The Terms of Surrender Part 27

"May I see that letter?" said Dacre.

"Yes. Here it is."

The older man read and reread Nancy's sorrow-laden words.

"She tells you her poor heart is breaking--I believe her--in every syllable," he said.

"Believe her--when she prates of duty--to Marten?"

"I don't profess to understand, yet I believe. I do, on my soul!"

Power's face grew dark with a grim humor that was more tragic than misery. "Am I to follow--by the next steamer?" he demanded.

"No. She will come back--send for you. The present deadlock cannot last."

Again Power showed his disbelief by a scornful grimace. "I am so deeply beholden to your friends.h.i.+p that I claim the privilege of saying that you are talking nonsense," he said. "She vowed the fidelity to me which I gave unreservedly to her; but what sort of inconstant ideal inspired her faith, that it should be shattered to atoms by the first real test?

Could I ever trust her again? If it were possible, which it is not, that some new whim drove her back to America, am I a toy dog to be whistled to heel as soon as her woman's caprice dictates? To please her father, she married Marten; to placate her father, she has gone back to Marten; to gratify some feminine impulse, she flung herself in my arms; when impulse, or duty as she calls it, again overcomes reason, she may summon her obedient slave once more. Would I run to her call? I don't know. My G.o.d! I don't know."

"I'm sure you don't," was the quiet response; "nor do you know how unjust you are being to her, leaving me out of the question altogether.

You are like a dismasted s.h.i.+p in a storm, driven this way and that by every cross sea, yet drifting hopelessly nearer a rock-bound coast. Yet men have saved their lives even in such desperate conditions. At the worst, short of death, they have scrambled ash.o.r.e, bruised and maimed, but living. Now, I ask you to suspend judgment for a few days, or weeks.

Enlightenment may come--it _must_ come--perhaps from a source you little dream of now. Suppose I practise what I preach, and talk of something else. I think I have whipped you out of a lethargy that was harmful, and, in so far, have done you good. But I'm not here to discuss problems of psychology which are insoluble--for the present, at any rate. Tell me something of your property, of the mine, of Bison. What delightful character-types you picked up in MacGonigal and that picturesque-looking cowboy. And how did the latter gentleman lose the thumb off his left hand? Was it a mere accident? I hope not. I rather expect to hear a page out of the real history of the wild and woolly West."

Power was slightly ashamed of his outburst already. "You make me feel myself a blatant misanthropist," he said contritely. "I had no right to blaze out at you in that way. But, now you are here, you shall not escape so easily. Again, and most heartily, I thank you for coming. I realize now that what I wanted more than anything else in the world was some sympathetic ear into which to pour my griefs. Ordinarily, I am not that sort of man. I prefer to endure the minor ills of life in silence.

But I have been slammed so hard this time that self-control became a torture. I think I reached the full extent of my resources when I stood by my mother's open grave today, and saw her name on the coffin. I wanted to tear my heart out with my own hands. For a few seconds I was actually insane."

"MacGonigal told me how terribly shaken you were. He said you would have fallen if he had not held you up."

"Ah, was that it? I suppose I nearly fainted. Some nerve in my brain seemed to snap. Perhaps that is why I am talking at random now."

Not all Dacre's tact could stop the imminent recital of events since their last meeting. Yet, curiously enough, Power seemed to grow calmer, more even-minded, as he told of his idyl and its dramatic close. By the time they had reached the house again he had recast his views as to Nancy's desertion of him. During some few days thereafter Fate ceased her outrageous attacks, and he was vouchsafed a measure of peace.

The next blow came from an unexpected hand. Mrs. Moore and her daughters were about to leave Bison for their home in San Francisco. All preparations were made, and their baggage was piled on the veranda ready for transport to the station, when the good lady who had proved such a stanch friend in an emergency called Power into the library. He noticed that she was carrying a small package, wrapped in a piece of linen, and tied with white ribbon.

"Derry," she said, "I have one sad duty to perform before I go."

He winced slightly. He was beginning to hate that word "duty." The very sound of it was ominous, full of foreboding.

"It is nothing to cause you any real sorrow," she went on, thinking he had misinterpreted her words. "Just before your dear mother's death she gave me to understand that I was to take charge of a bundle of letters which she kept under her pillow. They were meant for you, I suppose; but unfortunately I could not make out her wishes. Anyhow, here they are.

You are the one person in the world who can decide whether or not they should be destroyed. I put them in a locked box, and would have given them to you sooner, but----" She hesitated, seemingly at a loss for a word.

"But I was acting like a lunatic, and you were afraid of the consequences," he said, with a pleasant smile.

"Well, I have never seen any man so hard hit," she admitted. "Mr.

Dacre's arrival was a perfect G.o.dsend, for you and all of us; so I thought it best to keep these letters longer than I had planned at first, though I am sure there is nothing in them to cause you any distress. Indeed, I have an idea that they are mostly your own correspondence, sent from New York and elsewhere, because I saw your handwriting on an envelop, and a postmark. You are not vexed with me for retaining them until today?"

Power rea.s.sured her on that point. He placed the packet, just as it was, in a drawer of a writing-desk, and did not open it until he had returned from the station after escorting the women to their train.

Dacre had strolled to the outbuildings to inspect a reaping-machine of new design which had been procured for harvesting work; so the room was otherwise untenanted when the son began to examine his mother's last bequest. At first it seemed as if Mrs. Moore's surmise was correct. The first few letters he glanced at were those he had despatched from New York and Newport. Then he came upon others posted at Racket, and a twinge of remorse shook him when he recalled the subterfuges and evasions they contained. Still it had been impossible to set forth the truth, and there was a crumb of comfort in the fact that he had written nothing untrue.

He was so disturbed by the painful memories evoked by each date that he was on the verge of tying the bundle together again when his eye was caught by one letter in a strange handwriting. The postmark showed that it hailed from New York, and the date was a curious one, being exactly six days after he and Nancy went from Newport.

Instantly he was aware of a strong impulse to burn that particular letter forthwith. Perhaps some psychic influence made itself felt in that instant. Perhaps a gentle and loving spirit reached from beyond the veil, and made one last effort to secure the fulfilment of a desire balked by the cruel urgency of death. But the forces of evil prevailed, and Power withdrew the written sheet from its covering.

And this is what he read:

"Madam.--Your son, John Darien Power, has probably represented to you that he is detained in the East by certain horse-dealing transactions. That is a lie. He has gone off with another man's wife. But his punishment will be swift and sure. He cannot escape it. Its nature will depend on the decision arrived at by the woman he has wronged. I am telling you the facts so that you may be in a position to form a just judgment, whether or not you ever see him again. Keep this letter; although it is unsigned. If circ.u.mstances require its production, the writer will not s.h.i.+rk responsibility for either its statements or its threats."

Dacre came in nearly an hour later. After witnessing an exhibition of the new reaper, he had gone with Jake to admire some of Power's recent purchases in horse-flesh, and the time pa.s.sed rapidly. When he entered the room, he found his friend sitting in the shadows.

"h.e.l.lo!" he cried. "I didn't know you had returned. I've been vetting those black Russians you bought at Newport. What a pair for a tandem!"

"Did Dr. Stearn ever tell you the exact cause of my mother's death?" was the curiously inappropriate reply, uttered in a low tone.

"Y-yes; acute ulcerative endocarditis was the actual cause. But why in the world do you ask such a question now?"

"Because our worthy doctor was mistaken. I alone know why she died. I killed her. You recollect I said as much to you the day you arrived."

"I wish to goodness you would cease talking, or even thinking, such arrant rubbis.h.!.+"

"Nothing could be so certain. Willard wrote and told her I had taken Nancy away from Marten. Willard struck the blow; but I forged the weapon. My mother lay dying while I was philandering with another man's wife. Poor soul! She tried to have the letter destroyed--to spare me, no doubt--but the dagger I placed in Willard's hand had pierced so deep that she died with the words of forgiveness on her lips. No, you need not worry unduly, Dacre; though I have no right to harrow your feelings in this way. I shall not antic.i.p.ate the decree of Providence by self-murder. My worst chastis.e.m.e.nt now is to live, knowing that I killed my mother."

"What d.a.m.ned rot!" broke out Dacre furiously.

Power rose, went to his friend, and put a hand on his shoulder. He smiled, with an odd semblance of content.

"You're a good chap," he said, "but a poor actor. You know I am right.

You wouldn't stand in my shoes for all the gold in the Indies; 'for what doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?'

I've lost mine. I must try and find it again. Don't you see? That is my only chance. Good G.o.d! If there is another and a better life hereafter, I cannot meet my mother and tell her that I valued my wretched husk of a body so greatly that I made no search for the soul I flung away. I've thought it all out. The road is open and marked with signposts. A man without a soul can surely afford to risk his body. Come! It is growing dark, and this room will soon be peopled with ghosts. Let's walk in the fresh, cool air, and I'll explain myself clearly."

CHAPTER XIII

THE BEGINNING OF THE PILGRIMAGE

At first none save Dacre knew what was going on. To MacGonigal and Jake it seemed that Power was merely seeking distraction by putting his affairs in order, and they regarded such healing activity with joy.

People in Bison, too, were delighted by the change in his habits. The man who used to leave to his mother everything connected with the social well-being of the town now gave these matters his close interest, and inquired thoroughly into the philanthropic schemes to which she had devoted so much time and almost unstinted means; incidentally, he contrived to puzzle Dr. Stearn.

One day, when in Denver on business, he called at the doctor's house.

"I want you to clear up a point that is bothering me," he said. "Suppose nothing unusual had occurred to hasten my mother's death, how long would she have lived?"

"Nothing unusual did occur," insisted Stearn.

"Ah! I have expressed myself awkwardly. How long, then, under the most favorable conditions, could she have lived?"