Nobody's Child

"They'll certainly not guess where to look for them… You know how to surmount a difficulty, don't you?" She had planned for this adventure, and her cheeks were warm.

"By helping myself to some one else's belongings – if there is no other way… Sit down and let me make sure you will be dry."

Baird had also planned for an hour on the terraces, and was elated. He knelt and put on Judith's overshoes with much care, a caressing clasp for each foot before he planted it on the floor. "They are so small," he said. "There are not many women whose feet are kissable." Then dashed by his temerity, he added quickly, "You must descend on me if I talk – nonsense. I am apt to be forward – I need training badly. I'm in your hands, you know."

Judith thought, as she looked down at his massive jaw with its suggestion of animal force, that undoubtedly he spoke from much predatory experience; his air of deference sat oddly on him; he was most attractive when presumptuous. Her reflections caused her a pang. Retrospective jealousy over affairs that were none of her concern? She shrugged mentally. She was foolish! For the first time in her life she was deliberately tampering with forces which she knew were dangerous.

She thought it best to say gravely, "You are a little – assured, Mr. Baird."

"I'm afraid I am," he assented ruefully; then added with native shrewdness and candor combined, "I suppose because I've usually found it paid."

"I suppose it does – with some people," Judith returned with instant hauteur. She was glad he could not see her flush.

Baird got to his feet. "May I help you with your cape?" he asked so humbly that the prick of his previous remark ceased to smart. Why take offense at his candor; his respect for her was apparent enough.

She regained her usual manner as Baird helped her down the steps and, on reaching the walk, dropped her arm, and vented his discomfort by criticizing the moon. "The stars are doing their best – why doesn't the silly thing choose the end of the month to be full in?" he complained. "I'm afraid you will stumble."

Judith did stumble a few moments afterward, and, as a matter of course, Baird took possession of her arm. Judith judged that he had been sufficiently rebuked and also that she had proved that she needed guidance and yet was not eager to accept it, a truly feminine procedure.

And Baird was evidently bent upon gaining the terraces without offending her by too much urgency. They had come to the verge of the first terrace, and he tested the ground. "It's not muddy," he announced. "The sod is too heavy… Shan't we go down?"

"I ought not to go so far away – some one will be wanting me," Judith objected.

"That is one reason you should go," Baird said decidedly. "You've been on duty all evening. Come, shunt it all for a few minutes." Baird had regained his assurance; it never deserted him for long.

"I should like to," Judith confessed, and her sigh was genuine enough.

"Of course you would. Isn't there a bench down there – somewhere?"

"On the edge of the last terrace – under those two cedars."

"Let's go to it – please, Wonder-woman! They'll all be out after that dance and I won't have a moment with you. Come!"

He pleaded a little masterfully, Judith thought, but as long as he did not suspect that it was his forcefulness that attracted her, all was well. "I suppose I can hear down there, if any one called," she said doubtfully.

"Certainly you can."

They went down to where the two cedars loomed, a dark mass, and groped their way to the bench. It was dark beneath the trees and quite dry. Below them was a hollow and beyond it a steep slope crowned by a group of trees, their outlines distinct against the sky. In every direction but this the country dropped away from the house, affording views for miles. Except for the music in the house behind them and the occasional snort or stamp of a horse in the stables, it was very still.

"This is splendid," Baird said, "but are you warm enough? You have nothing on your head – there's a hood to your cape … may I?"

He drew it up over her hair, restraining his impulse to touch her cheek as he did so. The cape reminded him of Ann Penniman and his afternoon's adventure, and he smiled a little to himself. That had been so natural a performance, and this enforced deference was so entirely a new experience. He was enjoying it; he liked the way in which Judith kept the distance between them. She sat well against her corner of the bench. He could see her face now, black and white and rounded into girlishness by the encircling hood, again reminding him of Ann.

"I like those hooded capes," he remarked. "I don't know that I ever saw one till I came here."

"Haven't you? Almost every woman here has one – they are so convenient. Do you know what sun-bonnets are? If you're here in the summer you'll become acquainted with them, too. But I suppose you will be off befo' then." She spoke more lazily than usual, slurred her words more, another reminder of Ann.

"I shan't be able to get away when I go – if you continue to be kind to me."

Judith laughed. "Do you happen to be Irish?"

"Of course I'm Irish! Haven't you noticed my long upper lip? My father was a pretty successful Chicago ward politician and I have the gift of gab and manipulation too. I can talk money out of a man – any hour of the day. Now that I have had enough of adventure, I mean to settle down to handling people and making money. I was born to it… But that sort of thing is contrary to all your traditions, isn't it?" he added.

Judith thought that he judged himself rightly; his voice alone would accomplish for him; it had both a persuasive and a compelling quality. "It is, but I admire it," she returned decidedly. He had offered her the opportunity she wanted.

"You do?" Baird said, surprised. Then his shrewdness added, "No, you only think you do. I don't believe there is a man in your family who would thrill over making money. I mean, thrill at the fight one must make in order to gain power over men and circumstances, for that is really the thing that buoys the money-maker, sheer joy in the tussle. There is the miser, of course, but he's rarely a genius. Any one can be a miser, if so inclined."

"You are right – the men of my family have very little business ability," Judith answered. "Garvin is the only one who has. He would be a success, if given the opportunity. He is tremendously interested in anything he undertakes and is capable of concentration – and he wants to make money."

It was not Baird's reading of Garvin Westmore, but he answered promptly: "He seems to be an energetic, wide-awake sort." Baird's alertness warned him that there was purpose in Judith's remarks.

Judith continued. "Yes, and I should like Garvin to have his chance… You see, ever since he was a child he has been tied down to this place. They will tell you about here that I have run the farm – for it is that now – the days of tobacco growing were over long ago – but it is Garvin, really, who has done all the buying and selling. He has made quite an income from his horses, simply because he has been interested in it. He would be just as interested in manufacturing automobiles, for instance – if he could get a position in some promising company."

Baird understood now. He had thought swiftly while Judith talked. So that was the reason he had been welcome at Westmore! That was the favor Judith meant to ask – he was to find a place for Garvin.

It did not trouble Baird in the least that he was expected to make a return for what he received – his experience had taught him that life was run largely on that basis – but he was stung by the thought that Judith had smiled on him for a purpose. He had mentioned his plans to no one; it spoke well for her keenness that she had divined the industry he had selected for his own advancement. But if she expected to gain more from a bargain than he did, she was mistaken.

It was perhaps as well that Judith did not see his expression. His voice did not lose its pleasing quality, however. "Garvin has some capital, I suppose?"

"Very little, I am afraid," Judith said regretfully.

Baird did not say, "But his brother has." He looked down at her, studying her clear-cut features closely. Evidently he had been right when he had decided that she was cold; she had simply unbent for a purpose. Aloud he said, "The manufacture of automobiles is going to be a tremendous industry. I have some automobile connections – I'll talk to Garvin a little."

It was not his voice that acquainted Judith with the chill he felt; she simply sensed it. She looked up at him. "That was the favor I was going to ask of you," she said softly. "Just to talk to Garvin a little and interest him in some plan that will get him away from all this." She indicated their surroundings by a gesture. "The family traditions have very little hold on Garvin – they make him impatient and dissatisfied. You see, I am older than my brother and I have had a great deal of responsibility. I feel more like a mother than a sister to him. His dissatisfaction worries me terribly. It would be doing me a very great favor if you would interest yourself a little in Garvin… We Westmores rarely ask favors, Mr. Baird, and only of those whom we really like. I have so much confidence in you." Judith's voice was sweet and pleading at the end; her hand stole out from her cape and touched his arm.

She had lifted him quickly out of coldness into something warmer than admiration. His doubts had melted like a fog under sunshine. He took her hand and kissed it. "There are few things I would not do for you, Wonder-woman… Thank you, dear."

He would have kept her hand, but she drew it away, and Baird was almost instantly glad that she did. He was forgetting himself. The thing he liked best in her was her aloofness. "I've often wanted to thank you for the way you have taken me in and made me feel at home," he declared. "I've never had much of that sort of kindness shown me – I appreciate it."

"I want you to feel at home at Westmore," she answered. "You must come often – and always be nice to me." She had regained her usual graceful vivacity. "Some day we will ride all over the place and you shall become really acquainted with it… Do you see that group of trees beyond there, against the sky? That is our family burying-ground – generations of Westmores. There are several quaint tombstones up there."

"You keep even your dead to yourselves, don't you? In a way, I like the clannishness of it. You keep everything to yourselves, birth and marriage and death… I think there's too much fuss and ceremony over all three. The first is generally a misfortune, the second is apt to be no cause for rejoicing, and the end of it all no real reason for mourning."

It was the first time Judith had heard this note from him. "Mr. Baird! How unlike you!.. It might be Garvin talking."

Baird did not want to talk about Garvin, so he made no reply. There was silence for a time. For some unaccountable reason Baird was touched by depression. This family with their close interests reminded him that no one would care particularly how he lived or when he died.

He was aroused by Judith's sudden movement. She was sitting taut, her hood flung back. "What is it?" he asked.

Her hand caught his arm, a grip of steel. "Hush!" she said sharply. "Listen!.. There are voices at the barn – and don't you hear galloping – on the road? Don't you hear it?"

Baird could hear it distinctly, furious galloping, now a thud on soft ground, then the click of hoofs against stones, and several men's voices at the barn.

"Yes, I hear it – what has happened?"

But Judith was off and away, running up the terraces, and her exclamation of distress reached him indistinctly, "Oh, why didn't I stay at the house!"

X

THE INFINITELY PAINFUL THING

Judith was not running to the house; she cut across the terraces to the stables, and Baird followed her with all the speed possible to him. And yet he did not catch up with her until after she had reached the group of men and horses. When he came up they had just parted, four horsemen off at a gallop down the road in the direction of the Post-Road, two men and Judith left standing beneath the stable lantern.

Baird recognized Edward and the colonel as he came up, and he was near enough to hear Edward's more distinct answer to Judith's indistinct question: "Yes – Garvin – to the Mine Banks… My God!"

"What has happened?" Baird asked breathlessly.

All three turned on him, and Baird saw Judith's white hand grip Edward's arm. He was answered by a curious silence, a portentous silence that conveyed a sense of tragedy. It was Judith who spoke finally:

"They are after Garvin's horse, Mr. Baird," she said evenly and clearly.

Garvin's horse? Baird looked from one to the other, three white faces carven into sudden and violent self-control. There was something in the way in which they faced him that affected Baird queerly. They stood together as if they hid something infinitely painful from him that the light of the lantern failed to reveal; something that hurt and shamed them, and yet about which they rallied determinedly – as Judith had lied, clearly and resolutely; as if they stood guard over a painful secret, and appealed to him to respect it.

Baird heard himself say in a voice that was robbed of everything but assumed relief: "That was what we heard then – the horse making off. Can I help?"

"I think not, Mr. Baird – thank you – Copeley and the others – have gone," Edward answered, his pauses marking the steadiness of each word.

Judith's clear voice followed her brother's effort instantly. "We may as well go in, I think, Edward. There is nothing we can do." She still had her hand on his arm, and she turned with him, as if guiding him, and kept by his side, leaving Baird to follow with the colonel.

The colonel spoke for the first time. "That's true. There's no good of our standin' about – not a bit… It's a pleasant enough evenin' to be out in, though, Mr. Baird – like May, suh. You'll not know Westmo' by the middle of next week – the trees and the lilacs setting out green. It takes only a few days fo' spring to come here, on the Ridge, and this is an early year – a very early year, suh."

If Baird had not been sobered by a sense of tragedy, he might have been amused by the colonel's attempt to follow Judith's lead. But the old gentleman's determinedly hearty voice failed him sadly, and Baird hoped that he had played the part he had instinctively chosen better than the colonel was playing his. And at the same time Baird's quick brain was trying to solve Edward's agonized, "My God!" What had Garvin done? Baird saw the man as he had looked that morning, with pistol raised.

He was answering the colonel. "I have been looking forward to spring here. I suppose you don't hunt after the crops are up."

"No, suh – we do have a little consideration fo' others, though we are not given credit for it. Now at Fair Field – "

The colonel had stopped abruptly. They had come to the veranda and from its lowest step a huddled heap had got to its feet, a big negress whose black hands were torturing her white apron. "Miss Judith – ?" she said whimperingly.

Judith stopped dead. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was as sharp as the lash of a whip.

"Miss Judith – I didn't go fo' to do it – " the woman begged humbly.

Judith cut her off. "Go up-stairs and stay there!.. Go!"

The woman slunk by them and around the corner of the house like a whipped dog, and Judith went on, her head high, her hand still on Edward's arm. As they went up the steps and the light from the hall shone on her, Baird saw her face distinctly, immobile as a death-mask, but with restless eyes glancing at the ballroom, which was lighted but silent, then searching the hall. The front door stood wide, and on the portico the family were gathered, all except Mrs. Dickenson and her daughter, who were in the drawing-room.

If Baird had needed confirmation of his fears, he had it in Mrs. Dickenson's face. She was clinging to her daughter, her face chalk-white and her eyes terror-stricken. The truth might escape from her at any moment; she looked on the verge of hysteria.

But Judith had noticed more quickly than Baird, and she spoke to the colonel in the same clear way in which she had spoken from the beginning. "Take her up-stairs, Ridley. She's frightened at all this galloping about, and no wonder." Then dropping Edward's arm she went straight on to the front door, her voice raised somewhat more, like an officer giving his orders, and at the same time conveying a warning:

"Come on in, all of you, and get ready for supper. I dare say Mr. Baird is hungry – I am – and we can't get Garvin's horse back by staring after it… Aunt Carlotta Morrison, come help me get every one together. Come!"

It was all for him, Baird knew it – all this bravery. He was the stranger among them; the one person from whom the painful thing, whatever it was, must be kept. They could not gather together in grief or sympathy or council – he was there. And it devolved upon him to play his part; to see nothing; understand nothing; and escape as soon as he could.

Baird would have given much to be able to get his horse and disappear. But that was not possible. He was experiencing the painful embarrassment of a guest whose absence was earnestly, even tragically desired, but whose departure would cause more pain than his presence – so long as he could successfully maintain an air of unconsciousness.

He must stay, but it occurred to Baird that he could give them a few moments in which to remove their masks, in which to consult together. "I'll go wash up," he said to Edward.

Edward stood with hand on the stair-rail, erect but deadly pale. He answered steadily and courteously, "Very well, Baird – it's what I must do in a moment. If you need anything, ring. I suppose some of the servants are about."

"Thanks," Baird said, and escaped.

He washed his hands and smoothed his hair mechanically. He was generally cool when excited, but he muttered to himself, "What in hell can it be? It's serious, whatever it is." His brain had already traversed several possibilities. Had Garvin suddenly gone mad? Or committed murder?.. Or had his own brain gone back on him, registered an entirely erroneous set of impressions?.. Of course it hadn't. Those people were both terrified and ashamed.

But he must go on with it. He had answered to the spur of Judith's voice. He was a poor sort if he couldn't play his part also… Baird judged that he had given them time enough in which to consult, and not too much time in which to suspect him. He must go down.

Baird never forgot that supper. They were gathered in the dining-room when he came down, composed, courteous, charming. It was a depleted company, five of the men were absent, and Mrs. Dickenson and her daughter, but the colonel was there, and Edward, and again Baird sat by Judith. The younger people were silent; there was a hushed strained air about them, but their elders covered their silence. The beautiful old mahogany table, bared now of linen, had been made smaller to hide vacancies, bringing them together: Edward, with the sharp lines of suffering growing and deepening about his mouth, but with quick attention for everybody; Mrs. Morrison, with her stately white head even more erect than usual; the colonel, with recovered aplomb.

The colonel told stories that Baird guessed the family knew well; Mrs. Morrison reproved every one present and was really amusing, and Judith smiled brilliantly and tossed the conversational ball back and forth. She did not let it rest for a moment. A change had come over her; there was a vivid spot in either cheek and her eyes were shining – nerves strained to breaking point, Baird guessed, and, when he saw how her hands shook, he himself began to talk – of South America, of Wyoming. He dragged forgotten experiences out of obscure corners of his brain and presented them.

He talked as he had never talked before, not even when he talked "money out of a man." He was talking against time, the first moment when he could relieve that proudly secretive company of his undesired presence; talked with the full consciousness that Priscilla Copeley was looking wanly at food she could not touch; that Edward's ear, inclined as if listening to him, was bent to catch every sound from without; that Judith's restless hand was beating a tattoo on the edge of the table while she also listened and waited. Baird did not enjoy what he was doing, but he liked always to play up to a demand. Judith needed what little help he could give her.

It was over at last. Baird knew just when Judith judged that appearances had been sufficiently maintained, and the moment had arrived when the party could break up. He said good night then, but, first, he asked Priscilla Copeley, "You'll not forget our ride to-morrow?"

He wondered what her answer would be, but even in this slip of a girl the family spirit was alive. "No, indeed," she returned through colorless lips. "At four o'clock, Mr. Baird," and she succeeded in smiling.

Judith went with him to the stairs, and Baird thanked her "for one of the pleasantest and most interesting evenings I have ever spent," as he phrased it.

"And I am grateful to you," she said quietly. "You were wonderful at supper." For the moment there was all of Edward's melancholy in her anxious eyes.

So she had guessed. Baird hoped the others had not; he felt almost certain they had not. He took her hand and kissed it – there was nothing he could say.

The color deepened in Judith's face. "Sleep well – " she said softly, and turned away.

Baird had no intention of sleeping. He changed into his riding clothes and lay down fully dressed. He also was waiting and listening; he would sleep as little as any one else in that house; he had never felt less like sleeping.

There were steps and voices for a time; some of the family were taking leave. Then, gradually, the house settled into watchful quiet; now and then carefully silenced movements on the stairs, and the steady ticking of the clock in the hall. Baird had already thought of every possibility, so he was without conjectures, but sometime before daylight those who had ridden away would return. He was waiting for that.

They came during the stillest hour, just after the clock struck three. Baird heard a stir at the stables and went to the window. He could not see the stables, the kitchen wing of the house shut them off, but he could hear cautious voices and the movement of horses. Would they come in by the front or by the veranda?

They rounded the kitchen, a compact group which was in full view for a moment or two, then drew in so close to the house that the veranda roof hid them. They passed along, moving slowly, to the other wing of the house, evidently to what had been the old plantation office. Then sounds ceased.

Baird drew a short breath. He had not been able to see very clearly, but the group kept together in a fashion he knew well; they were carrying some inert burden.

And he had to stay where he was till morning!

XI

KEPT IN THE DARK

The dawn ushered a brilliant spring day, a sky without a cloud, a light warm breeze from the south, the song of birds awakened early by the promise of nature.

Baird lay unconscious of it all, for a little before the pinky gray of morning lighted his room he had fallen asleep. Dawn had crept over him before he knew, and he lay stirless until the knock on his door aroused him into habit.

"Come in!" he called, still held by sleep.

It was the negress he had seen the night before, bearing a tray.

Baird sat up and stared at her. He was fully dressed and lying without covering, and after a rolling comprehensive glance, she stood with eyes lowered.

"What is it?" Baird asked, only half awake as yet.

"Miss Judith done send you a cup of coffee, suh, an' she says fo' you to res' till dinner if you feels like it. I tol' her I thought you was movin' – I didn't go fo' to wake you."

Baird was still dazed, for at the mention of Judith's name the events of the dark hours had rushed over him. It was difficult to connect them with this brilliant sunshine, or this collected ebony statue with the weeping, cringing creature of the night before.

Baird sprang up; he was fully awake now. "What time is it?" he asked.