The Eye of Dread

All the morning he paced his cell and tried to force his thoughts to work out the solution, but none presented itself. Was he the victim of some strange form of insanity that caused him to lose his identity and believe himself another man? Drunken men he had seen under the delusion that all the rest of the world were drunken and they alone sober. Oh, madness, madness! At least he was sane and knew himself, and this was a confusion brought about by those who had undertaken his arrest. He would wait for the Elder to come, and in the meantime live in his memories, thinking of Amalia, and so awaken in himself one living emotion, sacred and truly sane. In the sweetness of such thinking alone he seemed to live.

He drew the little ivory crucifix from his bosom and looked at it. “The Christ who bore our sins and griefs”–and again Amalia’s words came to him. “If they keep you forever in the prison, still forever are you free.” In snatches her words repeated themselves over in his mind as he gazed. “If you have the Christ in your heart–so are you high–lifted above the sin.” “If I see you no more here, in Paradise yet will I see you, and there it will be joy–great–joy; for it is the love that is all of life, and all of eternity, and lives–lives.”

Bertrand Ballard and his wife and daughter stood in the small room opening off from the corridor that led to the rear of the courthouse where was the jail, waiting for the jailer to bring his keys from his office, and, waiting thus, Betty turned her eyes beseechingly on her father, and for the first time since her talk with her mother in the studio, opened her lips to speak to him. She was very pale, but she did not tremble, and her voice had the quality of determination. Bertrand had yielded the point and had taken her to the jail against his own judgment, taking Mary with him to forestall the chance of Betty’s seeing the young man alone. “Surely,” he thought, “she will not ask to have her mother excluded from the interview.”

“I don’t want any one–not even you–or–or–mother, to go in with me.”

“My child, be wise–and be guided.”

“Yes, father,–but I want to go in alone.” She slipped her hand in her mother’s, but still looked in her father’s eyes. “I must go in alone, father. You don’t understand–but mother does.”

“This young man may be an impostor. It is almost unmaidenly for you to wish to go in there alone. Mary–”

But Mary hesitated and trusted to her daughter’s intuition. “Betty, explain yourself,” was all she said.

“Suppose it was father–or you thought it might be father–and a terrible thing were hanging over him and you had not seen him for all this time–and he were in there, and I were you–wouldn’t you ask to see him first alone? Would you stop for one moment to think about being proper? What do I care! If he is an impostor, I shall know it. In one moment I shall know it. I–I–just want to see him alone. It is because he has suffered so long–that is why he has come like this–if–they aren’t accusing him wrongfully, and I–he will tell me the truth. If he is Richard, I would know it if I came in and stood beside him blindfolded. I will call you in a moment. Stand by the door, and let me see him alone.”

The jailer returned, alert and important, shaking the keys in his hand. “This way, please.”

In the moment’s pause of unlocking, Betty again turned upon her father, her eyes glowing in the dim light of the corridor with wide, sorrowful gaze, large and irresistibly earnest. Bertrand glanced from her to his wife, who slightly nodded her head. Then he said to the surprised jailer: “We will wait here. My daughter may be able to recognize him. Call us quickly, dear, if you have reason to change your mind.” The heavy door was closed behind her, and the key turned in the lock.

Harry King loomed large and tall in the small room, standing with his back to the door and his face lifted to the small window, where he could see a patch of the blue sky and white, scudding clouds. For the moment his spirit was not in that cell. It was free and on top of a mountain, looking into the clear eyes of a woman who loved him. He was so rapt in his vision that he did not hear the grating of the key in the lock, and Betty stood abashed, with her back to the door, feeling that she was gazing on a stranger. Relieved against the square of light, his hair looked darker than she remembered Peter’s ever to have been,–as dark as Richard’s, but that rough, neglected beard,–also dark,–and the tanned skin, did not bring either young man to her mind.

The pause was but for a moment, when he became aware that he was not alone and turned and saw her there.

“Betty! oh, Betty! You have come to help me.” He walked toward her slowly, hardly believing his eyes, and held out both hands.

“If–I–can. Who are you?” She took his hands in hers and walked around him, turning his face to the light. Her breath came and went quickly, and a round red spot now burned on one of her cheeks, and her face seemed to be only two great, pathetic eyes.

“Do I need to tell you, Betty? Once we thought we loved each other. Did we, Betty?”

“I don’t–don’t–know–Peter! Oh, Peter! Oh, you are alive! Peter! Richard didn’t kill you!” She did not cry out, but spoke the words with a low intensity that thrilled him, and then she threw her arms about his neck and burst into tears. “He didn’t do it! You are alive! Peter, he didn’t kill you! I knew he didn’t do it. They all thought he did, and–and–your father–he has almost broken his bank just–just–hunting for Richard–to–to–have him hung–and oh! Peter, I have lived in horror,–for–fear he w–w–w–would, and–”

“He never could, Betty. I have come home to atone. I have come home to give myself up. I killed Richard–my cousin–my best friend. I struck him in hate and saw him lying dead: all the time they were hunting him it was I they should have hunted. I can’t understand it. Did they take his dead body for mine–or–how was it they did not know he was struck down and murdered? They must have taken his body for mine–or–he must have fallen over–but he didn’t, for I saw him lying dead as I had struck him. All these years the eye of vengeance has been upon me, and my crime has haunted me. I have seen him lying so–dead. God! God!”

Betty still clung to him and sobbed incoherently. “No, no, Peter, it was you who were drowned–they found all your things and saw where you had been pushed over, and–but you weren’t drowned! They only thought it–they believed it–”

He put his hand to his head as if to brush away the confusion which staggered him. “Yes, Richard lay dead–and they found him,–but why did they hunt for him? And I–I–living–why didn’t they hunt me,–and he, dead and lying there–why did they hunt him? But my father would believe the worst of him rather than to see himself disgraced in his son. Don’t cry, little Betty, don’t cry. You’ve had too much to bear. Sit here beside me and I’ll tell you all about it. That’s why I came back.”

“B–b–ut if you weren’t drowned, why–why didn’t you come home and say so? Didn’t you ever see the papers and how they were hunting Richard all over the world? I knew you were dead, because I knew you never would be so cruel as to leave every one in doubt and your father in sorrow–just because he had quarreled with you. It might have killed your mother–if the Elder had let her know.”

“I can’t tell you all my reasons, Betty; mostly they were coward’s reasons. I did my best to leave evidence that I had been pushed over the bluff, because it seemed the only way to hide myself. I did my best to make them think me dead, and never thought any one could be harmed by it, because I knew him to be dead; so I just thought we would both be dead so far as the world would know,–and as for you, dear,–I learned on that fatal night that you did not love me–and that was another coward’s reason why I wished to be dead to you all.” He began pacing the room, and Betty sat on the edge of the narrow jail bedstead and watched him with tearful eyes. “It was true, Betty? You did not really love me?”

“Peter! Didn’t you ever see the papers? Didn’t you ever know all about the search for you and how he disappeared, too? Oh, Peter! And it was supposed he killed you and pushed you over the bluff and then ran away. Oh, Peter! But it was kept out of the home paper by the Elder so your mother should not know–and Peter–didn’t you know Richard lived?”

“Lived? lived?” He lifted his clasped hands above his head, and they trembled. “Lived? Betty, say it again!”

“Yes, Peter. I saw him and I know–”

“Oh, God, make me know it. Make me understand.” He fell on his knees beside her and hid his face in the scant jail bedding, and his frame shook with dry sobs. “I was a coward. I told you that. I–I thought myself a murderer, and all this time my terrible thought has driven me–Lived? I never killed him? God! Betty, say it again.”

Betty sat still for a moment, shaken at first with a feeling of resentment that he had made them all suffer so, and Richard most of all. Then she was overwhelmed with pity for him, and with a glad tenderness. It was all over. The sorrow had been real, but it had all been needless. She placed her hand on his head, then knelt beside him and put her arm about his neck and drew his head to her bosom, motherwise, for the deep mother heart in her was awakened, and thus she told him all the story, and how Richard had come to her, broken and repentant, and what had been said between them. When they rose from their knees, it was as if they had been praying and at the same time giving thanks.

“And you thought they would find him lying there dead and know you had killed him and hunt you down for a murderer?”

“Yes.”

“Poor Peter! So you pushed that great stone out of the edge of the bluff into the river to make them think you had fallen over and drowned–and threw your things down, too, to make it seem as if you both were dead.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Peter! What a terrible mistake! How you must have suffered!”

“Yes, as cowards suffer.”

They stood for a moment with clasped hands, looking into each other’s eyes. “Then it was true what Richard told me? You did not love me, Betty?” He had grown calmer, and he spoke very tenderly. “We must have all the truth now and conceal nothing.”

“Not quite–true. I–I–thought I did. You were so handsome! I was only a child then–and I thought I loved you–or that I ought to–for any girl would–I was so romantic in those days–and you had been wounded–and it was like a romance–”

“And then?”

“And then Richard came, and I knew in one instant that I had done wrong–and that I loved him–and oh, I felt myself so wicked.”

“No, Betty, dear. It was all–”

“It was not fair to you. I would have been true to you, Peter; you would have never known–but after Richard came and told me he had killed you,–I felt as if I had killed you, too. I did like you, Peter. I did! I will do whatever is right.”

“Then it was not in vain–that we have all suffered. We have been saved from doing each other wrong. Everything will come right now. All that is needed is for father to hear what you have told me, and he will come and take me out of here–Where is Richard?”

“No one knows.”

“Not even you, Betty?”

“No; he has dropped out of the world as completely as you did.”

“Well, it will be all right, anyway. Father will withdraw his charge and–did you say his bank was going to pieces? He must have help. I can help him. You can help him, Betty.”

“How?”

Then Peter told Betty how he had found Richard’s father in his mountain retreat and that she must write to him. “If there is any danger of the bank’s going, write for me to Larry Kildene. Father never would appeal to him if he lost everything in the world, so we must do it. As soon as I am out of here we can save him.” Already he felt himself a new man, and spoke hopefully and cheerfully. He little knew the struggle still before him.

“Peter, father and mother are out there in the corridor waiting. I was to call them. I made them let me come in alone.”

“Oh, call them, call them!”

“I don’t think they will know you as I did, with that great beard on your face. We’ll see.”

When Bertrand and Mary entered, they stood for a moment aghast, seeing little likeness to either of the young men in the developed and bronzed specimen of manhood before them. But they greeted him warmly, eager to find him Peter, and in their manner he missed nothing of their old-time kindliness.

“You are greatly changed, Peter Junior. You look more like Richard Kildene than you ever did before in your life,” said Mary.

“Yes, but when we see Richard, we may find that a change has taken place in him also, and they will stand in their own shoes hereafter.”

“Since the burden has been lifted from my soul and I know that he lives, I could sing and shout aloud here in this cell. Imprisonment–even death–means nothing to me now. All will come right before we know it.”

“That is just the way Richard would act and speak. No wonder you have been taken for him!” said Bertrand.

“Yes, he was always more buoyant than I. Maybe we have both changed, but I hope he has not. I loved my friend.”

As they walked home together Mary Ballard said, “Now, Peter ought to be released right away.”

“Certainly he will be as soon as the Elder realizes the truth.”

“How he has changed, though! His face shows the mark of sorrow. Those drooping, sensitive lines about his mouth–they were never there before, and they are the lines of suffering. They touched my heart. I wish Hester were at home. She ought to be written to. I’ll do it as soon as I get home.”

“Peter is handsomer than he was, in spite of the lines, and, as you say, he does look more like his cousin than he used to–because of them, I think. Richard always had a debonair way with him, but he had that little, sensitive droop to the lips–not so marked as Peter’s is now–but you remember, Mary–like his mother’s.”

“Oh, mother, don’t you think Richard could be found?” Betty’s voice trailed sorrowfully over the words. She was thinking how he had suffered all this time, and wishing her heart could reach out to him and call him back to her.

“He must be, dear, if he lives.”

“Oh, yes. He’ll be found. It can be published that Peter Junior has returned, and that will bring him after a while. Peter’s physique seems to have changed as well as his face. Did you notice that backward swing of the shoulders, so like his cousin’s, when he said, ‘I could sing and shout here in this cell’? And the way he lifted his head and smiled? That beard is a horrible disguise. I must send a barber to him. He must be himself again.”

“Oh, yes, do. He stands so straight and steps so easily. His lameness seems to have quite gone,” said Mary, joyously,–but at that, Bertrand paused in his walk and looked at her, then glancing at Betty walking slowly on before, he laid his finger to his lips and took his wife’s arm, and they said no more until they reached home and Betty was in her room.

“I simply can’t think it, Bertrand. I see Peter in him. It is Peter. Of course he’s like Richard. They were always alike, and that makes him all the more Peter. No other man would have that likeness, and it goes to show that he is Peter.”

“My dear, unless the Elder sees him as we see him, the thing will have to be tried out in the courts.”

“Unless we can find Richard. Hester ought to be here. She could set them right in a moment. Trust a mother to know her own boy. I’ll write her immediately. I’ll–”

“But you have no authority, Mary.”

“No authority? She is my friend. I have a right to do my duty by her, and I can so put it that it will not be such a shock to her as it inevitably will be if matters go wrong, or Peter should be kept in prison for lack of evidence–or for too much evidence. She’ll have to know sooner or later.”

Bertrand said no more against this, for was not Mary often quite right? “I’ll see to it that he has a barber, and try to persuade the Elder to see him. That may settle it without any trouble. If not, I must see that he has a good lawyer to help in his defense.”

“If that savage old man remains stubborn, Hester must be here.”

“If the thing goes to a trial, Betty will have to appear against him.”

“Well, it mustn’t go to a trial, that’s all.”

That night two letters went out from Leauvite, one to Hester Craigmile at Aberdeen, Scotland, and one to the other end of the earth, where Larry Kildene waited for news of Harry King, there on the mountain top. On the first of each month Larry rode down to the nearest point where letters could be sent, making a three days’ trip on horseback. His first trip brought nothing, because Harry had not sent his first letter in time to reach the station before Larry was well on his way back up the mountain. He would not delay his return, for fear of leaving the two women too long alone.

After Harry’s departure, Madam Manovska had grown restless, and once had wandered so far away as to cause them great alarm and a long search, when she was found, sitting close to the fall, apparently too weak and too dazed to move. This had so awakened Amalia’s fears that she never allowed her mother to leave the cabin alone, but always on one pretext or another accompanied her.

The situation was a difficult one for them all. If Amalia took her mother away to some town, as she wished to do, she feared for Madam Manovska’s sanity when she could not find her husband. And still, when she tried to tell her mother of her father’s death, she could not convince her of its truth. For a while she would seem to understand and believe it, but after a night’s rest she would go back to the old weary repetition of going to her husband and his need of her. Then it was all to go over again, day after day, until at last Amalia gave up, and allowed her mother the comfort of her belief: but all the more she had to invent pretexts for keeping her on the mountain. So she accepted Larry’s kindly advice and his earnestly offered hospitality and his comforting companionship, and remained, as, perforce, there was nothing else for her to do.

CHAPTER XXXIII

HESTER CRAIGMILE RECEIVES HER LETTER

The letters reached their opposite destinations at about the same time. The one to Amalia closely buttoned in Larry’s pocket, and the short one to himself which he read and reread as his horse slowly climbed the trail, were halfway up the mountain when the postboy delivered Hester Craigmile’s at the door of the sedate brick house belonging to the Craigmiles of Aberdeen.

Peter Junior’s mother and two elderly women–his grandaunts–were seated in the dignified parlor, taking afternoon tea, when the housemaid brought Hester her letter.

“Is it from Peter, maybe?” asked the elder of the two aunts.

“No, Aunt Ellen; I think it is from a friend.”

“It’s strange now, that Peter’s no written before this,” said the younger, leaning forward eagerly. “Will ye read it, dear? We’ll be wantin’ to know if there’s ae word about him intil’t.”

“There may be, Aunt Jean.” Hester set her cup of tea down untasted, and began to open her letter.

“But tak’ yer tea first, Hester. Jean’s an impatient body. That’s too bad of ye, Jean; her toast’s gettin’ cold.”

“Oh, that’s no matter at all, Aunt Ellen. I’ll take it as soon as I see if he’s home all right. Yes, my friend says my husband has been home for three days and is well.”

“That’s good. Noo ye’re satisfied, lay it by and tak’ yer tea.” And Hester smilingly laid it by and took her tea, for Mary Ballard had said nothing on the first page to startle her friend’s serenity.

Jean Craigmile, however, still looked eagerly at the letter as it lay on a chair at Hester’s side. She was a sweet-faced old lady, alert, and as young as Peter Junior’s father, for all she was his aunt, and now she apologized for her eagerness by saying, as she often did: “Ye mind he’s mair like my brither than my nephew, for we all used to play together–Peter, Katherine, and me. We were aye friends. She was like a sister, and he like a brither. Ah, weel, we’re auld noo.”

Her sister looked at her fondly. “Ye’re no so auld, Jean, but ye might be aulder. It’s like I might have been the mither of her, for I mind the time when she was laid in my arms and my feyther tell’t me I was to aye care for her like my ain, an’ but for her I would na’ be livin’ noo.”

“And why for no?” asked Jean, quickly.

“I had ye to care for, child. Do ye no’ understand?”

Jean laughed merrily. “She’s been callin’ me child for saxty-five years,” she said.

Both the old ladies wore lace caps, but that of Jean’s was a little braver with ribbons than Ellen’s. Small lavender bows were set in the frill all about her face, and the long ends of the ribbon were not tied, but fell down on the soft white mull handkerchief that crossed over her bosom.

“I mind when Peter married ye, Hester,” said Ellen. “I was fair wild to have him bring ye here on his weddin’ journey, and he should have done so, for we’d not seen him since he was a lad, and all these years I’ve been waitin’ to see ye.”

“Weel, ’twas good of him to leave ye bide with us a bit, an’ go home without ye,” said Jean.

“It was good of him, but I ought not to have allowed it.” Hester’s eyes glistened and her face grew tender and soft. To the world, the Elder might seem harsh, stubborn, and vindictive, but Hester knew the tenderness in which none but she believed. Ever since the disappearance of their son, he had been gentle and most lovingly watchful of her, and his domination had risen from the old critical restraint on her thoughts and actions to a solicitous care for her comfort,–studying her slightest wishes with almost appealing thoughtfulness to gratify them.

“And why for no allow it? There’s naething so good for a man as lettin’ him be kind to ye, even if he is an Elder in the kirk. I’m thinkin’ Peter’s ain o’ them that such as that is good for–Hester! What ails ye! Are oot of ye’re mind? Gi’e her a drap of whuskey, Jean. Hester!”

While they were chatting and sipping their tea, Hester had quietly resumed the reading of her letter, and now she sat staring straight before her, the pages crushed in her hand, leaning forward, pale, with her eyes fixed on space as if they looked on some awful sight.

“Hester! Hester! What is it? Is there a bit o’ bad news for ye’ in the letter? Here, tak’ a sip o’ this, dear. Tak’ it, Hester; ’twill hairten ye up for whatever’s intil’t,” cried Jean, holding to Hester’s lips the ever ready Scotch remedy, which she had snatched from a wall cupboard behind her and poured out in a glass.

Ellen, who was lame and could not rise from her chair without help, did not cease her directions and ejaculations, lapsing into the broader Scotch of her girlhood under excitement, as was the way with both the women. “Tell us what ails ye, dear; maybe it’s no so bad. Gie me the letter, Jean, an’ I’ll see what’s intil’t. Ring the bell for Tillie an’ we’ll get her to the couch.”

But Hester caught Jean’s gown and would not let her go to the bell cord which hung in the far corner of the room. “No, don’t call her. I’ll lie down a moment, and–and–we’ll talk–this–over.” She clung to the letter and would not let it out of her hand, but rose and walked wearily to the couch unassisted and lay down, closing her eyes. “After a minute, Aunt Ellen, I’ll tell you. I must think, I must think.” So she lay quietly, gathering all her force to consider and meet what she must, as her way was, while Jean sat beside, stroking her hand and saying sweet, comforting words in her broad Scotch.

“There’s neathin’ so guid as a drap of whuskey, dear, for strengthnin’ the hairt whan ye hae a bit shock. It’s no yer mon, Peter? No? Weel, thank the Lord for that. Noo, tak ye anither bit sup, for ye ha’e na tasted it. Wull ye no gie Ellen the letter, love? ’Twill save ye tellin’ her.”

Hester passively took the whisky as she was bid, and presently sat up and finished reading the letter. “Peter has been hiding–something from me for–three years–and now–”

“Yes, an’ noo. It’s aye the way wi’ them that hides–whan the day comes they maun reveal–it’s only the mair to their shame,” exclaimed Ellen.

“Oh, but it’s all mixed up–and my best friend doesn’t know the truth. Yes, take the letter, Aunt Ellen, and read it yourself.” She held out the pages with a shaking hand, and Jean took them over to her sister, who slowly read them in silence.

“Ah, noo. As I tell’t ye, it’s no so bad,” she said at last.