At the mention of his mother the young man’s lip quivered. He hid his face in his hat that he held in his hand, and Camperdown, withdrawing to a little distance, saw a hand uplifted to the quiet sky, and heard the muttered, “So help me, God.”
Stargarde caught the attesting hand in her own. “May God bless you, Charlie; let us go a little way with you. You have made me so happy.”
Side by side the three people went quietly to a house in the northern part of the town. As they stopped before the door, Stargarde said: “You will come to see me to-morrow evening and bring your sister, will you not?”
“Yes, I will,” and the voice had a new ring of truth and cheerfulness in it.
The distinct tones reached the ears of a woman in a widow’s cap who knelt by an open window above. With dry eyes from which all tears had long since been shed, she strained her gaze after Stargarde and her husband, and when they had vanished she threw herself on the floor, and with a sob of thankfulness prayed for the best of blessings on their married life.
Not a word was spoken between them till they reached the parade in the center of the town. There, in the shadow of the City Hall, Camperdown eyed one of the benches on the grass and guided Stargarde’s footsteps to it. “You are tired,” he said. “Let us rest a bit.”
In three minutes she was sound asleep with her head on his shoulder. Camperdown drew the shawl more closely about her, then sat thinking, not at all of the historic spot that they were on, with its old-time memories of feux de joie and drilling of troops, nor of the lords and the ladies of ancient days whose fair faces used to brighten the old stone building that stood on the site of the present City Hall, nor of the terrible year of 1834 when the parade was dotted with tar barrels sending forth volumes of smoke to purge the air from the trail of the cholera demon. Neither did his thoughts wander to the old parish church across the street whose frame was brought from Boston in the year 1750, and whose timbers, if they could talk, would tell many a tale of gay weddings, and pompous buryings of gallant soldiers, whose bones now lie mouldering beneath its aisles. No, he thought only of the woman by his side, of her incomparable worth and goodness, of the little claim that he could put forth to deserve so great a treasure, until a shadow, falling across her face, caused him to look up.
A policeman, who had been observing them at a distance, had at last drawn near.
“Evening, policeman,” said Camperdown. “Situation is peculiar, but can explain. I’m not a tramp, and I think you know my wife.”
“Know her,” said the man lifting his helmet from his head, “I have cause to know her, sir.”