Читать книгу Fighting Stars - H. A. Cody - Страница 4
ОглавлениеWHAT HE DISCOVERED
After several weeks of pleasant traveling Charles Stanfield and William Radcliffe reached the little town of Radnor, and put up at the only hotel the place contained. It was evening, and after supper the two men sat and smoked under a big horse chestnut tree near the building. The sun was still shining brightly, and not a breath of wind ruffled the surface of the Saint John River but a short distance away.
"This is worth coming a long way to see," Radcliffe remarked, as his eyes wandered out over the water. "This is the climax of all the wonderful scenes we have beheld since we left home."
"I am glad that you have confessed at last," Stanfield replied. "You know now that I was not exaggerating when I told you about the beauty of these provinces down by the sea."
"The half was not told me, Charles. I shall never doubt your word after this."
"My name is Daniel now, remember. I am entered in the hotel register as 'Daniel Doncaster,' so please bear that in mind. It is here where I am to begin my inquiries about my nieces and nephews, so we must be careful."
"So this is where your sister lived?"
"It is one of the places, and here she died, so I believe. I am anxious to find out as much as possible, so I shall have an interview with the hotel keeper. He seems like an agreeable man, and should be able to give me some useful information."
"And I am anxious to get out into the fields, Charles. Oh, excuse me, I mean Daniel. Confound it! I am going to find it hard to remember that every time I speak to you."
Both men laughed heartily as they separated, one to his beloved flowers; the other to begin his family search.
Stanfield found the hotel keeper in his office sorting out some mail which had come for his guests.
"You have many visitors here during the summer, I see," Stanfield began as he looked down upon the guest-book lying upon the desk.
"Yes, this is our busy time," was the reply. "I have no end of trouble with letters, though. Now, here are three for a man who left town yesterday, and I have no idea where to send them."
"You have lived here for some time, I suppose."
"Most of my life. I was born just a few miles away."
"It is certainly a beautiful spot."
"You were never here before?"
"No. But I have heard much about it. I knew a man many years ago who lived somewhere near here. His name was Rivers. Perhaps you have heard of him."
"Oh, John Rivers. Yes, knew him well, poor fellow. I helped to lay him out after he was drowned. It is generally believed that he committed suicide, although it could not be proved."
"What was the trouble?"
"Oh, he got mixed up in some affair in the city, lost what money he had and his position as well. He became depressed when he failed to get another job. He was a hard worker, and honest as the sun. I have the opinion that he was made the scapegoat while others got off free. But you can't make people around here believe that."
"Any of his family living here?" Stanfield asked as indifferently as possible.
"None now. His wife died several years ago, and I hardly know where his two daughters are. One is a school teacher somewhere, and the other is in the States."
"Married?"
"Guess not. It might be better if she were."
"Why?"
"Oh, I can't very well explain. Those two sisters were not one bit alike. Nita, the school teacher, was steady as clock-work, and stood by her mother to the last. But Ruth was flighty, wanted to get away from home and make a name for herself. She's been following the Stage, so I understand, and that doesn't sound good to us here."
"There were no other children?"
"No, just the two girls. And, my! they were handsome, pretty as pictures, and as independent as if they owned the world. People said they were too independent. But I guess they came by it naturally, for their mother was that kind. Why, when she was left with those two girls on her hands she wouldn't take a cent in charity, but went right to work."
"What did she do?"
"Anything that she could find that was honest. For some time she took in washing, and did scrubbing and housecleaning as well. She did most of the scrubbing here until her health failed. Then she did sewing until a short time before her death. She was a remarkable woman and all respected her very highly."
Stanfield hardly heard these last words, for he had turned away his face lest he should betray his emotion. He looked absently through the office window out upon the river. Something, almost like fire, was shooting through his brain, causing the perspiration to stand out in beads upon his forehead. He had been totally unprepared for such news as this. So his only sister had been struggling for years like that—scrubbing and taking in washing until her health had failed! And then sewing until a short time before her death! And while she was doing all this he had been piling up money just for his own selfish interest! He had been traveling and living in luxury while she had been grubbing from day to day in her effort to provide for herself and daughters! But what had the girls been doing? Did the mother work herself to death for them? He hesitated a little ere asking this question. What would the answer be? Would it prove them to be unworthy of any effort on his part?
"And what were the daughters doing all this time?" he at length asked in a low voice.
"Oh, Ruth worked in the city when she got old enough, trying to earn her own living. But when she could do little there she became discouraged and went to the States, as I told you. But Nita stayed at home, and did all that she could, looking after the garden and the chickens, and sewing her fingers off. She stuck right by her mother to the very last."
"And what then?" Stanfield almost whispered the words.
"Sold the house and put herself through Normal School. She had hard scraping, though she managed to do it somehow. I bought the house, thinking it might be a good bargain, but I have it still on my hands."
"How much do you want for it?" Stanfield asked.
"Anything that I can get for it now, although I was asking two thousand."
"I'll take it."
The hotel keeper looked quickly up, startled and amazed.
"You want to buy that house, sir?"
"I do. Have the deed made out as soon as possible, not to that name," motioning to the register, "but to this," and he handed him his business-card. "Please keep my name a secret for a time, at least. Stanfield means nothing to you, nor to any one in Radnor. But for the present I wish to be known only as 'Daniel Doncaster.'"
It was an unheard of thing for Stanfield to act in such an impulsive manner. In every step of his business career he had thought out most carefully the smallest detail. But now he was about to buy a house on the spur of the moment, with not the slightest idea as to what the building was like. What he would do with the property he did not know. Neither did he care. He only knew that the house in which his sister had died appealed to him most strongly. He could do nothing for her now, but he could keep the house from going to strangers, and he would do what he could for her children. In that way he might be able to make some atonement for his neglect.
"Have you the key to the house?" he asked the hotel keeper. "I wish to have a look at the building. Is it far from here?"
"Only a short distance," was the reply. "I will show you the way as I am not very busy just now."
It took them but ten minutes to pass from the hotel to the end of the narrow sidewalk, and a few minutes more brought them to a little cottage standing a short distance from the street.
"This is the place," the hotel keeper explained, as he unlatched a small gate and pushed it open. "It's been neglected so long that it's in a pretty bad shape."
Stanfield made no reply but walked slowly up to the front door. A few flowers were visible, struggling bravely up through a jungle of weeds. Large shady trees surrounded the building, the only things of any apparent value there. The house was dilapidated, gray and weather-beaten, with many of the clapboards falling off. Panes of glass had been broken out, and the porch was in ruins. The interior was in a worse condition. The wall paper was hanging in strips, and in several places large pieces of plaster had fallen from the ceiling. Stanfield gazed ruefully around.
"So this is where the Rivers lived, eh?" he queried. "My! what a mess. And this is what I am about to buy."
"Five years have made a great difference sir," his guide replied. "It was quite neat at the time of Mrs. Rivers' death. That's the room right in there where she breathed her last," and he pointed to a small bedroom on the right.
A slight sigh escaped Stanfield's lips as he walked to the door and looked in. He found it difficult to control his feelings.
"I wish to stay here a while and look around," he said. "Thank you for showing me the way. You might as well leave me the key so I can lock up."
The hotel keeper left, wondering what could be the stranger's special interest in the old house. Perhaps the man wanted to repair it and use it for a summer dwelling. Anyway, he was glad at the prospect of getting the place off his hands, and making a good profit. He had paid only six hundred dollars for it in the first place when it was in a fairly good condition. He wished that he had asked three thousand instead of two, for he believed he would have received it.
Stanfield waited until he was sure that the hotel keeper had left the building. He then stepped into the little room where his sister had died. It, too, was much dilapidated, and rat holes were to be seen under the baseboards. The only window the room contained looked out upon the back yard. Most of the panes were broken and the glass was lying upon the floor. Stanfield removed his hat and stood with uncovered head in that room which had become so sacred to him. His brain was very active, and the expression in his eyes told something of the depth of his emotion.
"And so this is where Marion died!" he exclaimed. "Oh, why didn't I come sooner!"
The sound of his own voice startled him, so strangely hollow did it seem in that silent house. He glanced around to be sure that no one was listening. Then, under the impulse of his remorse, he sank to his knees upon the dirty floor and buried his face in his hands.
"Forgive me, Marion," he moaned. "I can never forgive myself for my neglect. I am not worthy to be called a man for leaving you to fight your battle alone. How much I might have done to help you."
For several minutes he remained kneeling there, and when he at last rose slowly to his feet, he stood in the middle of the room with bowed head and tears streaming down his cheeks. The thoughts that passed through his mind were known only to himself, but when he at length lifted his head and wiped away his tears there was an expression of determination in his eyes well known to men in the business world. But it was not of money Charles Stanfield was thinking now, nor how he could get the best deal in some big transaction.
Ten minutes later when he left the house and walked slowly along the street in the direction of the hotel he was a man who had seen a vision, and whose soul had been deeply stirred by a sense of higher things.
