But Charlie’s mood had changed at the sound of the big man’s regrets. They had penetrated the mists of alcohol, and stirred a belated contrition.
“I don’t want any apologies from you, Bill,” he said thickly. “Guess I’m not worth it. You couldn’t spy on a soul. It’s not that——.” He broke off, and it became evident to the other that he was making a supreme effort at concentration. “You saw me at the pine?” he suddenly inquired.
Bill nodded. He had no desire to say anything more now. He felt sick with himself, with everything. He almost regretted his own coming to the valley at all. For a moment his optimism was utterly obscured. Added to what he now beheld, all that Kate Seton had said was revolving in his brain, an oppressive cloud depriving him of every joy the reunion with his brother had inspired. The two thoughts paramount, and all pervading, were suggested by the words “drunkard” and “crook.” Nor, in that moment of terrible disappointment, would they be denied.
Charlie sat down in his chair again, and, to the onlooker, his movement was almost involuntary.
“I was there,” he said, a moment later, passing one hand across his frowning brows as though to clear away the cobwebs impeding the machinery of his thought. “Why—why didn’t you come and speak to me? I was just—around.”
Again Bill’s eyes opened to their fullest extent.
“I hollered to you,” he said. “When you heard me you just—vanished.”
Again Charlie smoothed his brow.
“Yes—I’d forgotten. It was you hollered, eh! You see, I didn’t know it was you.”