Greater Love Hath No Man/Chapter 20
CHAPTER XX
DOCTOR KREELMAR'S "DREAM"
IT was late evening, in one of the small frame cottages, the home of one of the guard's, where Janet had been taken after the fire. A tall glass lamp, with a paper shade of many colours, stood on the red plush cloth of the parlour table. In one corner of the room was the organ; rockers and stiff wooden arm-chairs, each with its spotless white tidy, were ranged with military precision at strategic points upon the blue-and-white wool carpet; on the walls hung the crayon family portraits, interspersed with framed, coloured prints of Washington and the battles of Lexington and Bunker Hill.
On the horse-hair sofa, with its back of severe and uncompromising design, Janet Rand was busy with some needlework. She raised her head suddenly as the doorbell rang.
"You had better go, dad," she said. "Mrs. Woods has gone to bed, and it is probably for us anyway at this hour."
Warden Rand glanced at his watch.
"Why, it's already after ten!" he said in surprise. "I had no idea it was so late. It's time you were in bed, too." He laid his paper on the table, got up, and went out into the little hallway.
Listening, Janet heard the door opened, and as she caught the sound of a voice, rose quickly to her feet.
"Come in, doctor," she called brightly. "Come in."
"Comin'! Comin', young lady!" grunted the little man, appearing in the doorway. "Hum!"—he halted before her. "Going to leave us in the morning, eh? I came in to say good-bye. All the fol-de-rols and fiddle-de-dees and frill-de-rums packed up, eh?"
"What's left of them, doctor," she laughed. "But they all smell so frightfully of smoke that I don't expect any one to come near me for the rest of the summer. Yes; I am going in the morning."
"And there goes the sunlight out of Hebron," sighed the doctor dolorously, puckering up his face. "Same old story—lose your heart to some young scoundrel down there in Maine, that's what'll happen. Lord, if I were only thirty—hum-m—say, twenty years younger now!"
"Well," said Janet merrily, "you've some responsibility yourself to shoulder. You advised my going."
"Professionally, professionally," qualified the doctor; "and that's a very different thing, mind you." He plumped himself into a chair, as Janet resumed her place on the sofa and the warden, laughing, went back to his seat by the table. "How long are you going to let her stay, Rand?" he demanded.
"Well, I don't know," the warden smiled. "Long enough to miss her, though I intend to run down there myself for a few days later on if I can get away. I suppose she will stay until I can get the house habitable. I wouldn't want to impose on Mrs. Woods again—we've about turned her out of house and home as it is."
"Mrs. Woods is a fine woman, a fine woman—heart of gold—splendid wife—Woods is a lucky man," jerked out the doctor, a quaint mingling of despotic assertion and lingering resignation in his tones.
"I am sure there must be other women with—with hearts of gold," prodded Janet naïvely.
"So there are, so there are," retorted the little doctor quickly; "but they're all too young—or else they're married, and their husbands are confoundedly healthy!" He shook his finger at Janet, chuckled, and then edged his elbows interestedly forward on the arms of his chair. "By the way," he asked suddenly, "what's become of that chap Merton? I haven't seen him for quite a while. I should have thought he'd have been around after the fire, he must have heard of it—everybody's heard of it this side of Jordan, as near as I can make it out."
"Why," said Janet, "I thought I had told you. He has gone away and—"
"By Jove!" interposed the warden. "That reminds me. He was back to-day."
"Back?" inquired Janet, turning quickly to her father.
"Not here—over in Berley Falls," said the warden. "He telephoned me this afternoon. I forgot to speak of it. He asked after you and about the fire, and said he was exceedingly sorry he wouldn't have time to run over, but that he was only in Berley Falls for the afternoon. He has given up law, it seems, and is travelling for some business house—he said there was more money in it. His mother is very poorly, he said, and that is what brought him up here."
"Oh, I am so sorry!" said Janet, with quick sympathy. "What is the matter with Mrs. Merton? Did he say?"
"No; not exactly," replied the warden. "But I judged it was more a general breakdown than anything else. He appeared to be quite concerned about her."
"Hum!" remarked Doctor Kreelmar uncompromisingly. "Did he ask after Varge?"
"No; not that I remember," the warden answered. "No; I don't think he did."
"Knows he's got away, of course?" snapped the little doctor.
"I'm sure I don't know," said the warden. "Probably—if he reads the papers. Why?"
"Why, why?" echoed the tempestuous little man sharply. "God bless my soul, Rand, things have come to a pretty pass if a man has to have a reason for everything he says! I don't know why. Varge has been gone five days now, and perhaps I was wondering if we could count on Merton's prayers along with ours to make it fifty—years."
"Ours?"—the warden repeated the word mechanically. He had glanced down, and his fingers were beating a nervous, rustling little tattoo on the newspaper.
"Yes—ours!" said Doctor Kreelmar; biting off the word belligerently. "Janet's and mine, and most of all—yours. Duty's a high-flown, ennobling sort of word, but it's got the dangdest set of prickles hanging around it—worse'n a bunch of thistles. What's the punishment for a lifer that breaks prison? Can't keep him on a few extra years after he's dead, can you? But he has to be punished, doesn't he—in some other way. And what's he get, eh, what's he get?—you ought to know. Nice kettle of fish it would be, you putting the screws onto the man we've got to thank for this young lady's life here. I guess you've been holding your own end up on the prayers, Rand."
"Dad—what is it?"—Janet, watching her father intently, had risen suddenly from the sofa and come to the table.
A grave, serious, troubled look had spread over the genial, hearty features, as Warden Rand had raised his eyes and fixed them on the doctor. He turned now and patted the hand that Janet laid on his shoulder.
"Nothing, dear—nothing," he said. "I was thinking that Doctor Kreelmar was—right."
She shook her head reprovingly.
"You mustn't try to equivocate with me, dad," she said quietly. "I understand you too well for that, you know. Something has happened in reference to Varge. I can see it in your face. What is it?"
Doctor Kreelmar hitched forward a little in his chair, and squinted at the warden.
"State superintendent getting a trifle ahead of the Fourth with his fireworks? Kind of riled up over the escape, eh?"
"No," said the warden, shaking his head. "He's not making any fuss about it."
"Dad," insisted Janet, "you know it is perfectly useless to try and hide anything—I shall only keep on coaxing until I get it out of you. So now—what is it?"
Warden Rand regarded her soberly for a moment.
"Yes; I suppose you will," he said, with a grave, tolerant smile. "I hadn't meant you to know until after you came back. Kreelmar, here, has kind of stirred up something that I've been trying not to think about." He looked down at the paper again, and with a sudden, impulsive movement pushed it away from him. "Varge has been caught," he said abruptly.
"Oh, dad!"—it was a quick, hurt little cry from Janet, as she stared at her father.
"Eh? What? Caught!" gasped the little doctor helplessly. He fumbled for his handkerchief, and after two vain efforts to get it out of his pocket finally jerked it forth savagely and began to mop at his face. "Caught, caught, caught!" he snapped out. "Now, how in he—hum'm'm—how in thunder did that happen?"
"As it generally happens sooner or later," said the warden monotonously. He got up from his chair and began to pace the room. "They think they're safe once they're out of sight of the walls and a guard's uniform. I'll admit that personally, not officially, it would have been a relief to me if Varge, once he had started, had shown more sense. They caught him this morning across the border. I sent Willets up to identify him and bring him back."
"Caught him—where?" inquired the little doctor, and the operations with the handkerchief ceased abruptly.
"Across the Canadian line," said the warden.
"Hum!" said the little man, settling comfortably back in his chair again.
Janet crossed the room impulsively to her father's side.
"Oh, dad," she burst out, her voice quivering, "I wish with all my heart he had got away. He shouldn't be here anyway—I'm sure of that. And it's true, as Doctor Kreelmar says, that he saved my life. What will you do? Will you have to—to punish him as other men have been punished when they were brought back? Dad, dear"—pleadingly, as the warden with a set face turned suddenly away—"I know I am making it harder for you, and that you have your duty to do, but—but isn't there—can't what he has done be made to count in his favour?"
"I don't know—yes, dear; we'll see," said the warden, with a worried look.
"Fuss and feathers!" announced the little doctor, suddenly screwing around in his chair to eye them both. "Fuss and feathers!" he sniffed.
Janet stared at him, surprised and hurt. The warden frowned, and took a step toward him.
"What do you mean by that, Kreelmar?" he questioned irritably. "A moment ago you took pains to explain what you called the nice kettle of fish I would be in if Varge were caught, and now—"
"So I did, so I did!" asserted the doctor tartly. "And I do yet—but you'd better wait till you get Varge, what?"
"Didn't I just tell you that we've got him?" said the warden querulously.
"How do you know you have?" inquired Doctor Kreelmar, crossing his legs with exasperating deliberation.
"How do I know!" ejaculated the warden. "Why, they wired that they had him and the description tallied with Varge's."
"Never heard of a police description that wouldn't fit at least a hundred men," asserted Doctor Kreelmar composedly. "A dozen stray hoboes all around the country get free board and lodging every time there's one sent out. I'll bet you a cookie—I'll bet you two cookies they haven't got Varge."
Warden Rand eyed the doctor for a moment impatiently.
"You veer around like a weather-cock," he said gruffly. "There is no doubt in my mind but that it is Varge."
"Oh, well," said the doctor airily, "of course, if you've made up your mind, why—"
"I have," said the warden crisply.
"Yes," said the little doctor thoughtfully; "seems as if you had—and you don't like the prospect. Makes me think of a man I knew once just after I'd graduated and was on the hospital staff. He was scared stiff he was going to have cancer. All his people had had it on both sides of the house. He used to come around to the hospital regular as clockwork every week for an examination to see if it had developed, and meantimes he must have gone through a ton of drugs as a preventative. He died while I was house surgeon there."
"Well?" inquired the warden tersely.
"He was run over by a railroad train," said the little man complacently.
For an instant the warden scowled, then he laughed; but, as he sat down at the table again and leaned across it toward Doctor Kreelmar, a puzzled frown crept back to his forehead.
"Look here, Kreelmar," he insisted brusquely, "what makes you so sure this isn't Varge all of a sudden?"
"Nothin'; nothin' in the world," said Doctor Kreelmar, clipping off his words. But I'd hate like Sam Hill to think it was, and there's been enough mistakes made in similar cases, when you come to think of them, to stir up the perky feeling I'm hankering for, so I'm indulging it—guess that's about all there is to it."
With a grunt, that embodied both tolerant contempt and a sense of disappointment. Warden Rand picked up his pipe from the table and began to pack the dottle down into the bowl with agitated jabs of his forefinger.
Doctor Kreelmar watched the process for a moment with quizzical contentment; then he looked over at Janet, and his face puckered suddenly. He began to hum under his breath, beating time with his fingers on the arm of his chair. She had gone back to the sofa, picked up her work and was toying with it listlessly, distrait and thoughtful.
"Hum!" said the little man abruptly. "Convalescents who have to get up very early in the morning with a journey ahead of them should be in bed." He turned to the warden, who since the fire had been sleeping in the penitentiary office. "I've got to see that typhoid case at the prison. Rand; and I'll walk up with you, if you're ready to go."
Warden Rand got up from his chair. "Yes," he said. "All right. Yes; I suppose you should be in bed, Janet." He crossed to her and kissed her. "Good-night, dear"—he pinched her cheek tenderly. "This mustn't spoil my little girl's sleep, you know."
"I'll try not to let it," she answered. "Good-night, dad." Then, holding out her hand to Doctor Kreelmar: "Good-night and good-bye, doctor. You'll look after dad while I'm away, won't you?" she smiled.
"Hum!" said Doctor Kreelmar, in his most medical tones. "I've just a few words of advice for you, professional of course, before you go." He looked toward the warden. "Start along, Rand; I'll catch up with you in a minute. Now, young lady, you are going away for a complete change and rest to build yourself up and"—he glanced over his shoulder—Warden Rand was disappearing through the door into the hallway—"and"—the professional tones vanished like magic, and his voice bubbled up like an excited boy's—"don't you worry that little head of yours one minute over what we've been talking about. The man they've caught isn't Varge."
She looked at him startled, gave a little gasp and caught his arm.
"How do you know?" she asked breathlessly.
"Tut, tut," said he. "Can a woman keep a secret?"
"Yes; oh, yes!" she cried eagerly.
"Hum!" he commented dubiously, cocking his head comically to one side.
"Doctor—what is it?"—she shook his arm feverishly.
"Well," he said, "I had a dream."
"A dream?"—her face fell.
"Yes," he said. "I dreamed that Varge—had gone the other way." His eyes held hers for an instant, then, with a little chuckle, he bade her good-bye and started quickly toward the door.
"Doctor!" she called peremptorily. "Doctor—"
But the front door had already closed behind him.
For a moment Janet stood staring at the doorway, then mechanically she walked to the chair her father had occupied, sat down and rested her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands.
"The man they've caught isn't Varge, the man they've caught isn't Varge"—the phrase repeated itself over and over in her mind. There was no mistaking that last look of Doctor Kreelmar's—Doctor Kreelmar knew. How? Had he seen Varge? Where? When? What did it mean?
A flush of colour mounted to her cheeks—relief, gladness, almost incredible in its intensity, possessed her—"the man they've caught isn't Varge, the man they've caught isn't Varge"—the phrase seemed to cling as a priceless thought. The splendid figure in all its wondrous strength, its vigour of fine, young manhood, in all its simple, unaffected heroism, the same heroism that intuitively she knew had led him to accept the hideous prison stripes, the living death, rose before her, sharp-outlined in every detail as she had seen him through the lifting layers of smoke, making his perilous way along the peak of the burning house, carrying another to life and safety—as afterward, at far greater risk to himself, he had won his way to her, and carried her to life and safety.
It seemed so long ago since that afternoon when she had decided to go away—she was still going away, it was true, but for another reason—her health, because the house was burnt and there was really no place in the village for her to stay—there was no need to go for anything else now—Varge had gone himself. It was only a few days back to that afternoon, but it seemed a long, long time since that passage in the book had come so suddenly to startle and frighten her, and when in panic she had tried to drive it, and the thoughts it conjured up, from her. The flush upon her cheek grew deeper—why was it that these thoughts, though they had come again unbidden, did not terrify her now? Was it because Varge was gone, because their lives were as utterly apart now as though one or both were dead, because she would never see him again; or was it that these last few days in which so much had happened, in which even her life was owed to his courage, his bravery, his strength, had wrought a change in her that was to be for all the years to come—a change that brought this strange new gladness, and this pain that was full of yearning, full of sadness? Was it—that? Had she come—to care?
She lifted her head from her hands, the red sweeping in waves over her neck and cheeks, a wild beating of her heart that would not still—the room seemed to swim before her eyes. For a long time she sat there rigidly; then her chin fell slowly to her hands again.
It was very late that night when the light in Mrs. Woods' little parlour went out.