"I—I did not call, Delphine," stammered Mrs. Ellison. "No, no, I did not call."
Silent as before, Delphine turned back. With swift intuition Miss Lady caught the conviction that some relationship existed between these two which she herself did not understand. A sudden sense of insecurity possessed her, mingled with the reflection that the master of the Big House was ignorant of what arrested drama was here going on under his own roof. If she dared but tell the master what she suspected—ah! then perhaps this comfortable landscape, which but lately she had found monotonous, might again enfold her sweetly and safely; and never again would she call it aught but satisfying. Yet every instinct told her that to the master of the Big House she could go no more. Thus she pondered, and as she pondered her panic fear increased to a blind terror, overwhelming every other emotion. But one resolve remained—as soon as might be, she must fly, and find a hiding spot unknown to any of those who had been her associates in this place which for a time she had called home.
CHAPTER XIII
JOHN DOE VERSUS Y.V.R.R.
There are but few of the humble who are untrustworthy. Continually we discover the great truth that faithfulness and loyalty are general human traits, nowhere more so than among those from whom they should not be expected; nowhere more so than among those who are debarred from hope. The great captains of industry so-called, themselves blown full of pride of circumstance, prate often of the inefficiencies of human cattle; yet continually the wonder remains that these same cattle continue to do that which their conscience tells them is right for them to do, and to do it for the sake of the doing. The lives of all of us are daily put in charge of beings entitled fully to an Iago-like hatred, who might hate for the very sake of hating; yet these are the faithful ones, who do right for the sake of its doing. When one of these forsakes his own creed—then it is that danger exists for all. It is the unfaithfulness of the humble which is the unusual, the fateful, the tremendous thing.
There was small active harm in the somewhat passive soul of John Eddring's assistant, William Carson, the large-handed young man who acted as clerk and stenographer and rendered more or less blundering service about the office. Perhaps there was more of curiosity than evil in his nature. It was curiosity in the first place which gave him personal knowledge of a certain list of judgment claims against the Y.V. railway, which the chief agent of that road had recently cautioned Eddring, division agent, to keep revised up to date and to hold close under cover as a matter of absolute secrecy. These things were more or less familiar to William Carson through his acquaintance with the correspondence of the office. This very injunction of secrecy inflamed his curiosity to the point of action. In the absence of his chief, he rummaged through the office papers until he unearthed these lists, and to these latter he gave a more careful scrutiny than he had accorded many other matters under his immediate charge. He figured up the totals of the unpaid claims, and the figures startled him. He reflected that so much money in one sum would represent very many things to him personally. This established, he reflected further that it was in the first place most unrighteous to withhold these sums from the lawful claimants, and in the second place, to withhold them from himself. He was sure that the company did not need, and ought not to have, this money. If only, thought William Carson, these judgments might be collected, and if only—but beyond this thought his brain was not shrewd enough to travel.
It needed a bolder mind, and this, as it chanced, was at hand, after the devil's fashion in such affairs. Henry Decherd had known Carson in the community where he had lived before his removal to the city. The two had since then met by chance now and again on the street or elsewhere. Once, when Eddring chanced to be out of town, they happened to meet and paused for a conversation longer than usual. There came a hint from Carson, a word of quick inquiry from Decherd, a flush of timorous guilt upon the face of the unfaithful humble one; and presently these two repaired to the office of the claim agent, locked the door behind them, and soon were absorbed in certain lines and columns of figures which had been prepared by Carson.
"This ain't for ten years, nor half of it," said the latter, at length. "But you can see it runs up to a good lot of money. Look here." Decherd gave a long whistle as he looked at the footings of the columns of figures.
"And they're all unpaid claims," he said. "Judgments from one end of the line to the other, it looks like. By Jove, it does seem that the road had to pay for about everything in the Delta, doesn't it?"
"Oh, it don't have to pay these things, don't you worry," said Carson. "It don't need no sympathy, this road don't. It will take care of itself, all right. These ain't claims that's going to be paid, but ones that ain't going to be paid. They're ones that's in judgment and can be collected; but the owners of these judgments don't seem to know their rights. They don't collect. Maybe they're dead or moved away, or maybe they've forgotten all about it, or maybe their lawyers haven't taken pains to tell them—you can't tell about all these things. Every big accident that happens on the road, there's a lot of judgments taken against the road; but they don't all get paid, as you see. That is one of the secrets of our business."