CHAPTER XXVI.

A BOMB.

That winter was altogether different from the preceding one. Time seemed to fly, and Conway gloried that each night brought him one day nearer to Norine.

He had plenty to do; time could not hang very heavy on his hands. In fact, he could hardly get time enough to himself wherein to dream of Norine and his future happiness.

True, his heart fell a little at times over the delay she had imposed upon him; but he was a true knight, and too loyal to make complaint. The time would soon pass, and then she would be his forever. And, thinking of this, his step became as light and his presence as cheery as of yore.

“Bless the man,” Mrs. Allan would exclaim, as he came bounding up the stairs, whistling cheerfully--“bless the man; how young he is getting, to be sure! And just because she has promised to marry him at last. Land knows, she made the poor fellow wait long enough.”

And then the good lady would sigh a little as she thought of Lettie, and how different she would have had things in this world if she only had the power to arrange them.

Conway had managed to get away from his patients for the Christmas week, and had spent that time with Norine in New York, resuming his old acquaintance with city life.

It was a week of mingled bliss and excitement, and almost unfitted him for a return to his simple country life.

“I think I will take your advice and locate here after we are married,” he said to Jim. “Norine should not return to that dull place after living here, and, of course, she cannot expect to move around much after she becomes the wife of a poor physician.”

“Perhaps that poor physician won’t be so poor after he is married,” replied his friend. “Of course, you are coming here to live, whether you go into practice or not. But you need not think I am helping you capture my sister without expecting some recompense.”

“Indeed? I had no idea of that. How am I to recompense you?”

“Oh, that is all settled,” replied Jim seriously. “We are going to have a run through Europe. No, not a run,” he said, correcting himself, “but a saunter. Idle around there for a year or two perhaps,” with a careless wave of his hand. “And after that you and I are going into partnership.”

“Into partnership? Are you going to study medicine while we are sauntering through Europe?”

Jim laughed.

“No; I don’t mean that exactly,” he said. “You will have the pill-giving in your own hands. Only I am paying out so much money now for medical attendance among my poor people, that I thought I could save money by going into partnership with my physician.”

Conway was greatly amused.

“I have no doubt you could,” he said, laughing heartily, “if you could only find one able to share the gains of your profitable business--and the losses.”

“Well, that is why I am getting a physician for a brother-in-law,” retorted Jim coolly.

Conway returned to his village home, but not until he had an understanding with Norine.

“I do not wish to cut short your liberty,” he said fondly. “I will wait if it pleases you; but you must tell me how long I am to live without you. Remember, I have waited for many years now, and you must have pity on me.”

Norine looked up at him proudly.

“I do wish to have pity on you,” she said softly, “and on myself. I wish we were married now.”

“Then why should we wait?” demanded Conway eagerly.

“I do not know, Lester,” she said soberly. “I cannot tell even myself; for I love you, and I will be proud and happy to be your wife. But just think, Lester, it seems so cruel to poor Clinton.”

“Cruel that you should be so happy?”

“Yes,” said Norine. “When I think of his miserable death, and of all that occurred at that time, it seems cruel in me that I can be so happy. I often wonder,” she went on dreamily, “if he knows of it, and what he can think.”

This was not very pleasant for poor Conway, and would have been unendurable if he had not known it was only the voice of his love’s superstition. He knew that she loved him, and hoped that this morbid feeling would wear away after they were once married.

“You must not think of that,” he said, kissing her fondly. “If Clinton still loves you, he will be glad to know that you are happy. Do not wait, my love; come to me at once.”

“No; I will not wait long,” she answered softly; “and we will be very happy together. Let us say a year from now,” she said, looking at him demurely. “That is not long.”

Conway was of the opinion that it was altogether too long.

“I do not think I can wait a year,” he said. “Think how long I have waited.”

But it was no use. She was not willful. She surrendered to him all the wealth of her affection, but on this point she was immovable.

“Do as I wish in this,” she said, “and I will be obedient to you forever after. It is not long to wait, and we will be together all next summer; so you will not miss me badly. You will wait for me, I know;” and she put her soft white arms around his neck and pressed her ripe red lips to his.

And with this understanding, he returned to his practice, and the days slipped rapidly by, and with the coming of spring came also his love.

Conway had an assistant now--a young physician whom Jim had found striving for an existence in New York, and had induced to move to this little town that he might eventually succeed to Conway’s practice. So Lester had plenty of time at his disposal, and they resumed their wanderings through the woods, and their readings in the shade of the wide-spreading trees, and were--as Jim expressed it--“as idiotically happy as possible.”

Jim was perfectly content. It had been the dream of his life that Conway should marry Norine, and he was happy in the proposed consummation of his wishes.

Conway was a poor man, and some brothers, under the same circumstances, would have looked higher for their sister’s husband; but Jim was satisfied.

“What has money to do with it?” he thought indignantly. “We have more than we can ever hope to spend; and when one has money to back him, it is always easy to make more.”

And, in fact, Jim--aided perhaps by the caution and frugality taught him by his past life--was making instead of spending money. He was buying a great deal of land, and his investments were turning out well.

There was no danger of the fortune, hoarded so carefully by their aunt, growing any smaller in his hands; so he was content, though he would make a great show of growling, because he and little Clinton were left so much alone. But he would smoke his pipe in high good humor with the world for all that.

There was the most perfect confidence existing between this brother and sister, as there was indeed between all three. Jim had entire control of the large estate, and the greater part of it stood in his name. Yet he intended it all for Norine and little Clinton. Norine never interfered with him in the management of the property; and he in turn took care that there should always be a balance at Norine’s bankers sufficiently large to render her independent in her expenditure.

He had offered once to make an accounting of his trust to his sister and Conway, but they would not listen to him; so he had gone on with his buying and selling, using the large estate as if it had been all his own.

There was only one thing that Jim could see that could ever change this--that was the possibility of his marriage. Then, of course, a division of the estate would be necessary. But he had no present intention of getting married, and “sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.”

I think they all enjoyed this last summer at the little farm. It was a time of intense enjoyment to both Conway and Norine. But if the time passed pleasantly for them all, it also passed rapidly; and the time for parting came before any of them realized it.

They were to depart early this summer, for there were preparations to be made--not only for the wedding--but also for a long absence from home. So when the cool air of September began to tint the leaves of the scrub oaks, and the big red barn was filled to overflowing with the bountiful crops, Norine and her brother returned to New York.

“The parting will not be for long,” said Conway, as he held his love in his arms for the last time. “You will soon be with me for all time. Ah, Norine, you do not know the value of this love that you have given me!”

“Why is my love of more value than yours?” she said simply. “I love you, and I value your love above everything else.”

“And you will be glad to be my wife?”

And then Norine looked at him with her grand brown eyes overflowing with love and confidence.

“I shall be very glad,” she answered softly; and Conway knew it was so.

After they had really gone, Doctor Conway plunged into his work. He had his preparations to make as well as they, and he had idled through the summer until the time was getting short.

First there was his assistant, and soon to be successor, to be taken care of. He was a clever, ambitious young fellow, who tried in every way possible to express his gratitude for their kindness to him.

He was energetic and willing, but he lacked Conway’s kindly smile and friendly interest in all his patients. He could not understand them as Lester Conway did; and while the people of the neighborhood accepted his services, they plainly intimated that they only did so as a temporary accommodation to their beloved friend. So Conway had a great deal of riding around and explaining to do.

“You will like him after a while,” he said to one of the dissatisfied ones. “You must give him time to get acquainted with you, that is all.”

“But I don’t want him ter git erquainted with me, doc,” replied the injured one pathetically. “He’s er mighty good man, I dessay; but you’re plenty good enough fer us poor folks.” And he delivered his doubtful compliment with an air of perfect conviction.

It did not matter to this man that he had not paid Conway a cent of money for years, and was not likely to for years to come, if he ever did. Doctor Conway was his family physician, and having elevated him to that pedestal in their esteem, they accepted the attendance and medicine necessary for their well-being as their right, and were generally ready to criticise him on every available occasion. Perhaps they considered this payment enough for the midnight study and patient care that Doctor Conway had so cheerfully given them.

He went on explaining and smoothing over, however, with patient good nature, and shortly got them to understand that, as they could not get him any longer, they had better be content with the substitute provided for them.

The time of his departure was drawing near now. The first of November had come, and that was to be his last month with them. He had packed up his most cherished possessions, ready for shipment. His young assistant had come in for many of the books needed to complete his little library, and many other of Conway’s friends had received from him tokens of his good will; and the doctor, having done everything necessary, was seriously debating the idea of departing at once for New York, where he could be near Norine.

He was sitting in his easy-chair one evening, puffing great volumes of smoke from his pipe, when his assistant handed him a letter he had brought from the office.

Conway took it carelessly and went on with his dreams. Of course he was thinking of Norine and their future--it seemed as if he had ever been thinking of her--and so he sat lazily back and watched the smoke as it floated in the air, thinking placidly of his great happiness, and what a fortunate fellow he was altogether. He still held the letter carelessly in his hand, but did not look at it until his pipe and the fire were both out. Then he rose with a shiver and glanced at it.

“Why, it is from Lettie!” he cried; and he tore open the envelope and threw his eyes hurriedly over its contents.

It was very short--only a few words, in fact--but it was long enough to take all the happiness out of his heart, all the light out of his life, and to send him reeling back into his chair, as if he had received a mighty blow. It said:

“Norine Bright’s husband is alive, and married again. Come here at once, if you would prevent a great wrong.”

It was signed “Lettie Allan,” and at the bottom of the page was a line giving the street and number of her residence.

He was dazed by the suddenness of the blow, and for a time was incapable of thought. He pulled himself together as speedily as possible.

“This cannot be true!” he cried passionately. “I will not believe it.”

But his heart was against him, and he felt that it was true.

What proof had they ever had of that man’s death? The body had never been recovered, and there had been no real proof of anything beyond the fact that he had disappeared.

Yes, it was true; he felt it to be so; and he laid his head on the desk in front of him and moaned in his anguish. It was true, and he had lost her again.

“My God!” he cried bitterly, “is all my joy to turn to bitterness, all my happiness to ashes, thus?”

All that night he sat with his head bent down, bemoaning his hard fate; but with the first streak of day he was up and resolved.

“I will go,” he said, “and see for myself. And Jim must go, too. We will protect Norine, or avenge her. Oh, if I only had him here!” he cried--“only had him here, we two alone!”

He caught the first train for New York, and was there as soon as steam could carry him. Taking a carriage at the depot, he was driven at once to the house of his friends. But here he met disappointment, bitter disappointment, to one in his frame of mind. Jim and Norine had left town that day, to be gone a week or ten days, the servant told him. “Did she know where?” No; but she had understood that it was at some distance.

He scribbled a line to Jim on one of his cards, asking him to join him in Chicago at once, unless he received further word. Then he returned to the carriage that was waiting.

He caught the express, and was soon whirling on his way. He had almost convinced himself by this time that there was a chance that Lettie might be mistaken; but it was hard work.

At last the smoking engine drew up in the Chicago depot, panting after its rapid journey.

Lester drove to a hotel that he might have a bath and something to eat; and, as soon after as possible, ordered a carriage to drive him to the address given in his letter from Lettie.