"Mary," he said, in a whisper, "forgive me; I brought it on you--my poor Mary!" Then he stood up and looked at his son in suffering silence. "I don't blame you," he said, simply.

At that, suddenly, John Smith broke. The pain of it all had begun to penetrate his pa.s.sionate loyalty. For a moment there was silence, except for Mary's sobs. Then Johnny said, hoa.r.s.ely, "Mr. Robertson, I'm--sorry.

But . . . there isn't anything to do about it. I--I guess I'll go home."

"John," said Doctor Lavendar, "your aunt Lydia would want you to be kind."

Carl Robertson shook his head. "We don't want kindness, Doctor Lavendar. I guess we don't want anything he can give. Good-by, boy," he said.

His son, pa.s.sing him, caught at his hand and wrung it. "Goo'-by," he said, roughly. There were tears in his eyes.

Then, without a look at his mother, he walked quickly down the room, and out into the hall. They could hear him putting on his hat and coat. . . .

Carl Robertson pressed his clenched hand against his lips, and turned his back to the other two. Mary was silent. Doctor Lavendar covered his eyes for a moment; then, just as Johnny's hand was on the k.n.o.b of the front door he called out:

"John, wait a minute, will you? Give me an arm; I'm going to walk home."

The young man, out in the hall, frowned, and set his jaw.

"All right," he called back, briefly. There was no detaining word or cry from the library while Doctor Lavendar shuffled silently into his coat,--and a minute later the door of the new Mr. Smith's house closed upon his grandson and the old minister.

It had begun to rain again, and the driveway was very dark--darker even than on that September night when Johnny's mother had cringed back from Miss Lydia's little leading hand and they had hurried along under the big trees. It was her son who hurried now. . . .

"Not so fast, Johnny," said Doctor Lavendar.

"Excuse me, sir." He fell into step with the old man, but he was tense with the effort to walk slowly. . . . They were nearly at the gate before there was any speech between them. Then Johnny said, violently:

"There's no use saying anything to me, Doctor Lavendar! Not a particle of use!"

"I haven't said anything, John."

"They got you here to--to influence me! I saw through it the minute--she began. But I never forgive," Johnny said; "I want you to understand that!" He was hurrying again. The old man pressed a little on his arm.

"I'm sorry to be so slow, Johnny."

"Oh--excuse me, sir; I didn't realize. . . . She threw me away. I've thrown her away. There's no use talking to me!"

Doctor Lavendar was silent.

"I tell you, I won't have anything to do with them--with her, I mean.

He's not so bad. I--I like him--in spite of--of everything. But she deserted me when I was born."

"It is certainly cruel to desert a newborn thing," said Doctor Lavendar.

John Smith agreed, furiously--and his upper lip lifted.

"I think," said Doctor Lavendar, "something has been born to-night--" He was very much out of breath.

"I'm walking too fast again? I beg your pardon, sir," the boy said.

"Suppose we stand still for a minute," said Doctor Lavendar.

They stood still; the rain fell heavily on Doctor Lavendar's shoulders and dripped from the brim of his old felt hat. "She deserted me," John said. "There is nothing to be said in excuse. Nothing."

"No, desertion can never be excused," the old man agreed; "and, as you say, when your body was born, she left it. To-night her soul has been born. Do you mean to desert it, John?"

"Even a dog doesn't leave her pups!" John said.

("His grandfather over again!" Doctor Lavendar thought.) Yet it was to that inherited brutality that he made his appeal:

"No; a mother has to be higher than an animal, to desert her young,"

Doctor Lavendar said.

The young man's violent agreement broke off in the middle:--"What do you mean by that?"

"Shame is a strange thing," said Doctor Lavendar; "it can lift us up to heaven or push us down to h.e.l.l; it gives us courage or it makes us cowards. An animal doesn't know shame."

"You mean that--that woman--?"

"I mean your mother was ashamed, John--" The young man was silent. "She tried to get away from shame by getting away from you. Now she knows that only by staying with you could she really get away from it."

"I will _never_ call her 'mother'!" Johnny burst out.

"Miss Lydia didn't stop to consider what she was going to call you; she just took care of you. Yet you weren't as helpless as that poor woman back there in that empty house. Johnny, her little weak soul, just born to-night, will die unless you take care of it."

The young man stood still, his hands clenched. Doctor Lavendar took off his soaking wet hat, shook it, put it on again, and waited. There was only the sound of the rain and the drip-drip from the big trees along the driveway. Then the boy said:

"You said desertion could not be excused. I am ashamed to be known as belonging to her!"

"That's just how she felt about you--_so she deserted you_."

Silence, except for John Smith's panting breath. Down the road, through the lilac bushes, came the twinkle of a lamp in Miss Lydia's window.

"John," said Doctor Lavendar, "go to your mother. If you don't, you will be doing just what she did. Be kind to her helpless soul, as Miss Lydia was kind to your helpless body."

Still silence. Then suddenly Mary's son flung Doctor Lavendar's hand from his arm, and turned back, almost running, to vanish in the shadows of his grandfather's driveway. But as he ran, he threw over his shoulder some broken, pa.s.sionate words that sounded like--"I _won't_ be like her--"

Doctor Lavendar stood still for a minute; then he drew a great breath of relief and plodded on slowly into the rainy darkness.

THE END