A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill
became too hard. But the Doctor's slanting, scholarly shoulder afforded
no resting-place for a world-weary head.
“Mis' Squeerington!” called Myrtella from the lower floor. “The grocery
man didn't have no beets, and his new potatoes is hard as rocks, an' if
I was you I'd go over to Smithers jes' to spite him out fer a spell.
And I fergot to tell you that that there Mr. Wicker called you up a hour
ago, an' sez the case was lost. I don't know what he meant. I hope he
ain't lost it 'round here. Next thing I hear they'll be sayin' I took
it!”
CHAPTER XXII
It is a depressing law of life that worries invariably hunt in packs.
If it were just a matter of one yelping little annoyance that barked at
your heels, you could frighten it away with a laugh; but when a ravenous
horde gets on your trail with the grim determination of running you to
earth, it is quite a different matter.
Donald Morley, pacing the terrace at Angora Heights on a certain dark
night in March, felt the breath of the pursuing pack close upon him. The
failure to win his case had been a serious blow not only to his pride,
but to his faith in his fellow man. He had gone into the trial with the
assured confidence of an innocent man who is still young enough to
rely absolutely upon the justice of the law. In spite of the array
of damaging evidence presented by the prosecuting attorney, and the
opinionated egotism of Mr. Gooch which rendered him unpopular with judge
and jury, Donald's victory was almost assured, when the rumor of the
People's Bank failure swept the court room. In the instant wave of
suspicion that rose against Basil Sequin, Donald's cause was lost. Half
the men on the jury were directly, or indirectly, involved. The case was
summarily disposed of and the smaller matter swallowed up in the larger.
Humiliated and chagrined as Donald was over his own position, he was
equally concerned about the bank. The papers were full of disturbing
innuendoes; people avoided speaking of it in his presence; distrust and
suspicion lurked around the corners.
Donald paused at the end of the terrace and looked up at the dark
massive pile of masonry above him. In every leering gargoyle and carved
coping, he read the ruin of some humble home.
At the first hint of impending trouble, Mrs. Sequin had taken Margery
and fled to Europe, leaving Mr. Sequin fighting with his back to the
wall to meet the difficulties into which her extravagance had plunged
him. “I have no fear for Basil,” she assured her friends on leaving.
“He'll straighten things out. Of course he'll be talked about, clever
people always are, and the directors have been rather nasty. But he'll
control the situation yet, you'll see.”
And Mrs. Sequin's confidence was being justified. Basil Sequin was
controlling the situation. He had emerged from the ruin with his
finances less affected than his reputation.
Each time that Donald turned at the end of the long terrace, his eyes
involuntarily sought a light that gleamed far below through the bare
trunks of the trees. It was the light from Thornwood that once more
threw its familiar beams across the Cane Run Road and up the gentle
slope of Billy-goat Hill. He rested his arms on the balustrade and stood
looking out into the night. There was a softness in the air, a smell of
upturned earth, a faint whispering among the newly budded treetops that
hinted of things about to be revealed.
Suddenly there was a strange fluttering in the air above him, a
tremulous, expectant thrill. Looking up he saw a flock of birds,
wheeling and circling above him, making ready to light. Night after
night they had traveled, over forests and across dark rivers, valiantly
beating their frail wings against the gale, one purpose urging them on,
straight as an arrow through the silent air,--the longing to find their
old haunts under the friendly shelter of the Hill, and there to keep
their love trysts in the place called home.
Donald's throat contracted sharply. Never in those tumultuous days in
Japan, nor in those desperate ones in Singapore had he wanted Miss Lady
as he wanted her now. It was not her youth or her beauty that he
was thinking of; it was the firm confident clasp of her hand, the
unfaltering courage of her eyes, her words, “I do believe in you, Don,
with all my heart and soul.” He was like a starving man who must have
bread even if it belongs to another. Before he knew it he was plunging
down the footpath to the road.
Connie would be his excuse, although he had been rather
conscience-stricken about Connie of late. She had developed a taste for
exploring that beguiling land of Flirtation where the boundary lines
have never been defined, and dangers are known to lurk beyond the
borders. As an old and experienced adventurer he felt that he had
already accompanied her too far.
As he reached Thornwood's big colonial gateway, he found some one
alighting from a buggy.
“Hello, Wick!” he said. “Wait, I'll open it for you. I thought you were
staying in town!” Noah removed a pair of unmistakably new tan gloves and
opened the gate for himself.
“I am staying in town,” he said distantly “Are you coming in here?”
“Yes, I think I will drop in for a little while, unless you have an
engagement?”
Noah's pause was even longer than usual. “No,” he drawled presently. “I
can't say I have. Will you get in?”
Donald could not suppress a smile as he got in beside him, and noticed
the grandeur of his toilet.
“You are getting awfully dressy these days, old chap. Who's the girl?”
“You know who it is.”
“You surely don't mean Connie Queerington! Now, Wick, you want to go
slow and not trifle with that girl. The first thing you know she will be
falling in love with you.”,
Noah's lip stiffened. “If you would leave her alone perhaps she might.”
“What am I doing?”
“The same thing you've always done. Going with a girl just long enough
to spoil her for every other fellow, then going off and forgetting all
about her.”
Donald looked in amazement at the angry face beside him.
“What in thunder do you mean by that, Wick?”
“What I say. I guess it hasn't been so long ago that we've both
forgotten another instance.”
“See here, Wick,” said Donald, his anger rising, “you'd better drop
this. You don't know what you are talking about.”
“I know you spoiled my chances once and you are not going to spoil them
again. You've got to leave Miss Connie alone. You've got to promise
me--”
“I promise you nothing.”
They had reached the hitching block and Donald got out of the buggy and,
not waiting for his companion, went up the walk to the house. The peace
of the old place wrapped him round like the folds of a warm garment He
forgot Noah, and the pursuing troubles; he forgot everything except that
Thornwood, with all its memories and traditions, was for the present
his, held in sacred trust until that time when he could give it back to
the one who loved it best.
“Why, it's Cousin Don!” cried Connie who had heard the wheels and
come to investigate. “I never was so glad to see anybody in my life. I
thought it was Mr. Wicker!”
“Cheer up! He's hitching his horse at the block now.”
“How tiresome! I thought we left him in town yesterday. I don't believe
you are a bit glad to have us for a neighbor. Why didn't you come over
last night? I haven't seen you for four days!”
“You haven't missed anything, Connie. I've been down and out.”
“Everybody has! It's too stupid for words. Since the trial and the bank
failure I haven't been able to get a smile out of anybody! I hope the
Turtle won't be grumpy.”
“Who is the Turtle?”
“Mr. Wicker. Hat calls him that, because he never lets go 'til it
thunders. Aren't you coming in the parlor?”
“No, I'll give Wick the field to-night. I want to see your Father on
business.”
“That sounds interesting!” said Connie audaciously. “You might have
spoken to me first!”
The Doctor was preparing to go up to bed when Donald entered the
sitting-room, but he put down his candle and greeted him warmly.
“A phenix rising from his ashes!” he said. “I am glad to see that you
have survived the trials of the past ten days. It is very kind of you
to come over in the midst of your trouble to welcome us to our new
quarters. You are not going to leave us, my dear?” this to Miss Lady who
had risen at Donald's entrance.
“I was going to get your beef-tea.”
“Oh, to be sure. I can't begin to tell you, Donald, how much I regret
the decision in your case. How did it happen?”
Donald, whose hungry eyes were devouring every familiar detail of the
homely fire-lit room, shrugged his shoulders. “Eleven jury-men were for
acquittal, I am told, and the twelfth, a fellow named Jock Hibben talked
them over.”
“Jock Hibben? I know the man. A radical Socialist who has been giving
us some trouble at the university. Quite an orator, I believe, but a
fanatic. You have made a motion for a new trial?”
“It has been refused.”
“Indeed! And you appeal it, of course?”
“Yes.”
“The decision is bound to be reversed,” the Doctor assured him, “and the
second trial will go in your favor. I have never doubted the ultimate
outcome. What is that scratching noise?”
Miss Lady, who was just entering, paused to listen, then she suddenly
set the cup she carried on the table, and flung open the door.
A long, shaggy, disheveled dog, with small, sad eyes, and a stub of a
tail, hurled himself upon her, and began rapturously to lick her hands.
“It's Mike,” she cried joyously, sitting on the floor and gathering her
muddy visitor into her arms. “I knew he'd find out we were home. Oh! you
blessed, blessed dog!”
Mike, unable to restrain his transports, made a mad tour of the room,
upsetting the stack of manuscript that the Doctor had neatly arranged on
a stand beside him. On his second round he discovered the visitor whom
he sniffed with increasing excitement.
Donald raised a forefinger, and tapped his knee. In an instant Mike
remembered. Lifting his fore-paws, and dropping his head upon them, he
answered the call to prayer.
Two pairs of eyes met involuntarily, and the owners smiled.
“Do put him out, my dear,” urged the Doctor, who had stooped to pick up
the scattered sheets of his manuscript. “This is the last volume of my
series, Donald. You remember I was collecting data for it when you were
at the university. I had expected to publish it this spring, but it will
have to be postponed now.”
Donald winced. “On account of the bank failure, I suppose?”
“Well, yes. Basil advises a curtailment of all expenditure for the
present. However, it may be just as well to publish in the fall. That
will give me three more months on the revision.”
“I hope you were not seriously involved, Doctor?”
“No, no, I imagine not,” said the Doctor vaguely as he made a marginal
correction on one of the sheets. “Basil and I have been so much occupied
that we have scarcely had a chance to discuss the matter. He said I
might possibly lose something, but that he would protect my interests. I
trust you are not one of the losers?”
“No,” Donald said shortly, “I lost nothing.” Then after a pause during
which he stared at the floor, he looked up. “Doctor, I want to consult
you about something. Your standards of right and wrong seem to me a bit
surer than most people's. I'm in trouble and I want your advice.”
He was looking at the Doctor as he spoke, but he was acutely conscious
of the slender figure that stood with her back to them before the open
fire.
“You see,” he said, plunging into his subject, “a week before the bank
failed I found that I might need a lot of ready money before I got
through with the trial. So I sold all my People's Bank stock.”
“That was fortunate.”
“But, Doctor! Don't you see? At the time I sold the shares they weren't