"Thanks to you, Dolly--you, and no one else."

"No, no, it was growing all along. I only helped a little, perhaps. But it doesn't matter who did it; it is done. They will build the schools."

"And you and I will help with suggestions, won't we?" He looked at her, quite timidly. "I mean, of course, that we have learned some lessons in the house we are now building. We have made mistakes here and there that may be avoided in the future."

She said nothing, and he was sure that she purposely avoided his tentative stare. She bent over the horse's neck, ran the thick glossy mane through her fingers, and gently patted the animal's shoulder.

"Jarvis, you must tell me something about this horse," she said, firmly. "I'm going to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"You want to know his pedigree?" He was staring sheepishly. "Well--"

"No, I don't, and you know I don't. My father said that you wanted the horse kept in the stable at home in case--in case any one had to ride over here to communicate with him. But no one uses him but me, and he has to have exercise or he will be ruined. It is almost all that I can do to control him now. He breaks into a run the instant another horse pa.s.ses him. Father said yesterday that he did not understand why you wanted us to keep him at our house."

The blood mantled the young planter's brow. "They say an honest confession is good for the soul," he stammered; "and, Dolly, the truth is that I sent the horse there simply for you to ride. You love riding and need the exercise. You are so peculiar about--well, about some things--that I was afraid you would be offended, but I hope you won't refuse this. I do love to see you on a horse. You ride as if you were born in the saddle."

She looked down on the farther side of her mount. "It is very, very sweet and kind of you," she said, falteringly. "I believe you mean it, still--" She broke off and failed to finish what she had started to say.

"You must not object," he went on, urgently. "It suits your father and me to keep a horse there, and if you are good enough to exercise him for us, well and good. If not, we'll send one of the negroes over to take him out once a day."

He saw her smile faintly. "n.o.body could get around you," she answered.

"Well, it really would break my heart to give him up now, and I shall ride him whenever I feel like it."

There was silence for a moment, which he broke.

"I am arranging a little surprise for your father." He nodded toward the grounds behind him. "Won't you get down and come in a moment?"

"What is it?" She was already kicking the stirrup from her eager foot.

"Come in and see." He held out his arms, as if she were a child willing to jump.

"You know my awful curiosity," she laughed, putting her hands on his shoulders and leaning downward. Her face sank close to his--so close that her breath fanned his cheek. He took her slight weight on himself as he helped her down. Throwing the rein over one of the palings, he opened the gate and stood aside for her to enter.

"What is it? Why are you so awfully mysterious?" she asked.

"Because my surprise may not come up to your expectations," he said.

"Come with me."

He led her across the lawn to a small one-roomed brick house at the side of the main building, adjoining the white gla.s.s-roofed conservatory. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and pushed it open and invited her to go in. She found herself in a well-lighted room comfortably furnished with easy-chairs, rugs, and a fine roll-top desk, supplied with new account-books and writing-material of all kinds.

"It is to be your father's private office," Saunders explained. "But he doesn't know it. It struck me that he would need a place like this to meet the hands in on pay-days and to do his writing. The furniture came yesterday. He superintended the unloading himself. He thinks the office is for me."

Involuntarily Dolly clasped her hands in sheer delight.

"Oh, how good you are!" she cried. "Nothing you could possibly do would please him more. You have given him his old pride back, Jarvis, and this will add to it. I have been wanting to speak to you about him, but I hardly knew how. He is absolutely a new man in every way, and it is all due to your confidence and encouragement."

He found himself without available response. She sat down in the revolving desk-chair and picked up a pen and pretended to write. "It is simply 'scrumptious!'" she laughed, merrily. "Oh, I should like--" she stopped abruptly, stood up, and looked at the door. "I must be going.

Why, you've even given him a clock. And the maps on the walls will be very useful. That's our county, isn't it?"

As he nodded he followed her to the gra.s.s outside. "You started to say that you would like something," he ventured. "What was it, Dolly?"

"I should really like to be present when you show it to him and tell him that it is for him. Jarvis, I almost lost respect for him once. I almost ceased to love him, but it has all come back. I am proud of him again, and you are responsible for it. Why did you do so much for him?"

"Because he is _your_ father!" He nipped the words as they were forming on his lips. Instead, he said aloud: "He is just the man I needed. We are working finely together. You must be present when I tell him about the office; he will be here this afternoon. I will detain him with some pretext or other till three o'clock. Couldn't you be here then?"

"Oh yes, and I'd like to bring my mother, Uncle John, and George."

"A good idea," Saunders said. "We'll have some fresh cider and cakes--the old-fashioned gingerbread sort."

When they had reached her horse, he held out his hand for her foot. She placed it in it, and he lightly lifted her to the saddle.

He stood at the gate and saw her vanish down the road. "Why didn't I say what I want to say? Why didn't I tell her how I feel and throw myself on her mercy? What is it that always checks me? Is it Mostyn? My G.o.d! does she still love him, and will he always stand between me and my happiness?"

CHAPTER XV

For Mostyn the week which ensued after his wife's secret elopement was a period of sheer mental torture. Every minute he expected the startling tidings to reach his friends and a.s.sociates. Every morning at breakfast he studied the crafty and sullen face of old Mitch.e.l.l and the swarthy visages of the servants to see if suspicions of the truth were dawning. At the bank he tried to overhear the conversations of the bookkeepers, sometimes fancying that a burst of low laughter or a whispered colloquy had him for their incentive. He was sure that it was little less than a miracle that the matter had not leaked out. With Delbridge getting into harness at his desk, he had considerable time on his hands, which he spent in long nervous walks, generally in the suburbs of the city. For that week he wholly neglected his child. There was something unbearable in the thought of the boy's future social status, left in the care, as he was, of an all but witless grandfather and a father upon whom the contempt of the public was so soon to fall.

Infinitely horrible was the reflection that little d.i.c.k would inevitably grow into a comprehension of the family calamity and inquire as to its causes. It was Sat.u.r.day night, eight days after the elopement. Mostyn had that day been irritated--that is, as much as a man in his plight could be irritated by any extraneous incident--by Delbridge's open criticism of the negligent condition of some of his accounts. The work of going over the books with his successor in rectifying really glaring mistakes detained him at the bank till late at night. It was twelve o'clock when he finally reached home, ascended to his room, and began to undress. He had thrown off his coat, when he heard voices and movements in the nursery adjoining his room. At once he was all attention. He had his usual overpowering yearning to see his child. It was as if the touch of the boy's little hand or a glance from his innocent young eyes might mildly soothe his lacerated spirits. It was the cry of kindred blood to kindred blood from the darkest deeps of despair--the incongruous cry of parent to offspring. He overheard the impatient tone of the drowsy nurse, and the fainter, rather rambling accents of the child.

"You go to sleep!" Hilda called out. "You'll disturb yo' pa. He just come home, an' he don't want no noise fum yo' this time o' night."

The gas was burning in the nursery, as was shown by the pencil of light beneath the door. Mostyn turned the bolt and looked into the room. A breath of warmer air told him that the servant had again neglected to open the windows sufficiently. He went to d.i.c.k's little bed, turning the overhead gas higher as he did so. The child looked up, recognized him, and with a cry of welcome held out his arms. Mostyn, bending down, felt the little hands clasp his neck. They were dry and hot. d.i.c.k's cheeks were flushed red.

"What ails him?" Mostyn cried, aghast, turning to Hilda, who had risen, thrown on a wrapper, and stood at the table, where a bottle and a spoon lay.

"I think he's got er little bit er fever, sir," she said. "It is his stomach gone wrong ergin. I'm givin' 'im his fever-mixture now."

"It hurts right here, Daddy." d.i.c.k made a wry face as he bravely pressed his hand on the lower part of his right side. "d.i.c.k couldn't play to-day."

"How long has he had fever?" Mostyn demanded, sharply.

"Jes' to-day, I think, sir. I never noticed it till dis evenin' about an hour by sun. He's been complainin' of his stomach fer mo'n a week, but dat is 'cause he eats--"

"It may be something serious." The words shrank back from utterance.

"Why didn't you send for the doctor?"

"Huh!" the nurse sniffed, resentfully. "Yo' all expect me ter ten' ter everything. I _did_ tell his grandpa, but he didn't even know what I was talkin' about, jabberin' all de time about Miss Irene stayin' off so long, en--en I don't know what all--_you_ an' _yo'_ doin's 'long wid de rest."

The woman was approaching with the bottle and spoon. "Don't give him any more of that stuff." He waved it away. "I'll send for Dr. Loyd at once."

"Oh, Daddy, I don't want the doctor!" d.i.c.k began to whimper and cling more tightly round his father's neck.

"He won't hurt you; he is a good man," Mostyn said, tenderly. "He will give you something to make you cool off, so you can sleep."

Mostyn left the room and groped his way down to the telephone in the lower hall. A new fear had clutched him, a fear so compelling that all else was forgotten. A chill of grim, accusing horror was on him. His brain was in a whirl as he tried to recall the desired number. Did Providence, Fate, or whatever the ruling force was, intend this as his crowning punishment? Had the impalpable hand, reaching for him, descended on his offspring? He finally got the doctor's servant on the 'phone, then Dr. Loyd himself, who had just arrived in his automobile.

"Have you taken his temperature?" was the doctor's first question.