CHAPTER XXXI.

THE TWO WIDOWS.

The excitement in the little city, caused by the sudden death of James Elwell, was unprecedented, even by the excitement created by that gentleman’s nomination for Congress.

Elwell had been popular in this little town at all times. He had always been free-handed and liberal with his money, and generally good-natured. He had been “approachable,” as the saying is, and not even his success had made him exclusive.

With his death the little town lost not only a successful business man--in itself a great loss for that undeveloped place--but they had also lost the one man who had done the most to bring this thriving town to the notice of the outside world. He had been their accepted standard-bearer. With him they not only lost the man, but infinitely worse, they had lost their member of Congress. And in spite of the shadow of scandal hanging over it all, their grief was loud and sincere.

Fanny had been taken to her home by her father, and the terrible story of her husband’s infamy broken to her as gently as possible. Whether from some latent affection for her husband, or from some more selfish reason, she would not credit it.

“It is false!” she cried. “I know it is false!”

“God pardon me!” said her father, with sincere sorrow. “It is all my fault. I should not have brought an entire stranger into my house that way. But I fear it is true, Fanny,” and he added heartily, “God forgive me for my mistake.”

Fanny mourned, and would not be comforted.

“Think of the scandal!” she moaned. “They might let him rest now that he is dead.”

“They will, I think,” replied the old man, understanding her. “They are not bad people, my child, and they could gain nothing by disturbing us now.”

But Morain was disturbed, for all the comfort he tried to give his daughter. “What did these people intend to do?” he wondered; and in a very sorrowful mood he left the house to go to the office.

He had gone but a short distance, when he met Conway and his lawyer coming in quest of him.

“I thought you would like to have him moved to your house,” said Conway kindly, when they met, “and I have given orders to have it done.”

“That was very kind of you,” said Pat gratefully. “I knew your friends had the first right to him, and I was just going to see you about it. It would do no good to make trouble now,” he said deprecatingly.

Conway hastened to reassure him.

“My friends wish to spare you and your daughter all they can. He has been dead to them for a long time, and they have no wish to humiliate you for his wrongdoing. Let him rest now in peace. We will do nothing to affect his memory.”

Morain was affected by this consideration, and he returned to the house greatly relieved, to comfort his daughter with the assurance that there would be no scandal.

“I think you had better see this lady,” he said in conclusion. “She has been very kind to you.”

Fanny hesitated. She could not recognize the kindness that prompted Norine’s sacrifice; could not understand that this woman had given up her right in her dead husband to save the feelings and reputation of an entire stranger. She could not understand this, and far from feeling grateful to Norine, she only felt spiteful and vindictive.

“She has ruined my happiness,” cried Fanny, bitterly. “Why should I see her?”

“She has not!” retorted her father sternly. “She is as innocent as you are.”

“Why did she come here then?” cried Fanny, with unreasoning petulance.

To this her father made no answer.

“I would be glad to have you see her,” he said, as he left the room. “It is your place to, after all she has done for you.”

Fanny was struggling between her spite and curiosity, and eventually her curiosity triumphed.

“I will go and see her, if you wish it,” she said at last; and Morain left the room, thinking that his daughter’s heart was not so bad after all.

As for Norine, she had been greatly shocked when Jim told her of Clinton’s death, and had wept bitter tears of sorrow; but she did not mourn for him as she had mourned before. He had been dead to her all these years, and she knew now how little reason she had to mourn his death. There was no grief in her tears now, only sorrow--sorrow for her innocent child, and sorrow for the great wrong his father had done.

“I pity that poor woman!” she sobbed. “She has been wronged so bitterly. Take me to her, Jim, and let me comfort her a little.”

But this Jim would not do.

“You have not wronged her,” he said, “and we will see that there shall be no scandal to increase her sorrow. But I would prefer that you did not see her.”

Jim did not tell her of Fanny’s spiteful words. They were excusable, perhaps, under the circumstances; but he had not been favorably impressed by this superficial, overdressed woman, and he did not want to subject his sister to possible insults.

The fact was he had wanted to get away at once, being afraid that Norine would break down under these repeated shocks; but this his sister would not listen to.

“He has done wrong,” she said simply--“great wrong; but he was little Clinton’s father, and I must stay until it is all over.”

She never alluded to the dead man as her husband, only as Clinton’s father.

“He preferred another to me,” she thought proudly, “and I will not dispute her claim;” and she kept close in her room, waiting for the time when she was to see the father of her child laid under the ground.

She was sitting alone in her room, thinking sadly of the past, and of all that “might have been,” when there came a gentle tap at the door.

“Come in,” called Norine, rising in expectation; and the next moment Fanny entered the room.

She was dressed in deepest mourning, and her heavy black veil and ample mourning robes contrasted sadly with Norine’s simple black dress. Her eyes were red and heavy-looking, and her appearance subdued.

Norine had risen as she entered, and came forward to meet her.

“You are Fanny, I know,” she said, kissing her, and leading her to a chair. “You are very kind to think of me at such a time.”

Fanny looked at her curiously.

“I did not think you would care to see me,” she said wearily.

“I am glad!” cried Norine, with her arms around Fanny’s neck. “We should be sisters, dear, for we have both been widowed.”

Fanny sobbed; but she did not offer to return Norine’s caresses. She had come simply that she might see this woman; and now she regretted that she had come. She felt it almost as a personal affront that Norine should be dignified and beautiful when she was neither. So she sat and sobbed, perhaps as much from vexation as from grief.

Norine brought a bottle of cologne, and gently bathed Fanny’s face and eyes with it, speaking to her softly and sympathetically.

“I do not wonder you are overcome,” she said. “It is so sad.”

Fanny ceased her sobbing, and put Norine’s hands away from her.

“I did not intend to cry,” she said, struggling to be calm. “I wanted to thank you for your consideration. They tell me that you had the best right to him. Is that so?”

“He was my husband,” replied Norine quietly.

Fanny rose from her chair.

“If your story is true, you have been very kind not to take him from me after he is dead.”

“I should not have tried to take him from you if he had lived,” said Norine, drawing herself up a little.

“Why, did you not love him?”

“Yes, I did love him once; but that was before I knew. I have thought myself a widow all these years.”

“Then, for goodness’ sake, why did you come here to make all this trouble?” cried Fanny spitefully.

Norine drew back a little.

“I did not come to make trouble,” she said coldly. “I did not know that he was alive until I saw him come into the room.”

“Oh, I know--I know!” replied Fanny impatiently. “But you might have acted differently. Why did you not speak to him then?”

“How could I?” asked Norine, amazed; and then she added quietly: “There, dear; we had better not talk about it now.”

Perhaps Fanny was of her opinion, for after thanking her again in a deeply injured tone of voice, and querulously bemoaning her own hard lot in life, she departed, leaving Norine prostrated after the interview.

Jim had been haunted by a familiar presence, one which seemed continually near him, and yet eluded his attention. He was conscious of this feeling as he walked to the door of the hotel, after leaving his sister.

A little way down the street appeared the figure of a tall man dressed in sober black. There was something in the walk and figure so familiar that Jim, out of idle curiosity, followed it. The nearer he got, the more familiar it became, until, with a smothered exclamation of astonishment, he placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Harland!” he cried. “Can this be you? How came you here?”

His secretary--for he it was--turned to him meekly. He took off his hat and stood with his head bowed, and his thin gray hair blowing about his face.

“It is I, sir,” he said humbly. “I am sorry to have left New York without your knowledge; but, sir, I had to come.”

“Had to!” repeated Jim, in angry amazement. “Why did you have to come?”

The old man’s figure seemed to shrink together, and his head fell on his breast.

“I would have told you all, sir, in time,” he said, earnestly. “I thought it better, for your sister’s sake, to wait. But, sir, he was my son.”

They had been walking slowly along together; but now Jim stopped and faced the old man, in astonishment.

“Your son!” he gasped. “Whom do you mean? Not Clinton Percival?”

“Yes,” said the old man sadly. “He whom you knew as Clinton Percival was my misguided boy. Ah, sir, I am old now, and very, very weary, and for nearly ten years I have searched for my boy. He left me then,” he added, with sad simplicity; “but I have always loved him.”

“But how did you know--how did you find him?”

The old man folded his hands meekly in front of him.

“I recognized the picture on your desk,” he said. “First I thought it was a picture of my boy; then I knew so strong a resemblance could not be accidental, and I made inquiries; and when your dispatch came I knew you had found him, and I came, too; but not in time,” he added sadly--“not in time!”

“Have you told them? Do they know?”

“Sir, I have told Mr. Morain. He alone knows aught of this. I wanted to see my boy for the last time. Now I shall go back.”

“You shall not go back!” cried Jim in great excitement. “This is the strangest thing I ever heard of. You shall stay now until all is over. I shall say nothing of this until we return to New York, and you can go back when we do.”

“But, sir,” said the old man anxiously, “are you not displeased with me?”

Jim reassured him.

“You did right to come, of course,” he said; “only you should have trusted me. And remember, if you have lost a son, you have found a grandson, and I hope you will care for him as you did for your son.”

The old man’s eyes filled with tears.

“You are kind, sir,” he said. “I have no tie on earth now but your little boy. You are kind to let me stay where I can see him. I thank you and bless you for it.” And he held his trembling hands over Jim’s head as he gave his benediction, and then turned meekly away; while Jim, in deep thought, returned to the hotel.

The next was the day set for the funeral, and it surpassed anything of the kind ever seen in that place. All the mills were shut down, and most of the business places closed. The fronts of the buildings on the route of the funeral cortège were all draped in black, and, in fact, the whole town wore the appearance of deepest woe.

There was some surprise expressed at the close carriage that followed the one containing the mourners, and some speculation as to the identity of that strange old man; but this was drowned in expectation; for a bishop had come to pronounce the eulogy, and all were anxious to hear his eloquent discourse. And it was eloquent; for the reverend gentleman spoke so feelingly of the departed, so lauded his good qualities, and set him forth as an example that all good men might follow, and then spoke of the bereaved widow with such tender sympathy, that nearly all were moved to tears.

Directly after the funeral, Jim and Norine left for New York. Conway was to stay long enough to settle the business that originally brought the brother and sister there.

This did not detain him long, however; for Morain was anxious to do all in his power to make amends for the trouble Elwell had caused.

“You just go to some of the other mill men,” he said to Conway. “Find out what that land is really worth, and I will give you a check for the amount; and as for his interest in the business, we will settle that the same way.”

But Conway would not listen to this.

“My friends do not want his money,” he replied. “Do with that as you see fit.”

“Well, mebbe they’re right,” said Morain, sighing heavily; “but I’ll close out the business, anyway, as soon as possible. You see, I’m getting to be an old man now, though I never felt my age until this trouble struck me, and I think I’ll give up the business altogether. So, since you don’t want it, we’ll just give the money to some charity.”

Conway coöperated heartily in this, and before he departed from the city he had the gratification of seeing Morain send checks to various charitable institutions--the full amount of the dead man’s interest in the business.

Morain followed out his intentions, and disposed of his large business as rapidly as possible, and within a few months he and his daughter had departed from the little town for the last time, leaving Peter Coleman to inherit the mantle of his dead friend’s ambition; which by the way he is still wearing to great advantage to himself.