"You are hot-headed like the mob up at Cranston," John broke in, and then made an apparent effort to proceed calmly. He took out his pipe and began to knock its bowl against the heel of his shoe to prepare it for a refilling. His nonchalant shrug was that of a thwarted school-boy. His smile was little more than a grimace which the darkness further distorted. "You are 'kicking against the pricks.' What is to be has to be, and if you oppose it you get the worst of it. Besides, you are an old fogy, Sam—you are out of date, moth-eaten. You have got some sort of a Romeo love idea in your head. You are trying to make yourself believe that—that Tilly will be unhappy the rest of her life if—if the old man wins. Shucks! I know women. How long does a young widow wear black these days? Old Whaley is right. That Cranston judge is right, the sheriff, and all the damned mob, too. If death will free a woman from a long life with a drunkard, the Cranston court can free one from—well, from what I pulled Tilly into. No, sir, Sam. I am not the man for her. I can't give her enough of what she ought to have. She deserves respectability, recognition as a lady in this or any other town. It is a good thing that it happened so soon. It will blow over all the quicker. She will—she will feel bad for a while, maybe, but time heals all wounds. Now go home to your wife, Sam. She is not well, and—"
Cavanaugh stood up. "Yes, I'll go," he faltered, "but I'm going to talk to Fisher and Black in the morning."
"Don't do it, Sam." John was smoking now. "I refuse to fight this case before the public. It is bad enough as it is without forcing my poor little—without forcing Tilly to hear more of it. She is too young and sensitive to go through it, and I won't let her. If I don't appear it will go through quietly. I know— I heard of a case like that. The judge picked a time when just a few people were present, and it was over right away."
"John, are you in earnest?" Cavanaugh asked, at the end of his resources, and he shambled out to the porch.
John followed and stood at his side. "I am, Sam; in fact, I insist on it. I know Tilly's rights and she shall have them. I owe her a million apologies. I'm doing all I can do. I wish I could do more. The time will come, Sam, when she will—will not want to think of me. She will do her best to forget me and all the rest of the awful mess."
"Hush, hush! I'll see you in the morning, after I've slept on it," Cavanaugh said, from the gate. "I don't see how I can give in to you, my boy. You and Tilly were too happy for it to end like this."
CHAPTER XXXII
When the contractor was out of sight John sank limply into a chair on the porch. The part he had played against his emotions had told on him. Not the hardest day of physical toil could have so wrought upon his nerves. Cavanaugh's steady tread was dying out in the distance. Afar off a dog was baying. Suddenly, across the street against a scraggy growth of sassafras-bushes, he saw something white moving. He thought that it might be a dog, a sheep, or a calf. It moved again. It was coming toward him. It approached the gate. It was Dora, and she timidly raised the latch and crept into the yard.
"Don't get mad, brother John," she pleaded. "I saw him come. I was hidden over there in the bushes. I couldn't go to sleep to save my life. I tried."