She will--she will feel bad for a while, maybe, but time heals all wounds. Now go home to your wife, Sam. She is not well, and--"
Cavanaugh stood up. "Yes, I'll go," he faltered, "but I'm going to talk to Fisher and Black in the morning."
"Don't do it, Sam." John was smoking now. "I refuse to fight this case before the public. It is bad enough as it is without forcing my poor little--without forcing Tilly to hear more of it. She is too young and sensitive to go through it, and I won't let her. If I don't appear it will go through quietly. I know-- I heard of a case like that. The judge picked a time when just a few people were present, and it was over right away."
"John, are you in earnest?" Cavanaugh asked, at the end of his resources, and he shambled out to the porch.
John followed and stood at his side. "I am, Sam; in fact, I insist on it. I know Tilly's rights and she shall have them. I owe her a million apologies. I'm doing all I can do. I wish I could do more. The time will come, Sam, when she will--will not want to think of me. She will do her best to forget me and all the rest of the awful mess."
"Hush, hush! I'll see you in the morning, after I've slept on it,"
Cavanaugh said, from the gate. "I don't see how I can give in to you, my boy. You and Tilly were too happy for it to end like this."
CHAPTER XXXII
When the contractor was out of sight John sank limply into a chair on the porch. The part he had played against his emotions had told on him.
Not the hardest day of physical toil could have so wrought upon his nerves. Cavanaugh's steady tread was dying out in the distance. Afar off a dog was baying. Suddenly, across the street against a scraggy growth of sassafras-bushes, he saw something white moving. He thought that it might be a dog, a sheep, or a calf. It moved again. It was coming toward him. It approached the gate. It was Dora, and she timidly raised the latch and crept into the yard.
"Don't get mad, brother John," she pleaded. "I saw him come. I was hidden over there in the bushes. I couldn't go to sleep to save my life.
I tried."
He was too much undone to protest. Moreover, there was a dumb, shrinking, animal-like worship in her tone and mien that watered the feverish waste within him. For the first time in his life he wanted to take the barefooted child into his lap and fondle her. He longed for a closer contact with her pitying warmth. To see her weep in his behalf would help; her childish tears would balm his wounds.
"Come in, kid," he said, gently. "I didn't mean to be rough to-night.
You must overlook it. I was out of sorts--a fool to be so, but I was."
She sat down on the door-step, her eyes glued on him.
"What did he say?" she inquired. "I want to know. Is she coming back to you?"
"No, she's gone for good, kid," he answered. "But don't you bother; it is all right."
"What are you going to do?" she asked. "Stay on here in this house? I'll cook and clean for you, if you do. You can get another wife. If she wouldn't stay I'd let her go. There are plenty of others. Was she after some other fellow, brother John?"
"Oh no, no!" he jerked out. "It is not that. Don't you understand? But I see you don't. How could you?"
"You didn't say whether you are going to stay on here in this house or not," the child pursued. "That is the main thing."
Suddenly he leaned forward and stared straight at her. "Listen, kid," he began. "I tried you once and you kept my secret, so I know I can trust you. If I now tell you something I don't want a soul to know, will you promise to keep it?"
"Yes, yes," she agreed. "I won't tell, brother John. I'd cut out my tongue first."
"You see, I don't want Sam to know," John went on. "I don't want my mother or Jane to know--or Tilly, or any one alive. It is important. Sam will be as much surprised as any of them. Kid, I've made up my mind to pack my grip and catch the four-o'clock north-bound train. I'm going to cut this thing out forever. I'll cover my tracks. Not a living soul shall know where I am. I've thought it all out, and it is the only thing to do."
Dora was silent. He saw her fixed gaze shift itself from his eyes to the gate. Then he noted that her little hands were raised to her face. She was softly crying. He heard a low sob, and it cut through him like a gapped and rusty blade. He was surprised. He had never seen her like that before. "What is the matter?" he inquired. But she did not answer, and he saw that she was making a strong effort to control her emotion, as if she realized that it was distinctly out of place there and then.
But he had determined to understand her better, and he went and sat beside her on the step. He took her hand and tried to fondle it, but, as if ashamed of her weakness, she drew it away and continued to sob, swallow, and quiver.
"I see, you don't want your brother John to go away. Is that it, kid?"
"Yes," she muttered, nodded, and then remained silent, her face tightly covered by her hands.
He stood up. He went to the fence and took some steps along it irresolutely. Suddenly he stood facing her, his arms folded as Cavanaugh had seen him stand studying the masonry he was building, an arch, a pillar, or cornice.
"Why haven't I thought of it before?" he reflected. "It would be a crime to leave the poor little mouse over there. She doesn't know what is in store for her, but her eyes will be opened some day, as mine are, and--and what has come to me may come to her. And who knows? It might hurt the poor little mite every bit as bad. I wonder if she-- I wonder--" He went back and sat by her side.
"Listen, Dora," he began. "I've got to go--there is no way out of it--but I don't want to leave you like this. I didn't know till to-day how much I care for you. You seem, somehow, like a real sister. Say, I'll tell you--how about this? Come, go with me. I don't know where yet, but away off somewhere where we can start out right. I want to send you to school and give you a chance."
"Oh, you don't mean it--you _can't_ mean _that_!" and she uncovered her face and sat staring, her quivering lips parted. Impulsively she put one of her hands against his breast, and with the other slowly wiped her wet eyes.
"Yes, I mean it, and there is no time to lose," he went on, gravely. "I want it settled, and when we are once on that train all this will be cut out forever. It will be better for me, and for you, and for Tilly."
"But Aunt Jane--" Dora faltered, letting her hand slide slowly down his shirt-front till it lay in her lap. "She needs me and--"
"You will have to leave her for good and all," he said. "You must decide between her and me. At any rate, she is doing nothing for you, and I am willing to work for you. It is odd, kid, but, now I come to think of it, I want you with me. It seems like leaving would be easier along with you."
"I don't know what to do," the world-old child said, undecidedly, but her eyes were dry, the sobs had left her voice.
"Then do as I say," he threw out firmly. "Go home and get your best dress on and your shoes and stockings, and some hat or other. Don't bother about a valise. I have two, and we'll stop on the road somewhere and I'll buy you some clothes. We are to be brother and sister, you know. From this on you are Dora Trott."
The child was still undecided, though her face was lighted with growing expectation. "Oh, it would be nice--scrumptious!" she half laughed, "but your ma and Aunt Jane--"
"Forget them!" he ordered, sharply. "They are not thinking of you to-night, are they? Huh! I guess not! Hurry! Get your things and come back. I'll be ready. We'll have to walk to the station, and I don't want to meet anybody on the way, either. We may have to take the back and side streets, and cut through an alley or two."
"May I bring my doll?" she asked. "I don't want to leave her."
"I'll get you a new one--never mind it," he answered, impatiently, stifling one of his old oaths.
"But I want her. I love her and she'd miss me. They would kick her about over there."
"Then bring her. I'll pack her away somewhere. Get a move on you. See how quick you can be."
"I'll hurry," Dora said, now completely resigned to his will. "I'll be ready in time."
When she had passed out at the gate he went into the bedroom, lighted the gas, and began to pack his clothes into two valises, leaving room for Dora's use.
"It is the thing to do," he argued. "I can't leave the poor little rat over there with those women. She needs attention. She is not strong and they are working her to death. Great God! she might grow up and be like them! Who knows? How could she keep from it? Who would be there to warn her? I was ignorant till it was too late. So would she be. No, this is the right thing to do. I'll adopt a sister. Huh! what a joke when they say I'm just a boy! But I'll do it. As for Tilly, she will now be doubly free. The old man can claim desertion. He can add that charge to his complaints in court. If I had some way to make everybody think I was dead, that would be even better. The main thing is for her to forget--wipe out and start in fresh, and she would do it quicker if she thought I was under the sod. Any woman would. Then she would marry again. I know who she will marry--" He winced, shuddered, and pressed down on the things he was packing. "She will end up by marrying Joel Eperson. I'd lay heavy stakes on that. My God! I can't find fault with him--not now, anyway! He is white to the bottom, that fellow. I have to admit it. He bore up like a man, though I was robbing him. I slid in between him and her after she had become the poor devil's very life.
Then, then--I have to admit that, too--he never would have got her into this awful mess. He has too much sense for that--sense or honor, which?
Well, well, they say turn about is fair play, and old, patient Joel will get his innings. He'll--he'll come home to her after his day's work.
He'll take her in his-- O my God!" John stood motionless. The old primitive fires were kindling in his blood. Had the room been dark his eyes might have gleamed like those of a tiger. He sat down on the bed.
He was quivering and his heart was pounding like a trip-hammer.
Presently he mastered himself and resumed his packing. "Don't be a fool, John Trott," he said, sharply. "You are up against it. Be a man, if it is in you."
Here the open closet caught his attention. One of Tilly's dresses hung in view, and he took it into his hands reverently. A pair of worn shoes lay on the floor. He picked up one of them. It was so small that he could have hidden it in his pocket. He turned it over in his great hand.
His throbbing fingers caressed the soft leather. She would never need it. Why not put it in with his things? He started to do so. He made space for it in one corner of a valise, and then, all at once exclaiming, "What t'ell!" he threw it back into the closet and continued to swear at himself in low, vexed tones.
Dora was entering at the front. She seldom wore her shoes, and, as she now had them on, she used her feet clumsily and made a great clatter in the hall.