"I thought so," Cavanaugh continued. "So you see, when the list of the lost was printed, and your name and Dora's, and your age and hers, and the town you was from, was given, the question come to me, who was it that reported them things so accurate after that awful disaster? You wouldn't have been handing your name and the child's about amongst strangers on the train before the accident, and if your bodies was burned up, all your belongings, papers, and the like would have been destroyed, and— Well, you see what I mean?"
John started and stared steadily. "I see it now, Sam, but I never thought of it before. I suppose everybody else overlooked that point but you."
"Yes, I'm the only one," Cavanaugh answered. "Well, John, after that, instead of being dead to me, somehow you got alive again. I don't want to talk like a sniffling old woman, John, for you are older now, but I loved you like a son, and the hope that you was alive and doing well up here made me powerful happy. You see, until your trouble come like a clap of thunder, I was almost living for you and your interests. I wanted us to establish a business between us that you could carry on after me and my old lady was gone, so, when I began to tote about the idea of you not being dead, I could think of nothing else, till—well, till I come here and found your name in the directory. You were the only John Trott in it, and was a contractor, and I knew I'd run you to your hole."
"I'm glad you did, Sam," John answered. "I've always wanted to see you again, but didn't know how to bring it about with absolute safety to my plans. I'd cut out the whole thing down there, and it seemed best to forget it—best for me and for Dora. She was so young when she was down there that she has almost forgotten the worst features of it—about—about her aunt and other things, I mean."
"I was going to inquire about her," Cavanaugh said. "Is she well and all right?"
John explained briefly, and heard his old friend sighing. "And so you are all alone now, not married—no one with you at all."
John nodded. "Oh, I'm all right. I'm 'neither sugar nor salt,'" he quoted an old saying. "Don't worry about me, Sam. I'll get along some way or other."
There was silence between the two for a few minutes. It was as if the old man were wondering what further information he might be at liberty to give pertaining to the past. Presently he cleared his throat and said:
"Your ma is still alive, John. Jane Holder is dead. Lots and lots of things that you don't know about have happened down home since you left. As soon as Jane Holder died your ma quit living in that old house. She pulled up stakes and drifted about some. She stayed awhile in Atlanta, then in Nashville, and finally came back to our town and moved out in the country. She was—was befriended—a nice woman and her husband sort of—well, I suppose they sort of took pity on her, and—"
"Stop, Sam!" John's face was dark and twisted from inner agony. "Please don't mention her. For Dora's sake I've been trying to think of her as never having actually existed. I don't blame her, you understand. She is living her life and I'm living mine. I don't blame people for their natures or characteristics. Such things come at birth. My father was one thing—she was another. But I've fought down my past, torn it out like an unwholesome dream. I may be mistaken, Sam, but it seems to me that I ought not to talk about all that now. I've fought to acquire a new life, and to some extent I have won it. What lies before me I don't know, and I don't greatly care. I'm still young in years and strong of body and mind, but I feel actually old. I suppose you have some sort of faith still. I have none at all. Dora has it, and it has made her contented, happy, and useful. I am glad she has it. I wouldn't take it from her. Tilly—Tilly used to—"