WHEN Fred Walton left Dearing’s office, he went along the street toward his father’s home. He walked slowly, absolute despair showing itself in the droop of his powerful body, and in the helpless, animal glare of his eyes. He had reached a point from which, the street being on a slight elevation, he could see the old house in which he was born. He paused. All about him was peace, stillness, and incongruous content. The town clock, capping the brick stand-pipe of the waterworks, struck nine solemn strokes, and he could feel the after-vibrations of the mellow metal as the sound died away. He turned, leaving his home on the left, and walked on aimlessly till the houses which bordered the way became more scattered, and then he reached a bridge which spanned a little river. A full moon was rising. Through the foliage of the near-by trees it looked like a world of fire away off in space. Its red rays fell on the swiftly rushing water, throwing on its surface a path of flaming blood. He went out on the structure, and leaned against the iron railing. Just beyond the end of the bridge rose a green-clad hill. It had a high fence around it, and a wide gateway with a white, crescent-shaped sign above it. It was the Stafford cemetery.
“Yes, I ought to see it once more before I go,” he said. “It will be the last time—the very last; and surely, though I’ll blush in her dead presence, thief as I am, I ought to go.”
He crossed to the other side, and went into the gate of the enclosure. Threading his way among the monuments, his brow reverently bared to the solemn moonlight, he came to a square plot surrounded by an ivy-coated brick wall with a granite coping. It contained several graves bearing his name, but only one engaged his attention. He sat down on its footstone, and, with his head still bare, he remained motionless for a long time.
“She didn’t know the son she used to be so proud of would ever come to this,” he said, bitterly. “With all her hopes and prayers, she little knew that I’d be an outcast—actually forced to flee from the law; she little dreamed it would come to that when she used to talk of the great and good things I was to do. Poor, dear, little mother! You’d rather be dead than alive to-night. I wonder if it is absolutely too late? Perhaps, far away, under a new name and among strangers, I may be able to live differently. And if I could, she would know and be glad. Mother, listen, dear!” A sob rose in him, and shook him from head to foot. “The wrong I did was done when my brain was turned by liquor, and I did not realize my danger till it was too late; I swear here—right here—to you, dear little mother, that from this moment on I’ll try to be better. I may fail, but I’ll try. I swear, too, that from this moment on I’ll bend every energy of my soul and body to the undoing of the thing of which I am guilty.”
He stood up. Ten solemn strokes of the town clock rang out on the profound stillness. The air was vibrant with a myriad insect voices from the marshes along the river. Rays of lamplight shot across the shrubbery between the shafts and the slabs of stone. They came from a window in the cottage of the sexton of the cemetery. The lone visitor saw a shaggy head of hair, a long, ragged beard the color of the clay beneath the soil, and a rugged face, gashed and seamed by time. The old man was smoking—placidly smoking. Even a humble digger of graves could be content, while this young, vigorous soul was steeped in the dregs of despair. Walton turned away, slowly retraced his steps to the outside, crossed the river, and, careful to avoid meeting any one, he finally came again to his father’s house. It was dark.
“I might get in at a window and bring away a few things to wear,” he reflected. “But no, I must not risk it. He might meet me face to face and demand the truth. I’d have to tell him. Sharp of sight, and suspicious as he now is, he would read it in my face, and order my arrest. Yes, he would do it. He is my father, but he would do it.”
On he went, now headed for the square. Reaching the bank, the thought occurred to him that, having a key, he would go in and write a note to his father. A moment later he had locked himself within the stifling place, and under a flaring gas-jet, and seated on the high office-stool at a desk, he wrote as follows:
My Dear Father,—Surprised though you’ve never been at my numerous bad acts, you will be now at what I am about to confess. For more than a week I have been covering up a shortage in my account which amounts to more than you can afford to lose without warning. I am five thousand dollars behind, and am absolutely unable to replace it. I shall make no excuses. Being your son gave me no right to the money, but taking it at a time when I believed it would save me in a certain speculation in futures, I told myself that I had the right, as your son and heir, to borrow it. That I looked at it that way, and was half intoxicated at the time the deed was committed, is all that I can say by way of palliation of my offence.
You once said to me that if I ever did anything of this sort that you would turn me over to the law exactly as you would any stranger, and I understand you well enough to know that you will keep your word. You would do it in your anger, even if you regretted it afterward; so, father, I am leaving home to-night, never to return. Don’t think I am taking any more of your money, either, for I am not. I am leaving without a penny. I don’t know where I shall go, but I am starting out into the world to try to begin life anew. You have always contended that my hopes of inheriting your savings was the prime cause of my failure, and that had I been forced to struggle for myself, as you had to do as a young man, I should have known the true value of money. I believe you are right, and to-night, as I am leaving, a certain hope comes to me that maybe there is enough of your sterling energy in me to make a man of me eventually. Perhaps it won’t count much with you for me to say that I am going to try to be straight and honorable from now on. You never have had faith in my promises, but you have never seen me tried as I shall be tried. I know how much I owe you to a cent, and as fast as I earn money—if I can earn any—it shall be sent back to you, and, if I live, I shall wipe out the debt which now stands against me. I wish I could put my arms round your neck to-night and beg your forgiveness before I go, but you’d not trust me. In your fury over your loss you’d not give me the chance I must have to redeem myself, and this is the only way. But, oh, father, do, do give me this last chance! For the sake of my mother’s memory, and your name, which I have tarnished, don’t try to hunt me down like a common thief! I want one more opportunity. Do, do, give it to me! Good-bye.
Frederic.
Folding the sheets on which he had written, Walton put them into an envelope and placed it on his father’s desk. He was now ready to go, but paused again.
“I can’t write to Margaret,” he said. “I have promised not to. Her brother will tell her enough, anyway, to make her ashamed that she ever knew me; but there is poor Dora—my dear, trusting friend. I must not go without a line to her.”
He seated himself again, and wrote as follows:
My Dear Little Friend,—You have said several times of late that you feared I had some burden on my mind because I was not as cheerful as I used to be. Well, your sharp, kindly eyes were reading a truth I was trying to conceal. I have got myself into most serious trouble. I haven’t the heart to go into details over it; I need not, anyway, for my father will let it out soon enough. Every tongue in old Stafford will wag and clatter over the final finish of the town’s daredevil to-morrow. And it will pain you, too, for of all my friends, young as you are, you were my soundest adviser. You used to say that I’d soon sow my wild oats, and settle down and make a man of myself. You used to say, too, that I’d finally win the girl who—but, disgraced as I am, I won’t mention her name.
I have lost her forever, dear Dora. She may have cared a little for me, but she won’t when she knows how low I’ve fallen. I am going far away to try to hew out some sort of a new road. I may fail, as I have always failed, but if I do, my failure will not be added to the list of my shortcomings here in Stafford.
Now, dear Dora, forgive me for speaking of something concerning you. For the last month, though I did not mention it, I have been afraid that all was not going quite well with you, either. You almost admitted it once when I caught you crying. You remember, it was the evening I met Kenneth Galt and you in the wood back of your house—the evening your mother, you remember, thought you had been out with me, and scolded us both. I saw plainly that you did not want her to know you had met him, and so I said nothing; but the thing has troubled me a great deal, I’ll admit. I really know nothing seriously against the man, but he has queer, almost too modern, views in regard to love, and I think, dear Dora, that maybe you have imbibed some of them. Secret association like that cannot be best for a young girl, and so I feel that I can’t go away without just this little warning. He is a wealthy man of the world, and his friendship with a sweet, pure girl like you are ought to be open and aboveboard. You are rarely beautiful, dear Dora. Your painting shows that you are a genius. You have a great future before you; don’t spoil it all by becoming too much interested in this man. It may appeal to your romantic side to meet him like that, but it can’t—simply can’t be best. Now, you will forgive your “big brother,” won’t you? I may never come back; I may never even write, but I shall often think lovingly of you, dear friend. Good-bye.
When he had signed, sealed, and directed the letter, he put a stamp on it and went out and closed the bank, pushing the key back into the room through a crack beneath the shutter. He then slowly crossed the deserted square to the post-office on the corner and deposited the letter. After this he stood with his strong arms folded, looking about irresolutely. In front of him lay the town’s single line of horse-cars, which led to the railway station half a mile distant. One of the cars stood in front of him. It had made its last slow and jangling trip to meet the nine-o’clock north-bound train. The track stretched out before him, the worn bars gleaming like threads of silver in the moonlight. Casting one other look about him, and heaving a deep sigh, he lowered his head and started for the station.
“I think this is Jack Thomas’ run,” he reflected. “If it is, he will take me aboard.”