CHAPTER XXIX.

CLOSING IN.

Frightened, dismayed, utterly broken down, Elwell fled from the hotel by the back way, and skulked like a hunted beast to his office.

With the collar of his coat pulled up as far as it would go, and his hat pulled closely down to cover his pale, frightened face, he sneaked along in the shadows of the buildings until he reached the little office of the mill.

It was closing in on him, and he knew it; knew, and fully understood, the hopelessness of his situation, although as yet he was incapable of consecutive thought.

He had just reached the moment of his greatest triumph, and now--was it possible that he could be undone so quickly? He could dimly remember, as if it had been ages ago, instead of but a few moments, his pride and exultation in his position, as that roar of applause had been lifted up from the sea of upturned faces before him.

How his heart had swelled with the rapture of gratified ambition!

He had been successful in everything; so successful that he had but to lend his name to an enterprise, and it guaranteed success. And now? He had been overthrown by the white face of a woman. Yesterday, nay, that very day, he had been alluded to as the most successful man in the community. And now, what was he?

He reached the little office, and stumbled in, leaving the door wide open.

Sinking into his chair, he hid his face in his hands. He did not think. He was still too numb from that crushing blow for that; but he sat motionless in his chair, staring intently before him at the black darkness that filled all space.

Presently the watchman employed to care for the premises came along, and finding the door of the office open, entered it, flashing the light of his dark lantern cautiously ahead of him.

“Beg pardon,” he said respectfully. “But you left the door open, and I did not know who might be here.”

His master turned wearily in his chair, and stared at him.

The man was quiet and respectful. He had not heard yet, thought the other; and he wondered dimly if the man’s manner would change any if he knew.

There was nothing in his master’s appearance, as seen by the fitful rays of the lantern, to excite any wonder in the watchman’s mind.

He looked tired, that was all; and it was not at all unusual for him to come down to the office nights. Elwell had frequently done so.

“I will light the lamp if you wish it, sir,” he said; and when Elwell nodded to him, he took down and lighted a large office lamp, that threw a soft light over the apartment.

Still his master had not moved.

“Is there anything else, sir?” the man inquired.

Elwell roused himself.

“Yes,” he said. “You might start a fire for me; I am cold;” and a shiver running through his frame attested the truth of his words.

The man touched a match to the kindling that was already laid in the stove, and, going out, returned with his arms full of slab ends. These he threw into the box by the stove, and then, glancing again at the fire to see that it was burning good, he started to go.

“Wait,” said his master harshly; “I want you to do something for me.”

The man returned and stood by the desk, while Elwell fumbled through his pockets in an aimless way.

Finding some money at last, he threw it down upon the desk.

“Whisky,” he said harshly. “Go and get me some whisky; and, mind you, don’t let any one in the yard to-night--_no one!_ Do you understand? That is, no one but Mr. Coleman; he will be here presently.”

The man went away, evidently astonished at the millowner’s words and manner.

Whisky was the one thing, outside of salt and lumber, that formed the staple of the city of sand and sawdust, so the man had not far to go, and soon returned with an unopened bottle.

While he was gone, Elwell had sat immovable, and now, when he returned, his master only nodded and motioned him to go.

Seizing the bottle, Elwell managed to extract the cork, and took a hearty swallow. Things were better with him already. He could think, now that it was light and warm, and he had partly recovered from the shock.

“Coleman will soon be here,” he thought, more hopefully, “and we will think of some way out of this.” And he took another swallow of the strong liquor, and paced impatiently up and down the little office, waiting for his friend and confidant.

How had she ever found her way to this little out-of-the-way place? He had always been a fatalist. This was fate. What but fate could send that ignorant country girl into the wilds of northern Michigan just in time to confound him? But after all, what of it? Fate had struck at him before this, and he had conquered.

He was a coward, he thought, with great self-contempt, to get frightened so easily. He had his divorce. How were they to know that it was not legal? And what could those poor country folks do against the power of his money? And he drank more whisky and grew reckless.

“This will be easily settled,” he thought confidently, “and it is better to have done with it. It has been hanging over me like the sword of Damocles long enough.” He would settle it now, and he became more impatient as the moments passed. Why did not Coleman come?

Presently he heard him coming, and opened the office door that he might see his way better. If he had recovered from his fright, Peter had not, for he looked pale and disturbed.

“What kept you so long?” inquired Elwell, as he entered.

“Long?” repeated Coleman, out of temper. “What the devil did you expect; that I was to take care of all those people and get here as soon as you did?”

“Tell me about it,” said Elwell, paying no attention to his anger. “What are we to do?”

“I’m blessed if I know,” replied Peter ruefully. “It looks mighty bad;” and then with a return of his passion, he demanded angrily: “Why in the devil’s name didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“I have told you the truth,” retorted the other. “Did you suppose I knew of their coming?”

“No, but I did,” replied Peter, with a groan. “I sent for ’em.”

“_You sent for them?_”

“Yes; I sent for them; but how was I to know?” Seeing the bottle on the desk, Peter paid no attention to the other’s look of anger and astonishment until after he had taken a hearty drink. “I’m mighty glad you got that, anyway,” he said coolly, as he wiped his mouth. Then he looked at his client calmly, still holding the bottle in his hand affectionately. “Maybe you don’t know who they are,” he said.

“Know who they are,” stammered the other, his face paling a little, “why, it is Norine--the Brights.”

“Not a bit of it,” retorted Peter, sitting on the desk and swinging one leg in the air. “They are the Darlings.”

“The Darlings!” cried the other. “It is not possible.”

“Oh, but it is, though,” returned Peter. “They are the Darlings fast enough. They came up here to sell us that thousand-acre tract, and as you have already cut the timber on the greater part of it--well, you see,” he concluded, still swinging his leg easily, “it rather complicates matter.”

Elwell could only stare at him blankly, and repeat:

“It is impossible!”

“God knows I wish it was,” said Peter piously, “but I know better. And just to think,” he said, shaking his head ruefully, “I brought them here, and even got her that place in the room.”

Elwell, or Percival, as you choose to call him, paced back and forth across the office. This news had somewhat shaken his confidence.

“If they are the Darlings,” he said, at last, “they must be wealthy.”

“Rich as mud,” replied Peter consolingly.

The other pulled his mustache and bit his lips in his perplexity.

“What are we to do?” he demanded, at last.

Coleman thought long and intently.

“There is nothing we can do yet,” he said at last, “but to take care that neither Fanny nor the old man interferes. They were as greatly surprised as you were. I know they supposed you to be dead. If you can manage to see her alone--_alone_, you might be able to work the divorce on her, make her think it genuine, you know. She has been disappointed in you,” continued Peter gravely, “and perhaps if she could be brought to believe in the divorce, she might be glad to be rid of you.”

Elwell winced. He wanted to get rid of her. But to have her glad to get rid of him--that was different.

“I am something of a judge of faces,” Coleman went on modestly, “and unless I am greatly mistaken, she will never forgive your desertion. So you had better not try to excuse it. Be gentle with her, or she might fight. Perhaps,” he continued more hopefully, “if you are clever in handling her, and I make a square settlement with him for the land, we may get rid of them all right.”

“How much will it take to pay for the land?” inquired Elwell, who had been following the lawyer’s words closely.

“Honestly?” inquired the other.

“Honestly, of course.”

“Then it will take all you have got, and perhaps a little of the old man’s money besides.”

There was silence now for some moments. Elwell paced up and down the room in deep thought. Suddenly he stopped and faced the other suspiciously.

“And,” he demanded roughly, “if I make a fight, will you help me?”

Peter colored a little at this--perhaps he had been thinking of this himself--but he answered boldly:

“I will help you as long as there is a fighting chance.”

Elwell seemed satisfied, and continued his restless pacing up and down the room.

“There is no other way,” he said at last, with the courage of despair. “You had better go to the house and fix things there. But what can you tell them?”

“Weren’t you and Fanny going to Grand Rapids to-morrow?” inquired Peter cunningly.

“Yes; but he was not going.”

“Never mind. You sit down and write Mrs. Elwell a nice little note. Say you were obliged to go to-night, and have her bring the old man with her. They’ll go, of course. You write the note, and I’ll attend to the rest.”

Elwell pondered for a few moments, and then did as the other requested.

“When shall I see you again?” he asked as Coleman buttoned up his coat to leave.

“As soon as possible,” Coleman replied. “But I am to see Darling the first thing in the morning, so when I come again I shall know something of their intentions. And mind now,” he said earnestly, as he opened the door, “don’t you see any one, unless it is her, until after you see me. You had better keep pretty close, I think.”

Elwell nodded to this advice, and Peter left him. After he had gone, Elwell replenished the fire, and brought his chair close to the stove; then he took out a cigar and put it between his lips. But the match he lighted burned itself out and the cigar remained without fire, and for the first time that night Norine’s face came up before him. What had he gained, after all? If what Coleman said was true, she was rich--far richer than he was, even if this stolen timber had not to be paid for. So he had gained nothing, after all. Gained? Why, he had lost--lost more than he could ever hope to regain.

It was not in worldly wealth alone. He compared the loving, trustful Norine as he had known her in her innocent girlhood with the querulous, selfish, and suspicious Fanny. What had he lost, after all? And but a few short hours before he had been priding himself upon his success--dolt, fool, that he was!

He thought of his child, his little Clinton, and wondered how large he was, and if he was strong and shapely. He had not felt the need of affection or kindness during his success. Bah! how he hated that word! But now he thought that he would almost give his miserable life for the touch of his child’s arms around his neck and the prattle of an innocent voice in his ear.

“She will teach him to hate me now,” he thought, forgetting what little cause the child could have for loving him. And with that thought came a return of Peter’s words:

“She might be glad to be rid of you.”

Strange that the thought should give him pain. His only chance for safety lay in the hope that he could impose on this innocent girl, and that she should hate him. But he dreaded the ordeal.

He had never professed to love Fanny. Their marriage had been purely one of convenience on both sides. But he had loved Norine as well as one of his selfish nature could love, and now, with the memory of her innocent love and her pride in him, there came a great longing for a return of her affection.

It was impossible. He knew that his very safety demanded that it should be so. And yet his old love for her, or what he termed his love, returned to him with its old force; and if he could have had his choice, he would gladly have given up his success, gladly have given his fortune and everything, for a return to the little cottage among the Pennsylvania mountains and to Norine.

Now that it could not gladden any one’s heart, now when it could bring no joy to him or any one else, he really loved, and, for a wonder, loved unselfishly.

That was a long, weary night to the silent man, sitting crouched before the stove from which the fire had long since departed. But it came to an end at last. And, as the first cold rays of the November day came struggling through the windows, he roused himself and prepared for the battle to come.

“Win or lose,” he said recklessly, “this day will tell the story, and I might as well prepare myself for either contingency.”

He opened the safe and counted the money it contained.

There was a large sum there, but not enough, and he made out a check for a larger amount, that he might have it cashed as soon as possible. Then he took from a drawer in his desk a little glittering revolver.

It looked such a toy as he held it in his hand, shining as it was with pearl and silver; but it was a deadly toy, and contained the lives of half a dozen men in the hand of an expert.

Some thought of this passed through his mind, for he smiled grimly as he returned it to its usual resting place.

After he had walked back and forth across the office for a few moments, he returned to the safe, and taking therefrom all the valuable papers, he placed them in neat piles on his desk, and then proceeded methodically and coolly to look them over. Some of them he returned to the safe and a few of them he destroyed. Others he made up into a neat package and placed them in the drawer of his desk, evidently with the intention of taking them with him in case he had to go.

It was broad daylight now, and the workmen were busy around the mill.

Calling one of them to him, Elwell left him in charge of the office, while he went over to the boarding house for a cup of coffee.

He returned greatly refreshed and encouraged, and resumed his work in the office as coolly as possible.

He expected some word from Coleman, and grew a little anxious as the time passed without bringing it.

“But it is early yet,” he thought; “there is plenty of time.”

He was just thinking thus, when there came a sound of light footsteps outside, and in a moment more Norine stood before him.

He had armed himself to meet anything, but he had not expected this, and he could only stand speechless and stare at her.

“They told me I could find you here,” she said simply; “and I wanted to see you.” Advancing a step into the office, with her hands in front of her, and her great brown eyes searching his very soul, she cried: “Tell me what this means, Clinton! How do you come alive after all these years?”

She was so beautiful as she stood there that he was like one in a dream, only that he was thinking again of what he had lost.

“Why don’t you speak to me?” cried Norine. “Is it I who am your wife, or that other woman?”

“You--you!” he cried hoarsely. “That is,” he said, catching himself suddenly, “you were my wife.”

“If I ever was your wife, why am I not now?” demanded Norine, with all the fire of her womanly indignation flaming on her face.

“You were until I obtained a divorce,” he said sullenly.

“A divorce? Are we divorced?”

And in spite of herself the joy of it flashed over her face.

“You are not sorry, I see,” he said with a sneer.

The momentary look of joy on her face cut him like a knife.

“Sorry?” cried Norine scornfully; and then she continued quietly: “Why should I be sorry? I have refused the love of an honest, noble man because I would not slight your memory, and I thought it wrong in me that I could not help loving him in return. And now,” she went on simply, “I come here and find you--what you are. Why should I be sorry?”

“You are right enough, I suppose,” he answered sullenly. “But if you are not sorry, I am.”

“You sorry!” was all she said; but, oh, the look of scornful unbelief that accompanied the words!

He could not answer that look; he could only wince under it.

“Do you wish to see the divorce?” he asked in that same sullen tone; and he threw it on the desk in front of her.

Norine hesitated a moment, and looked wistfully at the paper.

“I do not understand it,” she said at last. “Why should you get a divorce from me? What have I done?”

“You have done nothing; you are accused of nothing,” he said hastily. “I was dead to you; I hoped never to see you again; and--and so I got the divorce on the plea of desertion. Such things are done daily,” he went on, feebly trying to excuse himself. “It is only a question of money.”

“No, it is not a question of money!” cried Norine, and she drew herself up proudly before him. “It is a question of honor and right.”

“I have not injured you by it,” he sneered.

“I should not care if you had,” she replied quickly. “I should still be innocent. But you have injured yourself, and you have injured all mankind by it. And your child?” she went on, her voice softening. “Do you never think of your son, that innocent child who, ever since he could lisp, has prayed for his father’s soul?”

“Yes, I think of him--and of you. Tell me about him.”

“There is nothing to tell,” replied Norine brokenly. “I can never tell my boy the truth about his father.”

“No; that is best,” he said sadly. “Do not tell him. It is not necessary.”

She looked at him sadly.

“I thought I would have so much to say to you,” she said; “but I have not. I think I understand you now--for the first time. I wish you were not so bad. I wish I could tell little Clinton the truth.”

“You had better not,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Bad as I am, I do not care to have my child know it.”

“I will not tell him,” she said, as she moved to the door. “And I hope you will think of him often; he is so pure and innocent; perhaps it will make you better.”

“Wait!” he said hastily; and he rapidly detached his massive gold watch from its chain. “You will not refuse me the right to make my son a present? You need not tell him; only when he gets old enough to wear it, give it to him, and say that it was his father’s.”

Norine hesitated.

“I have no right to refuse you,” she said at last. And then, without a word of farewell, without his even having touched her hand, she was gone.

At the gate she met Conway, who was just coming in.

“Norine! you here?” he cried in astonishment.

“Yes; I have seen him, Lester,” she said, hurriedly. “Come back with me to the hotel, and then you can return.” And, taking his arm, she walked by his side, and told him everything that had passed between them.

Conway said very little, but his lips were set in tight, rigid lines, and his hands were clinched.

This would make it harder for her, he thought; for who could tell her how utterly false that paper was?

And, leaving her at the hotel, Conway paced moodily back to the mill.