The Eye of Dread

“An’ I’ll locate Richard for ye!” cried Jean, rising to her feet and wiping away the fast-falling tears, laughing and weeping all in the same moment. “Whish’t, Ellen, it’s ye’rsel’ that kens neathin’ aboot it, an’ I’ll tell ye the truth the noo–that I’ve kept to mysel’ this lang time till my conscience has nigh whupped me intil my grave.”

“Tak’ a drap o’ whuskey, Jean, ye’re flyin’ oot o’ yer heid. It’s the hystiricks she’s takin’.”

“Ah, no! What is it, Aunt Jean? What is it?” cried Hester, eagerly, drawing her to the seat by her side again.

“It’s no the hystiricks,” cried Jean, rocking back and forth and patting her hands on her knees and speaking between laughing and crying. “It’s the truth at last, that I’ve been lyin’ aboot these three lang years, thank the Lord!”

“Jean, is it thankin’ the Lord ye are, for lyin’?”

“Ellen, ye mind whan ye broke ye’r leg an’ lay in the south chamber that lang sax months?”

“Aye, weel do I mind it.”

“Lat be wi’ ye’re interruptin’ while I tell’t. He came here.”

“Who came here?”

“Richard–the poor lad! He tell’t me all aboot it. How he had a mad anger on him, an’ kill’t his cousin Peter Junior whan they’d been like brithers all their lives, an’ hoo he pushed him over the brink o’ a gre’t precipice to his death, an’ hoo he must forever flee fra’ the law an’ his uncle’s wrath. Noo it’s–”

“Oh, Aunt Jean!” cried Hester, despairingly. “Don’t you see that what you say only goes to prove my husband right? Yet how could he claim to be Peter–it–it’s not like the boy. Richard never, never would–”

“He may ha’ been oot o’ his heid thinkin’ he pushed him over the brink. I ha’e na much opeenion o’ the judgment o’ a man ony way. They never know whan to be set, an’ whan to gie in. Think shame to yersel’, Jean, to be hidin’ things fra me the like o’ that an’ then lyin’ to me.”

“He was repentit, Ellen. Ye can na’ tak the power o’ the Lord in yer ain han’s an’ gie a man up to the law whan he’s repentit. If ye’d seen him an’ heard the words o’ him and seen him greet, ye would ha’ hid him in yer hairt an’ covered wi’ the mantle o’ charity, as I did. Moreover, I saved ye from dour lyin’ yersel’. Ye mind whan that man that Peter sent here to find Richard came, hoo ye said till him that Richard had never been here? Ye never knew why for that man wanted Richard, but I knew an’ I never tell’t ye. An’ if ye had known what I knew, ye never could ha’ tell’t him what ye did so roundly an’ sent him aboot his business wi’ a straight face.”

“An’ noo whaur is Richard?”

“He’s awa’ in Paris pentin’ pictures. He went there to learn to be a penter.”

“An’ whaur gat he the money to go wi’? There’s whaur the new black silk dress went ye should ha’ bought yersel’ that year. Ye lat me think it went to the doctor. Child! Child!”

“Yes, sister; I lee’d to ye. It’s been a heavy sin on my soul an’ ye may well thank the Lord it’s no been on yer ain. But hark ye noo. It’s all come back to me. Here’s the twenty pun’ I gave him. It’s come back wi’ interest.” Proudly Jean drew from her bosom an envelope containing forty pounds in bank notes. “Look ye, hoo he’s doubl’t it?” Again she laughed through her tears.

“And you know where he is–and can find him?”

“Yes, Hester, dear, I know. He took a new name. It was Robert Kater he called himsel’. So, there he’s been pentin’ pictures. Go, Hester, an’ find yer son, an’ I’ll find Richard. Ellen, ye’ll have to do wi’ Tillie for a week an’ a bit,–I’m going to Paris to find Richard.”

“Ye’ll do nae sic’ thing. Ye’ll find him by post.”

“I’ll trust to nae letter the noo, Ellen. Letters aften gang astray, but I’ll no gang astray.”

“Oh, child, child! It’s a sorrowful thing I’m lame an’ can na’ gang wi’ ye. What are ye doin’, Hester?”

“I’m hunting for the newspaper. Don’t they put the railroad time-tables in the paper over here, or must I go to the station to inquire about trains?”

“Ye’d better ask at the station. I’ll go wi’ ye. Ye might boggle it by yersel’. Ring for Tillie, Jean. She can help me oot o’ my chair an’ get me dressed, while ye’re lookin’ after yer ain packin’, Jean.”

So the masterful old lady immediately began to superintend the hasty departure of both Hester and Jean. The whole procedure was unprecedented and wholly out of the normal course of things, but if duty called, they must go, whether she liked the thought of their going or not. So she sent Tillie to call a cab, and contented herself with bewailing the stubbornness of Peter, her nephew.

“It was aye so, whan he was a lad playin’ wi’ Jean an’ Katherine, whiles whan his feyther lat his mither bring Katherine and him back to Scotland on a veesit. Jean and Katherine maun gie in til him if they liket it or no. I’ve watched them mony’s the time, when he would haud them up in their play by the hour together, arguyin’ which should be horse an’ which should be driver, an’ it was always Peter that won his way wi’ them. Is the cab there, Tillie? Then gie me my crutch. Hester, are you ready? Jean, I’ll find oot for ye all aboot the trains for Dover. Ye maun gang direc’ an’ no loiter by the way. Come, Hester. I doot she ought not to be goin’ aboot alone. Paris is an’ awfu’ like place for a woman body to be goin’ aboot alone. But it canna’ be helpit. What’s an old woman like me wi’ only one sound leg and a pair o’ crutches, to go on sic’ like a journey?”

“If I could, I’d take you home with me, Aunt Ellen; if I were only sure of the outcome of this trouble, I would anyway–but to take you there to a home of sorrow–”

“There, Hester, dear. Don’t ye greet. It’s my opeenion ye’re goin’ to find yer son an’ tak him in yer arms ance mair. Ye were never the right wife for Peter. I can see that. Ye’re too saft an’ gentle.”

“I’m thinking how Peter has borne this trouble alone, all these years, and suffered, trying to keep the sorrow from me.”

“Yes, dear, yes. Peter told us all aboot it whan he was here, an’ he bade us not to lat ye ken a word aboot it, but to keep from ye all knowledge of it. Noo it’s come to ye by way of this letter fra yer frien’, an’ I’m thinkin’ it’s the best way; for noo, at last ye ha’e it in ye’re power to go an’ maybe save an innocent man, for it’s no like a son of our Katherine would be sic’ like a base coward as to try to win oot from justice by lyin’ himsel’ intil his victim’s own home. I’ll no think it.”

“Nor I, Aunt Ellen. It’s unbelievable! And of Richard–no. I loved Richard. He was like my own son to me–and Peter Junior loved him, too. They may have quarreled–and even he might–in a moment of anger, he might have killed my boy,–but surely he would never do a thing like this. They are making some horrible mistake, or Mary Ballard would never have written me.”

“Noo ye’re talkin’ sense. Keep up courage an’ never tak an’ affliction upo’ yersel’ until it’s thrust upo’ ye by Providence.”

Thus good Aunt Ellen in her neat black bonnet and shawl and black mits, seated at Hester’s side in the cab holding to her crutches, comforted and admonished her niece all the way to the station and back, and the next day she bravely bade Jean and Hester both good-by and settled herself in her armchair to wait patiently for news from them.

CHAPTER XXXIV

JEAN CRAIGMILE’S RETURN

When at last Jean Craigmile returned, a glance at her face was quite enough to convince Ellen that things had not gone well. She held her peace, however, until her sister had had time to remove her bonnet and her shawl and dress herself for the house, before she broke in upon Jean’s grim silence. Then she said:–

“Weel, Jean. I’m thinkin’ ye’d better oot wi’ it.”

“Is Tillie no goin’ to bring in the tea? It’s past the hour. I see she grows slack, wantin’ me to look after her.”

“Ring for it then, Jean. I’m no for leavin’ my chair to ring for it.” So Jean pulled the cord and the tea was brought in due time, with hot scones and the unwonted addition of a bowl of roses to grace the tray.

“The posies are a greetin’ to ye, Jean; I ordered them mysel’. Weel? An’ so ye ha’na’ found him?”

“Oh, sister, my hairt’s heavy an’ sair. I canna’ thole to tell ye.”

“But ye maun do’t, an’ the sooner ye tell’t the sooner ye’ll ha’e it over.”

“He was na’ there. Oh, Ellen, Ellen! He’d gone to America! I’m afraid the Elder is right an’ Hester has gone home to get her death blow. Why were we so precipitate in lettin’ her go?”

“Jean, tell me all aboot it, an’ I’ll pit my mind to it and help ye think it oot. Don’t ye leave oot a thing fra’ the time ye left me till the noo.”

Slowly Jean poured her sister’s tea and handed it to her. “Tak’ yer scones while they’re hot, Ellen. I went to the place whaur he’d been leevin’. I had the direction all right, but whan I called, I found anither man in possession. The man was an Englishman, so I got on vera weel for the speakin’. It’s little I could do with they Frenchmen. He was a dirty like man, an’ he was daubin’ away at a picture whan I opened the door an’ walked in. I said to him, ‘Whaur’s Richard’–no, no, no. I said to him, calling Richard by the name he’s been goin’ by, I said, ‘Whaur’s Robert Kater?’ He jumped up an’ began figitin’ aboot the room, settin’ me a chair an’ the like, an’ I asked again, ‘Is this the pentin’ room o’ Robert Kater?’ an’ he said, ‘It was his room, yes.’ Then he asked me was I any kin to him, an’ I told him, did he think I would come walkin’ into his place the like o’ that if I was no kin to him? An’ then he began tellin’ me a string o’ talk an’ I could na’ mak’ head nor tail o’t, so I asked again, ‘If ye’re a friend o’ his, wull ye tell me whaur he’s gone?’ an’ then he said it straight oot, ‘To Ameriky,’ an’ it fair broke my hairt.”

For a minute Jean sat and sipped her tea, and wiped the tears from her eyes; then she took up the thread of her story again.

“Then he seemed all at once to bethink himsel’ o’ something, an’ he ran to his coat that was hangin’ behind the door on a nail, an’ he drew oot a letter fra the pocket, an’ here it is.

“‘Are ye Robert’s Aunt Jean?’ he asked, and I tell’t him, an’, ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘an’ I did na’ think ye old enough to be his Aunt Jean.’ Then he began to excuse himsel’ for forgettin’ to mail that letter. ‘I promised him I would,’ he said, ‘but ye see, I have na’ been wearin’ my best coat since he left, an’ that’s why. We gave him a banket,’ he says, ‘an’ I wore my best coat to the banket, an’ he gave me this an’ told me to mail it after he was well away,’ an’ he says, ‘I knew I ought not to put it in this coat pocket, for I’d forget it,’–an’ so he ran on; but it was no so good a coat, for the lining was a’ torn an’ it was gray wi’ dust, for I took it an’ brushed it an’ mended it mysel’ before I left Paris.”

Again Jean paused, and taking out her neatly folded handkerchief wiped away the falling tears, and sipped a moment at her tea in silence.

“Tak’ ye a bit o’ the scones, Jean. Ye’ll no help matters by goin’ wi’oot eatin’. If the lad’s done a shamefu’ like thing, ye’ll no help him by greetin’. He maun fall. Ye’ve done yer best I doot, although mistakenly to try to keep it fra me.”