XLV
That day Crane went to Brookfield.
In spirit he was like a man that had been cast into an angry sea, and had battled his way through hungry waves to shore. Saved, the utter weariness of fierce strife hung heavy over his soul, and exhaustion deadened his joy of escape. Just saved, bereft of everything, he looked back over the dark waters and shuddered. And before him a dreary waste of desert shore-land stretched out interminably, and he must wander alone over its vast expanse forever.
Crane in all things was strong. It was strength drawn to right by the influence of the woman he loved that had saved him from the waters that were worse than the broad sands of a desolate life. But he still had something to do, the final act made possible by his redemption.
At Brookfield he went to the hotel, secured an isolated sitting room upstairs, and with this as a hall of justice, followed out with his usual carefulness a plan he had conceived. First he wrote a brief note to Allis Porter asking her to come and see him at once. One line he wrote made certain the girl's coming, “I have important news to communicate concerning Mr. Mortimer.” Then he sent the note off with a man. Next he despatched a messenger for David Cass. He pulled out his watch and looked at it. It was three o'clock. “I think five will do,” he muttered; “it should be all over by that time.” Another note addressed to Mortimer, asking him to call at the hotel at five o'clock, went forth.
The village hotel throbbed with the pressure of unwonted business. The proprietor surmised that a financial matter of huge magnitude was afloat—another farm was being mortgaged, most like; more money for Ringwood probably, for had not a buggy gone out there to bring some one in to the great financier. Those race horses were the devil to put a man in a hole.
David Cass came, treading on the heels of a much-whiskied howler who had summoned him.
“You sent for me, sir?” he asked of Crane. It may have been the stairs—for he had come up hurriedly—that put a waver in his voice; or it may have been a premonition of trouble.
“Take a seat, Mr. Cass,” Crane answered, arranging a chair so that a strong light from the one window fell across the visitor's face.
The hostler who had shown Cass to where the big man awaited him lingered, a jagged wobble of humanity, leaning against the door jamb. He expected an order for “Red Eye,” as he had baptized strong drink since it had grown familiarly into his being. “Oh!” exclaimed Crane, “I'd forgotten; here's a quarter; much obliged. That's all.”