To Him That Hath

  CHAPTER VIII

  A PARTIAL RELEASE

  When David, after leaving Helen at the end of the next afternoon, satdown to his early dinner in the almost empty Pan-American, the Mayorcame swaying toward him. During the last two weeks the Mayor had beendaily seeking David for sympathy over his marriage, or advice upon hiswedding clothes and upon arrangements for the ceremony that was to makehis life a joyless waste. He took an opposite chair, sighed heavily andregarded David in steady gloom.

  "D'you, realise, friend," he burst out, "that it's only one day more?Twenty-four hours from to-night at nine o'clock! Only one day more o'life! If God had to make me, why didn't he put a little sense intome--that's what I'd like to know!"

  He shook his head despairingly. But after a few moments his face beganto lighten and he leaned across the table. "But anyhow, friend, don'tyou think my weddin' clothes is just about proper!"

  David agreed they were, and in the discussion of the marriage garmentsthe Mayor forgot the marriage and became quite happy. From garments hepassed on to a description of the preparation for the weddingfestivities, which were to be held in the Liberty Assembly Hall.

  He leaned proudly back and glowed on David. "It's goin' to be theswellest ever," he said, with a magnificent wave of his right hand."It's goin' to have every weddin' that was ever pulled off in this parto' town, simply skinned to death--yes, sir, simply faded to nothin'."

  He flamed upward into the very incandescence of pride. But on the morrowhis pride was ashes. Never did another bridegroom have so severe anattack of the bridegroom's disease as did the Mayor. All the afternoonhe kept David beside him, and once when David tried to leave for a fewminutes the Mayor frantically caught his arm and would not let him go.The Mayor was too agitated to sit still, too nerveless to move about,too panic-stricken to talk or to listen to David; and when, afterdinner, it came to putting on his wedding raiment, he was in such a funkthat David had to dress him. He had but one coherent idea, and that heoften expressed, his glassy, fearful eyes appealingly on David, with along-drawn moan: "Friend, ain't it hell!"

  When it came time to leave, the Mayor collapsed into a chair and glareddefiantly at David. "I ain't goin' to go!" he announced in a tremulousroar. But David, by the use of force and dire pictures, finally got himinto the dressing-room of the Liberty Assembly Hall where he was to meetMiss Becker. She was already there, and she came toward him with ablushing smile. He stood motionless, his tongue wet his lips, a handfelt his throat. He gazed at the white gown and at the veil as acondemned man at the noose. He put a limp, fumbling hand into hers."Howdy do, Carrie," he said huskily.

  Some men are cowards till the battle starts, then are heroes. When theMayor and his triumphant bride, radiant on his arm, paused a momentoutside the hall door for the march to begin, he was still the agitatedcraven. But when he saw within the hall the scores of gorgeous guests,and realised that he was the chief figure in this pageant, his spiritand _savoir-faire_ flowed back into him; and when Professor Bachmann'sorchestra struck into the wedding-march he stepped magnificentlyforward, throwing to right and left ruddy, benign smiles. He borehimself grandly through the ceremony; he started the dancing by leadingthe grand march with Mrs. Hoffman in his most magnificent manner; and atthe wedding supper, which was served in an adjoining room, he beaminglyresponded to the calls for a speech with phrases and flourishes thateven he had never before equalled.

  At the end of the supper the party resumed dancing, and the Mayor had achance to pause a moment beside David. He swept a huge, white-glovedhand gracefully about the room, and demanded in an exultant whisper:

  "Didn't I tell you, friend, that this was goin' to be the swellestweddin' that ever happened? Well, ain't it?"

  "It certainly is," agreed David.

  The Mayor tapped David's shirt-front with his forefinger. "It certainlyis the real thing, friend. Nothin' cheap-skate about this, let me tellyou. Everything is just so. Why, did you notice even the waiters worewhite gloves? Yes, sir--when I get married, it's done right!"

  He leaned to within a few confidential inches of David's ear. "Andsay--have you sized up Carrie? Ain't she simply _It_! Huh, she makesevery other woman in this bunch look like a has-been!"

  A little later, during a lull in the dancing, the Mayor and his bride,who had quietly withdrawn, suddenly appeared in the doorway of the hall,hatted and wrapped.

  "Good-bye!" boomed the Mayor's mighty voice. "Same luck to you all!"

  Mrs. Hoffman's finger-tips flung a kiss from her blushing lips to theguests, and the Mayor's hand gathered a kiss from amid his own glowingface and bestowed it likewise. The guests rushed forward, but the couplewent down the stairs in a flurry, into a waiting carriage, and weregone.

  The dancing continued till early workmen began to clatter through thestreets--for in the supper-room was enough cold meats and cake and punchand ices to gorge the guests for a week, and Professor Bachmann has beenpaid to keep his musicians going so long as a dancer remained on thefloor. But David slipped away soon after the bride and groom.

  When he got home he found Kate Morgan sitting by Rogers's side. Helooked at her in constraint, and she at him--and it was a veryuncomfortable moment till Rogers announced:

  "She's going with me."

  David turned to his friend. There was an excited glow in Rogers's darkeyes.

  "What?" David asked.

  "She's going with me--to Colorado."

  David stared at him, and then at Kate, who nodded. "Oh, I see!" he said.

  Kate's features tightened, and she looked at him defiantly. "It isn'twhat you think. I offered to marry him, but he wouldn't let me."

  "What, let a woman marry a wreck like me!" exclaimed Rogers. "No, she'sgoing as a nurse. I've begged her not to go, but she insists."

  "Why shouldn't I?" Kate asked, still with her straight, defiant lookfull on David. "My father's now in an asylum. Mr. Rogers needs me: he'llbe lonely--he ought to have someone to take care of him. I knowsomething about nursing. Why shouldn't I?"

  David looked at her slight, rigidly erect figure, standing with one handon the back of Rogers's chair, and tried to find words for the feelingsthat rushed up from his heart. But before he could speak she saidabruptly, "Good night," and, very pale, marched past David and out ofthe room.

  The following afternoon, as David was helping Rogers with the last ofthe packing for the western trip, which was to be begun that night, amessenger brought him a letter. He looked at the "St. John's Hospital"printed in one corner of the envelope in some surprise before he openedthe letter. It read:

  "DEAR SIR:--

  "There has just been brought here, fatally injured from being run down by an express wagon, a woman whose name seems to be Lillian Drew, judging from a packet of old letters found on her person. As your address was the only one about her, I am sending you this notice on the possibility that you may be an interested party."

  The note was signed "James Barnes, House Surgeon." David's first thoughtwas, Morton's letters have been read and the secret has begun to comeout! For a space he did not know whether this was a hope or a fear. Onthe way to the hospital it was of the glory that would follow thisdisclosure, and not of the disaster, that he thought. He saw his namecleared, himself winning his way unhampered into honour, free to marryHelen--he saw a long stretch of happiness in work and in love.

  On reaching the hospital he was led to a small room adjoining theoperating-room. Here he found Dr. Barnes, a young fellow of twenty-five,shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows, aproned in a rubber sheet, headswathed in gauze. He was beginning to wash his hands at an iron sink.

  "Are you a near friend or relative?" Dr. Barnes asked after David hadintroduced himself.

  "An acquaintance," David answered.

  "Then I can break the news point-blank. She died a few minutes ago."

  David hardly knew what the young surgeon was saying--his mind was all onthe letters.

  "It's the old, old story," added the surgeon, with
a shrug."Intoxicated--got in the way of a truck--a cracked skull. I've beentrying to do what I could for her"--he nodded toward the open door ofthe operating-room,--"but she died under the operation."

  "In your note," David said as steadily as he could, "you mentioned someletters."

  "Oh, yes. I wanted to find the address of friends, so I read a few ofthem." He smiled at David as he rubbed a cake of yellow soap about inhis hands.

  David leaned heavily against a window-sill. His mind was reeling.

  "They were from relatives?" he forced from his lips.

  The surgeon gave a short laugh. "Hardly! They were love letters--andwarm ones, too! All about twenty years old. Queer, wasn't it."

  He rinsed the soap from his arms and began to rub them with a whitepowder. "But I got nothing out of them. They were merely signed 'Phil.'"

  David's control returned to him, and he was conscious of a tremendousrelief. "I suppose," he said, "there's no objection to my claiming andtaking the letters."

  "We usually turn anything found on a body over to the relatives orfriends. But pardon me--I don't know that you're the proper person."

  "There's no one else to claim them. I'm perfectly willing to give yousecurity for them."

  "Oh, I guess it'll be all right. They're merely a package of oldletters."

  He walked over to where several coats were hanging, and pointed ascoured hand at one. "I've just washed up for another operation, so Ican't take them out for you. You'll find them in the inside pocket."

  David transferred the yellow packet to the inside pocket of his owncoat. He had thanked the surgeon and said good-bye, when the fearseized him that perhaps the dead woman might after all not be LillianDrew. He turned back and asked if he might see the body. The surgeon ledhim into the operating-room where two attendants were starting to pushout a wheeled operating-table, burdened with a sheeted figure. Thesurgeon stopped them, and at his order a nurse drew back the sheet fromthe head. David gave a single glance at the face. His fear left him.

  With the letters buttoned inside his coat he left the hospital and setout for Helen's, on whom he had promised to call that afternoon. At thismoment he had not for Lillian Drew that understanding, sympathy even,which he was later to attain; he did not then consider that she, too,might have had a very different ending had her beginning been morefortunately inspired. For such a sympathy he was too dazed by thenarrowness of his escape from vindication and of the Mission's fromdestruction. Had the letters been signed by Morton's full name, then thehouse surgeon, in trying to learn who Philip Morton was, would certainlyhave started a scandal there would have been no stopping. But now hissecret was safe: Lillian Drew would menace him no more, and the twowomen who knew his story would keep it forever locked in their hearts.

  He chanced to reach the Chambers's home at the same moment as Mr.Chambers, who bowed coldly and passed upstairs. As Mr. Chambers went bythe drawing-room door he saw Helen and Mr. Allen at the tea-table. Heentered and shook hands cordially with Mr. Allen.

  "How are you, Allen?" he said. "But I just stopped for a second. I'lltry and see you before you go."

  At this moment a footman handed Helen David's card. "Don't you think,Helen," her father asked quietly, "that you're letting that fellow makehimself very much of a bore?" Without waiting for an answer he passedout.

  "Will you show Mr. Aldrich up," Helen said to the waiting footman. Mr.Allen had begun, before her father's entrance, to draw near the questionhe had come to put. She shrunk from answering it, so David's coming wasdoubly welcome.

  "A minute, please," Mr. Allen called to the servant. "Now, Helen, isthis treating me fair?" he demanded in a whisper. "You know I want tosee you. Can't you send down word that you're engaged?"

  "He's in the house--I'm here--I can't deny him," she said rapidly."Besides, for a long while I've been wanting you to meet him. Show himup, Mitchell."

  "Well, if I must meet him, I suppose I must," Allen said with a shrug,sharpness cutting through his even tone. "But I warn you, Helen--I'mgoing to outstay him."

  A moment later David entered the room. He was crossing eagerly with ahand held out to Helen, when he saw Allen beside the tea-table. Hesuddenly paused. Allen slowly rose, and for a space the two men staredat each other.

  "So," Allen said, with slow distinctness, "You're Mr. David Aldrich?"

  David went pale. He knew, from what Helen had told him of Allen, that hewas in the power of a man whose ideas of justice and duty made himmerciless. For a moment David had, as on the night Allen had forced himto unmask, a glimpse of the inside of a cell.

  "I am," he said.

  Helen had looked from one to the other in surprise. "What--you know eachother?"

  David turned to her. "You remember I told you that about a year ago Ibroke into a man's house. It was his house."

  "What!" she exclaimed.

  "Yes, your protege is a thief!"

  There was a vibration of triumph in Allen's voice. An old idea hadflashed back upon him. He had often thought that if he could, by somestriking example, show Helen the futility of her work, show her that thepeople whom she thought were improving were really deceiving her, thenher belief in her efforts would be shattered and she would abandonthem--would come nearer to him. This man Aldrich here summed up to herthe success of her ideas.

  "I think I shall leave you for a while," Allen said.

  He moved toward the door.

  David knew where Allen was going. Helpless to save himself, he stoodmotionless, erect, and watched Allen start from the room.

  Helen, very pale, blocked Allen's way. "You intend to have him arrested.It's in your face."

  "I certainly do."

  "You must not!" cried Helen, desperately. "Why, he took nothing--youyourself told me he took nothing."

  "That doesn't make him any less a thief," returned Allen. "He had goodreason for not taking anything--he was frightened away."

  He started to pass around her, but she caught his arm. "You must not!You'll be committing a crime!"

  He looked at her almost pitingly. "Really, Helen, he must havehypnotised you. You know he's a thief. I caught him in the act; he'sconfessed to you. What more can you want?"

  She gazed steadily up into his face. "Won't you let him go if I assureyou that in arresting him you'll be making the mistake of your life?"

  "No. Because I know that you, in believing that, are mistaken."

  She was silent a moment; her brown eyes never left his face. "Won't youlet him go because I, a friend, ask it as a favour?"

  "You are making it very hard for me," he said in genuine distress. "Youknow it's a duty to society to put such men where they can do no harm."

  "Nothing can prevent your arresting him?" she asked slowly.

  "It's my duty," he said.

  Her face was turning gray with despair, when her eyes began to widen andher lips to part, and she drew in a long, slow breath and one hand creptup to her bosom. She looked about at David.

  "Will you please wait for me in the library," she said; and she addedimmediately to Allen, "I'll give you bond for his return when you wanthim."

  David bowed and left the room.

  Helen caught the back of a chair. The hand above her heart pressedtightly. "You have left me but one thing more to say for him," she saidin a low voice.

  "And that?" asked Allen.

  "I love him."

  He stepped back and his face went as pale as her own. Several momentspassed before words came from him.

  "You love Mr. Aldrich?" asked a strange whisper.

  "I love him," she said.

  Again several moments passed before he spoke, and when he did speak hiswords were to himself rather than to her.

  "And this is my answer?"

  "Forgive me--because it came this way," she begged.

  There was silence between them.

  "He is safe," he said. He continued gazing at her several moments, thenwithout speaking again he left the room.