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They talked long and earnestly in the twilight; and this second secret bound them closer than the first; for in it there was neither sin nor shame—only the tender pain and patience which has made saints and heroes of far worse men than our poor Dan. When at length they rose at the summons of a bell, all the sunset glory had departed, and in the wintry sky there hung one star, large, soft, and clear, above a snowy world. Pausing at the window before she dropped the curtains, Mrs Jo said cheerfully:
“Come and see how beautiful the evening star is, since you love it so.” And as he stood behind her, tall and pale, like the ghost of his former self, she added softly: “And remember, dear, if the sweet girl is denied you, the old friend is always here to love and trust and pray for you.”
This time she was not disappointed; and had she asked any reward for many anxieties and cares, she received it when Dan’s strong arm came round her, as he said, in a voice which showed her that she had not laboured in vain to pluck her firebrand from the burning:
“I never can forget that; for she’s helped to save my soul, and make me dare to look up there and say: ‘God bless her!’”
CHAPTER 22
POSITIVELY LAST APPEARANCE
UPON MY word, I feel as if I lived in a powder-magazine, and don’t know which barrel will explode next, and send me flying,” said Mrs Jo to herself next day, as she trudged up to Parnassus to suggest to her sister that perhaps the most charming of the young nurses had better return to her marble gods before she unconsciously added another wound to those already won by the human hero. She told no secrets; but a hint was sufficient; for Mrs Amy guarded her daughter as a pearl of great price, and at once devised a very simple means of escape from danger. Mr Laurie was going to Washington on Dan’s behalf, and was delighted to take his family with him when the idea was carelessly suggested. So the conspiracy succeeded finely; and Mrs Jo went home, feeling more like a traitor than ever. She expected an explosion; but Dan took the news so quietly, it was plain that he cherished no hope; and Mrs Amy was sure her romantic sister had been mistaken. If she had seen Dan’s face when Bess went to say good-bye, her maternal eye would have discovered far more than the unconscious girl did. Mrs Jo trembled lest he should betray himself; but he had learned self-control in a stern school, and would have got through the hard moment bravely, only, when he took both hands, saying heartily: “Good-bye, Princess. If we don’t meet again, remember your old friend Dan sometimes,” she, touched by his late danger and the wistful look he wore, answered with unusual warmth: “How can I help it, when you make us all so proud of you? God bless your mission, and bring you safely home to us again!”
As she looked up at him with a face full of frank affection and sweet regret, all that he was losing rose so vividly before him that Dan could not resist the impulse to take the “dear goldy head” between his hands and kiss it, with a broken “Good-bye” then hurried back to his room, feeling as if it were the prison-cell again, with no glimpse of heaven’s blue to comfort him.
This abrupt caress and departure rather startled Bess; for she felt with a girl’s quick instinct that there was something in that kiss unknown before, and looked after him with sudden colour in her cheeks and new trouble in her eyes. Mrs Jo saw it, and fearing a very natural question answered it before it was put.
“Forgive him, Bess. He has had a great trouble, and it makes him tender at parting with old friends; for you know he may never come back from the wild world he is going to.”
“You mean the fall and danger of death?” asked Bess, innocently.
“No, dear; a greater trouble than that. But I cannot tell you any more—except that he has come through it bravely; so you may trust and respect him, as I do.”
“He has lost someone he loved. Poor Dan! We must be very kind to him.”
Bess did not ask the question, but seemed content with her solution of the mystery—which was so true that Mrs Jo confirmed it by a nod, and let her go away believing that some tender loss and sorrow wrought the great change all saw in Dan, and made him so slow to speak concerning the past year.
But Ted was less easily satisfied, and this unusual reticence goaded him to desperation. His mother had warned him not to trouble Dan with questions till he was quite well; but this prospect of approaching departure made him resolve to have a full, clear, and satisfactory account of the adventures which he felt sure must have been thrilling, from stray words Dan let fall in his fever. So one day when the coast was clear, Master Ted volunteered to amuse the invalid, and did so in the following manner:
“Look here, old boy, if you don’t want me to read, you’ve got to talk, and tell me all about Kansas, and the farms, and that part. The Montana business I know, but you seem to forget what went before. Brace up, and let’s have it,” he began, with an abruptness which roused Dan from a brown study most effectually.
“No, I don’t forget; it isn’t interesting to anyone but myself. I didn’t see any farms—gave it up,” he said slowly.
“Why?”
“Other things to do.”
“What?”
“Well, brush-making for one thing.”
“Don’t chaff a fellow. Tell true.”
“I truly did.”
“What for?”
“To keep out of mischief, as much as anything.”
“Well, of all the queer things—and you’ve done a lot—that’s the queerest,” cried Ted, taken aback at this disappointing discovery. But he didn’t mean to give up yet, and began again.
“What mischief, Dan?”
“Never you mind. Boys shouldn’t bother.”
“But I do want to know, awfully, because I’m your pal, and care for you no end. Always did. Come, now, tell me a good yarn. I love scrapes. I’ll be mum as an oyster if you don’t want it known.”
“Will you?” and Dan looked at him, wondering how the boyish face would change if the truth were suddenly told him.
“I’ll swear it on locked fists, if you like. I know it was jolly, and I’m aching to hear.”
“You are as curious as a girl. More than some—Josie and—and Bess never asked a question.”
“They don’t care about rows and things; they liked the mine business, heroes, and that sort. So do I, and I’m as proud as Punch over it; but I see by your eyes that there was something else before that, and I’m bound to find out who Blair and Mason are, and who was hit and who ran away, and all the rest of it.”
“What!” cried Dan, in a tone that made Ted jump.
“Well, you used to mutter about ’em in your sleep, and Uncle Laurie wondered. So did I; but don’t mind, if you can’t remember, or would rather not.”
“What else did I say? Queer, what stuff a man will talk when his wits are gone.”
“That’s all I heard; but it seemed interesting, and I just mentioned it, thinking it might refresh your memory a bit,” said Teddy, very politely; for Dan’s frown was heavy at that moment.
It cleared off at this reply, and after a look at the boy squirming with suppressed impatience in his chair, Dan made up his mind to amuse him with a game of cross-purposes and half-truths, hoping to quench his curiosity, and so get peace.
“Let me see; Blair was a lad I met in the cars, and Mason a poor fellow who was in a—well, a sort of hospital where I happened to be. Blair ran off to his brothers, and I suppose I might say Mason was hit, because he died there. Does that suit you?”
“No, it doesn’t. Why did Blair run? and who hit the other fellow? I’m sure there was a fight somewhere, wasn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“I guess I know what it was about.”
“The devil you do! Let’s hear you guess. Must be amusing,” said Dan, affecting an ease he did not feel.
Charmed to be allowed to free his mind, Ted at once unfolded the boyish solution of the mystery which he had been cherishing, for he felt that there was one somewhere.
“You needn’t say yes, if I guess right and you are under oath to keep s
ilent. I shall know by your face, and never tell. Now see if I’m not right. Out there they have wild doings, and it’s my belief you were in some of ’em. I don’t mean robbing mails, and Ku-Kluxing, and that sort of thing; but defending the settlers, or hanging some scamp, or even shooting a few, as a fellow must sometimes, in self-defence. Ah, ha! I’ve hit it, I see. Needn’t speak; I know the flash of your old eye, and the clench of your big fist.” And Ted pranced with satisfaction.
“Drive on, smart boy, and don’t lose the trail,” said Dan, finding a curious sense of comfort in some of these random words, and longing, but not daring, to confirm the true ones. He might have confessed the crime, but not the punishment that followed, the sense of its disgrace was still so strong upon him.
