Chapter XIV

I was pressed into service next day. The priest had sent for Hugh and requested that I come along. We set out early; the men were silently going about their work. It was a relief to hear one call to the other occasionally, and Hugh, it seemed, was trying to bring back the habit of sociability lost in prison for he had a cheerful word for those whom we met.

Father Nealon greeted us like brothers and proceeded like the business man he was, to relate his plans for getting signatures to Hugh’s petition, saying that he had had an interview with the Honorable Mr. Harris and received his unqualified promise of support of Hugh’s bill for enlarging his prison work. In return the father had promised to insure the return of Harris to his seat in Parliament. It appeared that an opponent showing great strength was in the field.

The peculiar experiences of that week’s work--for it was work--unceasing far into each night, were novel and interesting. We slept where it was convenient for the farmer to “sleep” us.

Hugh and a young assistant to Father Nealon worked the “Irish Settlement” while an Archie Graham and I called on every farmer of Scotch lineage in the district from Blink Bonny to Devil’s Valley, a hilly country closely settled by Scots.

The hills and valleys probably kept in mind the Highlands of their old home country. I concluded that should I ever seek political office anywhere, I shall first enlist the clergy’s sympathy and interest, for let it be recorded here, the petition held the names of two-thirds of the voters in the Honorable Mr. Harris’ district. The gentleman was elected, presented Hugh’s draft of a statute, which was buried under an avalanche of adverse criticism.

The argument prevailed that prisons were meant to be places to which a man once liberated would rather die than return, but Hugh was far away when the fate of his idea was, at least for a season, sealed.

Roughing it had toughened me and Hugh and I returned to Craighead Hall, he elated and in high spirits, I dreading the overdue disclosure, “time meanin’ muckle” as McFarlane had put it.

Three newly pardoned “guests” had arrived during our absence; short-haired, furtive-eyed, pitiable spectacles, seemingly out of place, even among those who boasted only a few months’ residence at the Hall.

Hugh was all sympathy for them and I saw very little of him that Saturday night except at dinner. McFarlane looked anxious and I thought a little desirous of avoiding my eye.

Alix and Elaine were both, as always, gracious, and I was surprised and delighted when Elaine, on leaving the dining table, beckoned me with her eyes. I could scarcely credit my senses but noted that she turned at the doorway and meaningly looked at me.

I escorted Alix to the stair, then with a muttered apology for leaving her, stepped through the open library door.

Elaine was standing on the hearth, looking pensively into the blaze in the fireplace. As I spoke her name, she laid a finger on her lips, motioning silence or secrecy.

She stopped me with a low-spoken, “Gordon, I must talk with you. James has told me everything and I am going to try, though I have not had any call to write for weeks--not since, no, not even that night when I had the dream about Alix.”

I was taken aback, dumbfounded, could have cursed McFarlane to his face. I did protest to Elaine that she should not have been worried with the matter and called McFarlane a blundering old fogey.

She ignored my railing.

“Gordon, it has to be, I wish you would come here about midnight. I have tried, tried hard to find John Blank,” and she placed her hands over her eyes and whispered. “I cannot think of him as--I cannot call him Hugh’s father. The thought is too awful. A murderer, a convict--I never thought of him in that light before.

“I must be alone until then; he will come here when it is quiet, if he will ever come, but you be here at twelve. Alix does not know that James has talked to me. He and you and I, Gordon, are confederates. You should know as soon as possible.”

I tried to take her hand, but seemingly the effort passed unnoticed as she turned from me, saying, “Now, Gordon, I wish to be alone; will you please throw the catch on the door. I want only the light of the fire,” as I looked toward the unlighted lamp.

I slipped out, up the stairs and to my room, feeling that I must avoid seeing McFarlane or he would insist on accompanying me to the midnight tryst. Four hours--an eternity, and yet what might not happen. Alternations of hope and fear--I did not pray.

Gradually the place settled to a stillness. The frail girl and myself in the lonesome gloom of the library were the only two souls in that household of nearly half a hundred, who had not surrendered physical consciousness into the keeping of the inner being who never wholly sleeps--the engineer of that wonderful machine, the body, the whisperer who gives the signals, but cannot, alas, always force obedience on its twin, the physical being.

At three minutes before twelve I was stealing down the broad stairway; a single light in the great hall was sufficient only to make the gloom in the corners more intense. I quietly turned the doorknob, forgetting that I had thrown the catch, then rapped gently, then more urgently as no response came.

Finally the door was opened. Elaine, whose back-tilted head and bright eyes certainly negatived any visitation, said quietly, “Come in, and you too, James,” and then I noticed McFarlane at my elbow.

Seated near the chimney-place, without light other than that given off by the slow-burning fire, we must indeed have appeared like three conspirators or that unfortunate triangle--two men courting the same girl.

Elaine said regretfully, “I’m afraid my muse has fled, my gift has gone. I have even tried my old friend, the planchette. No use, I am just an ordinary girl again,” and smilingly she pointed to pencil and paper and the aid to beginners in mysticism which were lying on the table.

We had talked probably ten minutes.

“Montrose, you are the man to tell him,” McFarlane insisted, “but ye must be carefu’ not to go into the matter o’ the newspaper reports.”

A voice from the darkness near the door, the voice of a stranger, said quietly, but as though under strain, “I shall know every word from beginning to end.”

We three started to our feet to behold Hugh, a long dark figure in dressing gown and slippers, standing in the room. He was leaning forward, his left hand clenched and in his right a murderous-looking, long-barreled cavalry pistol.

While for the fraction of a second I was too stunned even to speak, not so Elaine; she flew across the room, grabbed the pistol-hand and had the weapon in her possession in the twinkling of an eye.

Hugh laughed; the sound was not pleasant. The man was unnatural; held in his eyes, as one saw at close quarters, such a glare as is seen in the eyes of a wild animal caught in a trap.

“Not yet, child,” he said, looking fixedly at Elaine, then again the same loud, mirthless laugh. “I was looking for prowlers, thieves,” then he gravely bowed to his two silent male auditors, saying, “I beg the pardon of every manumitted unfortunate under this roof. What of the story you have been rehearsing, you poor child and you two cowards? Do you think me so weak a creature that I cannot be told openly what you have been whispering for a fortnight? That I am a bastard, the son of a wanton? Well, by God, I’ll have the truth and before we leave this room,” and he turned and slammed shut the door with such force that the very bookshelves felt the jar.

None of us had a chance to speak. Elaine, wild-eyed, threw herself onto Hugh’s breast, her arms about his neck, as he turned to face us. He caught her up, walked with long strides down the room to the panel in the wall which opened at his tread, stood the scared girl on her feet and said, “To your room, girl--go to your room, and on your life, not a word to your sister.”

The panel closed, there was a muffled sound, an ineffectual effort at opening the panel from the other side, a pounding of small fists. Hugh had secured the door.

He turned to the table, took off the shade from the lamp, calmly picked out a match from the holder, struck it and held it to the turned-up wick; then, without speaking, motioned to Mac and me as though we were two culprits, to be seated.

I had noted from the corner of an eye that Mac had stooped and picked up the pistol from a huge black bearskin rug near where Elaine had been standing before she flung herself at Hugh and as the Scot, in obedience to Hugh’s unspoken command, moved to the big leather chair designated, the inconsequential thought: “What will happen if the chair is too narrow to admit Mac with that big gun protruding from his trousers pocket?” ran through my brain.

All three seated, Hugh at the table like a judge and we two about six feet distant in chairs, Mac and I simultaneously started to speak. I do not know what I intended saying, as Hugh, as alert as a madman and having every appearance of derangement, held up a hand saying, “One at a time. Now, James McFarlane, make your accusation, but before God, if you as much as breathe calumny against my mother, I shall strangle you with these hands,” and he leaned forward, eyes glaring, with fists clenched and muscles strained just as though about to spring at the poor Scotchman who sat forward in his place, scared, shocked, but with a look of determination on his set face.

I was alarmed as to the possible denouement. The storm was not blowing my way, but I felt cheapened and deeply sorrowful. Matters had taken an unfortunate trend. We had blundered and I reproached myself as a fool.

McFarlane was speaking.

“Mon, there’s naethin’ to worry aboot--’tis only this: your mither and Alix’ mither, the poor dear, was marrit to your father before she marrit Alexander Craighead.”

“Who was my father then?” demanded Hugh.

“Hold a moment,” Mac returned. “Not so fast my boy, ye ken Alix and I reared ye. My wifie kens the whole story and she is just as happy.”

“No,” Hugh replied. “She has not been herself. She has not been happy since she came here.”

“No wonder,” Mac argued, and I could see in him a quality, a calm persistence which, under the circumstances, drew my admiration.

“Knowin’ that ye would be unduly disturbed at learnin’ the truth--”

Hugh interrupted--“The truth, that’s what I want--the truth. I overheard enough. You said illegitimate,” pointing at Mac.

“Nay, nay, mon, we were speakin’ o’ the way ye inherited auld Sandy Craighead’s property--the means, mon. Calm yoursel’, ye were his grandson by adoption only.”

Hugh’s face had, from a flush, become deathly pale.

“My father; out with it.”

“Yes,” Mac said, nodding his head without pause. “Yes, your faither was the last of a fine auld English family who killed a mon--John Hogarth Blankleigh, and no relation of auld Sandy Craighead, and was deported.”

“My mother?” and Hugh seemed to wail out the words.

“Your mither marrit Craighead after the deportation to Tasmania. I hae been tryin’ to tell ye.”

Something seemed to break in on Hugh’s senses. From straining forward in his chair toward Mac he suddenly sat bolt upright, said in a vacant manner:

“Strange! Illusions that oft repeat themselves, fantasies which will not down. My God! John Blank!” and the man suddenly fell forward on his face.

I thought him dead as we laid him on the lounge.

Hurriedly I ran for Alix, I don’t know why. I did not have to go far. She and Elaine were just outside in the hall. They both rushed in and I turned my back on the family of four, so closely knit and yet at the moment, one member so metamorphosed by shock out of all semblance of the affectionate, considerate brother of a few short hours ago that he had become an alien--a stranger, to be tenderly handled, loved, yet held in awe if still alive, reverenced if dead.

My thoughts were broken in upon by a petulant, peremptory order from Alix, bending over Hugh, “Go and get Estelle. Hurry--what are you standing there for?” and I recognized nerves, a tension to the breaking point, unconsciously seizing the first vent available for the release of surcharged emotion.

We carried Hugh, still unconscious, to his room. Estelle was putting in order the bed from which Hugh had arisen to investigate the reason for the sounds of footsteps in this gaunt house, when we entered and as the covers were drawn over him, he opened his eyes, looking wildly first at Alix, then at Elaine, but the efficient Estelle, the physician among us, unflinchingly applied a hypodermic needle and my friend went to sleep.

We were a sad couple at breakfast, McFarlane and I.

“The doctor is here but muckle guid it does. Hugh will speak to nobody,” McFarlane told me, “and the women are about daft. He won’t look at them. We made a fine mess o’ it a’.”

I was sitting by a comfortable fire in the library about ten o’clock that morning reading a letter from my firm in Philadelphia. Its import was that we must find Hogarth; Europe had been combed thoroughly and the man must be forthcoming or an estate worth millions would go to the crown and incidentally we stood to lose a modest reward of $100,000.

“The estate must be an immense property, considering the large sum offered,” I was thinking while looking idly at the pointed flames as they shot up from the wood, then died down to a dull glow, when the door quietly opened and Hugh, fully dressed, stepped in.

I sprang to my feet, all excitement.

“Why Hugh!” was my surprised ejaculation.

“Good morning, Gordon, I owe you an apology for my conduct last night,” the dear fellow said and his tone and demeanor spoke volumes--contrition, shame, a crushed man. He hung his head.

I grasped him by both arms as they hung by his sides and gently shook him.

“Hugh, Mac and I were asses not to consult you immediately on his arrival; nothing to overlook in you, old man. Forgive me my stupidity. I must have been carried away by Mac’s cunning Scotch secretiveness.”

“I wish to go over the whole matter with you, Gordon, when it is all clear. I can then decide on my course. Now I am rather bewildered.”

I softened the story McFarlane had told me, left out all question as to Hugh’s paternity. Once in that hour, Elaine looked into the room, but as Hugh’s back was turned while I faced the door from my side of the hearth, I went right on talking earnestly as though not seeing her. She withdrew.

When I touched upon the friendship of the three boys, the Craighead twins and Blankleigh, tears came to the eyes of my auditor and as I told of the shooting of one of the Craigheads, the wrong twin, he shuddered as though he was cold, but he listened in silence.

In telling of the wrath of old man Craighead and how his solicitor paid over to the surviving son £50,000 with the information that his father gave it to him with his curse and the order that he should “never again darken his door, was no longer his son” I am afraid I trenched on dangerous ground as Hugh sprang from his chair and commenced pacing the floor.

“It’s not that I am the son of a murderer; God knows I have nothing but respect for the sorrows of John Blank,” Hugh said, in a grief-laden voice. “Everything points to the unspeakable. I must see the newspaper story, if I have to tear down the old homestead to find it. Why should my mother’s husband shoot down a guest in his home?” and the man increased his strides back and forth across the room without looking at me.

“That is what we must find out, Hugh. We must trace down the cause of your father’s anger.”

“Yes, though it lead to hell,” Hugh whispered.

There was silence for a moment or two.

“I cannot talk with James just yet. There is something here,” and he struck his left breast, “which forbids; nor can I bear to see my sisters. I shall come to your room tonight. In the meantime I shall ride over the farm,” and he started out.

“Let me go with you, Hugh.”

“No, I wish to be alone,” and correctly reading my thought, added, “Have no anxiety, I shall join you tonight when the family has retired.”

He would not permit me to accompany him, but I watched him from the door in the upper hall as he, waving aside a stableman, contrary to custom, brought out his horse and slipped the joined bridle-reins over the animal’s head. Slowly for him, he climbed into the saddle and rode away at a fast canter, out toward the wood.

I took a canoe, a handline, put on one of my host’s short deerskin jackets which I found in the boathouse, for it was a “raw” day, and went after northern pike and solitude. I found both in my unconsciously protracted paddle upriver.

The landing without net or firearm of an immense pike after over two hours’ struggle, the greatest fishing adventure that had up to that day ever befallen me, took my thoughts clear away from that which had obsessed and depressed me.

I awaited Hugh’s coming that night until late and then went to the barns intending to quietly, without alarming the family, send out a searching party. I lied to McFarlane, saying Hugh had told me he would not return from the village before midnight.

It was past that hour when he rode quietly into the stable where I was anxiously passing the time with the man in charge.

“Sorry to have kept you up,” was his quietly spoken greeting and as he tossed me a packet of letters, “Mail for you, Gordon, you are not forgotten of the world it seems,” and his tone was bitter.

We walked through the orchard way into the house, neither speaking. Hugh seemed changed, his manner held a sort of aloofness new to him while with me. Evidently he had either forgotten his promise given during the day, to confer with me, or wished to avoid the interview as he turned to the stairhead with a brief “Good night” and was gone.

The situation was embarrassing. Merely a guest--why should I feel that I alone must shoulder the burden or furnish a solution. The answer was patent--a dream engendered by a vision of a golden-haired girl, walking between the poplars, listening to the prattle of a wee boy as he confidently held her hand, of a lithesome young body which just for a moment I had once held close.

My own affairs entirely forgotten, I sat day-dreaming that morning when Hugh quietly stepped into my room, looked furtively about, saying, “Can we talk without being interrupted--I presume you have had breakfast.”

“Certainly,” I lied, noting the absence of my host’s usual punctiliousness. He had forgotten to say “good morning.”

I had arisen as Hugh pulled a chair up to the hearth in which a small fire was burning and idly opened one of the letters from the half-dozen brought by him the night before; casting my eye over it I was suddenly aroused:

“Listen to this, Hugh,” I exclaimed, “Sorry to inform you that we lost out on the English case, the heir to the Blankleigh estate, James Hogarth, has turned up without our aid and is pressing his case through a new firm of solicitors. Bagly, Atkins and Bagly write that they are not prepared to compensate our firm. In fact, Hogarth their client of seven years ago, persistently refuses even to see them, so you will appreciate that it will not be necessary for you to absent yourself longer.”

Hugh broke in on my reading.

“From your firm, Gordon? My course is clear. Today we shall come to an agreement. I must see this man. He may clear up a lot of the dark spots.”

“Certainly, Hugh, you must go, the property belongs to you and Mr. McFarlane. You owe it to your father’s memory to make claim to what was his.”

“I owe it to myself to ascertain much more than I know now,” was the rather sullen answer.

“Elaine?” I said, attempting to get him to look directly at me, but he evaded my eye saying, “No time for that now, my friend. My sisters shall accompany me. I’ll need them in establishing things. McFarlane says we must hurry and he knows nothing about Hogarth’s reappearance.”

Little did Craighead know of my inner feelings. It seemed as though a light had been snuffed out. That I would also go to England was my determination.

Mac was consulted finally when I balked at Hugh’s proposal that I remain in charge of the Craighead property. I was for going along with the party whether or no, but finally, on Hugh’s promise to return as soon as the law’s demands were met, I gave in. He had urged unfinished work, many poor fellows languishing in prison, who must have a friendly hand to pull them out into the sunshine, urged the necessity of a firm, kindly hand in looking after the “guests” now at the Hall, the election of our member of Parliament and the introduction of his bill.

Emphatically, I must stay. I could not leave him helpless, but not a word did he say of Elaine until I had assented to the proposed arrangement, then, after McFarlane had gone, as we clasped hands over our bargain the old Hugh came back for a moment as he smiled and said, “I shall come back, a man again--and bring my little sister” then added after a hesitation, the hard look coming into his eyes, “Or I shall join my father in his wanderings.”

McFarlane lost his Scotch imperturbability when he learned of the appearance in England of Hogarth and set out at once for the village to arrange for passage home.

Hugh invited me to ride over the place with him so that I might have the benefit of his suggestions as to the conduct of affairs during his absence. I was deeply impressed with his minute knowledge of every detail of farm operation and listened with interest as we rode from field to field, to plans for keeping busy every man in his charge.

“There is no tonic like work,” he said. “It builds both body and brain and these poor boys need help for both and God knows, so do I.”

From the hilltop, near the big maple, we saw Elaine ride out with the hounds and, as it was getting dark, I suggested that we go to meet her.

Riding down the north slope of the hill, we struck the back roadway which in time brought us into the road leading from the locked gate which had on first sight aroused in me suspicion as to my personal safety.

Hugh was silent, abstracted, engrossed with something. My horse was on the left, abreast of his, but he constantly looked to the right and seemed to be talking to himself. The words did not reach me, only sounds, and my attention was soon attracted to the baying of the hounds not far away.

Suddenly out of the semi-darkness came Elaine, and Hugh and I separated, each springing his mount into the undergrowth to avoid being run down. She gave a wild hallo as she shot past. Then came the dogs, evidently in playful pursuit.

There were six of the brutes within twenty yards of us. We had resumed the roadway with one accord. The hounds suddenly stopped, stood whining just a second or two, then with dismal howls turned tail and fled. Neither Hugh’s whistle or Elaine’s who had joined us, had any effect. The man-chasers had gone home.

“Strange,” Elaine said as soon as she got her breath after the effort of whistling and quieting her horse. “I never saw the hounds disobey before; they must be getting cowardly.”

“Perhaps they saw me,” I threw back from my position a length ahead.

“What are you doing out in these woods; don’t you know something might happen to you?” Hugh said somewhat crossly.

“I knew I should meet you, Hughie,” was the reply and I noted that she reached over and patted Hugh’s horse on the neck.

“Better keep nearer the house,” came in sullen tones from Hugh, and Elaine spurred her horse forward. As she passed me, I thought I heard a little cry as of one in pain. I did not hesitate to follow her, but succeeded only in finding the white-haired foreman holding her horse in the stable yard.

It was too dark to see, but I imagined her going through the orchard way, hurt, sore at heart at the unaccustomed mood of a brother whom she worshipped.

I waited, but Hugh did not come and as I passed the kennels, I saw that the animals were quietly lounging about their little yard. I always gave them a wide berth, but on this occasion looked in at the wrinkled old leader and spoke. He merely showed the whites of his eyes and walked away.

Just then I heard the clump-clump of a horse’s hoofs and walked over to the roadway which I had so recently taken at a gallop.

Two riders about a hundred yards distant came toward me as I stood on the smooth graveled road. The light was scant, but I could see Hugh’s horse distinctly, the other vaguely. The air was still. Strange that the hoofbeats of only one horse came to me. My hair began to rise. I could not have moved. In a moment they came out of the gloom, close, and the horse on the left as I looked at them faded and Hugh reined up to say in a quiet voice, “Did Elaine get in safely?”

The whole pack of hounds a few yards away gave vent to the most lugubrious of howls, bringing from Hugh an unusual “Damn those brutes; I’ll send them away.”

My answer was, “My God, Hugh; who was that with you? I certainly saw another horse.”

Hugh’s horse jumped as he touched it smartly with his crop and he called back, “Don’t wait for me for dinner. I have work to do.”

I never learned what he did or where he went that night, but McFarlane who was an early riser, told me he saw him come up the veranda stairs at daybreak.

He did not speak as Hugh looked worn and haggard.

“Has the mon a lassie or does he dally with the cards?” McFarlane queried.

I kept my counsel as to Hugh’s companion of the early evening, while assuring McFarlane that I was not aware before that our host dissipated in any way.

The two days intervening before the day of the exodus were busy ones for me. I went over accounts with the secretary, met and talked to many of the “guests,” endeavoring to learn how the work was distributed, while Hugh informed each one that he was leaving me as fully empowered to look after their interests as though he were present. All were busy making ready for the eventful Sunday morning when they would make the downtrain at midday.

There was a hardness about Hugh that was unexplainable. He made no reference to his companion on the ride back from the hill and I did not dare again to put the question.

Saturday evening we all dined together in the great hall. The long expanse of polished wood, stretching beyond our party of five, down the sombre room with the vacant chairs, seemed to accentuate a feeling which the others apparently shared with me that we were but a remnant of a noble company which must at one time have filled the room. All seemed depressed. Wine, of which all partook, failed in bringing buoyancy. To me it was a sad function and though _she_ sat beside me, I could neither talk nor eat.

McFarlane discoursed on the subject of most interest to him, the reappearance of Hogarth and the necessity for hurry that no decree in the Blankleigh case might be entered before the true heir in person was presented in court. I did not follow him, nor did Hugh, apparently, and Elaine broke in, during one of his lengthy speeches to lay her hand on my arm and say, “Gordon, I am sorry we are going.”

Perhaps she saw something in my eyes, for I could not reply, but only looked at her, for she added, “I shall come back--with Hughie, the old Hughie, and we shall have such good days together again.”

I could only reach for her hand which had fallen below the level of the table and press it.

I felt ashamed of my womanishness. When the others arose, I could scarcely stand.

Said Alix: “Elaine, we have a lot of things to pack. Good night Mr. Montrose, see you later, Hugh,” and we three men resumed our seats only to listen to the Scotch solicitor’s resumption of the trend of his thoughts.

Only for a moment, though, for Hugh, with “I have too many matters to attend to, tonight, boys, you will have to excuse me,” arose and disappeared up the stairway.

The Queen Anne liqueur which had previously always added zest to my smoke, was bitter in my mouth, and I threw away my cigar and sought my room.

Once in the night the lonesome baying of hounds came to my ears. I heard the baby cry as though in pain. The sweetness had departed from my life. Asleep, I saw a spectral horseman--headless, no--only lacking ears, but the hands that held the bridle-rein--they were strong hands, white, shapely, well-formed, a gentleman’s hands--and Williams was saying, “The house is astir early this morning, sir. You wish to see the party off? Shall I serve breakfast, sir? The others have all partaken.”

“Thank you, no, I wish no breakfast, I shall be down in a minute,” I replied, my heart sinking as I realized that this was the hour of parting and I had soddenly overslept.

The luggage was afloat in a batteau paddled by six men when I stepped through the French windows and looked toward the river. Another large boat was being made comfortable with cushions and a carpet of furs.

I ran down the outside stair and entered the front door expecting to find the travelers grouped in the hall awaiting me, but it was nearly an hour before McFarlane appeared, carrying his bag and calling, “Come on, come on, an there should be a mishap, we shall miss the train.”

Estelle, her arms about Elaine, Alix with Fong Wing close behind carrying a package of considerable proportions, but evidently light, came down the stairs and McFarlane, eyeing the package, said “Wifie, I thocht everything had gone,” bringing the reply, “Oh this, I could not leave these black fox skins.”

“Good morning, Gordon,” Elaine extended her hand and turned aside her head, but I saw a tear. I grasped the hand in both of mine, half dragging her, I am afraid, out toward the waiting boat.

Neither she nor I, it appeared, could speak a word. How strong were her affections for this wilderness home! If the good God had only disposed her toward me--no, there was boundless love for Hugh--for the Hall, perhaps even for her horse. Certainly she reluctantly parted from her servant Fong, for her last words to me were, “Gordon, be good to Fong until I come back.”

But a wonderful memory lived with me; it buoyed me up during the long months that followed; it lives with me yet.

When the three, no, four voyagers (I almost forgot the child, he was so interested and quiet) were seated in the boat with four paddlers in their places, Hugh came running down the gravel walk. Just before he reached the pier, when the men who had congregated to wave an adieu had stepped back and Estelle was saying goodbye to Alix, Elaine beckoned me with a look.

I was very near, and went on one knee to hear the whisper which her lips indicated. Suddenly she leaned forward and kissed me full on my mouth, then put her hands over her face--and the boat moved out, Hugh calling, “Goodby, Gordon, and good luck.”

Sorry for me? Yes, she pitied my loneliness. I watched the boat land on Verde Island. A pain indescribable possessed me, and yet that kiss, that little moist red mouth pressed against mine--I would not have changed personality or circumstance with any man in the world. Her friendship, her pity for my evident loneliness even, weighed more than all the loves of history.