Katie

  And all was the doing of the Slapes.

  Philo was a young woman of strong if usually mixed and compounded emotions. If she loved her mother she was also frequently contemptuous of Mary Drax’s emotional frailty; if she had felt superior to Jewel Varley’s meanness, she was also jealous of that young woman’s luxuries of opportunity and wardrobe; if she had respected her grandfather, she had also looked to the fortune the old man would have bestowed upon her. But the Slapes were a different case altogether. Philo hated them with a hate that was without alloy, hated them as she had hated nothing in her life before. And if the Slapes – together or singly – should ever present themselves before her again, Philo vowed they would receive no quarter of mercy.

  PART III

  NEW EGYPT

  Chapter 13

  PHILO’S HUMILIATION

  Philo arrived in New Egypt at the most inconvenient time, lacking a quarter of ten o’clock, when all the respectable popu­la­tion was on its way to morning worship. The way to her home would take her past the doors of each of the town’s three churches. She wondered briefly whether she ought not sit at the station until all three congregations should be inside, but then considered that though she might be poor, might be a dupe, might be the unluckiest girl in the world – she was not a coward.

  She would walk past the three churches, doubtlessly encoun­tering those known to her, and if they asked how she came to be in such a state on Sunday morning, in ragged, filthy clothing, with her face and arms scratched, and looking for all the world as if she had sat up all night in a railway station, she would reply simply, “I have met with accident.”

  This plan she formulated while still at the station, and she had not even stepped off the platform before it was rendered useless to her. The stationmaster, whose name was Kilcrease, came out of his little office. He was less a friendly man than a curious one. He had a high, protruding forehead, little red eyes that seemed to seek deep refuge beneath it, and a livid scar that cleft his chin. He beckoned Philo over.

  “Hello, Mr. Kilcrease,” she replied politely.

  He looked at her dress quizzically. “You don’t dress much like a girl what’s come into money,” he remarked.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked with surprise.

  “I say,” said Mr. Kilcrease, with the air of one pressing his finger to the spring of a mystery, “you don’t look much like a girl what’s gone off to collect seventeen thousand dollars from her grandfather what’s she’s never laid eyes on before.” He stretched his neck, as if to peer round her. “You got the money sewed in your dress? You got a secret pocket what’s got bills in it?”

  “Mr. Kilcrease, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Philo knew, with a sinking certainty, that her mother’s tongue had been loose in her absence. Mr. Kilcrease was known to the Draxes only to be spoken to; he was by no means their intimate. If he had heard of the Parrock fortune, then all the rest of the town knew of it too.

  “We didn’t look to see you back so quick,” said Mr. Kilcrease. “Did you bring the old man with you?” He needlessly looked around the empty station platform.

  “Mr. Kilcrease,” said Philo, trembling. “Please, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Didn’t you just visit your grandfather what’s living in Goshen? Nobody round here ever heard of Goshen before,” he added par­enthetically. “Seventeen people come by here yester­day to find it out on the big map inside the station. Wasn’t the old man to give you money? Should have give you a change of clothes too. P’rhaps he didn’t think of it, what’s never been round girls before.”

  Philo understood that she would gain nothing by answering any more of Mr. Kilcrease’s questions. If she answered truthfully, he would extract the entire terrible story, and she would have been as guilty of broadcasting the tale of her misery as her mother had been culpable in prematurely and unadvisedly giving out the promise of their good fortune.

  She was hot with embarrassment and alarm. Her one conso­lation since she left Goshen was that New Egypt would never learn of her misfortune: her grandfather’s murder, the loss of their inheritance, the suspicion that had fallen upon herself for the commission of the crime. That meager consolation was now denied her.

  “Mr. Kilcrease,” she said hurriedly, “I must go. Mother is wait­ing for me.”

  Mr. Kilcrease called after her but she did not heed him.

  In the street she was much regarded. Though Philo passed on the opposite side of the road and did not look at the Pres­byterians standing outside the door of their church, she heard their exclamations of surprise as she went by. Someone called after her, but she did not recognize the voice and refused to turn around.

  Farther down the street, the Methodist Church was separated from the Baptist by only the parsonage, and it was the custom in New Egypt for the two congregations to mix in the street before services. Philo nervously skirted the edge of the crowd, peer­ing this way and that, watching for Mary Drax. The double congregation, alerted to Philo’s unlooked-for presence, turned and stared at her. She could hear their comments, not at all hushed, which attempted to reconcile her shabby dress and for­lorn appearance with the recent acquisition of a great fortune.

  Mary Drax stood in the center of the crowd, at the foot of the steps of the Methodist Church, talking with the Varleys. Philo was so surprised by this – the Varleys rarely vouchsafing her and her mother more than a distant nod on Sunday morning – that she stopped and stared. Then she realized the basis for this social revolution: the Varleys had discovered that Mary Drax stood to get some large amount of money from her father. And the weight of that inheritance (or the prospect of it, which in a town as small as New Egypt, did quite as well) set in the scales of social commerce, raised Mary Drax far higher than she had ever been lifted before.

  Jacob Varley, his wife Caroline, and Jewel stood in a crescent before Mary Drax and listened to her politely. Philo came close enough to hear what her mother was saying.

  “. . . sure that Philo will bring him back with her. We would so dislike to leave New Egypt. We’ve been so happy here.”

  “You will of course give up sewing,” said Caroline Varley, in­clin­ing her head in a fashion that was friendly if still a little con­de­scending. She was a short, imposing woman, who showed a great deal of neck to whomever she was speaking and whose taste in dress her daughter Jewel had inherited.

  “Oh, I’m sure Father will not want me to continue working,” said Mary Drax with a smile.

  “Good,” said Jewel with a smile that was probably intended to charm, “for you know, Mother and I have already engaged another seamstress.”

  “Do you know the extent of your father’s fortune, Mrs. Drax? It is spoken of as being considerable,” said Jacob Varley in as pleasant a tone as Philo had ever heard him employ. Jewel and Caro­line Varley stood by smiling complacently. They would have pre­ferred that someone rich and entirely unknown to them had moved into the neighborhood, but an old impoverished acquaintance who suddenly inherited money would do almost as well.

  “Oh, it is considerable,” said Mary Drax. “Parrock Farm was always the best piece of land in the state south of Trenton. And Father was always a close man. I shouldn’t wonder—”

  Here Philo thought best to interfere before her mother spoke any more nonsense. She stepped forward, reached between Jacob Varley and Jewel, and laid a hand on her mother’s arm. Mary Drax looked up with a smile. She had been much courted in the past two days and evidently expected more congratulations on the turn her fortune had taken.

  But it was Philo who stood there, looking as ragged and dirty and forlorn as the most neglected child of any of Jacob Varley’s improvident graniteware workers. Mary Drax and the Varleys looked on her with astonishment. For several moments no one said anything.

  “Mother,” said Philo at last, “please come home with me now.”

  “Philo!” cried Jewel Varley. “Look at you!”

  Philo did not rep
ly, but pulled gently at her mother’s arm.

  Mary Drax regarded her daughter uncomprehendingly. “Your clothing, Philo,” she said at last. “What happened to your clothing? And where’s Father? Did you not bring him back with you?” She looked round her. Though the bells of the two churches were ringing for the congregations to enter, both Methodists and Baptists (and even some very curious Presbyterians who had followed Philo down the street) stood in a loose circle around them.

  “Mother,” said Philo quietly, and with an attempt to catch Mary Drax’s eye, “come home now. I’ll answer your questions at home.”

  Mary Drax caught at her daughter’s sleeve. The dirt of Parrock Farm came off on the new gloves Mary Drax had purchased only the day before in expectation of her rising fortune. She stared for a moment at the dirt, then quickly brushed it off.

  “Philo,” she said in a trembling voice, “what’s wrong? Some­thing terrible happened in Goshen, didn’t it? We’re still poor, aren’t we? Father turned you away. The letter was a vicious hoax, I knew it, I was sure when we opened it, I knew it when you read it aloud to me, Father sent—”

  The Varleys exchanged knowing smiles and glances, and Philo flushed with shame. She pulled her mother away, but in the cruel disappointment of her expectations Mary Drax re­sisted, and her voice grew louder. “Philo! Tell me now, have you brought any­thing to me from Father? Has he sent us anything, or has he de­ter­mined to abandon me for another twenty-three years? If poor Tom were alive this moment, we—”

  Philo pulled her mother’s hand roughly. Mary Drax was caught off-balance, and when she fell forward, Philo caught her and hissed in her ear, “Mother, be quiet!” She pushed Mary Drax upright again, and now made no pretense of her eagerness to be away from the crowd.

  Perhaps this was the best and easiest way, Philo considered. Three-quarters of the persons she and her mother knew in New Egypt surrounded them now. Everyone had heard that the Draxes had sudden expectations of money because of a letter received on Wednesday; everyone evidently had learned that Philo had gone away on Thursday; now everyone could see that Philo had returned in rags on Sunday morning. If everyone could not reckon that the promised fortune had not been forthcoming, then he hadn’t the sense of a creeping baby.

  Philo had nothing left to hide, not even her intense humiliation.

  She let go of her mother’s arm and turned in a little circle with a grim smile. She backed up onto the steps of the Methodist Church and stood alone. She spoke loudly. “Mother is right. We have no money. But Mother and I have never had any money, and you all know that as well. My grandfather had intended to give us money; he intended to come here to live with us. But my grandfather was murdered—”

  Here Mary Drax gasped and grabbed her daughter’s hand.

  Philo jerked away.

  “—was murdered,” she repeated in a hard voice. “And the money that he would have left us was stolen by his daughter-in-law and her family.”

  She took a breath and would have continued, but the voices of those round her rose to so high and breathless a pitch that she could not have been heard. Mary Drax clawed at her arm. Philo looked round and saw that the Varleys had backed away, and only they of all the crowd did not speak. Jewel actually smiled.

  Philo came down from the steps and led her mother away, grimly accounting the worst to be over.

  It was not: Henry Maitland stood on the edge of the crowd, and as she passed, gazed at her with impassive, curious eyes.

  Chapter 14

  ANOTHER LETTER

  Several days passed during which neither Mary nor Philo Drax was to be seen on the streets of New Egypt. Neighbors sympathetic and neighbors merely curious came to call and were received by an unsmiling Philo at the door, thanked for their solicitude, and told that Mary Drax was unwell.

  That was the truth. It was the old story with the mother and daughter: Mary Drax gave in to her emotions to the extent that Philo, who was just as sensitive as her mother, must deny her own feelings. Mary Drax was free to moan in bed all day only if Philo would answer the door and see to their meals. Philo would have liked to give in a little to her own depression of spirits, but her mother’s anticipation of that wish carried to an extreme repulsed her, and she gave no sign of how deeply she felt her triple loss of grandfather, fortune, and expectation.

  Philo sat in the parlor at the window, wondering that spring could come at a time of such heavy misfortune. The days became longer and warmer, and the calyxes of the daffodils, though still unopened, were the color of egg yolks. The house was surrounded by a green mist of new growth, which irritated rather than soothed Philo’s unhappy spirit.

  They wouldn’t have the house much longer, Philo knew. Be­fore this hope that had proved empty, Mary Drax had been con­tent to work with her needle. But Philo knew her mother too well to expect that she would willingly return to it. Mary Drax’s spirit had been broken by this disappointment – she had said as much. Philo knew that her mother would conceive of some illness – some palsy in the hands, some weakness in the eyes – that would prevent her from resuming her livelihood. The financial burden would then rest solely on her, and this was a burden Philo­ had no way of discharging. She wished that her grand­father had never written, that he had simply handed over to the Slapes the thirty thousand dollars, and that she and her mother had never been set up with expectations of money and comfort. At the worst he would have been murdered by the Slapes after they had taken possession of his fortune – but that is what had happened anyway.

  Jewel Varley had talked of travel to Saratoga and New York and said that Philo would never travel. Well, Philo had travelled: She had gone to Goshen, New Jersey, been hired as a servant at the princely salary of one dollar a week, locked into a room with the corpse of her murdered grandfather, accused of the crime, and deprived of her rightful inheritance. It was perhaps more colorful than a sojourn in Newport but without doubt less to be desired.

  Philo sat at the window, simply waiting for something to happen. At first, she was filled with lassitude and bitterness, but gradually her pride and innate strength reaffirmed themselves. Inaction troubled her more than outright misfortune. She was no nearer a solution to her problems, but at least she had deter­mined that if her situation could be remedied through courage, hard work, and perseverance, she would not shrink from the attempt.

  Only a couple of hours after she had made this resolution and conceived endless and improbable schemes for the getting of money or the supporting of herself and her mother on as little money as possible, Mr. Clegg came to the door with a letter, posted Goshen. This made Philo tremble until she realized that it must be from Mr. Killip.

  “The Slapes,” he wrote,

  are not to be found. No one saw them go, no one knows where they went. Hannah (Jepson, that was) is said to have relatives in Ohio and in Indiana, settled along the Wabash. I have sent their descriptions to the capitals of these states. But the West is a wild place, and I should be surprised if we ever heard of them again. On your mother’s behalf I have instituted proceedings for the recovery of Parrock Farm. This is a tedious process, but I may hope that something will come of it that will be beneficial to Richard’s rightful heirs.

  Your grandfather was buried on Monday, here in Goshen. Many of his friends were in attendance and testi­fied to his goodness. I visited Parrock Farm on Tuesday and discovered to my dismay that some pack of vandals had entered the place and taken away most that was of any value. I have arranged that the house be locked and sealed. The animals I have taken the liberty of selling to a neighboring farmer, and I herewith enclose a draught for the amount of $282. Had the horses not been stolen, the sum would have been more. The money by right belongs to the Slapes, I know, and they may come to me for its restoration. I would be very happy to see them. I trust that this money will be of service to you and your mother.

  Miss Philo, I must add a word of caution. You would do well not to return to this part of the state. Not all in Goshen and
Cape May Court House are of the opinion that the Slapes were the murderers of your grandfather. Some blame the servant girl. There was a suggestion that you be found and arrested, but fortunately your true iden­tity was never publicized. I was approached, for it was known that I drove you to the station, but I said merely that you had come to me for a position which I could not provide, and that you rode with me to Cape May Court House and took the cars for Philadelphia.

  Truly this business involves only unhappiness for us all. I would do you a disservice if I led you to hope that the Slapes will ever be brought to justice, or any substantial part of your fortune recovered. If I may be of assistance to you or your mother in anything, do not hesitate to write to,

  Y’r ob’d’t servant,

  Daniel Killip

  One of Philo’s schemes had been to move with her mother to Goshen to live at Parrock Farm, where at least they might raise their own food and perhaps, through the cultivation of the orchards or the livestock, even manage to make a little living. Philo took a grim satisfaction in Mr. Killip’s message. If there were no new avenues opened to her by it, at least there were a few definitely closed, so that in the end her choice would be just that much easier.

  This letter Philo did not show to her mother. Mary Drax, reading it, would seize only upon the slender hope that some of the money would be recovered by Mr. Killip through the courts, and that expectation, constantly put off, constantly dwindling, would kill her as outright disappointment would not.

  Likewise she planned to keep from her mother’s knowledge the funds that had been enclosed in the letter. Philo feared that Mary Drax, with even this little sum as their protection, would indefinitely put off the time when she must resume her work as a seamstress. Such a sum, in their straitened condition, was almost a fortune – though compared to the thirty thousand dollars they had lost to the Slapes, it was little enough. Two hun­dred eighty-two dollars would see them through almost eighteen months if it were managed properly.