He read the paragraph again and again. The words seemed to burn into his brain. Here was a dispatch, evidently sent through the regular news channels, and no doubt appearing in every daily paper in the country, a despatch that branded him not only as a thief—the words suggested no question as to his guilt—but as a fugitive from justice and a bail jumper. It placed him in the light of a criminal, and Gardiner in that of a martyr. It was thrown broadcast to the world. He was beginning to learn the awful truth that publicity has more terrors than the penitentiary. If one could go to jail quietly, without any fuss, without any crowds, without cameras or photographs or reporters or newspapers, and return in the same way, it might be bearable. But this—this was worse than any sentence within the province of the Court. What would the public think? What would his friends think? What would she think? What could she think?
Burton sat and pondered, gazing down the long street and seeing only his own checkered career. Where would not this thing follow him? He had thought himself safe at McKay’s; he had fled from the farmer’s home like a frightened child from a whipping. He had thought to lose himself on a homestead; on the very threshold of his hew life the tale of his shame was thrust in his face. From somewhere a sentence came into his mind. “Be sure your sin will find you out.” But he had not sinned. That was the rub. He was innocent—yes, as innocent as the thoughtless correspondent who sent that despatch. But stay; does an innocent man jump his bail? Something seemed to say to Burton that at that moment an innocent man becomes a guilty one. And the load of his guilt seemed mounting up. He had left Gardiner to pay the price of his unfaithfulness. There was no evading that, although he had not thought of it in that light before. In the eyes of the world he was already a criminal. And yet to go back—what would that avail? Every evidence—every circumstance, was against him. To go back would simply be to have the Court confirm the sentence already passed by public opinion.
He gazed down the long street into the darkness. Presently a red light showed at the end, a trifle to the left, where it glowed in narrow streaks through the ranks of the telephone poles. It grew quickly in volume, and Burton at first thought it was a fire; but soon he knew it to be the rising moon. The scene stirred something in his memory; some vague recollection of the past. And then it burst upon him, and he saw again the sun setting through the stately elms at Crotton’s Crossing; the blood, and the bars. And then behind it all rose that quiet, thoughtful face which guarded the end of every avenue of his thought.
He put his head between his hands and wept.
A man who had sat down beside him, but after him, having arrived late that evening, straightened up and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Wot’s the matter, hold chap?” he asked in a low voice, that their sleeping neighbours might not hear. “Wot’s the matter? Got a pine, or somethink, or are you ’omesick?”
In the dim light Burton could not distinguish the face, but the voice he would have known anywhere.
“London!” he cried, as he threw his arms about the astonished boy and hugged him like a child.
Then were a few moments of golden silence; then a few words of explanation.
When they spoke of home Burton’s first question was for Miss Vane.