not hushed him with injunctions about the posting
of the letters and seeing Judge Hollins upon his return.
"Drive on," he said to the stable boy, and as they went
out of the gate he never turned to look back at the
house. His head was sunk on his chest, his lips drawn
into a tight line.
"You needn't take me all the way to the Falls,"
he said, as they turned into the road. "Stop at the
Reade Street corner. I will go in by trolley."
Three quarters of an hour later Mr. Murger was
standing on the platform of the Brimfield Station.
There were only a few passengers waiting for the ex-
press. Lawrence Kellogg was not among them.
The district attorney slipped a paper he had been
holding into his pocket, and returned to the hotel.
Probably Kellogg had decided to take the later train!
He did not know that the man he was looking for had
boarded the one he had just seen off at Kenton Falls.
A few minutes after Lawrence's departure, Pat
Tevelin knocked on the back door; this time he had
evidently been drinking! Hearing that he had called
too late, he staggered unsteadily away again.
Late that afternoon the news editor of one of New
York's big dailies devoted to sensationalism received
the following telegram, dated from Brimfield, a place
he had never heard of:
Send McKnight, or one of your best men, here at once.
Great story. Don't fail. Shall I wire two thousand words at
once? Can cover it to-day and to-morrow, but must leave then.
Colson.
Eb. Colson had been a star reporter on his old staff
and had never lost his scent for news, even if he had
250


THE MAKINGS OF A MYSTERY
gone into a more lucrative and humdrum business. The
city editor's reply was laconic and to the point:
McKnight coming. Cover till his arrival. Can use two
thousand words.
Brimfield's evening paper, The Gleaner, was held
back an hour this day. When it appeared knots of
people stood everywhere upon the street discussing the
startling news that it contained. Reporters had come
down from Antioch, but Mr. Eb. Colson had pre-
empted the telegraph office.


STOPPED
blond creature, whose arms were full of orchids. One
of them was spreading before her the front page of a
morning's paper, upon which her own picture was dis-
played. She snatched it from his hands laughingly,
with some comment about "a suit for slander." The
group moved away. Lawrence Kellogg had paid no
attention to their presence; he had not heard a word
they said—words were mere sounds to him. Then he
noticed the paper lying on the deck. He had bought
one himself, but it was down in his cabin; he had not
looked at it. It was with difficulty that he could con-
centrate his mind on anything. He had changed so in
the last few hours that anyone who knew him would
have had to take a second glance to make sure that it
was he. His face was drawn and haggard, without
color; even his lips were bloodless; and his shot eyes,
with deep hollows about them, moved unsteadily. All
his good looks seemed washed away. He had the caved-
in appearance of one suffering from some physical
break-up, some hidden mortal illness. His gloved fin-
gers on the rail shook constantly. As he moved, his
feet lifted wearily like an old man's—no wonder, he had
walked all night! He glanced down at the water, dirty
and green, filled with floating debris. Half sickened at
a sudden thought, he lowered his head, and as he did
so, his glance fell on the paper again. He picked
it up.
It was not the smudged picture of the actress that
had caught his eye. It was a startling headline spread
across three columns. The big type seemed to shout
at him—" BRIMFIELD'S MYSTERY!"
It was out! They had it! But could it be true?
Wasn't it madness—delirium? He leaned against the
253


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
bow of the lifeboat behind him; the huge ship seemed
to rise and fall as if upon the upheaval of a sudden and
great sea; the iron roof of the long shed appeared to
bend and sway. He could not focus his mind or sight.
But at last he read it slowly, each word stinging
through eyes to brain-like stabs of sharp-pointed
needles. Here and there sentences seemed to be printed
in red ink—so vivid were they!—the captions brought
out by the news editor's unerring touch for the sensa-
tional. "The finding of the body." So they had
found the body! He had been right! But where?
How? "Arrest of one of the probable murderers."
Who? who could that be? What! what was this! . . .
"Patrick Tevelin, a local character of bad name, was
arrested here this afternoon. It is expected that he
will make a confession before night and implicate "a
person of importance, whose arrest will astonish Brim-
field's citizens." ..." The victim was a man whose
fame"
Lawrence read no more. There was a clock on the
front of the ferry house just beyond the pier. It was
sailing time! They were getting in the hawsers.
Strange he had not heard the gong, nor the call of
"All ashore." Below him was the gangway, ready
to be swung in. In another moment it would be too
late!
He glanced at the companionway and saw that it
was crowded. Without a moment's hesitation he threw
his leg over the rail, and swinging free, lowered him-
self quickly. With the aid of a stanchion he reached
the deck below. People gazed at him in astonishment,
but no one stopped him. The sailor at the head of the
gangway had his back turned as Lawrence hastened
254


STOPPED
past. The man called something, but he did not hear.
He plunged into the crowd waiting on the pier, elbowed
his way through, and in a few swift paces had caught
up with a cab that was just leaving the entrance. He
gave the driver some directions, standing with his hand
upon the door that he had opened. "And—Quick!
quick!" he added hoarsely. "Five dollars if you get
me there by four o'clock!" The cab clattered out on-
to the pavement.
Not twenty seconds after his departure, two men
appeared at the head of the ladder. The sailor stand-
ing there spoke to them and pointed. The two men
ran at full speed down the steep incline and fighting
their way through the circle of people, who, waving
handkerchiefs and calling messages, were expecting
every minute to see the great ship move, they hailed a
loitering hansom, one of them pointing to the cab that
was just disappearing round the corner into a cross
street. The driver leaned down, listening, as he gath-
ered up the reins. "I heard what that gent said,"
he replied excitedly "Grand Central! Forty-second
Street!"
"Drive there like hell!"
Huddled in the corner of the four-wheeler Lawrence
Kellogg sat, his head in his hands.
"God! God! that it should have come to this!" All
hope had forsaken him, all hope of hope! The verdict
of chance and fate had consigned him to years of tor-
ment if he should have lived. But he had not wished to
live. He had not cared. Never would his eyes have
seen her again! (Oh, he had pictured the tempting,
following sea on the voyage that was before him, the
dark night, the lonely hour!) But now—! He must
255


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
live! That was the worst of it. And probably he must
see her, too! How could he face it all? As a man
steps out with thrown-back shoulders and cool eyes to
meet the leveled pieces of a firing squad, he must step
out—he must not cringe or quiver. But had anyone
ever before been called to face an ordeal so strange, so
awful? And what did it mean—this news that he had
read? It was beyond him, tangled in the net of fateful
circumstance, from which he had struggled so fruit-
lessly and so long to free himself. He could not tell
the story; there was no ending. But he had told him-
self his part in it over and over until it seemed that
the repetition would drive him mad. Perhaps—! But
here he was at his destination. How they had raced
through the crowded streets!
He gave the driver of the reeking horse five dollars
and ran inside the station. Luckily there was no wait-
ing line. He bought his ticket. Hardly had he turned
away when some one grasped his elbow; another instant
and his sleeve was caught firmly from the other side.
He turned and looked at the two set faces. One he
knew—Bill Gould, the sheriff!
"Don't try anything funny, Mister Kellogg," said
the other, the taller man.
He gazed back fearlessly. Now, in the face of the
actual, the immediate, his spirit and courage swept to
him once again! His reserves responded, reviving even
the color in his cheeks. "Quick, get your tickets,
Gould," he cried hoarsely; "we've time to catch the
train—here's mine! To Antioch, via the Central!"
He named the fare and walked swiftly toward the
window.
Before the astonished men, fumbling in their pock-
256


CHAPTER XXI
THE ARRIVAL
JUDGE HOLLINS had hurried back to Brimfield.
He arrived after a journey of eight hours to find
the town agog with a disturbing excitement.
Every kind of rumor was going about: "Tevelin had
confessed that he alone had committed the awful
crime."—" Tevelin had turned state's evidence and had
given the name of his accomplice." The district attor-
ney was supposed to know it. Wilford Murger—
although not summoned as a witness—" had been seen
talking to the coroner after the inquest." Another
crime, it was said, had been attempted—" somebody had
tried to force the iron gates of the Rice mausoleum.
The lock had been hammered—and near by was found
a crowbar and pickax!" Coming on the heels of the
blowing up of the dam, Brimfield was getting a lot of
notice in the papers!
During all this exciting time Mr. Colson had been
ubiquitous. He had seen everybody, talked to those he
wished to meet, and had been impressively unresponsive
to others. The old, masterful, insistent reporter air
had marked him. He had dashed from the Mansion
House bar to the cemetery—from the cemetery to the
Hill—from the Hill to the jail, and then taken up
lodgings at the telegraph office. The local news men
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THE ARRIVAL
and the Antioch "journalists" had watched him with
awe and admiration, and when the train had brought a
heavy, keen-faced man from New York who registered
at the hotel with the one word, "McKnight," the two
got together and seemed busier than ever. But after
the first flurried rushing, they cooled down to method-
ical mystery.
More strange stories started. Robbery! That was
it! Mrs. Rice had been buried with all her rings and
a tiara of diamonds! And then—just after Judge Hol-
lins had returned home from Meadow Farm—the most
startling, astounding bit of information gained head-
way : Lawrence Kellogg had been arrested in New York
as he was about to escape from the country on the
steamer Celtic I
Somebody greeted the judge with the news upon his
arrival at the hotel, and this last rumor caused the old
lawyer to stamp in open wrath. Who had started such
an impossible, such an outrageous lie? What? Ellery
Slocum had seen the telegram! Great Ananias! Wait
till he saw Ellery!
But it was there! It had been addressed to Wilford
Murger, but Mr. Eb. Colson had the original copy
now. He showed it to him. Ellery leered triumphant
over his shoulder.
Found Kellogg Grand Central; returning Antioch with
Leary. Gould.
"Why," exclaimed the judge, addressing those
about him, "anybody but a dodgasted idiot could read
that telegram right!' Found Kellogg returning to
Antioch.' Of course he was returning to Antioch!
259


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
That's the quickest way to get here, and the Grand
Central would be where he must start from. He must
have seen the account of this terrible thing in the pa-
pers, and was rushing back quick as God would let
him! What you busybodies, and you rumor spreaders,
and you yellow-stained newspaper fakers won't say
next"
He glared at Mr. Colson and Mr. McKnight, but
they only exchanged glances and led the judge good-
naturedly aside, Mr. McKnight taking out a handful
of loose paper sheets from his pocket and producing a
pencil.
"See here, judge, you're a great friend of Dr. Kel-
logg's; you wouldn't mind telling us"
"No; I'll be damned if you interview me!" vocifer-
ated the old gentleman. "No, sirs! I'll tell you
this"
The operator from the station plucked his arm:
"Wire for you, judge," he said. "You wasn't to your
office."
It was with difficulty the old lawyer refrained from
tearing the envelope open; but he slipped it into his
pocket. "I was there two hours ago," he replied to
the operator.
"Must just ha' missed you," returned the latter.
The judge drew away—all this happened on the
Mansion House porch—and, standing under the glare
of the arc lamp, read the message. Without a word he
started on a trot across the street.
Mr. McKnight was asking the telegraph man a ques-
tion and giving him a glimpse of a twenty-dollar bill.
"No, sir; I can't do that," the operator answered,
but he gave a leading glance after the judge.
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THE ARRIVAL
The latter had reached the door to the stairway,
on the first landing of which was his little office. A
woman, standing in the shadow, met him.
"Hello! Who's this?"
"Mrs. Tevelin, sir—you remember me."
"Yes; what is it?"
"Pat sent me to find you, sir. I've been looking
for you all day. He wants to see you at the jail.
Couldn't you come to-night? They'd let you in."
"No, ma'am; I couldn't come to-night." It had
been the judge's idea to keep as far away from Mr.
Tevelin as he could; but now the case had altered. "Tell
him I'll be in—first thing in the morning—but to say
nothing; not a word!"
"Oh, he won't tell anything; mad horses couldn't
drag anything out of him! But shure, sir "—Mrs.
Tevelin began to snifHe—" he's innocent as the babe un-
born!"
The man on the back platform of the waiting An-
tioch trolley car rang two bells.
"In the morning!" The judge half shouted the
words again to the woman, and started on a run. The
conductor helped haul him onto the step by the slack
of his coat.
All this had been observed by the two reporters from
the Mansion House veranda.
"Beat it! Follow him, Mac!" cried Mr. Colson, sud-
denly. "I'll stay here and trail the woman."
Mr. McKnight, despite his heavy frame, proved
himself a man of unexpected prowess and resource. He
dashed after the trolley like a sprinter, and caught it
as it drooned and snarled, sparkling about the corner.
All out of breath he stood on the rear platform, his
261


THE ARRIVAL
"Welcome back, my boy," he cried. "Welcome
back."
Lawrence bent toward him slightly. "Did you get
my letter, judge?"
The old lawyer looked at him blankly. "Letter!
What letter?"
"Why the one I wrote before I left—the one with
the inclosure—the one in the big envelope, sealed with
sealing wax. Did you read it all?"
The tones of his voice were flat and hollow; there
was no ring to them.
"My stars, Larry, I got no letter! Where did you
send it?"
"To your office, two days ago. Have you been
there?"
"Yes, I was there this afternoon for some time.
Got lots of letters, but none from you. I thought
of wiring you at the Holland early this morning,
but"
Lawrence stopped in his tracks suddenly. The
judge saw him grow paler and paler in the glare of
the electric light. He was moistening his lips, as if he
was trying to say something, but found it difficult.
"Then—then you do not know," he faltered, his hand
lifting to his forehead.
For the first time the judge perceived how close
Captain Leary was standing; in fact, if one man could
have surrounded another by mere suggestion of per-
sonal environment, Leary was accomplishing the feat!
"Come on, gentlemen," he gruffly suggested.
"Don't let's stop here."
They were halfway through the arched entrance that
led to the street at the end of the brick station. The
18 263


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
causeway by which the tracks were crossed was to their
right. On the steps above them stood a man leaning
down, endeavoring to listen; he had removed his hat,
and was holding it back of his ear as a receiver.
The judge turned toward Leary. "What have you
got to do with this?" he challenged. ,
"Now, see here, judge," replied the captain in a
conciliatory manner, "I know you and you know me.
This man is wanted; that is all there is to it, and we've
got him."
"I will be responsible for Dr. Kellogg's appear-
ance at any time and any place you may want him.
You just stated you know me and that ought to be
sufficient."
The judge glanced round him as if in search of res-
cuers; but there was no one in sight except their little
group of four. Leary shook his head and made a motion
as if to take Lawrence by the arm.
"I don't guess yes, judge."
"There is no warrant for him—no charge."
"Oh, yes, sure!"—it was the sheriff who answered
this time—" and I have got the warrant right here in
my pocket."
"What is it?"
"Murder."
The judge was rendered speechless. Lawrence
smiled a wan, bewildered smile.
"Now you see this is no place to stand and talk."
Again the captain's voice was smooth with a note of
condescension. "Come along over to the Four Courts,
and you can have a get-together party. Guess the
sherifTll let you have his office for a few minutes be-
fore "—he emphasized the next few words—" this gen-
264


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Lord, boy, this is awful—terrible—dreadful! Let
me collect my wits. . . . You say you wrote out just
what you told me now. . . . You are sure you gave
this envelope to be mailed—you did not leave it on your
desk?" The judge's voice, too, had a strange quality
in it; he breathed stertorously.
"I gave it to Enoch just as I told you. As to what
I wrote—it was like a nightmare, vivid at the time, but
impossible to relate coherently, perhaps, or to recall
in sequence."
"Well, Enoch's been around drunk the last two
days. Those damned reporters have had him in tow.
They have been up to your house, too, I understand,
but Mary drove them off with a mop. We will have
to look to Enoch." The old lawyer was evidently feel-
ing for something to say. "Of course, if we get these
papers now, it will not be too late; they will go a great
way, especially the certificate—that will prove your
intention clean as a whistle. But what was Frank Bell-
wood doing on the hill at night?—I often used to see
him walking there in the daytime. And how about
Tevelin? Sure you saw no one?"
Lawrence looked up. "I saw no one; I passed
somebody on the road who spoke to me—maybe it was
he. What has Tevelin said?"
"I haven't seen him, but I understand that he has
said nothing. These reports have been mere fabrica-
tions. I did not intend to get mixed up in the affair
at all! I concluded to keep out of it altogether. But
now, of course, I'll have to see him—I promised, to-
morrow morning. Then I'll come back to you at once."
"Tell him to tell everything!—Anything, as long
as it's the truth. . . . That's what I'm going to do."
266


THE ARRIVAL
The judge started. "Now, hold on, Larry! The
truth is all right in the abstract, it is 'mighty and
may prevail'; but sometimes it is the worst thing to tell
offhand. Pho! People never hear the whole truth
about things; if they did they probably wouldn't un-
derstand it. We had better—er—sort of make things
fit."
"But I don't want to ' make things fit.' I want it to
come out just as it is—everything—that's the only
way. Of course, no matter what happens, all is
changed. There is no hope left for me in any direc-
tion. I want to shut this part of my life out forever
when it's over with, just as I've shut out all that has
gone before! But, nevertheless, it must be the truth
—the truth."
"Now, hold on, son, not so fast! I cannot agree
in or suggest anything yet. This is all I know: Frank
Bellwood disappeared from Peyton's Sanitarium. Al-
most before his absence was known, his dead body was
found in a partly filled-in drain at the corner of the
cemetery. It is reported that he was seen in Brimfield
late in the evening. Your story, to most ears, would
seem weird and strange, and, though it is true, noth-
ing could look less like the truth to those who did not
know you and only viewed the circumstances—I have it!
Maybe it was"
The judge's under jaw dropped suddenly, then he
closed his mouth like a trap, and after a pause took
a new direction rather aimlessly. "I began to tell
you at the station that I thought of telegraphing you
this morning from Evanton, soon as I saw the account
in the paper. Then I got to hoping you wouldn't hear
of it and would sail. You'd had enough worry, and I
267


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
thought your presence wasn't needed. But my poor
boy!"
"Of course my presence was needed. ... I ran
away because it seemed to be the easiest thing. It was
weak and cowardly—what made me, I don't know—I
can't explain it. . . . But I was afraid. It must have
been, I was afraid!"
The words had been whispered hoarsely, with a de-
liberateness that emphasized the weight of the speaker's
self-condemnation. The judge rose and walked round
the table and bent over Lawrence's chair. He placed
a kindly hand on his lowered head, and his voice sank
to a whisper also.
"Now, hold on, Larry! I won't have you talk that
way. It wasn't weak and cowardly. I won't have you
use those words. As for 'being afraid'—I've been
thinking it all over as we've sat here, and I see it was
the most natural thing to do." He was speaking softly,
consolingly, but with an effort. "Suppose you told
this strange story, what proof had you? No one would
have believed you if they didn't find the body, would
they?—and certainly no one would, if they did find it,
hidden the way it was. In the light of what you've told
me now, your condition of mind was apparent. Of
course, if I'd been here— But—Lord! Lord! how
often innocent men have done that sort of thing! You
mustn't arraign yourself—that's all! . . . No more such
talk! You never would have deceived me—or Amy—
either of us." He stopped and then spoke all at once
with the lift of an inspiration. "You were thinking
of her all the time, not of yourself; you were afraid—
for her!"
Lawrence felt a grateful warmth run through him.
268


THE ARRIVAL
Yes, it had been for her! Even in his precipitate flight
he must have reasoned it out. Had he? It was all
so confused, so unbelievable! He lifted his head and lis-
tened to the kindly voice that still ran on. . . .
"Yes, yes. That's it, of course; you forgot your-
self entirely." The judge appeared to be heartened
by his own arguments. "But this Tevelin story puts
a different view on it. You couldn't go—leaving an
innocent man to be accused; as soon as you heard that,
you began to reason. So you came back. That I un-
derstand. It's the way you're built. Now, what the
district attorney has heard I haven't the least idea;
Murger is responsible for both the warrants being is-
sued; but look here a minute! . . . No one can gain-
say the fact you returned here of your own accord,
and of course now, since these nasty yellow sheets have
taken it up—and since you—since your name has been
dragged in, it's best you're here—eh?"
Lawrence Kellogg glanced about him without re-
plying—the judge, in his last rather bewildered en-
deavor to lend encouragement to the situation had been
grimly humorous.
"I'm here," he said at last. "But now a question
that I dread to ask. . . . Does Amy know?" For the
first time the hopeless, unnatural voice shook with fear.
"You mean about you being—er—dragged in?"
"Exactly." Lawrence's face twitched. "Tell
me."
The judge faltered; he gasped and did not answer
this directly. "She's really very sick, Larry—Dr.
Smith was at the house when I left. He'd have sense
enough to keep any such news from her. Maybe he
stayed there overnight—she hadn't heard—she thought
269


CHAPTER XXII
THE LEAGUE OF SILENCE
DR. SMITH had spent the night at Lower Mead-
ow Farm. He had just finished his dressing,
when Ellen, who had moved on with the children
from the rectory where the Rev. Remsen Bache had
now installed himself, told him in a whisper that Judge
Hollins had called to see him on very urgent business.
The doctor found the old lawyer, hands clasped be-
hind him, pacing up and down the hall. Despite the
cordial, though low-spoken, greetings, there was a feel-
ing of strangeness—almost of embarrassment—in their
manner. It disappeared, however, at the first question
and reply.
"How's Mrs. Bellwood this morning, doctor?"
"I haven't seen her yet. She was very calm and
brave last night. I think she rested. She is still going
on her nerves. You see it isn't grief alone that is
the matter; just a general let down. Bound to have
come."
"You will stay here to-day with her."
"Yes, I have made arrangements to. There are no
men in the family and—and somebody ought to be here;
but of course you'll stay, too, won't you? Probably
she will be able to see us both in a little while. You
know the first thing she said to me was that she wished
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THE LEAGUE OF SILENCE
away. Some distant relatives of his turned up and
made some bother. But they're all loyal here, includ-
ing the old Newfoundland. Of course, no one knows
anything definite; many people believe Tevelin killed
Frank Bellwood—Amy thinks that. He had a grudge
against him."
"Doctor, she mustn't hear of this! You know how
these yellow news hounds twist and contort things!
They'll drag anything—anybody in. Wouldn't it be
the worst thing that could possibly happen for her to
hear of it? But what in the Lord's name can we do?
If we could only get her away at once—now! There
is a lot that it is not necessary for me to go into; there's
talk going round now about Lawrence and Bellwood
having quarreled; but keep this from her, man—at
least, until we know more of what may happen."
Dr. Smith drew a long breath of the fresh morning
air, crisp with the promise of cold winds. "I don't
intend that she shall hear of it!" he said. "That is,
certainly not for some time to come. ... I am going
to devote myself to that," he added; "I've made plans
to that end."
The judge seemed to forget that he had much to say
himself. "What are they?" he asked. "I have been
thinking and thinking, but could not see all clearly.
I've been afraid that, if she appeared—my stars!—we'd
hear: 'The motive!—the motive!' and the vultures
would gather and gloat. Damn 'em, can't you see 'em?"
"Well, in the first place," put in the doctor, "you
know I've always been a friend—I wish to prove it."
"We never know our friends till trouble comes,"
commented the judge.
"I was a friend of the old colonel's," went on the
273


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
doctor, responding a little to the pressure of the elbow
on his own, "and you know that I was always a great
admirer of Mrs. Bellwood—and her mother is a con-
nection of my family, and she was always very good
to me. But when Amy Winter was working at the hos-
pital I saw enough of her to make that early admira-
tion lasting. Now I have an opportunity to do some-
thing for them, and I am going to do it."
"And Larry Kellogg—surely you must! . . . You
don't believe any of this—" The judge had paused for
a word to express his meaning.
"Not a bit! It is all some terrible misunderstand-
ing—that I'm sure. It will all come out—he's in good
hands. ... I knew how you had had to take hold of
matters there with him, so Rublee and I have attended
to matters here—about the funeral and all that."
"Did you attend the inquest? Because there's some-
thing I want to ask."
"No, I thought it better not. I did not wish to be
called afterwards."
The judge thought for a moment. "There is no
doubt as to how Frank Bellwood died—is there?" he
asked.
"None in the least—a heavy blow on the back of
the head, poor devil! Skull crushed! See Rublee; he'll
tell you all about it. The service will be held this after-
noon."
"Will Amy go?"
"She insists. But I will be there; no one shall speak
to her."
"But your plan?"
"Well, it's this," began the doctor. "It just hap-
pened that I was going off on my vacation, and it struck
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THE LEAGUE OF SILENCE
me that never did things occur so opportunely. By
twelve o'clock to-morrow Mrs. Winter and Amy and
the children, too—will be miles away. The old lady
is able to be moved, and Mrs. Bellwood has agreed. She
wishes to get away as much as we wish to have her.
It was all just a bit of good fortune. . . . Pinchott, the
president of the Denver road, had ordered a new special
car—sort of traveling hotel affair—made here in the
shops. I was going West to join him for a shooting
trip—and he asked me to bring it on and bring any
friends I wanted. There is room for the whole family,
and I have added Miss Bromley—Senator Bromley's
daughter, you remember—the best nurse in the hospi-
tal—to the party. We go over to Maitland Springs
this evening about dusk in my big car and take the
train from there. It will be a sudden departure, but
what of that? Mrs. Blatchford is away on a visit.
Surely, there is nothing here to keep them; and if there
is talk, we won't hear any of it, that's certain. . . .
Amy won't be drawn in now!"
The judge looked up at a flock of blackbirds, dot-
ting the sky in their undulating flight to the southward.
He felt an unvoiced prayer of thanks welling to his lips.
Surely the Lord was tempering the wind. His eyes
moistened. "At the end of the journey," he asked,
"where will you go?"
"Far enough away not to hear any outside voices,"
said the doctor. "There is a little shooting lodge near
a way station in Colorado—I own a greater share of it.
They will stop there, where they will be comfortable
and alone. I leave them in charge of Miss Bromley,
and go on with Pinchott to the mountains. No one
has heard of this except the people at the house and
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THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
old Rublee." He scribbled an address on the fly leaf
of his notebook and tore it out. "Now you leave every-
thing to me," he continued. "It is all over here, though
no one expected such a tragic end. Of course, I'd stay
if I could—if my staying would help poor Kellogg.
But I don't see how it can. As I said before, he is in
good hands. I don't suppose that the grand jury will
indict from the facts alone; by the way, what are they?
If you care to tell me."
The judge paused before replying. "Facts," said
he, "are the hardest things in the world to face, be-
cause, seen from one standpoint they are as white as the
snow on a mountain, and from another, black as "—his
metaphor failed him—" black as my hat," he added
absently. "But look you here, doctor," he said, "Law-
rence Kellogg is the finest man that ever drew breath!—
as innocent—but of course I don't have to go into that!
He would be free to-morrow—no, not to-morrow, but
when the grand jury meets—if he'd only let a lawyer
manage in a lawyer's way; but he's one of those Sir
Galahad sort of persons that we read about—seldom
meet 'em, thank Heaven! If the armor of truth ever
stood for anything, it's got a test coming in this trial."
"Then you think the grand jury will indict?"
*' I don't see anything else but that in the evidence,
as it is bound to come out; he's going to make his own
case against himself—the insane idiot! Oh, the truth!
the truth! My stars! what is evidence, anyhow?—just
a combination of happenings and a few words linked
together, and a finger to point the way a crooked wind
blows twisting straws! What Murger based his first
action on I don't know. However, I cannot go into the
details now. Better you didn't know anything about
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THE LEAGUE OF SILENCE
it. You will forgive my ambiguity. I have got to
catch the train to Antioch; the pesky trolley line's out
of business again. Good-by! Tell Amy I approve of
all you do, and so will Lawrence Kellogg. But don't
say I mentioned his name. Better not say I was here
at all. Ellen won't tell."
"Judge," said Dr. Smith, extending a detaining
hand, "I'm going to ask a question that, under the
circumstances, may seem strange; but even if you meet
it with your silence, it will make no difference so far
as my carrying out my plan may be concerned." He
spoke slowly, as if weighing his intention of proceeding.
"Well," rejoined the judge impatiently, giving a
glance at the waiting buggy, only a few paces distant.
"Well, what is it?"
"Is Lawrence Kellogg in love with Amy Bellwood?"
"Now listen to that!" exclaimed the judge, turning
full upon him. "Shall I attempt to qualify as a mind
reader? I'll tell you this much: Amy Bellwood is not
the kind of a woman to enter into any post obit en-
tanglement. If Lawrence Kellogg is not in love with
her, then he is a different sort from what I ever took
him to be; but that he will assert or allow himself to
think that— He is an obstinate, pig-headed young
ass when it comes to—" The judge appeared to be
hopelessly tangled. "Well, when he gets clear of
this mess—and he will get clear of it, if there is com-
mon sense or justice in the land and twelve men can
be found to possess the rudiments of either!—he'll go
off somewhere: North Pole, South Pole, up in a balloon!
any place to take him far and away from things that
have been close to him. I couldn't swerve him, and no
one else could. Just now, thank God! Amy thinks he's
277


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
out on the broad Atlantic! But of this much rest as-
sured: he seeks her happiness more than he loves
his life. Will that do you? Don't, for Heaven's sake,
make me lose my good opinion of your common sense!
I am a lawyer of a fairly large experience, and you are
a surgeon of a world-wide reputation, and what can
either of us tell of what's in a woman's mind? Read
for yourself; I can't be your interpreter there."
"I only wanted to know if it was all fair," said
the doctor, tapping at an ant-hill with his foot.
"Fair!" echoed the judge. "You wouldn't do any-
thing unfair! But for the love of the Lord, take a
look at this awful situation! As for her, she never made
a move or had a thought that wasn't part of her—pure,
and straight, and honest, and strong; and we're all try-
ing to guard her—let us only think of that. We trust
each other and will do our best. And now, God bless
you! doctor—I must be off, or miss my train. Write
me from along the route, and see that she does not get
a newspaper in her hands—they will be full of all this
for the next two weeks. Good-by."
He climbed into the buggy. The boy woke up the
horse with a jerk. One thing the judge had intended
to ask when he at first sought this interview had been
left unsaid and he had fully expected to bring the
doctor back with him to Antioch.
Since six o'clock that morning the judge had been
with Tevelin at the jail, and what he had ascertained
from that hitherto taciturn individual had set his spirits
going up and down in rather a disconcerting fashion.
If Tevelin should remain silent, or deny everything,
turning to his friend and enemy the bottle, to prove the
mental alibi of know-nothing, there was hardly a scrap
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THE LEAGUE OF SILENCE
of direct evidence to connect his client with what had
happened at the cemetery. But if Lawrence Kellogg
insisted in that uncomfortable—no, more—in that
blasting intention of his, that Tevelin should tell the
truth, it would amount to furnishing state's evidence.
For, if crime had been committed, he was an accomplice!
He could supply the prosecution with enough material
to go on, and if the grand jury should hear the facts,
it would insure at least an indictment. Indeed, the
conduct of the subsequent trial would practically be
taken out of a lawyer's hands. As to the missing let-
ters: Enoch, whom he had also seen, was positively
sure that he had posted everything that had been given
him at the office the morning of Lawrence's departure!
There was only one thing that tended to dispel the
gloom: Amy Bellwood would not be drawn into the
trouble, and would not now be forced to testify as to
the relations—friendly or otherwise—that had existed
between Frank Bellwood and tne man accused of doing
him to death. The thought of her on the stand made
the judge shudder! But the horrible position, that
could be so misconstrued—of a woman trying to save
a man accused of her husband's murder—would be
done away with, if the doctor's plan did not miscarry,
and if those intrusted with the secret maintained their
silence. That Mrs. Bellwood should wish to get away
from the scene of so much grief and sorrow would seem
only natural to most people. The most hardened yellow
journalist would scarcely dare—knowing nothing of the
circumstances—to connect her name with the case that
would surely, if she was summoned as a witness, be
worked into the sensational form of modern " literary"
journalism
19 279


THE LEAGUE OF SILENCE
lin," who might have stood for a portrait of Bill Sikes,
and "Dr. L. P. Kellogg," represented with hair care-
fully parted in the middle and a beard like an Assyrian
bas-relief. Appended was a photograph of Franklin
Bellwood—gathered from what source the judge knew
not—taken just at the time he had entered the ministry.
The text that accompanied these illustrations deserved
better framing; McKnight's able pen had sketched clev-
erly the town, its surroundings, and some local char-
acters. It would seem that all Brimfield's business had
been suspended for the time being, owing to the interest
in the great sensation. Much was made of the news-
paper men's assistance, and little details of evidence
were worked into scare headlines.
The only reference to the wife of the " victim of the
murder plot"—for that there was a "murder plot"
this paper seemed bound to prove—was that she " had
been the belle of the village," and now, "overcome by
shock and grief," was visiting relatives, but would
surely make her appearance at the trial, "when sensa-
tional developments might be expected."
Filled with disgust and anger, the judge turned
over the remaining pages. Prize fighters, baseball
scores, murders, abductions, defalcations, and comic
pictures, the usual olla-podrida of sensation and rot
—delectable to the masses. This was topped off, as it
were, by an editorial of babbling condescension and ad-
vice on the care of children's teeth.
The judge crumpled the paper in his hands, and
then carefully smoothed it out again and placed it in
his pocket just as the train pulled into the Antioch
station.


CHAPTER XXIII
ANESTHESIA
IN the moments of the deepest human sorrows come
strange, numbing passages of time when, as it were,
the divine opiates are at work stilling the ache that
would be too great to bear. Thoughts, words, are im-
potent, tears are absent; the supersenses acknowledge
their defeat before the presence of the actualities.
Lawrence Kellogg did not reason that it was the
loss of hope that so overswept and deadened him. He
looked back on a dead-and-gone part of his life. He
had faced out the actuality; faced it during that sleep-
less trudging of the city's streets when he had thought
of the one way out; faced it when he had accepted the
coming temptation of the waves in the steamer's wake!
But he must live now—live as a man might who had
gone from one existence to another. He had no right
to end it. Never for one moment had fear for self laid
hold of him. He could view his own position—a man
accused of having on his hands the blood of another
who had once been his friend—uncowed, upstanding.
It did not cause him a lift of pulse on account of his
own danger. He bowed acceptance.
Judge Hollins, at their first interview, had seen the
futility of arguing him to view events from any stand-
point of practicality. In regard to the unput ques-
282


ANAESTHESIA
tion, that he saw decided in his client's mind—whether
a man, who had been accused of the taking of another's
life, could, if freed before the world, take that dead
man's wife as his own—seek her out and ask her to
share with him the burden that would be jointly theirs.
That was an ethical point beyond the judge; he would
accept no brief there! But it was not fear of the dread,
sure-pointed finger of the caviling world that had
caused Lawrence Kellogg to shut that question out
from self-debate; it was not the venomous whispers,
though from these he would have shielded her at all
loss to himself. It was the feeling that, even if there
were no whispers, no stabbing eyes, even if the secret
were only known to them—he had no right to ask an-
other to share his hopelessness of spirit, his utter loneli-
ness of soul! The man who had said " He would like to
see me dead!"—who had accused him in these words
before the woman who knew the secret of both their
hearts—had spoken true! Now he was dead. The
world, made up so much of pointed fingers and enven-
omed whispers, would point and whisper, no matter any
verdict! He would face it all alone!
At the end of the corridor, up and down which
Lawrence Kellogg was walking, was an open space
through which could be seen the inclosed court, sur-
rounded by cell doors. Through the grating occasion-
ally appeared pale faces; hands often grasped the bars;
sometimes an oath or a snatch of song echoed from be-
low. For some reason, as he passed, the prisoner's at-
tention was attracted. Looking down, he perceived
Captain Leary, and talking to him, no one less than the
prosecuting attorney! Mr. Murger's back was turned,
"283


ANAESTHESIA
went on and told in detail the doctor's plan, enlarging
on it's sure efficiency, it's impossibility of interruption.
Lawrence listened attentively; his eyes glistened
strangely, his lips quivering.
"And you won't see her before she goes?"
"Yes; maybe I'll see her this afternoon."
It would seem rather tactless to say where, but the
old lawyer had made up his mind to go back to Brim-
field to attend the funeral. It would be well for the
doctor to have some assistance, if necessary. He in-
tended also to keep his eye and his clutches, too, on
McKnight, if possible. He changed his tone, shifting
his position to catch Lawrence's eye.
"And now for the rest of my report. I've seen
Tevelin—and—er—I thought it best—I gave him your
story—before I asked for his"
"Did you give him my message, judge?—because
if you didn't"
"Hold on—wait a minute—just let's reconsider this
idea of yours. You know what all this amounts to. You
are running your own case, though I'm supposed to be
your legal adviser. The position seems to be more or
less of a sinecure; not a word of advice have you asked
of me, and yet I'm supposed to have charge of your
defense. Have you ever thought of the position that
it puts me in?"
"I am very sorry, judge, but you see I don't wish
to be 'defended.' Why should I?"
"So I see. But you don't wish to be convicted."
Lawrence Kellogg looked at him with clear eyes.
"There is no danger of that. I'm not afraid of that,
sir. When the truth is known"
"Look here, Larry," broke in the judge impa-
285


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
tiently, "when you face twelve men—there will be a
third of them, most probably, who wouldn't know the
truth when they saw it! Is it your opinion that the
district attorney may quash further proceedings and
let you go? If that's what you're counting on, then
let me tell you: you were never more mistaken. I know
Wilford Murger well; he doesn't believe in anything
or anybody, including himself. He'll twist and con-
tort things to suit his own ideas. As I said before, I
saw Tevelin this morning and—just listen"
"You know he's here now?" interrupted Lawrence.
"He's somewhere with the district attorney. I sup-
pose they wouldn't let me talk with him. . . . But he
got a note from me—at least I hope he did."
"My stars! Larry Kellogg, I think you are stark,
staring mad! You're wrong in the head, boy! He got
a note from you! What are you talking about? I
tell you I saw him at Brimfield, not five hours ago—
You're mad"
"And I saw him not five minutes ago. I don't think
I'm mad, judge; but I can only see things one way. I
would go mad, certainly, if I was forced to sit still and
hear you arguing little points and denying this and
that, and calling for proof!—demanding that I should
display a nimble mind. Supposing it so happened that
I could show an incontrovertible alibi? Do you think
I'd take it and go out to slink through the rest of my
life? No, sir! I ran away from the Unknown, im-
pelled by I don't know what. I was mad then—yes, if
you like to say it. If I'd ever sailed on that steamer
I never would have reached the other side. . . . But—
don't fear! I don't think of that any more; it's a
coward's way out of trouble. I was suffering then;
286


ANAESTHESIA
to say to me, now we've gone through everything else;
wouldn't you?"
"What was it—was it of any moment?"
"Was it of any moment?" repeated the judge.
"Maybe you'll think so when you hear it."
He plunged into the story, refreshing his mind now
and then by some notes that he had scribbled on the
back of some foreclosure papers. "And that," he
said, as he finished, " is what you handed to the prose-
cution. It doesn't make any matter whether these
things are so or not; you've given Murger the handle
that he wanted."
"It goes right in with the story that I'd have to
tell myself," said Lawrence slowly; "every word of it.
Don't you see how it bears me out in what I told you?
Mr. Murger has nothing but the facts to submit now."
"Oh, he'll submit them all right!—properly decora-
ted and embroidered. Oh, he's no fool when it comes
to spellbinding a jury. My shining stars! This
whole thing is like—like—giving the answer and then
asking the question. Of course they'll indict you. I
have been prepared for it right along. And there'll
be a trial—I was sure of that, or I'd have asked for a
commission to be appointed to inquire into your con-
dition of mind. Is that outspoken enough to suit?
You have been wanting the truth. I'm afraid there's a
hard ordeal ahead of you, my son, before we finish."
Lawrence Kellogg surveyed the blank walls of the
cell. There was not a trace of irritation or despair
in his face. He seemed to accept the judge's words as he
had accepted everything, showing his placidity at the
course of fate.
"We will have to face it—that's all," he said slowly.
289


ANESTHESIA
"I don't know what I'd have done if I hadn't had you
to turn to. But listen! You remember, that when I
first told you all that happened, I expressed a doubt—
it was in the letter that I wrote you. It was a doubt
as to how Frank Bellwood really died."
"What!" The judge jumped to his feet in fright,
looking down at the man beside him in an astonishment
that left him bereft of words.
"Oh, I knew he was dead; I was sure of that. But
don't you see, he always—I had no time to make ex-
amination."
The judge's voice almost croaked. "Why, man,
the back of his head was crushed in! . . . You must
have—didn't you say you flung him back against the
stones?"
The effect of this was absolutely unexpected. Law-
rence slipped from the cot to the tile floor. Kneeling
there, he buried his face against the coverlet. His old
friend bent down beside him in a vain attempt to com-
fort.
For a long time the judge sat there, saying noth-
ing, waiting for the storm to pass, until slowly this man
he loved conquered the long, torturing breaths and
submitted to be helped to his feet again.
"Don't dwell on it, Larry, my boy—don't dwell
on it! It can't do you any good. I didn't mean to be
so brutal. . . . You just now said your courage was
all right; you'll have to call upon it often, lad—many
times in what's before you."
Lawrence replied to the grasp of the firm, large
hand. "It's all over, judge," he said. "You see, I
wasn't sure—I wasn't sure—and I hardly dared to ask.
. . . Don't fear again for me."
291


CHAPTER XXIV
A REVIEW OF EVIDENCE
SORRY I can't oblige you. It's quite impossible."
Mr. Wilford Murger kept opening and shut-
ting the inkstand with the end of his pen. Mr.
McKnight sat opposite him on the edge of the big,
flat desk, and from his appearance it was evident that
he was somewhat angered.
"Why, look here! Mr. District Attorney," he
said, leaning forward on his elbow, "you might give
me permission just to have a talk with this man. I
will submit to you any story I may make out of it
—I give you my word that I won't change a line.
We've helped you make your case so far, you can't
deny that. It was Colson who thought of measuring
the hoof prints, and who found out that Kellogg's
horse had lost a shoe off the left fore foot. And then
I found the marks of clay and blue gravel on the
bottom of the buggy and on the foot scraper at Kel-
logg's house."
"That isn't so important now as it might have been.
I've got something stronger than circumstantial evi-
dence to go on."
McKnight's eyes brightened. Tevelin had turned
state's evidence! He jumped at once to the right
conclusion. But he was clever enough not to show
292


A REVIEW OF EVIDENCE
it at the moment; he perceived Murger, himself, had no-
ticed the slip he had made. "I've been working for
your side of the case all along," he continued in his
obstinate pleading, "and I'm going to help you nail
this fellow down. You know the town is divided into
two camps—Kellogg seems to have a good many friends.
. . . Just give me a note and let me have a talk with
Tevelin."
"Can't do it," replied the district attorney. "You
may be a clever amateur detective, but I know my
business."
"But, then, let me interview you," went on Mr.
McKnight. "You can tell me just so much or just so
little, as you want to. I've found out something more
that may be of use to you, that maybe you haven't
heard—and something else that probably you think I
don't know at all!"
"Is this case going to be tried in the newspapers
or in a court of law?" asked the district attorney
somewhat arrogantly. "Probably you'd like to take
my place here and manage matters."
Mr. McKnight laughed. "Well, I could give you a
pointer that would be well worth following." He stud-
ied Mr. Murger's red face attentively. "You will find
it in every dime novel and melodrama ever written or
produced."
Murger closed the inkstand with a snap. "I don't
object to receiving any ' pointers,' " he said, " and when
the proper time comes"
"Seems to me you are letting some of the proper
time slip by you now," suggested Mr. McKnight. "I'll
give you my pointer gratis. It may suggest some-
thing—" He spoke with mock intensity. "' There's
293


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
a woman in this somewhere!'" He laughed. "That
may be moldy, but it's the proper cue."
"There always is in affairs of this kind," returned
Mr. Murger. Then, seeing that his visitor had laughed
again, he added: "And that reply is about as moth-
eaten as your suggestion."
"Well, let me go a little farther. . . . Did you
know that the minister used to meet this Mrs. Rice and
go automobiling with her? That he had been with her
the day she was killed? She seems to have been rather
—er—attractive—eh, what?"
Mr. Murger remained silent.
"Perhaps you knew that," continued the reporter,
"and perhaps you didn't. You must have known that
Dr. Kellogg was a constant visitor at her house, that he
and Bellwood had quarreled—had become bitter ene-
mies. I've got that on good authority. You ask
Brower, who lives next door to the rectory, what he
heard one night."
"Well, is that all you're going to tell me?" This
was news to the district attorney. But he covered his
surprise.
"No; it wasn't what I was going to tell at all!
You don't seem to be receptive just now. But a ques-
tion—Are you following up the clew of the attempted
robbery at the cemetery?"
"Now I'm not going to tell you all my plans or
everything I'm doing, Mr. McKnight." Mr. Murger
was more than ruffled. "I suppose you will go ahead
and write what you please—that goes without saying.
But I'm not going to give my hand away, as I said be-
fore. Why don't you go and interview the prisoner?
—you may get something out of him."


A REVIEW OF EVIDENCE
"Well," said Mr. McKnight, "I got a straight
statement from his attorney."
"What was that?" Mr. Murger pricked up his
ears.
"He told me that nobody was so anxious to have
the truth given out about this affair as was his client.
I will give you something to think over. What if he
directed Tevelin to make this confession, eh? That's
what I'd have advised him to do."
"Did he retain you as counsel? If not, maybe he's
looking for a press agent. Who said anything about a
confession?"
Mr. McKnight rose and stretched himself. "Oh,
well!" said he; " forget it—but remember this: a news-
paper man may have a good deal of weight."
"You've got that all right!" grinned Mr. Mur-
ger, glancing over the reporter's burly figure, and mak-
ing what he thought to be a home thrust. "Come in in
the morning—I may have something to tell you then."
"All right!" smiled McKnight, striking a match
on the sole of his foot and lighting a cigarette. "I may
have something to tell you, too. . . . You find out who
was with Kellogg the day the big dam was blown up!
Look up Murray, driver of Storr's butcher wagon.
There's a hint for you—I may bring you another to-
morrow."
"Bring it along," said the district attorney, with
an attempt to be offhand and pleasant. He had not
forgotten his chagrin at that parting with the widow
at the Country Club. He turned and halted the re-
porter with a quick gesture. "Of course, I know who
Kellogg was with that day," he blurted, a sudden
change in his tone. "He was with Mrs. Rice."
20 295


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
The reporter whistled.
"You're barking up the wrong tree," he laughed.
"Get wise—get wise." With that he closed the
door.
As soon as his visitor had left, Mr. Murger pushed
back from the desk. Although puzzled, he rather con-
gratulated himself that he had had the best of the in-
terview. The blowing up of the dam had ushered in his
tenure of office and made him feel his importance. But
this was a bigger case, and he did not wish any small
thunders to be stolen. One thing worried him not a
little: Tevelin's sudden change of heart. He had pro-
claimed his ignorance and innocence of any knowledge
or guilt, until suddenly—under no immediate pressure
—he had divulged everything! The offer of clemency
extended to him as a reward had been entirely voluntary
on the district attorney's part, and he now regretted it.
Mr. Murger wished, not only to win this fight because
it had come in the direct line of his office-holding posi-
tion, but he longed to humble his old enemy, and he
harbored a revengeful feeling that was purely per-
sonal against the prisoner. Even if this case had
amounted to nothing, he would have felt gratified that
he had given a man, who had once bested him, some
trouble and annoyance. In view of the damning testi-
mony, it would have been most strange for Judge Hol-
lins to have suggested the confession. What did Mc-
Knight mean? Then this tale of a quarrel between the
minister and the accused—how about it? He had facts
enough for the grand jury. Nevertheless the hint of
undivulged evidence—held out to him as a bait—in-
creased his irritation. The attempted breaking into the
Rice mausoleum he had as yet paid little heed to. The
296


A REVIEW OF EVIDENCE
current story of the gems and the diamond tiara had
got into the papers and had been enough to attract
the attention of the local blacklegs; the district attorney
had, previous to Tevelin's sending for him, suspected
him. The county detective force was working upon
some clews at Antioch that might lead somewhere. But
how could a man like Dr. Kellogg be associated in any
way with those to whom the suspicion of robbery
pointed? What was the Rev. Bellwood doing there at
that hour of night?
Mr. Murger, after his long self-communion at the
window, returned to his desk, and had just seated him-
self when his assistant, young Wilcox, thrust his head
in from the outer office.
"Bill Gould's out here—wants to see you," he said
familiarly, and in a few minutes the new sheriff, making
a very evident effort at a professional deportment, en-
tered and closed the door firmly behind him.
"We caught them fellows who was implicated in
the attempted robbery at the cemetery," he announced
casually. "Picked them up just as they were jumping
a freight at the A. W. and O. yard."
"Who are they?"
"Oh, two young toughs. When they found out
what they was wanted for they was kinder scared; but
we got 'em talking, and when they opened up, we got
the whole story."
Mr. Murger was all attention now. "Did either
of them know Dr. Kellogg?"
"Nope, but"
"Well, did they know Bellwood?"
"No, they said they didn't. But one of them knew
Pat Tevelin and had talked to him up at Chase's Road
297


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
House. They claim that everybody was talking about
the jewels that were there at the Rice vault on the"
"Never mind that," Mr. Murger interrupted. "Go
on."
"And so they got to thinkin' of it, and when they'd
drunk enough whisky to make 'em brave, they walked in
toward Brimfield until they came to the cemetery. They
claim that they didn't intend to commit no robbery, but
just went to have a look, and when they got there they
found the pick and crowbar that the workmen left, and
just took a few cracks at the lock to see if it would open.
One of them took off his coat and rolled it up against
the bolt so they wouldn't make any noise while workin'
at it. First thing they know, a man in a long coat
jumps out at them and they ran. It's a clear case of
attempted"
"Pshaw!" said the district attorney. "That
doesn't connect them with the murder or tell me what
Kellogg and Bellwood were doing there at that hour
of night."
The sheriff was rather disconcerted at the lack of in-
terest his news had excited. "No," he said. "I sup-
pose that's another matter."
The district attorney repeated his words. "Another
matter entirely, sheriff. . . . But I'll give you a bit
of news. Tevelin's told the whole story and we got
enough to insure trial."
Mr. Gould made no effort now to conceal his ex-
citement, but his curiosity was not to be rewarded on
the spot.
"What did he say?"
"Well—I can't go into it now; all I can say is, you
brought back the right man. I want to prove he drove
298


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
congratulation, he stepped to the door and called in
his assistant from the outer office.
Charlie Wilcox was a bright-faced young man of
four-and-twenty, of engaging manners, bright cheeks,
and a waving pompadour. In common with his own
immediate family and the School Board trustees,
Charlie, from his youth up, had rather fancied his
future, and having been admitted to the Bar he
regarded his almost immediate appointment to the
district attorney's office as a stepping-stone to coming
greatness.
"Mr. Wilcox," began the district attorney—it had
been " Charlie" before the latter had entered his office
—" you went to the minister's funeral the other day—
I'm sorry now I didn't go myself, but I couldn't. Was
Judge Hollins there?"
"Yes, he sat back in the church with McKnight,
the reporter. They seem to be getting pretty thick.
Say! But there was a crowd!"
"You didn't get a chance to speak with Mrs. Bell-
wood, did you? Used to be in her Sunday-school class
—know her pretty well, eh?" Mr. Murger was slightly
sneering, but his assistant ignored it.
"No, I didn't see anybody speak to her. She wore
a heavy veil and had hold of Dr. Smith's arm most
of the time. I felt awful sorry for her. I guess Dr.
Smith has begun to lay his pipes already."
Mr. Murger endeavored at least to look "wise"
as the reporter had advised him. "Had you heard of
any quarrel between Kellogg and the minister? There
had been, you know."
"Well, Doc Kellogg had quit attending to him and
stopped going there altogether. You know he and Mrs.
300


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
again and swore softly to himself. Somebody was with
him. Yes! there was his old adversary talking to the very
man whose suggestion of assistance he had so curtly dis-
dained to listen to but a short time ago! The reporter
was smiling at something the judge had said. The door
had swung to slowly. It was closed all but a crack.
Mr. Murger stole on tiptoe down the iron staircase.
"Then you don't know where Mrs. Bellwood is,
j udge?" Mr. McKnight was saying. "I can give you my
word that I am not responsible altogether for the way
they've treated this thing down at the office. You see,
they've got a certain policy that they think pays; it's
business with them. The people like to have things dished
up that way. But of course there's a woman in it."
"Well, it's a mean policy, a dirty business, and a
nasty dish," remarked the judge, paying no attention
to the end of McKnight's speech.
"Granted—freely admitted. I don't lay claim to
the fact that I am proud to be connected with it—I'm
not! But I try to do my job in just as clean a way
as I can. If I knew of any quarterly review or fire-
side weekly that would pay me the same money, I'd wash
my hands and be respectable the rest of my life. I
know most people think we are dirty dogs, but we're
not—all of us. And let me tell you this, sir "—some-
how the judge always secured this tribute of respect
from younger men—" let me tell you this: I'm slowly
coming to the conviction that your man is innocent. I
didn't think so at the start-off. Now I'm perfectly open
to be convinced. Haven't you anything to tell me?"
The judge looked at him and spoke with a kindly
gruffness. "Well, he thinks he is, and so do I. And
if you want me to go further, I will add that I firmly
304


CHAPTER XXVI
THE TRIAL
BRIMFIELD had trooped to the county seat. All
Antioch was excited. Rows of country wagons
filled the street in front of the new Four Courts.
The ornate court room, that still smelled of paint and
varnish, was crowded; every seat had been taken since
early in the morning, many people had been turned
away.
Ten o'clock. The jurymen were in their seats; the
judge entered slowly and settled himself in his chair,
gathering the folds of his silk gown around him. The
clerk of the court had mouthed the preliminary call for
order and silence. The trial had begun.
The prosecuting attorney rose, but few eyes were
on him; all were watching the prisoner seated at the
corner of the table near his counsel. His face was pale,
but his head and shoulders were back in the old way that
marked him. The women in the court room fell to nudg-
ing and whispering. The reporters at their table wait-
ing, pencil in hand, were eager for the word to start in
competition. An artist, sent from New York by a rival
yellow journal to Mr. McKnight's, had begun already
on his thumb-nail sketches.
The prosecutor was speaking now.
He opened with a reference to his painful duty,
306


THE TRIAL
emphasizing the fact of the high social standing in the
community of both the murdered man and the accused.
He stated that there was much mystery surrounding the
affair, but, if the jury would follow the testimony of the
witnesses that would be called, they could not help but
reach the conclusion that a foul crime had been com-
mitted. Premeditation, he went on to state, was neces-
sarily not the matter of a day or hour; it might mean
the premeditation of a minute. Men who had once been
closest friends might become the bitterest enemies and
few might hear of it. This would be shown to be so in
the present case. Innocent men did not run away and
try to sail to foreign countries! Motive was often hard
to prove, but when the case was finished he did not
doubt that the motive would be clear to every mind.
And leaving the jury attentive under the spell of this
cryptic utterance, Mr. Murger called his first witness—
Dr. Peyton of the sanitarium.
He stated that the minister had been suffering from
a nervous breakdown—excessive use of drugs—and had
been for two days a patient under his care. Word had
been brought to him on the evening of Tuesday, the
17th, that the Rev. Bellwood was missing from his room
and could not be found about the buildings or the
grounds. Dr. Peyton said that he had attended the
inquest and testified to the manner of Bellwood's death
—the skull crushed by a heavy blow!
Judge Hollins waived cross-examination.
One of the assistants at the sanitarium followed.
He contributed little, merely describing what he sup-
posed to be the minister's method of escape, thereby
disclosing that he was more or less in confinement. The
heavy overcoat and fur cap that had been found on
307


THE TRIAL
He thought he had posted them. Much relieved, he was
let go.
One or two witnesses more were then called by the
prosecution, who swore to seeing Bellwood on the Brim-
field streets late in the evening on the 17th. They had
noticed his strange attire—the ear tabs tied beneath his
chin—and had remarked upon it. No questions were
asked of them by the defense.
A man named Norton, a carpenter living at Brim-
field, was next called. He testified to meeting Bellwood
walking up the hill from Brimfield to the cemetery on
Tuesday night. He spoke to him, but had received
no answer. Just a few minutes afterwards he had
met Dr. Kellogg driving up the hill in a buggy;
he had got a look at his face in the moonlight and
had wished him " good evening." The horse was being
driven very slowly, as if the doctor did not wish to over-
take the man ahead of him too quickly; Mr. Norton
judged they would " just about meet" at the cemetery
gates.
"No cross-examination," said the judge. "I have
nothing to ask."
"Bernard McCutcheon," called the prosecutor.
Judge Hollins rose slowly and turned to the district
attorney, at the same time halting Mr. McCutcheon
with a polite wave of the hand.
"In order to save time," he began, " if any further
testimony is to be given here to prove that Dr. Kel-
logg was at the cemetery on this night in question, it
is admitted by the defense. He was there, his horse
was tied in the bushes by the roadside, he afterwards
led the buggy through the cemetery gates, it was his
horse blanket that was found in the driveway. I merely
309


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
state this," concluded the judge, as he sat down again,
"in order that the time of the court might not be
taken up unnecessarily."
The district attorney frowned, and then attempted
to hide it. He cast a puzzled, interrogative look at
the counsel for the defense, and, bending over, began
to confer with his assistant, nervously sorting some
notes. The mayor of Kenton Falls, who was sitting
inside the rail, appeared somewhat disappointed at not
being called to the witness chair.
There was a dead silence in the court room. The peo-
ple in the seats began to crane their necks and look at
the decorations. Mr. Murger at last straightened him-
self and called a name. . . .
"Charles Murray."
A thin-faced, sparse-haired individual was following
the court officer down the aisle. Judge Hollins watched
his advance with a curious expression. Never to his
recollection had he ever seen the man before. Mr. Mur-
ger, bending over, was still whispering to Charlie
Wilcox.
As he stepped into the railed space, the witness, just
summoned, did a curious thing. He stopped, and, fum-
bling in his pocket, produced a large envelope and
handed it to Judge Hollins across the table. Mr. Mur-
ger, still intent upon his notes, did not observe it, nor
did his assistant. But the whole proceeding had been
viewed by the court room, and twelve pairs of eyes from
the jury box. The court attendant had been somewhat
surprised at the action, and before Mr. Murray had
time to speak a word, hustled him on toward the witness
chair.
Judge Hollins, taken by surprise, looked at the large
310


THE TRIAL
envelope. It was stained, crumpled, stamped, and sealed
with a dab of sealing wax and addressed to him in
Lawrence Kellogg's writing. He cast a glance at his
client, who had suddenly leaned forward. His manner
showed an intense, subdued excitement; although sit-
ting at his elbow, the judge said nothing to him—only,
all at once, his hand stole out and caught his arm in
a restraining and reassuring grasp. Then he placed
the packet in the breast of his coat and looked at the
district attorney, whose witness was waiting for him.
Mr. Murger had shuffled the notes into a compact bun-
dle and, after a final glance at them, nodded to the clerk
of the court.
Mr. Murray, evidently overcome by surprise at his
own most unusual call to prominence, made oath as to
his age and birthplace. He had resided for six months
in Brimfield, and was employed by Storr, the butcher,
and drove his delivery wagon.
Mr. Murger continued with his questions in a loud
tone of voice.
"Do you know the prisoner?"
Mr. Murray started. "I know Dr. Kellogg," he
said. "But I never spoke to him—only once."
"Ah, when was that?"
"The day of the blowing up of the dam. He tele-
phoned in from the power house and saved the lives"
"We don't have to go into that, Mr. Murray. Was
Dr. Kellogg alone on this occasion?" The district at-
torney spoke eagerly. Here was the first chance to
bring in Mrs. Bellwood's name and to suggest the miss-
ing motive.
Judge Hollins rose quickly to his feet. "I object,
your Honor; this has nothing to do with the case. I am
81 311


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
willing to admit that my client saved the lives of the
people at the Esterbrook Mill on this occasion; but it
was some time prior to the happening that led to this
present trial and I don't see what it has to do with it at
all."
"The objection is sustained," replied the Court
with a nod in Judge Hollins's direction.
"He was with Fletcher Tirams, the constable—" put
in the witness, not knowing the reason for the inter-
ruption, " and"
It was Judge Porter who interrupted now and spoke
quickly, looking over his glasses. "You need not go
on with that, Mr. Murray," he said, and then, turning
to Mr. Murger, he said pleasantly, but finally:
"Please confine yourself, Mr. District Attorney, to
matters that are relevant."
Mr. Murger shrugged his shoulders as if to convey
unwilling acquiescence to authority. He began on an-
other tack. "Do you know the prisoner's counsel?"
"Do you mean the gentleman I just give the letter
to?"
Mr. Murger appeared puzzled. He glanced quickly
over his shoulder at Charlie Wilcox and then, turning,
repeated the witness's last words. ..." The gentle-
man you just gave the letter to? What letter—
when?"
"A letter I found in the seat of the wagon. It
was addressed to him; I give it to him just this minute
here."
What was all this leading to? What did it mean?
His assistant, the judge, the jury, and the whole court
room were waiting in breathless interest.
"You'll have to explain yourself, Mr. Murray;
312


THE TRIAL
you're talking in riddles. I don't exactly follow. Where
did you get this letter?"
"I told you I found it in the old seat of the wagon.
I found it this morning. It was addressed to Mr. Hol-
lins, so I give it to him."
The district attorney appeared to wake up sud-
denly.
"Where did you keep this seat of the wagon?" The
sentence was fairly hurled at the witness's head.
"I didn't keep it at all, sir. I'd throwd it away.
I just went to look for it this morning. It was on a
pile of rubbish to be burned."
Mr. Murger threw up both hands in a gesture,
as if he appealed to the gods at large. "That will do,"
he said, and turning: " Has the counsel for the defense
any questions to ask? I will state that I wish to recall
this witness in rebuttal. . . . Go on with him!"
Judge Hollins rose. "On Wednesday, the 18th "—
he began slowly—" not very long ago, you may remem-
ber it—did Enoch Walker—or, by the way, you know
Enoch Walker, do you not?"
"I've known him ever since I came to Brimfield. He
works for Dr. Kellogg—that is, he did."
"Yes. Did Enoch Walker ride in with you to Brim-
field from Dr. Kellogg's place on your delivery
wagon?"
"Yes, sir; let's see—I think it was of a Wednesday
—yes, the 18th—the day the horse was shod."
The witness was entirely self-possessed. He seemed
to forget that everyone was hanging on his words.
"Where did you go?"
"We drove to the post office, sir. I let him out
there."
313


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"He had some letters, then? Did he have them in
his hand?"
"No, sir; he put them on the seat and sat on them.
Perhaps"
"Never mind that—just answer. The leather of
the seat was new? Was it a new seat?"
"No, sir, the old one, ripped straight down the
middle. It was the seat I found the letter in. That's
how it must—I think that's how it must"
"Never mind thinking just now. You see, we all
are thinking, too. Just one more question: Did anyone
tell you to look for this letter?"
"No—no, sir. I was looking for some stuff to put
in the seat for the other cart, and there it was under
the flap where it had been torn."
"You had no idea it was there until this morning—
and no idea that you would be called to answer any of
these questions?"
"No idea—not even a moment ago."
"That will do, Mr. Murray. You may step down."
"Where shall I go?" Bewildered at the whole oc-
currence, the witness looked about him. Judge Hollins
gazed at him with kindly eyes. Beneath his breath he
was muttering: "God bless you, lad! You can go
straight to heaven, where I think you came from." But
the court officer was beckoning, as he held open the
swinging gate, and Mr. Murray disappeared in the
crowd.
The counsel for the defense could scarcely conceal
the agitation produced by his sense of coming triumph.
Oh, if Mr. Murger would only make the fatal blunder!
He took the much-talked-of letter from the breast of
his coat, turned it over without reading it, in full sight
314


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
telephone. He had called up Dr. Kellogg's number.
The instrument was in a closet and the door had been
shut; he did not overhear the message. The judge had
left shortly. Long after midnight he heard a voice he
recognized as the minister's cry out in the following
words: "Tell him to go!—He'd like to see me dead!"
There was the sound of a struggle, and another voice
that he swore was Dr. Kellogg's replied: " I'll hold him.
—Take your hands off me, Frank!" He was still lis-
tening at the window and heard other voices and a
groaning, muttering sound. After a while all this had
ceased; but he still watched and saw Dr. Lawrence Kel-
logg leave the rectory early in the morning.
Mr. Murger had him repeat some of the words of
his testimony a number of times. He did not change
them. After this night, he volunteered, Dr. Kellogg,
who had before been a constant visitor, never came to
the rectory.
This testimony produced a profound sensation. It
almost came within the rule that conversations to be
admissible must be repeated in their entirety, but no
objections had been interposed. Judge Hollins and
his client sat there watching the witness without the
exchange of a glance. Now came the old lawyer's turn
at last.
How stern that musical voice could be when emer-
gency required! He asked if the witness could tell what
time it was he had knocked on the door and asked per-
mission to use the telephone. Mr. Brower gave it to a
minute. Then the counsel for the defense inquired if
he had seen anyone else there at the rectory that even-
ing. Yes, Mr. Brower had seen Dr. Rublee enter and
also the judge. When the latter had left the second
316


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Mr. Murger had been making copious additions to
his notes during the cross-examination. His brows were
knitted, and his face redder than ever. As he stood
up, lounging along the edge of the jury box, as was his
fashion, the hand behind his back was clinched so hard
that the cords in his wrist showed plainly and the papers
were crumpled in his fingers. The promised sensation
was about to begin! But Mr. Murger paused. He was
tempted—sorely tempted—to put Judge Hollins on the
stand! He could not make up his mind. He crossed
to the table again and bent in whispered consultation
with young Wilcox, who appeared flushed and some-
what bothered. It was rather late in the day, he
thought, to be called upon for any suggestions; but he
saw that his chief was afraid the case was fading.
Nothing yet had been heard from the subpoena servers
who were searching for Mrs. Bellwood. She had dis-
appeared off the face of the earth, apparently. The
defense must have hidden her. The unexpected
acknowledgment of Lawrence Kellogg's presence at the
cemetery by the counsel had cut the prosecution out of
two or three minor witnesses; and the more he could
place on the stand, the stronger would be his case—
was Mr. Murger's reasoning. The assistant district
attorney could offer no suggestions, so the trump card
had to be played immediately. Patrick Tevelin's name
was called.
As he advanced to the witness stand he was plainly
agitated. Not once did he cast a glance in the direction
of the prisoner, whose steady eyes were on him. He was
duly sworn. For some reason Mr. Tevelin's perturba-
tion affected his utterance—his west-of-Ireland brogue
seemed to be untempered by contact with his recently
318


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
the light was growing dimmer. He saw the first man
turn and face the other. There was a blow—he could not
see who struck it; but the first man fell to his knees,
instantly rising and picking up something from the
ground. At once there followed a ringing sound, as if
one steel object had hit another. There had been no
cry. No word was spoken that he could hear, but a
fierce struggle seemed going on among the low pine
branches; it lasted some minutes, and then another
sound like a heavy blow and a groan, and for a long
time there was silence.
Tevelin had not moved from where he had stood.
But now the moon came out again, and he stole for-
ward among the trees. It was at a corner of the
older part of the cemetery, the place where some of the
old graves were, with the flat tombstones. There, in
the little open space, was a man bending over another
on the ground. When he stood up he recognized who
it was: Dr. Lawrence Kellogg! He knew him " by the
stand of him." He saw him bend again and examine
the other man carefully, open his coat, and place his ear
against his chest. Suddenly the doctor turned and ran!
The figure on the ground lay half in the shadow, half
in the moonlight. Tevelin stepped forward, master-
ing his fear. The man on the ground was dead! He
had on a heavy fur cap, the ear tabs tied beneath
his chin.
The rest of the Irishman's testimony was brought
out by questioning. He could not tell what animated
him—it may have been the devil and the whisky—at all
events, he testified that he picked the body up before
he knew what he was doing. It suddenly had occurred
to his muddled brain that he might become mixed up
320


THE TRIAL
in the matter. He had half dragged, half carried it
some distance, when suddenly he lost his footing and,
with his burden, fell into the open drain. For some
time he lay there, stunned; then, getting up, still un-
der the influence of this nameless fear, he shoveled in the
earth. Where he went after that, Tevelin could not tell,
He did not know that the bottle of whisky had dropped
out of his pocket. The next thing he remembered, he
awoke under the pine trees down at Dr. Kellogg's; some-
one was shaking him; he was told he was arrested.
Taken altogether, Tevelin's testimony occasioned
wonder. Its effect on the jury and on all those in the
court room was puzzling. It did not bear the earmarks
of truth; it seemed unreal, inexplicable! And an odd
thing was, that he had stated that he had positively
been unable to recognize who the dead man was! He
had no idea whose body he had buried! The unreality
of the story the district attorney tried to mitigate in
a measure by asking some leading questions that even
appeared to attack the credibility of his own witness;
but it was with a purpose. He insinuated that Tevelin's
drunken movements might, unconsciously, have had be-
hind them some motive that might explain them; un-
wittingly this man, with his brain influenced by its be-
fuddled condition, had indulged in a form of alcoholic
reasoning. He might still have had a motive that at the
time had governed him! Had he been a friend of the
prisoner? The district attorney asked this question per-
tinently. He had. He owed him gratitude. Then it was
brought out that he owed him money, too, for attendance
on his wife. Could not this have influenced him so that,
in his morally slackened state, he wished to shield his
friend?—The district attorney's efforts were evident.
321


THE TRIAL
Mr. Gould, who had been sitting in the front row,
looked up astonished. Then, awkwardly, he shuffled for-
ward and was sworn. He testified that the district
attorney had placed a "said" warrant in his hands
to apprehend one L. P. Kellogg, who was about to
escape from the country on the steamer Celtic. This
fact, he volunteered incidentally, had been communi-
cated to the district attorney by Ellery Slocum. In
pursuance of this "said" order of arrest, he had
deputized Captain P. R. Leary of the Antioch police
force as special deputy, and had gone to New York and
there had repaired on board the "said" steamer in
search of "said" L. P. Kellogg, accompanied by the
deputy, in order to arrest him. He escaped them at the
dock, but they caught him at the Grand Central Station
and brought him on with them to the Four Courts.
It was here that Mr. Murger gave the witness to Judge
Hollins.
"Did you find Dr. Kellogg on the steamer, sher-
iff? " the latter asked. "Did you see him there?"
"No, sir. But"
"That's all. Where did you find him?"
"At the Grand Central Station."
"What was he doing?"
"He was buying a ticket, sir."
"To what place?"
"Ticket to Antioch."
"Did you arrest him then?"
"No, sir; but"
"Then you didn't arrest him at all. He came of his
own accord?"
"Well, sir, he came back with me and Captain
Leary."
323


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"You haven't repaid him the money he spent for
your two tickets yet, have you?"
"No, sir."
"Didn't he buy them?"
"Yes, sir, he did."
"He brought you both back, eh? That's all,
sheriff."
Here was a boomerang for the prosecution. Con-
scious of a suppressed tittering, the new incumbent of
county office went back to his seat next to Leary. The
latter muttered to him as he sat down: " Bad break we
made, eh, Bill?" But to this Mr. Gould had nothing
to reply.
Mr. Murger's discomfiture was almost comical; if
he had any other witnesses to call, he did not seem to
have them there on hand; the fact was, he had none. He
had relied on helping his case with those whom the
defense might furnish. In the expected cross-exam-
ining, there were one or two points he would bring out:
First of all, that Kellogg and Bellwood had become
enemies. He would insinuate that jealousy was the
cause. Here would come in the woman—the dead man's
wife! But how he had been tricked from the start!
Now he saw his mistake. The confession had been a
put-up job! The Irishman in an interview at the jail
had denied under oath that Judge Hollins had sug-
gested it; but he had said nothing about receiving a
communication from the prisoner! He should have ar-
raigned Tevelin as an accomplice and rent him tooth
and nail! Being the prosecutor's own witness, how-
ever, he had now to accept his testimony as the truth
and make the best of it! It was supposed that the pris-
oner would take the stand—and then would come his


THE TRIAL
chance! Surely he would have to testify in his own
defense! Murger intended to accuse him of deliberately
luring Bellwood to the lonely cemetery, in order to
put him out of the way. There had come a pause. . . .
Oh, that tantalizing letter, the end of which he could
just see protruding from inside the judge's coat!
Would he dare to call him? Every minute that he
hesitated he grew angrier. The pause was extending
to fatal lengths. It would be the weakest of exits if he
should declare his case closed now! Boldness was the
only thing to save the day! He drew his scattered
mental forces together for sudden attack and sought to
curb his feelings.
"I shall ask the learned counsel for the defense to
take the stand." He endeavored to be polite, but his
lips curled like a snarling dog's; his knees shook—which
was a bad sign, even to himself.
If " the learned counsel for the defense " was capa-
ble of assuming that start of gasping, bewildered sur-
prise, he was an actor of no mean order! His involun-
tary gesture of pointing to himself, and his incredulous
confusion afterwards, drew every eye on his awkward
movements as he rose. And why that frightened look,
as he pushed back the large envelope?
"Please take the chair, sir." Mr. Murger was
growing calmer.
The clerk proceeded with the formalities; Judge
Hollins raised his hand above the book.
"Now, judge "—Mr. Murger's voice had conde-
scension in it—" I'm going to ask you if you were
present at the rectory at the time of this quarrel be-
tween the prisoner at the bar and the Rev. Frank Bell-
wood?"
325


THE TRIAL
"It is from my client to me, his counsel."
"Where were you on Tuesday night, the 17th?"
"I was at Evanton."
"I ask you to prove that Dr. L. P. Kellogg re-
tained you at that hour, and on the date you mentioned.
Can you do it?"
The judge shuffled. "Yes—I suppose"
Mr. Murger leaned toward the witness and shook
at him a threatening half-closed fist. "I call on you to
prove by that letter your assertion that, by its con-
tents, you were retained at the time you mention," he
repeated.
"There may be parts of it entirely confidential, as
between client and counsel. ... I protest, sir, at this
whole proceeding!"
"Are you afraid?"
Judge Hollins buttoned his coat up tightly; he ac-
tually began to bluster. His client had rights, and so
had he. This questioning was "brutal, cruel, uncalled
for," and so on, to the point of almost rising from his
chair.
Mr. Murger thrilled with excitement. His voice
rose until it fairly cracked.
"I call on you, Horton L. Hollins, to read the whole
of that letter in support of your assertion!"
"Again I protest! I haven't seen it! I haven't
opened it!"
"Neither have I." Mr. Murger folded his arms now
and gestured with his head. "But I will accept it as
evidence of this statement that you may otherwise find
difficult to prove."
The old lawyer took the packet out tremulously—
it was all he could do to contain himself now; but he
22 327


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
wished to carry matters further. He replaced it again
and buttoned up his worn black coat.
Mr. Murger's eyes glistened, his teeth shone; he
lost all control of himself.
"I ask you to read that letter—if you dare!"
"I should have to ask my client to waive his rights."
"Ask him!" Mr. Murger struck the table before
him a blow with his knuckles that rang through the
court room.
Habet! . . . He had him! How the judge's heart
began to beat! His voice shook now, but with a sense
of his coming triumph.
"Gentlemen of the jury," he began slowly, turning
to the twelve men on his left. "The district attorney
is on record. I shall ask my client if he is willing to
waive his rights. . . . And in view of the circumstances,
I shall advise him so to do."
Lawrence Kellogg nodded.
"The defendant waives his privilege." The coun-
sel for the defense spoke more quietly than before.
"And under cover of the prosecution's pledged word,
I will read this unopened communication."
He sliced the big envelope with his thumb. The
ticking of the court-room clock was plainly audible.
Mr. Murger's face turned mud-color. He had
caught the gleam in the judge's steely eyes, now so calm,
yet so sparkling. The witness's whole attitude was
changed—he was a latent human cheer. He shook his
tousled gray head and began clearly:
"Now, if it may please the Court, I will read this
paper. It was handed to me but a few moments since,
here in this court room. It is addressed to me, by my
client, and never have my eyes seen it before." He
328


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
turning quickly, I could just make out a man's figure almost
within arm's length of me. He had something raised above his
head. Before I could move he aimed a blow at me, but the force
of it caught in the pine branches above his head; still, it was of suf-
ficient force to knock me down. I fell forward and then jumped
to my feet. My hands had closed on something cold and heavy—
it was an iron bar. I had just time to lift it above my head,
when another blow knocked it from my hands—my assailant had
lost hold of his weapon also. In another moment I grappled with
him. He caught me by the throat. My shoulder was numb and
dead from the force of the first blow, that had also grazed my fore-
head. We struggled together without uttering a sound. The
uselessness of calling for help may have occurred to me. At all
events, my one idea was to break that hold on my throat. Twice
we fell under the pines, but each time struggled to our knees and
this way fell out from under the branches and tripped over one
of the graves. He fell on top of me and my head struck the
ground at the corner of one of the flat tombstones that are sup-
ported on the pedestals of stone. I could not have cried out now
if I wanted to, for his fingers had gripped me so hard that I was
almost strangled. Up to this time I must have been fighting with
one arm entirely—the other seemed almost paralyzed. I had
fallen with my head and shoulders almost under the overhanging
slab. It occurred to me that if I pushed myself beneath it, I
might further break the strangle hold at my throat. I tried to do
so and succeeded in raising my benumbed arm and grasping him
close to the collar, where my right hand had taken hold. I twisted
and strained with all my might. Suddenly his fingers relaxed—
he made a movement, half leap, half shudder, and I managed to
push him away at arm's length. Rolling over, I picked him up
bodily and hurled him backwards, falling on him—he struck the
ground hard and did not move. I got up on my knees. I was
dizzy and weak for breath, and half expected an attack from an-
other quarter, for I thought I heard another movement in the pine
330


THE TRIAL
trees near me—but nothing came. The man on the ground lay
still. I dragged him out of the shadow of the pines into the moon-
light and there I saw who it was. It was Franklin Bellwood!—
Frank Bellwood—God! How can I calmly write that name now,
after what I have written. I opened the long coat that he was
wearing and tore open his shirt—he was dead. Frank Bellwood
is dead I God be my witness, I do not think I killed him—I think
he died while he still had hold of me—but he was dead, lying on
the ground, that was my firm belief. There was no pulse or heart
beat. How he came there, or what he was doing there, I haven't
the least idea—I cannot reason about it now; in fact, I have to per-
suade myself as I am writing, that it all has happened. Think
of what it means to me! Think! Think! But I mustn't think,
or I shan't finish—I am putting it all down just as it occurred.'"
The judge paused when he had read so far.
"' Just as it occurred,'" he repeated. His voice
thrilled through the court room. For an instant all the
eyes shifted from him to the prisoner. He sat there
motionless, his face buried and hidden in his hands. At
once the judge began reading again:
"' I thought of what to do. Get him away—take him to his
house, and summon you and Dr. Rublee to determine what ought
to be done. If he died from shock and the old trouble, then we
could act as would be wisest. At all events, it seemed the best
tiling to do. As quickly as I could, I ran from the cemetery to
the road, having now got my bearings, as I thought, and I got the
horse and buggy and led them back through the gate—and now,
Judge, here comes the awful thing!—I could not find the place,
but at last I did: the old Morris plot. It was pitch dark again—
I stumbled round everywhere, feeling with my hands, but could
find nothing. The body was gone, it was no longer there I I can-
not be mistaken; as I write, I am sure Frank Bellwood is dead.
331


THE TRIAL
nocence. If you have watched a drama, it was neither
extemporized nor rehearsed—its value to this accused
man's cause was accidental. From the beginning he has
insisted on the truth. We have heard the truth, we have
seen truth spring to life before our eyes, and we have
had not to guess, suppose, invent, or summarize. The
condition of my client's mind—broken and afflicted,
staggering, stammering, from grief and terror—terror
not for self—shows in the outpourings that his hand
put to paper. I do not ask anyone to imagine what
they might do were they placed in like position, and
found themselves in this fell clutch of circumstance.
He has faced his grief, he has faced his trial, and never
have the kindly eyes of Truth left him. I shall not
analyze his feelings. I do not think of motives. I
shall not dwell on evidence—it is all plain. A free man,
I believe, will leave this court room. Through the
bandaged eyes of this figure of Justice sculptured on
the wall, will look kindly eyes on him and you. Truth
seeks no hand clasps of congratulation, Truth does
not stop to linger or listen; she clears the way and
guards it by her presence, and down the path she
has made for him will walk my friend! His troubled
hour, we all have witnessed—Truth is the motive we
find in his heart."
The old lawyer stopped short, but stood there with
his hand on his client's shoulder. Nothing could have
equaled the effect of this strange summing up! It
seemed to link the testimony in favor of the prisoner's
innocence into a chain stronger than any patient, care-
fully worked over molding of the links. It dismissed
the evidence as unanswerable, and pleaded for sym-
pathy. If the eyes of Justice behind her blinding
335


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
bandage were reflected in the gaze that fell qn the
accused man sitting there, they were kindly eyes—
dimmed, maybe, in their kindness.
The district attorney rose and began impetuously.
The court room seemed to echo his raucous, vibrating
voice. There was no denying the fact that Mr. Mer-
ger's summing up was the effort of his life! They
were very few who credited him with any such hidden
powers. For three quarters of an hour he had held
forth. His discomfiture and perturbation at his ap-
parent utter defeat in the morning had disappeared.
He made the most of every telling point. Often he had
ranged close to shallow waters. He did not openly
accuse the counsel for the defense of double dealing;
but nevertheless, he left the impression that it was
there. He averred that they were afraid to call their
witnesses, and by subterfuge had avoided putting the
prisoner on the stand. He lingered on the fact that
no motive had been shown. This missing motive dared
not appear. The defense had taken good care to hide
it. He halted as if about to mention a name. He as-
serted this motive dwelt in the heart of the prisoner—
the strongest motive that ever dwelt in the heart of
man. There were few men and certainly not a woman
who listened to him who did not see the object he was
aiming at. It left a strange impression. More than
one lawyer in the court room—and there were many—
regarded Mr. Murger as if they saw him through new
eyes. They had never suspected him of any such capac-
ities. The district attorney's speech had been impress-
ive; however, not because of any gifts of legal oratory,
or knowledge of court-room finesse, but because he had
voiced his own personal feelings. He had given force
336


THE TRIAL
to them, guarded though they were by his politician's
cunning, and swept himself along with his hearers in
the outburst of a passionate attack with all the im-
petuosity of a man who leads a forlorn hope in a des-
perate charge, not in the service of a cause, but to save
annihilation! The silence that followed was a flattering
tribute to his spell-binding influence.
Judge Porter began his charge; it was short and
fair. The jury was left to decide the value of what
they had heard and witnessed. It was not for them
to read between the lines; their verdict admitted of no
temporizing or considering of matters not brought out
in the hearing. Testimony had been brought forward in
an unwonted fashion; but it was testimony, nevertheless.
They would have to consider it and place their own valu-
ation on it, regardless of its manner of presentation.
The papers were handed them, and they filed out
into the jury room.
Mr. McKnight was just writing the following
words: "If Dr. Kellogg had been convicted the de-
fense would still have been the cleverest in its method
that was ever brought out in a court room. Horton J.
Hollins, the prisoner's counsel, would have to be cred-
ited with an effort that would declare him to be one
of the most resourceful and brilliant criminal lawyers
in the country. But—" Here Mr. McKnight stopped
writing again and rattled his pencil against his teeth.
Hardly anyone had left the court room except the
judge, the jury, the prisoner, and his counsel. A mur-
mur of subdued conversation, punctuated by an occa-
sional emphatic voice rising in argument or denial,
showed that there might exist some difference of
opinion.
337


CHAPTER XXVII
THE VERDICT
DURING the long walk through the covered cor-
ridor to the jail neither Judge Hollins nor Law-
rence Kellogg exchanged a word. The two
deputies who accompanied them were silent also.
As the prisoner stepped into his cell, his counsel fol-
lowed him and once more they sat together on the edge
of the little cot. Lawrence had been thinking of what
the district attorney had said. Had he known what was
in his heart? What if the jury could have read the
words in the two notes that now lay close to it!—the
one that had bid him leave her, written the morning after
the scene at the rectory, and the one that Judge Hol-
lins had handed him when he had returned from Franklin
Bellwood's funeral—the last words he would ever receive
from her! His old friend shook him.
"It will soon be over. Don't be cast down." He
spoke loudly with encouragement.
"How long do you suppose they'll keep us in sus-
pense?" Lawrence asked the question feverishly.
The judge smiled. "Not very long, son. You will
be a free man before nightfall. What do you intend
to do?"
"Go—go anywhere—leave here! I don't want to
have anybody talk to me."


THE VERDICT
"I think we can arrange all that, Larry; but there
will be a lot of your friends who will want to see you.
Don't you think it would be better to meet them?"
"Spare me that," replied Lawrertce earnestly.
"You know, it's strange that I can't discuss things
with you, or thank you, or express my feelings; but I
simply cannot—you understand."
"I understand," said the judge. "You owe no
thanks to me. You outlined your own defense and God
Almighty managed matters—" He stopped suddenly:
"They're coming for us—it means you're free! Do
you hear me?" He smoothed Lawrence's curly hair
affectionately. ..." Here they are—come on!"
"The jury has returned, sir." One of the deputies
spoke in a low voice to the judge, from the cell door.
The old lawyer nodded; linking his arm with his cli-
ent's, they retraced their steps through the echoing cor-
ridors to the court room.
"The jury will rise," said the clerk of the court.
"The defendant will rise. Jurors look upon the de-
fendant—defendant look upon the jury. How say you,
Mr. Foreman—Guilty or Not Guilty?"
"Not guilty," replied the foreman.
"Hearken unto the verdict as now rendered by you!
Not guilty, and so say you all.—Any further charges,
Mr. District Attorney?"
"None that I know of," replied Mr. Murger
shortly.
"You are discharged," said the Court.
Lawrence Kellogg made a movement that was hardly
perceptible in the direction of the jury box. There was
scraping of feet, murmurings, and, in the body of the
court room, a sound like subdued applause. People
339


THE VERDICT
Lawrence took his great red paw and dropped it
quickly.
Leary endeavored to cover his embarrassment.
"Kind o' shy, ain't he, judge? Guess you can leave
now without bein' seen."
He was holding something in his other hand. He
brought it forward.
"Telegram for you, Judge Hollins, sir—arrived
just as they was closin' up the court room. Won't you
come into the sheriff's office and wait till you want to
go?" He turned to Lawrence again. "I should think
you'd want to get out of this 'bout as quick as you could.
You were dodgin' them reporters, eh?"
Lawrence nodded. "I want to go away quietly, cap-
tain, that's all," he said.
Down below in the covered court, the lights had
been turned up; they caught the reflection of the pol-
ished iron bars. A ribald song sounded from somewhere,
and a coarse laugh followed.
"Come!" said Lawrence to the judge.
"Good-by, and good luck to you," said the captain.
"Good-by, and thank you," Lawrence rejoined,
starting for the head of the iron staircase.
The judge paused as he passed by an electric light.
He tore open the telegram and read it swiftly.
La Junta, Colorado.
She has heard everything. Insists on going. Nothing but a
word from you will stop her. Reply immediately.
Lawrence had halted, looking at him with a question
forming on his lips.
"Want me to come on to Albany and do some lobby-
341


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
ing to defeat the new canal bill," he said. "Guess they
know better than to let that rooster fight!". He re-
placed the telegram in his pocket.
In another moment he and Lawrence were breathing
the crisp, cool air, as they walked down to the station.
Just opposite the entrance was a little eating house.
"You step in here, Larry," said the judge, "and
order a bite. I will run across, get your tickets, and
be back."
"Get them to Boston," Lawrence answered quickly.
"A steamer sails from there Wednesday morning. I'll
go on that. It will give me time to make some pur-
chases."
Newsboys were crying the evening paper: " Full ac-
count of the great murder trial," " Kellogg acquitted!"
Lawrence went inside the empty restaurant and, stop-
ping at the farthest table, sat down with his back to
the door. The girl who came to wait upon him pushed
the bill of fare almost in his face; in the other hand
she held a copy of the Evening Star. She read it half
audibly over his head as she loitered for his order.
"Well, he got off, didn't he?" she observed sud-
denly, ready to embark in conversation.
Lawrence was spelling over the names of the dishes
as if they had been printed in Arabic. He wondered
how his own voice would sound if he should speak.
"Take your time," said the girl good-naturedly,
still reading.
If he could have done it, he would have put on his
hat and coat and left. Food? he didn't want any food!
But at last he ordered something—he had no idea what
—and the waitress, to his relief, moved off to another
customer.
342


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"Yes, sir."
"You've no message for anyone?"
"No message except what I'm going to say to you
—and that's a plain 'good-by.' I can't trust myself
to speak, judge—don't make me."
"Son, son," murmured the old lawyer, " my heart's
been talking with yours these long hours. You've
spoken everything! I have heard your thoughts, my
boy."
Once more the undercurrent in the hand clasp
thrilled them both.
The train was moving.
Lawrence sprang to the platform and entered the
close-smelling day coach and fell into the first empty
seat.
Free! Free!—Yes. But how the chains of life bore
on him! How they weighed him down! His fingers
touched those written words that lay close against his
heart. He seemed to feel the slender fingers weaving
into his—that ever-reaching hand, never to be felt in
earthly life! He drew the letter out. He knew it all;
but in the dim light from the lamp above him, he read
again the message that she thought would have reached
him long before this in London.
Lawrence Dear:
With the judge's letters and, I dare say, the newspapers—
which I do not care to see—go these few words to you. I know
your impulse, dear, is to come hurrying back. I have missed
you, oh, indeed, I have missed you. I have thought of you, and
am thinking of you all the time—it seems quite right and it sus-
tains me. But if you were here I would not be so strong. Now,
in this time of trouble, in which—and I pray no forgiveness for
344


CHAPTER XXVIII
THE HOPE THAT DIES NOT
WINTER had let fall its coverlet over the un-
dulating foothills, softening the grim out-
lines of the mountains beyond, filling with
blue shadows the long stretch of the narrow valley. The
pines, spreading in ink-black masses up the slopes, were
distinct as blots on clean, white paper. Against the
sky, the gleaming peaks—far away—looked to be but
a stone's throw.
A man and a woman were following a wagon down
the hard-packed road. The wheels squeaked musically
as they crunched the snow—dry as flour in the crisp air.
"So you think it especially honest of me to tell all
this?" As she spoke, the woman lifted her head and
looked at the face of the man walking silently beside
her. "Still my frankness has hurt you! I am sorry,
very sorry. But you know the whole story. I would
be utterly at loss for words if I tried to thank you for
all you've done for me."
"Don't try to." The man's voice shook a little.
"But, Amy, I wish it had been more—I only wish I
could help you now. You see, if I had understood every-
thing from the very first, it would have made no change
in what I did; but I did understand at last, and it should
have kept me from speaking—that's all."
346


THE HOPE THAT DIES NOT
He looked round at the face that was raised to his.
The fathomless blue-gray eyes, the color of the snow
shadows, were full of sympathy. Then a look of per-
plexity crossed the pure brow beneath the soft brown hair.
"I thought Judge Hollins had told you long ago.
He knew."
"It wasn't necessary for him to tell me. I braved
my own knowledge. I never saw him after my return
to the East and, of course, I missed him on his flying
visit here."
"Do you mean to say that he never looked you up
in Antioch—he never came to see you?"
Walter Smith shook his handsome iron-gray head
slowly. "Maybe he did; but you see I haven't been
at Antioch all the time. I told you I'd been away; but
I didn't say how long. I have been there very little.
Let's see, this is December—it's just a year ago that
we came out here, isn't it? Well, in January I left for
Europe—I went as far as India. I've only been back
a month. Where will I go now?" He seemed to ask the
question of himself. "I shouldn't have come—at all
events, I shouldn't have spoken!"
"Oh, please don't talk that way, Walter; it hurts
me; you know it must. I love you deeply as a
friend"
"Just as you love Judge Hollins?"
"Just as I love Judge Hollins. Don't ask me out-
right questions. I'm so constituted that I must reply
outrightly, too."
Dr. Smith slowed his footsteps. They had been
walking so fast that they had almost caught up to the
wagon, upon which were a large leather traveling box
and a heavy kit bag.
347


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"We'll be at the station in a few minutes, and then
it will be 'good-by' again." He stopped and looked
down the road. The telegraph poles marking the rail-
way stretched across the valley entrance like a slender
barrier against the outside world. At the bottom of the
long slope, descending before them, was a collection of
small houses, circling about a great water tank. It
looked desolate and lonely beyond words.
"Don't you ever feel like going beyond those two
rocky points?" he asked. "You can't stay here all
your life."
"We're very happy, my mother's so much better—
and I have the children," she replied ambiguously.
"I'm as happy here as anywhere; since Aunt Em has
come to live with us, we're all together—" She paused
and then, sadly, with a little catch of breath: "I
would not know where to go."
"Amy!" He turned to her. "Let me think there
may be some hope for me!" How often have men
pleaded thus in their despair. "Let me say a final word,
even if it's almost cruel. You have been frank with
me—let me truthfully speak my thoughts: I do not
think Lawrence Kellogg will ever come to find you."
He saw her grow pale beneath the weather flush on
her cheeks; the beautiful lips trembled for an instant.
"He will come some day—I will wait here for him,"
she said.
"But let me tell you this "—his voice was kindly in
its earnestness—" when I was in London, I went to his
bankers; they could tell me nothing. One of the clerks
had seen him at Southampton. He had drawn a draft
for his full account. They had returned many letters,
sending them to Judge Hollins. Had you written?"
348


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
How the low tones thrilled as she spoke those words!
Never before had she appeared so beautiful. It was
as if a young girl's soul-voice was speaking through
the years of her womanhood.
"But he is alive, Walter; I know it! oh, I know it!"
The hope that dies not lived in these words—thrilled
in the way she spoke them.
How could he go on and tell her what was in his
mind? He could not volunteer it—but the thoughts
were near his lips. The question that she asked him,
suddenly brought them forth.
"Is there no way to get a trace of where he went?"
she asked.
"I tried to find one."
"What!" She gazed at him and then caught his
arm. "You? You tried to?"
"Yes. That's why I went to India. I thought
there was a clew and followed it."
"What was it? Where did it end?" Her other
hand now grasped him; he could feel the pressure of her
fingers. He looked into the depths of her brimming
eyes.
"It was not very clear."
"But where did it end?—You haven't finished."
"It ended "—he caught his breath—" But why
should I tell you? I may be all wrong."
"Tell me."
"It ended in the Indian Ocean, Amy—in a wreck of
a little steamer bound for Batavia. . . ."
She staggered back from him, her hand at her heart.
"But do you know? Do you know?" she asked, mak-
ing a motion as if to ward off something he might say.
He shook his head. "I would to God I did! It was
350


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
over-youthful—I dared hope. So I came to you—and
now I am going away again."
They had entered among the houses. The wagon
was disappearing round the corner of a building. The
driver looked back at them and called something as he
pointed westward.
"Train's coming in!"
It brought them back to earth!
A few hundred yards ahead was the little station
with the name "FARLEY" on it in large letters. A
mile away a white pennant of steam trailed along the
edge of the inclosing slope between high snow banks.
"We're just in time."
The commonplace expression seemed to ease the
tenseness of the situation. They were on the platform.
The train did not stop long. She gave him both her
hands—it was not necessary to speak. In another mo-
ment she stood there all alone. There were sobs in her
throat that she found difficult to master.


CHAPTER XXIX
IN EXPIATION
WINTER was vanquished—the snows retreated.
Only, here and there, on the higher slopes,
to the north of every big black bowlder, hid
small, dispersed rear guards, fighting to the last. Then
they, too, dwindled in the warm May sunshine. The
swollen streams had subsided, and the tender cotton-
woods blossomed along the banks.
Soon the sheep men began to drive their herds up
from the mesa into the hills, following almost in the
green footprints of the spring. Not many years before,
the elk had browsed there on the succulent young grass;
then the cattle. But slowly the close-cropping sheep
were driving them out also, victors in the conflict for
survival. Nevertheless in many places the cowboys and
the herds still held to the open ranges, though the reign
of the cattle kings was doomed.
On the side of Clear Water Valley, four miles from
the little station of Farley, nestled a low-roofed dwell-
ing built of pine logs, its wide veranda exposed to the
southern sun. It was not a ranch—anyone could see
that at a glance; there were no corrals, no outbuildings,
no bunk house. It had the unmistakable air of femi-
nine occupation. A small stable beyond sheltered a
decrepit cow pony and a good riding horse. There was
353


IN EXPIATION
swer to a distant voice; and cheerfully, in obedience,
she hopped, skipped, and jumped up the veranda
steps.
"Amy didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Peter,"
the boy volunteered. "And then, you must remember
she's only a child."
"Hurt meh feelin's?" grunted the old negro. "I
ain't got no feelin's, and hyar is hyar, and wool is wool.
And talkin' o' dat, Mistah Jack, jes' look at dem sheep
yondeh, comin' up the valley."
To the eastward, in the middle of the wide space
between the hills, was an incoming, huddling tide of
dusty backs. The sounds of the distant bleating could
be heard, and now and then the voices of the herders or
the barking of the sheep dogs that kept the big flock
on the move.
"More 'an a hundred," said the boy.
"Specs mos' likely more 'an a thousand."
"Lessons!" called a voice, that had the note of the
thrush in it.
The boy made a rueful face. "Lucky you don't
have to study," he said to the colored man, as he dusted
off his knees.
"Yes, seh! Guess I's a pretty lucky pusson all
roun'."
Amy greeted little Jack on the veranda and gave
him a pat between the shoulders as he passed by.
"Hurry in!" she said, "and clean yourself up.
Your grandma will hear your arithmetic."
The boy's face showed a mixture of delight and dis-
appointment. Grandma was not exacting, and was
easily sidetracked into story telling.
"Where are you going, Marsie?"
355


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"I'm just going down to the station, dear. Run
in."
"Won't you let me go with you on Nick? We'll go
like the wind!"
Amy smiled. The only wind that poor Nick, the
pony, had to go on would hardly take him out of a walk.
She shook her head.
Without another word, the boy skipped into the
house, as cheerfully as the little girl had obeyed at the
earlier summons.
Amy Bellwood stood looking out over the sunny val-
ley. The dust rising from the myriad hoofs of the dis-
tant flock floated above and before them in a red-brown
cloud.
"Peter," she called to the old colored man working
below her, "put the saddle on the horse. I'm going
down to Farley."
The man-of-all-work hobbled off, for he was slightly
lame, and Amy stood waiting, leaning against the hitch-
ing rail, to one side of the little garden.
She was dressed in a black, short riding skirt held
up under one arm, a white linen blouse, and a man's
soft black hat with a raven's wing was on her fair brown
hair. She looked more girlish than ever. It seemed im-
possible to think of her as the mother of two children,
one a boy who reached quite to her waist. But, despite
the girlishness, there was a saddened, almost haunting,
look in the gray eyes that gazed out across the valley,
a patient, but at times pathetic, droop to the lips, even
when they smiled. As she stood there, her attitude
seemed to fit in with her mood—if mood it was. "Wait-
ing "—that was it. She was waiting. Would she have
to wait always?
356


IN EXPIATION
The led horse appeared at the corner of the build-
ing. She mounted into the saddle from the steps of the
veranda and rode off down the valley slowly. As she
left the little trail that followed the side hill and came
down into the road that led to the town, she passed by a
dusty figure, trudging unsteadily along with a dog at
his heels. The blanket, the canvas bag, and the long
stick in his hand showed him to be a shepherd, one with
the flock, most likely, that had gone into the valley
toward the mountains, there to be guarded by their
lonely watchers. The reason for the man's unsteadi-
ness was apparent; just before she reached him, he had
thrown an empty bottle off to one side of the road. As
he passed her, he glanced up and made a quick motion
with his arm before his eyes, stepping to one side so
suddenly that he almost lost his balance.
Amy had hardly noticed him. Below, on the railway,
she could see the train creeping across the gateway to
her world.
The mail was in! And every mail she watched for!
There was not a man or woman or child in Farley
who did not know the brown horse by sight; they were
few who had not, on one pretense or another, spoken to
his rider. The clerk at the general store was delighted
to hold her stirrup; his employer, Mr. Moody, the post-
master, always left his duties or his other customers and
hurried forward to wait on her in person, for the chance
to exchange a few short words.
There were two letters this morning: one, in a large
envelope, dated from Brimfield, addressed in Judge
Hollins's scrawling hand, and the other with the English
stamp in Dr. Smith's firm, angular writing.
She opened the judge's first; it was short and prin-
357


IN EXPIATION
know at once—he had discovered who the "L. Perry"
was, who had sailed on the Ganges: A young indigo
planter who came originally from Berwickshire. The
resemblance, from description, to Kellogg had been ac-
cidental. He had succeeded in getting into correspond-
ence with the family, and found out that the young
man had been lost, sadly enough, in the wreck of the
Batavian steamer. The letter concluded with the news
that he had just received a note from Miss Bromley
and that she intended writing to her friends at the val-
ley. That was all.
Amy placed the two envelopes in the pocket of the
saddle and picked up the reins. She had two knights
in her service! One thinking only to serve and do her
bidding, and the other thinking he served her best by
keeping away. Yes—for how long? how long? she
thought. The news of the unraveling of the clew had
caused her not the least surprise, and hardly the least
comfort. She was as sure that Lawrence Kellogg was
alive somewhere, fighting his own fight, as she was that
the warm sun shone down on her! But where? oh,
where? When would he return? Like him, but in a
different way, she had severed all connection with the
past. There were no ties that bound her to Brimfield.
Her life there had not been such as to cause her happy
reflections. And there was another reason also. Mrs.
Blatchford, with whom the high air of Colorado had not
seemed to agree, had gone back to live with some of her
husband's relatives. It was hardly a month now, since
those at "Valley Lodge" had received the sad news
of the old lady's death. It had been impossible for Amy
to go East; her mother demanded her attention, and
could not have stood the journey.
24 359


IN EXPIATION
"No—no; don't try to raise your head. I'll give
it to you."
Bending forward with that trick known only to
those who have worked in hospitals, she slipped her arm
about the man's shoulder, lifting him slowly.
"Don't drink it all—now. That's enough. Tell
me, where are you hurt?"
For the first time she noticed the rich brogue in
the man's voice as he spoke and thanked her weakly.
"The saints in heaven bless you—I'm shot, lady—
tried to kill me—they killed the sheep—they jumped
me Monday afternoon—crawled here."
"Lie quiet—let me see what I can do."
Her eyes had become accustomed to the fading
light in the dingy room. With a deft hand she opened
the man's shirt and found the wound, feverish and fes-
tered from lack of treatment.
"I must boil some water; where can I make a fire?"
"The stove—in the corner, ma'am. My legs is
gone. . . . What day is it?"
"Wednesday. Keep still; don't try to move." As
she talked, she was breaking up some kindling to put in
the stove, and had already filled the kettle with water
from the bucket. She found some matches lying loose
on a shelf. It had begun to grow darker. The spurt
of the match as she struck it and held it above her head
lit up the cabin. On a corner of a rough table stood
a lamp with still a little oil dampening the edge of the
almost used-up wick. She lit the fire; the kindlings
caught and smoked vilely.
The man who had kept silence moaned. "More
water!"
"I'll give you some in a minute; but you must
m


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
easier. When did you come here? When did you leave
Brimfield?"
"A year ago—I came to Denver; you followed me;
you followed me!"
"No, no," she said. "You're dreaming, Patrick;
quiet now, quiet."
There was nothing with which to make the dressing
for the wound. Her glance fell on a pair of sheep
shears lying in a corner. She severed the wide sleeves
of her linen waist and dropped them in the kettle. Her
bare, rounded arms gleamed in the light of the lamp,
as once more she bent over the wounded man. How
Tevelin had ever lived as long as he had was a wonder
to her! After bathing his head and hands, she saw that
little could be done for the frightful hurt.
The storm had broken in great fury now; the light-
ning and thunder were incessant. The big dog, as if
seeking comfort, crept close against her side. For some
moments the wounded man had not spoken. Then, all
at once, he began mumbling, the words growing plainer.
"Hail Mary, Mother of God "—he seemed to forget
the prayer and began it over and over; then he stopped.
"Holy Father, I confess this grievous sin—" He was
wandering in his mind, talking as if he addressed a
priest. "Grant absolution," she heard him say.
There was no use endeavoring to stop him. He went
on, sometimes in incoherence, but with the contrite free-
dom of the confessional. His breath was growing
weaker. As she placed her hands beneath the blankets,
she felt his body cold. His eyes were glazing slightly
and his brow was damp. She tried to rouse him to
consciousness.
"Where are your wife and child, Patrick?"
m


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
lap. . . . There was no sound from the blankets. Put-
ting out her hand she touched the dead man's face!
She did not recoil or start; it seemed to bring her
to herself. There was a faint glow in the little stove;
she knelt beside it and blew the embers to a tiny flame
that died away instantly. But in that instant she saw
plainly.
Patrick Tevelin had signed his own last confession!
His name was there!
Sinking down on the rough bench beside the table,
her head in her bare arms, she waited. And there the
dawn found her.



And there the dawn found her."


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
"When may I come?"
"This afternoon. I can't tell you before all these
people. You say you were at Brimfield. Do you know
who I am?"
Mr. McKnight nodded. "Yes, I know."
"Don't fail to come and see me—at four o'clock—
I will expect you. Don't fail me, will you?"
It was the clerk from Moody's store who sat in the
buggy seat. He appeared quite overcome when the re-
porter helped Mrs. Bellwood up beside him.
Soon the cavalcade was moving down the valley,
Peter bearing the good news some miles ahead.
The small gilt traveling clock, looking out of place
on the rough stone mantel, tinkled four. Amy looked
up from where she was writing and glanced out of the
window. She had rested most of the morning. Her
mother, who had passed a sleepless night, was still in
bed. The children were playing somewhere back on the
hill. Steps sounded on the veranda; Ellen came into
the sitting room and announced that there was a gen-
tleman outside who wished to see her.
The apparition that had greeted the rescue party
at the doorway of the hut had rather astonished Mr.
McKnight; but he was again astonished when he saw
her emerge from the house to the veranda, not because
of the change in her appearance, but because she still
carried in both hands the old tattered notebook that
had attracted his curiosity in the morning.
There came to the reporter's mind the words of the
district attorney's summing up. Here he was, face to
face with the missing motive! He had pictured a dif-
ferent sort of person from this girlish-looking woman.
374


THE DEVIOUS WAYS
But despite her youthfulness and startling beauty, his
educated eye read the strength and determination in
her clear, pale face; and her voice, as she greeted him,
was like soft music under sure control.
She motioned to a seat in one rough armchair,
and sat down herself in another, opposite. She came
directly at the subject without any confusion or pre-
amble.
"You were at Dr. Lawrence Kellogg's trial?"
"Yes, Mrs. Bellwood."
"What do you think—what do people say?"
"Those are different questions! I think it was the
most remarkable and dramatic defense I ever listened
to. As to what people say—or said, at least—there
were two opinions."
"There should not be. . . . He did not kill my hus-
band."
Mr. McKnight saw that there was no necessity of
drawing out the story.
"Who did, then?" he asked bluntly.
In answer Amy opened the notebook and placed it
in his hands. "Patrick Tevelin did! See? He has
signed it here with his own name. He struck him with
an iron bar as he struggled on the ground with Dr.
Kellogg and then ran. He came back afterwards—and
hid his body. These are his words—I wrote them down
—he signed them."
The reporter sat there mute in astonishment. How
the whole court-room scene came back! The halting
testimony of the Irishman on the stand, that dramatic
letter, so cleverly worked into the prosecution's case;
the very words recurred to him—how Lawrence Kellogg
had written about trying to break that hold upon his
25 375


THE DEVIOUS WAYS
December, or January of next year, if I'm not mis-
taken."
"How could that be ascertained? Would they come
back to Portsmouth?"
"Yes, I should think so. That's where the vessel
fitted out. . . . But now, Mrs. Bellwood, may I ask you »
something?"
"What is it?" Her voice was almost as far away
as the gaze in her eyes that looked out at the moun-
tain peaks.
"I'm a newspaper man. News is news, and a story
is a story. You know, stranger coincidences occur in
life than one would dare to put in fiction. This is one;
it seems as if it were like the sudden focusing of wan-
dering life lights on one point, the drawing together
of threads that have become confused and entangled.
May I use this "—-he hesitated for an instant—" I
don't mean to ask you for it all," he continued, "but
just this "—he pointed to the notebook at her feet.
"I will not mention your name—and when I say
that, I truly mean it. But just let me use this con-
fession."
"I was going to ask you to," was the rejoinder.
"If you like, you may use my name."
The reporter shook his head. "No—that is another
story; that hasn't been written yet; but "—he looked
boldly into her eyes—" it may be, some day. You can
trust me to wait for it."
He rose. He had caught a quiver of the beautiful
lips that were trying so hard to be bravely still. He
saw the gray eyes were brimming full. Now and then
there comes to people—even strangers—the rare mo-
ment when the sympathetic, unspoken sentence is un-
377


THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
derstood. He saw she must be alone—that she dared
not trust her voice to speak to him.
"Well, I must be off," he said. "I'll drop in again,
if I may, and bring you what I've written. I remember
all the words—no need of my copying them. Hello!
there's my pony trying to get into your garden.". . .
He dashed down the veranda steps.


CHAPTER XXXI
THE SIGHTED COAST
DIPPING her battered bows into the heavy seas
that swept westward across the Bay of Biscay,
a stanch little steam barkenteen swayed north-
ward. Ruddy-faced men were on her decks. Any mo-
ment now they might make the looked-for, loved,
longed-for home! Two years in the ice makes men keen
for it. From aloft, the lookout hailed the bridge. In
the setting sun he had seen the gleam of the white coast.
The captain turned to the navigator and smiled.
"We'll be in Portsmouth Inlet before twelve to-night,"
he said; "and to-morrow, ho! for the wife and babies,
and a long stay ashore!"
He went down the ladder into the after caKn. As
he passed by the open door of one of the staterooms,
he shouted in: " Land-ho! doctor—Portsmouth straight
ahead—fresh beef, my boy, and Southdown mutton!"
He did not wait for a reply, but slammed into his own
cabin and began roaring a song at top voice.
Lawrence Kellogg put on his greatcoat and went
on deck. All this joyousness and gayety bore on him
cruelly. These men were returning to homes, wives,
sweethearts, looking forward to warm greetings and
happy meetings; and he was to land alone, not knowing
which way to turn, for he had made no plans. What
379


THE SIGHTED COAST
would try to make amends in some way. He had
thought the matter out and viewed life with saner eyes
than he had when, bitter and broken in spirit, he had
tossed his own past, heavily weighted, overboard into
the wake of aimless wandering. Had he been just, in
his selfish and fruitless effort to forget? Had she been
able to? Did she thank him for abiding by the inex-
orable law he had written for himself? She must un-
derstand; he knew that well. But did she feel grateful
to him, or did she—? He would not dwell on this!
Often, before, he had fought the unfinished question,
and each time it died the harder. He fought it now—
in his loneliness. By that law he had made he would
abide. But—" Too late! Too late!"—would he ever
cry those bitter words in his defeat?
He glanced about the little stateroom; it seemed
filled with these torturing thoughts; the walls pressed
tightly on him. He stepped out and closed the lattice
door. For the first time the near-by land was tempting:
even in the cabin he could hear the roar of the city's
breathing—distraction waited there.
When he came up on deck, he found that the other
officers had departed. He had almost forgotten that
he had said "good-by" to all those whose duties had
not necessitated their standing by the ship. The lieu-
tenant who had hailed him was the last one left. Few
of the crew were about; they had no cargo to unload,
and the liberty they longed for had been granted.
The old quartermaster at the head of the gangway
touched his cap and then shook his hand. "You're off,
sir? All I can say is, I hope that I'll be shipmates with
you again, sir." \ N
"Perhaps so, Mullins. Oh, by tlx - way, I'll send a
381 ^ *


ENVOI
THE HARBOR
IT was spring again. They stood on the top of the
wind-swept Cornish cliff, looking down at the water
tumbling on the white shingle below. She was
standing with her hand upon his shoulder, and pointing
with the other down the velvety, grass-grown path by
which they had ascended. All about them the heather
was in bloom. Running up the path toward them were
the two children, their voices gay with excitement.—
This was the dream — the dream that had come
true!
"Lawrence, dear "—she swung him about to face
her, and stood closer to him than she had before—" do
you remember something I once said?"
He smiled. "I remember everything you ever said."
"But one particular thing."
"I remember all the particular things. But what
was it?"
"I'll whisper it."
He clasped her gently. Now he remembered—but,
oh!—the sweetness of those words—pathetic no longer,
but glorious in their hope and prophecy! Oh! that
day when she had said: " I should like to see your child,
Lawrence!"
The eyes of both were moist. The children were
384


THE HARBOR
near them now—little Jack ahead, and the golden-haired
girl panting after him.
"Ours, too!" she said, turning.
Her husband understood.
"Always ours—always the same."
The boy stood opposite them, diving into the breast
of his sailor blouse.
"The postman left a letter. . . . Why, you look
as if you had been crying. Why were you crying,
Marsie?"
His mother smiled at him. "Look now!" she said.
"Then I know what it is," the boy continued; " it's
the wind. It's that way when I run."
"Where's that letter, young man?"
He found it at last and handed it to Lawrence,
then leaned against him, his arms clasped round his
thigh.
"It's from Judge Hollins," Lawrence said, his hand
falling to the boy's shoulder. He read a minute, then
handed it to Amy. "There's news," he laughed.
She read the first three lines and then looked for a
moment far across the dancing channel and smiled back
at him.
"People here," began the letter, "are wondering
if you two are ever coming back—warm greetings wait
you. Walter Smith just called me up from Antioch.
I think he's crazy! He wishes me to be his best man
at his wedding to Miss Bromley. What do you think?
And I've accepted." Then, as if ashamed of himself, the
old lawyer plunged into business.
As they walked back toward the low, slate-roofed
dwelling, sheltered in its hollow, with the trees about
it, Amy spoke thoughtfully:
385





BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE SECOND GENERATION.'
Light Fingered Gentry.
A Novel by David Graham Phillips.
Illustrated. nmo. Cloth, $1.50.
You will hunt long and far before you find a redder-
blooded novel than this. It is the latest by the gifted
author of "The Second Generation." The hero is a real
man—a man's man—and that is the truest type of woman's
man. He is a hard fighter, and he has a hard fight to save
himself from disaster, from disgrace, and from losing Her.
But she was worth the fight.
The Baltimore News says: "An author never is more
satisfying than when his latest book is his best—and this
may be said sincerely of 'Light Fingered Gentry.' The two
important characters are unique—a divorced pair who meet
later, after the woman has developed magnificently; and
the romance which ensues gives the book a luminous side."
"David Graham Phillips is the master American novel-
ist of to-day."—Senator Albert J. Beveridge.
"Mr. Phillips handles his big subject with a vigor and
force that is convincing, and blends it so happily with the
romance that he has produced a tale of absorbing interest
second to none of the fiction of the year."
—Pittsburgh Dispatch.
"It is a good thing for any country to have such novels
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men and women."—Seattle Post-Intelligencer.
"The book is full of practical philosophy, which makes
it worth careful reading, for the author has studied life
carefully and his conclusions are those of the expert ana-
lyst of motive and character."—San Francisco Chronicle.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.


»





This Book is Due iNNEX
MAY 3 » f"0^
i 131979