The news of MacFarlane's expected departure soon became known in the village. There were not many people to say good-by, the inhabitants having seen but little of the engineer and still less of his daughter, except as she flew past, in a mad gallop, on her brown mare, her hair sometimes down her back. The pastor of the new church came, however, to express his regrets, and to thank Mr. MacFarlane for his interest in the church building. He also took occasion to say many complimentary things about Garry, extolling him for the wonderful manner in which that brilliant young architect had kept within the sum set apart by the trustees for its construction, and for the skill with which the work was being done, adding that as a slight reward for such devotion the church trustees had made Mr. Minott treasurer of the building fund, believing that in this way all disputes could the better be avoided,—one of some importance having already arisen (here the reverend gentleman lowered his voice) in which Mr. McGowan, he was sorry to say, who was building the masonry, had attempted an overcharge which only Mr. Minott's watchful eye could have detected, adding, with a glance over his shoulder, that the collapse of the embankment had undermined the contractor's reputation quite as much as the freshet had his culvert, at which MacFarlane smiled but made no reply.
Corinne also came to express her regrets, bringing with her a scrap of an infant in a teetering baby carriage, the whole presided over by a nurse in a blue dress, white cap, and white apron, the ends reaching to her feet: not the Corinne, the Scribe is pained to say, who, in the old days would twist her head and stamp her little feet and have her way in everything. But a woman terribly shrunken, with deep lines in her face and under her eyes. Jack, man-like, did not notice the change, but Ruth did.
After the baby had been duly admired, Ruth tossing it in her arms until it crowed, Corinne being too tired for much enthusiasm, had sent it home, Ruth escorting it herself to the garden gate.
“I am sorry you are going,” Corinne said in Ruth's absence. “I suppose we must stay on here until Garry finishes the new church. I haven't seen much of Ruth,—or of you, either, Jack. But I don't see much of anybody now,—not even of Garry. He never gets home until midnight, or even later, if the train is behind time, and it generally is.”
“Then he must have lots of new work,” cried Jack in a cheerful tone. “He told me the last time I saw him on the train that he expected some big warehouse job.”
Corinne looked out of the window and fingered the handle of her parasol.
“I don't believe that is what keeps him in town, Jack,” she said slowly. “I hoped you would come and see him last Sunday. Did Garry give you my message? I heard you were at home to-day, and that is why I came.”
“No, he never said a single word about it or I would have come, of course. What do you think, then, keeps him in town so late?” Something in her voice made Jack leave his own and take a seat beside her. “Tell me, Corinne. I'll do anything I can for Garry and you too. What is it?”
“I don't know, Jack,—I wish I did. He has changed lately. When I went to his room the other night he was walking the floor; he said he couldn't sleep, and the next morning when he didn't come down to breakfast I went up and found him in a half stupor. I had hard work to wake him. Don't tell Ruth,—I don't want anybody but you to know, but I wish you'd come and see him. I've nobody else to turn to,—won't you, Jack?”
“Come! of course I'll come, Corinne,—now,—this minute, if he's home, or to-night, or any time you say. Suppose I go back with you and wait. Garry's working too hard, that's it,—he was always that way, puts his whole soul into anything he gets interested in and never lets up until it's accomplished.” He waited for some reply, but she was still toying with the handle of her parasol. Her mind had not been on his proffered help,—she had not heard him, in fact.
“And, Jack,” she went on in the same heart-broken tone through which an unbidden sob seemed to struggle.
“Yes, I am listening, Corinne,—what is it?”
“I want you to forgive me for the way I have always treated you. I have—”
“Why, Corinne, what nonsense! Don't you bother your head about such—”
“Yes, but I do, and it is because I have never done anything but be ugly to you. When you lived with us I—”
“But we were children then, Corinne, and neither of us knew any better. I won't hear one word of such nonsense. Why, my dear girl—“he had taken her hand as she spoke and the pair rested on his knee—“do you think I am—No—you are too sensible a woman to think anything of the kind. But that is not it, Corinne—something worries you;” he asked suddenly with a quick glance at her face. “What is it? You shall have the best in me, and Ruth will help too.”
Her fingers closed over his. The touch of the young fellow, so full of buoyant strength and hope and happiness, seemed to put new life into her.
“I don't know, Jack.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “There may not be anything, yet I live under an awful terror. Don't ask me;—only tell me you will help me if I need you. I have nobody else—my stepfather almost turned me out of his office when I went to see him the other day,—my mother doesn't care. She has only been here half a dozen times, and that was when baby was born. Hush,—here comes Ruth,—she must not know.”
“But she MUST know, Corinne. I never have any secrets from Ruth, and don't you have any either. Ruth couldn't be anything but kind to you and she never misunderstands, and she is so helpful. Here she is. Ruth, dear, we were just waiting for you. Corinne is nervous and depressed, and imagines all sorts of things, one of which is that we don't care for her: and I've just told her that we do?”
Ruth looked into Jack's eyes as if to get his meaning—she must always get her cue from him now—she was entirely unconscious of the cause of it all, or why Corinne should feel so, but if Jack thought Corinne was suffering and that she wanted comforting, all she had was at Corinne's and Jack's disposal. With a quick movement she leaned forward and laid her hand on Corinne's shoulder.
“Why, you dear Corinne,—Jack and I are not like that. What has gone wrong,—tell me,” she urged.
For a brief instant Corinne made no answer. Once she tried to speak but the words died in her throat. Then, lifting up her hands appealingly, she faltered out:
“I only said that I—Oh, Ruth!—I am so wretched!” and sank back on the lounge in an agony of tears.
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