with a wife and children of his own."
Herold was silent for a moment, and his gaze became vague and remote,then he lifted his head sharply:
"A man makes one slip like that and the world damns him forever. And Itell you, Marche, that I am not dishonest by nature or in my character.God alone knows why I took those securities, meaning, of course, toreturn them, as all the poor, damned fools do mean when they do what Idid. But Vyse made it a condition that I was to leave the country, andthere was no chance of restitution unless I could remain in New York anddo what I knew how to do--no chance, Marche--and so fortune ebbed, andmy wife died, and the old judge saw me working on the water-front inNorfolk one day, and gave me this place. That is all."
"Why did you feign illness?" asked Marche, in an altered voice.
"You know why."
"You thought I'd discharge you?"
"Of course."
Marche stepped nearer. "Why did you come to me here to-night?"
Herold flushed deeply. "It was your right to know--and my daughter'sright--before she broke her heart."
"I see. You naturally suppose that I would scarcely care to marry thedaughter of a----" He stopped short, and Herold set his teeth.
"Say it," he said, "and let this end matters for all of us. Except thatI have saved seven thousand dollars toward--what I took. I will draw youa check for it now."
He walked steadily to the table, laid out a thin checkbook, and with hisfountain-pen wrote out a check for seven thousand dollars on a Norfolkbank.
"There you are, Marche," he said wearily. "I made most of it buying andselling pine timber in this district. It seemed a little like expiation,too, working here for you, unknown to you. I won't stay, now, of course.I'll try to pay back the rest--little by little--somehow."
"The way to pay it back," said Marche, "is to do the work you are fittedfor."
Herold looked up. "How can I?"
"Why not?"
"I could not go back to New York. I have no money to go with, even if Icould find a place for myself again."
"Your place is open to you."
Herold stared at him.
Marche repeated the assertion profanely. "Damnation," he said, "if you'dtalked this way to me five years ago, I'd never have stood in your way.All I heard of the matter was what Vyse told me. I'm not associated withhim any more; I'll stand for his minding his own affairs. The thing foryou to do, Courtney, is to get into the game again and clean up what youowe Vyse. Here's seven thousand; you can borrow the rest from me. Andthen we'll go into things again and hustle. It was a good combination,Courtney--we'd have been rich men--except for the slip you made. Come onin with me again. Or would you rather continue to inhabit your ownprivate hell?"
"Do you know what you are saying, Marche?" said the other hoarsely.
"Sure, I do. I guess you've done full time for a first offense. Cleanoff the slate, Courtney. You and Vyse and I know it--nobodyelse--Gilkins is dead. Come on, man! That boy of yours is a corker! Ilove him--that little brother, Jim, of mine; and as for--Molly----" Hisvoice broke and he turned sharply aside, saying: "It's certainlyblue-bird weather, Courtney, and we all might as well go North. Come outunder the stars, and we'll talk it over."
* * * * *
It was almost dawn when they returned. Marche's hand lay lightly onCourtney's shoulder for a moment, as they parted.
Above, as Courtney stood feeling blindly for his door, Molly's doorswung softly ajar, and the girl came out in her night-dress.
"Father," she whispered, "is it all right?"
"All right, thank God, little daughter."
"And--I may care for him?"
"Surely--surely, darling, because he is the finest specimen of manhoodthat walks this merciless earth."
"I knew it," she whispered gaily. "If you'll lend me your wrapper amoment, I'll go to his door and say good-night to him again."
Her father looked at her, picked up his tattered dressing-gown from hisbed, and wrapped her in it to the chin, then kissed her forehead.
So she trotted away to Marche's door and tapped softly; and when hecame and opened the door, she put her arms around his neck and kissedhim.
"Good night," she whispered. "I do love you, and I shall pray all nightthat I may be everything that you would wish to have me. Good night,once more--dearest of men--good night."
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