Yet, after all, what was this poor human waif to these happier folk? So he asked himself as he sneaked away in the twilight which hid his departure.
Had Amy heard the question, she would have answered it promptly: "Much, Fayette. Everybody one knows is something to one's self."
But she did not even hear of his brief visit, for, having discovered his fresh defection, Cleena decided to keep the matter to herself.
It was getting quite late when Archibald Wingate drove away from "Charity House" toward Fairacres, and as he went he pondered of many things. Once or twice he fancied he saw a lurking shadow in the road, that was not due to either bush or tree which bordered it. But he thought little of the matter, so engrossed was he with the recollections of the evening.
"Queer, what a pleasant time I had. Yet we are all, practically, enemies. Each side feels that the other side has been at fault. Anyway, I seem to hear Salome saying: 'Judge not my children by the mistakes of their parents.' Nor will I; of that I am resolved. I'll give even that top-lofty lad, Hallam, a fair show, by and by. I must test him a little longer first, then I'll begin. That is, if he's made of the right stuff. As for Amy, she's a witch. She's wheedled the heart right out of me with her bright, unflinching, honest eyes. Talked to me about getting up a 'club' for the mill folks. 'The right sort of club, with books and pictures and everything helpful.' The saucebox! and she earning the mighty wage of two-fifty per week. Well, all in good course. I haven't toiled a lifetime to attain my object, then relinquish it without a little enjoyment of it; though, after all, possession isn't everything. The struggle was about as enjoyable as the result. But I succeeded! I am master of Fairacres, of Ardsley Mills, of half all Ardsley township. The old family is still on top. But, I'll buy Cuthbert's great picture and burn it up—sometime. Hmm. Wonder where that visionary Frederic Kaye is, of whose unpractical schemes I am reaping the benefit. Odd—buried himself in California, so to speak, and the only visible proofs that he had ever reached that happy land are a couple of braying burros.—Hello! hello, I say! Who's that? What's up?"
The shadow which had dogged the track of the mill owner's phaeton had suddenly become a reality. His horse was seized, forced backward, the horsewhip wrenched from its socket, and before he could defend himself Mr. Wingate's head and shoulders felt the cuts of the whip, delivered in swift and furious intensity.
"Hold on! hold—on! What—who—stop, stop, s-t-o-p! You're killing me! What's wanted? It's murder—murder!"
And again after another visitation of stripes, that awful cry of "mur-der!"
The word holds its own horror. No one can thus hear it shouted, in the stillness of the night, unmoved. It affected even the ferocious assailant of the lonely old man, and arrested his further blows.