CHAPTER VII
THE END OF THE LONG ROAD
"We've been expecting you, Mr. Gwynne," he said in his
most genial manner. "Step right in. Dinner'll soon be ready,
and I reckon you must be hungry. Take the hosses around to the stable,
nigger, and put 'em up. I allowed you'd be delayed some by the bad
roads, but I guess you must have got a late start this mornin' from
Phin Striker's. Mrs.--er--ahem! I mean your step-mother sent word
that you were on the way and to have accommodations ready for you.
Say, I'd like to make you acquainted with--"
"My step-mother sent word to you?" demanded Kenneth, incredulously.
"She did. What would you expect her to do, long as she knew
you were headed this way? I admit she isn't specially given to worryin'
about other people's comforts, but, when you get right down to it,
I guess she considers you a sort of connection of hers, spite of
everything, and so she lays herself out a little. But I want to
tell you one thing, Mr. Gwynne, you're not going to find her particularly
cordial, as the sayin' is. She's about as stand-offish and unneighbourly
as a Kickapoo Indian. But, as I was sayin', I'd like to make you
acquainted with some of our leadin' citizens. This is Daniel Bugher,
the recorder, and Doctor Davis, Matt Scudder, Tom Benbridge and
John McCormick. It was moved and seconded, soon as you heaved in
sight, that we repair at once to Sol Hamer's grocery for a little--"
"Excuse me," broke in Kenneth, laughing; "I have
heard of that grocery, and I think it would be wise for me to become
a little better acquainted with my surroundings before I begin trading
there."
The landlord rubbed his chin and the other gentlemen laughed uproariously.
"Well," said the former, "I can see one thing mighty
plain. You're going to be popular with my wife and all the other
women in town. They'll point to you and say to practically nine-tenths
of the married men in Lafayette: 'There's a man that don't drink,
and goodness knows HE isn't a preacher!'"
"I am hardly what you would call a teetotaler, gentlemen,"
said Gwynne, still smiling.
"Wait till you get down with a spell of the Wabash shakes,"
said Mr. McCormick. "That'll make a new man of him, won't it,
Doc?"
"Depends somewhat on his constitution and the way he was brought
up," said the doctor, with a professional frown which slowly
relaxed into an unprofessional smile.
"I was brought up by my grandmother," explained Kenneth,
vastly amused.
"That settles it," groaned Mr. Johnson. "You're not
long for this world. Before we go in I wish you'd take a look at
the new courthouse. We're mighty proud of that building. There isn't
a finer courthouse in the state of Indiana,--or maybe I'd better
say there won't be if it's ever finished." "I noticed
it as I came by," said the newcomer, dismissing the structure
with a glance. "If you will conduct me to my room, Mr. Johnson,
I--"
"Just a second," broke in the landlord, his gaze fixed
on a horseman who had turned into the street some distance below.
"Here comes Barry Lapelle,--down there by that clump of sugar
trees. He's the most elegant fellow we've got in town, and you'll
want to know him. Makes Lafayette his headquarters most of the--"
"I have met Mr. Lapelle," interrupted Kenneth. "This
morning, out in the country."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Johnson. The citizens exchanged
a general look of surprise.
"Thought you said he went down the river on yesterday's boat,"
said Scudder.
"That's just what he did," said Johnson, puzzled. "Packed
some of his things and said he'd be gone a week or so. He must have
got off at Attica,--but, no, he couldn't have got here this soon
by road. By glory, I hope the boat didn't strike a snag or a rock,
or run ashore somewhere. Looks kind of serious, boys."
"Couldn't he have landed almost anywhere in a skiff?"
inquired Gwynne, his eyes on the approaching horseman.
"Certainly he could,--but why? He had business down at Covington,
he said."
"He told me this morning he had very important business here.
That is why he could not ride in with me," said Kenneth, affecting
indifference. "By the way, is he riding his own horse?"
"Yes," said Benbridge. "That's his mare Fancy,--thoroughbred
filly by King Philip out of Shawnee Belle. He sent her down to Joe
Fell's to stud yesterday and--Say, that accounts for him being on
her now. You made a good guess, Mr. Gwynne. He must have landed
at La Grange, rowed across the river, and hoofed it up to Fell's
farm. But what do you suppose made him change his mind so suddenly?"
"He'll probably tell you to go to thunder if you ask him,"
said the landlord.
"I'm not going to ask him anything," retorted Benbridge.
"He's working tooth and nail against the Wabash and Erie Canal
that's projected to run from Lake Erie to the mouth of the Tippecanoe,
Mr. Gwynne," said one of the citizens. "But it's coming
through in spite of him and all the rest of the river hogs."
"I see," said the young man, a grim smile playing about
his lips.
He knew that the mare Fancy had been in waiting for her master when
he clambered ashore on the river bank opposite La Grange, and he
also suspected that the little steamboat had remained tied up at
the landing all night long and well into the morning, expecting
two passengers who failed to come aboard. He could not suppress
a chuckle of satisfaction.
Lapelle rode up at this instant and, throwing the bridle rein to
a boy who had come running up from the stable, dismounted quickly.
He came straight to Gwynne, smiling cordially.
"I see you beat me in. After we parted I decided to cut through
the woods to have a look at Jack Moxley's keel boat, stuck in the
mud on this side of the river. You'd think the blame fool would
have sense enough to keep well out in mid stream at a time like
this. Happy to have you here with us, and I hope you will like us
well enough to stay."
"Thank you. I shall like you all better after I have had something
to eat," said Kenneth.
"And drink," added Lapelle. It was then that Kenneth noticed
that his eyes were slightly blurred and his voice a trifle thick.
He had been drinking.
"What turned you back, Barry?" inquired McCormick. "Thought
you were to be gone a week or--"
"Changed my mind," said Lapelle curtly, and then, apparently
on second thought, added: "I got off the boat at La Grange
and crossed over to spend the night at Martin Hawk's, the man you
saw with me this morning, Mr. Gwynne. He is a hunter down Middleton
way. I fish and hunt with him a good deal. Well, I reckon I'd better
go in and get out of these muddy boots and pants."
Without another word, he strode up the steps, across the porch and
into the tavern, his head high, his gait noticeably unsteady.
"Martin Hawk!" growled the landlord. "The orneriest
cuss this side of hell. Plain no-good scalawag. Barry'll find it
out some day, and then maybe he'll wish he had paid some attention
to what I've been tellin' him." "Wouldn't surprise me
a bit if Mart knows a whole lot more about what became of some mighty
good yearlin' colts that used to belong to honest men down on the
Wea," said one of the group, darkly.
"I wouldn't trust Mart Hawk as far as I could throw a thousand
pound rock," observed Mr. Johnson, compressing his lips. "Well,
come on in, Mr. Gwynne, and slick up a bit. The dinner bell will
be ringin' in a few minutes, and I want you to meet the cook before
you risk eatin' any of her victuals. My wife's the cook, so you
needn't look scared. Governor Noble almost died of over-feedin'
the last time he was here,--but that wasn't her fault. And my daughters,
big and little, seem anxious to get acquainted with the celebrated
Kenneth Gwynne. People have been talkin' so much about you for the
last six months that nearly everybody calls you by your first name,
and Jim Crouch's wife is so taken with it that she has made up her
mind to call her baby Kenneth,--that is, providing nature does the
right thing. Next week some time, ain't it, Doc?"
"That's what most everybody in town says, Bob," replied
the doctor solemnly, "so I guess it must be true."
"We begin counting the inhabitants of the town as far as a
month ahead sometimes," explained Mr. McCormick drily. "I
don't know as we've been out of the way more than a day or a day-and-a-half
on any baby that's been born here in the last two years. Hope to
see you in my store down there, Mr. Gwynne--any time you're passing
that way. You can't miss it. It's just across the street from that
white frame building with the green stripes running criss-cross
on the front door,--Joe Hanna's store."
"Robert Gwyn's son is always welcome at my store and my home,"
said another cordially. "We didn't know till last fall that
he had a son, and--well, I hope you don't mind my saying we couldn't
believe it at first."
"You spell the name different from the way he spelled it,"
answered Bugher, the recorder. "I noticed it in your letters,
and it struck me as queer."
"My father appears to have reverted to the original way of
spelling the name," said Kenneth, from the upper step. "My
forebears were Welsh, you see. The manner of spelling it was changed
when they came to America, over a hundred years ago."
His bedroom was in the small wing off the dining-room. Its one window
looked out upon the courthouse, the view being somewhat restricted
by the presence of a pair of low-branched oak trees in the side-yard,
almost within arm's length of the wall,--they were so close, in
fact, that their limbs stretched out over the rough shingle roof,
producing in the wind an everlasting sound of scratching and scraping.
There was a huge four-poster feather bed of mountainous proportions,
leaving the occupant scant space in which to move about the room.
"Last people to occupy this room," said Mr. Johnson, standing
in the doorway, "were George Ripley and Edna Cole, three weeks
ago last night. They came in from the Grand Prairie and only stayed
the one night. Had to get back to the farm next day on account of
it bein' wash-day. I guess I forgot to say they were on their weddin'-trip.
Generally speaking, it takes about three years for people to get
over callin' a girl by her maiden name,--so you needn't think there
was anything wrong about George and Edna stayin' here. I wish you
could have been here to drive out to the infare at her pa's house
two nights after the weddin'. It was the biggest ever held on that
side of the river,--and as for the shiveree,--my Lord, it WAS something
to talk about. Tin cans, cowbells, shot-guns, tenor-drums,--but
I'm keeping you, Mr. Gwynne. You'll find water in that jug over
there, and a towel by the lookin' glass. Come out when you're ready."
When Kenneth returned to the dining-room, he found Johnson waiting
there with his wife and two of his comely daughters. They were presented
to the new guest with due informality, and then the landlord went
out upon the front porch to ring the dinner-bell.
"I guess you won't be stayin' here long, Mr. Gwynne,"
said Mrs. Johnson. "Your mother,--I should say, your step-mother,--has
got your house all ready for you to move right in. Job Turner moved
out last week, and she took some of the furniture and things over
so's you could be sort of at home right away." Observing his
start, and the sudden tightening of his lips, she went on complacently:
"'Twasn't much trouble for her. Your house isn't more than
fifty yards from hers,--just across lots, you might say. She--"
Kenneth, forgetting himself in his agitation, interrupted her with
the startling question:
"Where does Rachel Carter live?"
"Rachel who?"
He collected his wits, stammering:
"I believe that was her name before she--before she married
my father."
"Oh, I see. Her name is Rachel, of course. Well, her house
is up Columbia street,--that's the one on the other side of the
square,--almost to the hill where Isaac Edwards has his brickyard,
just this side of the swamp."
After dinner, which was eaten at a long table in company with eight
or ten "customers," to whom he was introduced by the genial
host, he repaired to the office of Recorder Bugher.
"Everything's in good shape," announced Bugher. "There
ain't a claim against the property, now that Mrs. Gwyn has given
up her idea of contesting the will. The property is in your name
now, Mr. Gwynne,--and that reminds me that your father, in his will,
spells your name with a double n and an e, while he spells hers
with only one n. He took into consideration the fact that you spelled
your name in the new-fangled way, as you say he used to spell it
in Kentucky. And that also accounts for his signing the will 'Robert
Gwyn, formerly known as Robert Gwynne.' It's legal, all right, properly
witnessed and attested by two reliable men of this county."
"I have seen a copy of the will."
"Another queer thing about it is that he bequeathed certain
property to you as 'my son, Kenneth Gwynne,'--while he fails to
mention his daughter Viola at all, except to say that he bequeaths
so-and-so to 'Rachel Gwyn, to give, bequeath and devise as she sees
fit.' Of course, Viola, by law, is entitled to a share of the estate
and it should have been so designated. Judge Wylie says she can
contest the will if she so desires, on the ground that she is entitled
to as much as you, Mr. Gwynne. But she has decided to let it stand
as it is, and I guess she's sensible. All that her mother now has
will go to her when said Rachel dies, and as it will be a full half
of the estate instead of what might have been only a third, I guess
she's had pretty good advice from some one."
"The fact that my half-sister was not mentioned in the will
naturally led me to conclude that no such person existed. I did
not know till this morning, Mr. Bugher, that I had a half-sister."
"Well," began the recorder, pursing his lips, "for
that matter she didn't know she had a half-brother till the will
was read, so she was almost as ignorant as you."
"It's all very strange,--exceedingly strange."
"When did your own mother die, if it's a fair question?"
"In the year 1812. My father was away when she died."
"Off to the war, I suppose."
"Yes," said the young man steadily. "Off to the war,"
he lied, still staring out of the window. "I was left with
my grandparents when he went off to make his fortune in this new
country. It was not until I was fairly well grown that we heard
that he was married to a woman named Rachel Carter."
"Well, I guess it's something you don't like to talk about,"
said Mr. Bugher, and turned his attention to the records they were
consulting.
Later the young man called at the office of Mr. Cornell, the lawyer
who had charge of his affairs. He had come to Lafayette prepared
to denounce Rachel Carter, to drive her in shame and disgrace from
the town, if necessary. Now he found himself confronted by a condition
that distressed and perplexed him; his bitter resolve was rudely
shaken and he was in a dire state of uncertainty. He was faced by
a most unexpected and staggering situation.
To denounce Rachel Carter would be to deliberately strike a cruel,
devastating blow at the happiness and peace of an innocent person,--Viola
Gwyn, his own half-sister. A word from him, and that lovely girl,
serene in her beliefs, would be crushed for life. The whole scheme
of life had been changed for him in the twinkling of an eye, as
it were. He could not wreak vengeance upon Rachel Carter without
destroying Viola Gwyn,--and the mere thought of that caused him
to turn cold with repugnance. How could he publish Rachel Carter's
infamy to the world with that innocent girl standing beside her
to receive and sustain the worst of the shock? Impossible! Viola
must be spared,--and so with her, Rachel Carter!
Then there was the strange message he had received from Viola, through
the hunter, Stain. What was back of the earnest request for him
to come and see her at her mother's house? Was she in trouble? Was
she in need of his help? Was she depending upon him, her blood relation,
for counsel in an hour of duress? He was sadly beset by conflicting
emotions.
In the course of his interview with the lawyer, from whom he had
decided to withhold much that he had meant to divulge, he took occasion
to inquire into the present attitude of Rachel Carter,--or Gwyn,
as he reluctantly spoke of her,--toward him, an open and admitted
antagonist.
"Well," said Cornell, shaking his head, "I don't
believe you will catch her asking any favours of you. She has laid
down her arms, so to speak, but that doesn't mean she intends to
be friendly. As a matter of fact, she simply accepts the situation,--with
very bad grace, of course,--but she'll never be able to alter her
nature or her feelings. She considers herself cheated, and that's
all there is to it. I doubt very much whether she will even speak
to you, Mr. Gwynne. She is a strange woman, and a hard one to understand.
She fought desperately against your coming here at all. One of her
propositions was that she should be allowed to buy your share of
the estate, if such a transaction could be arranged, you will remember.
You declined to consider it. This was after she withdrew her proposed
contest of the will. Then she got certain Crawfordsville men interested
in the purchase of your land, and they made you a bona fide offer,--I
think they offered more than the property is worth, by the way.
I think, back of everything, she could not bear the thought of you,
the son of a former wife, living next door to her. Jealousy, I suppose,--but
not unnatural, after all, in a second wife, is it? They're usually
pretty cantankerous when it comes to the first wife's children.
As regards her present attitude, I think she'll let you alone if
you let her alone."
"My sister has asked me to come up to the house to see her
this afternoon," said Kenneth.
The lawyer looked surprised. "Is that so? Well," with
a puzzled frown, "I don't quite understand how she came to
do that. I was under the impression that she felt about as bitterly
toward you as her mother does. In fact, she has said some rather
nasty things about you. Boasted to more than one of her friends
that she would slap your face if you ever tried to speak to her."
Kenneth smiled, a reminiscent light in his eyes. "She has done
so, figuratively speaking, Mr. Cornell. I am confident she hates
me,--but if that's the case, why should she leave word for me to
come and see her?"
"Experience has taught me that women have a very definite object
in view when they let on as if they had changed their minds,"
was the judicial opinion of Mr. Cornell. "Maybe they don't
realize it, but they are as wily as the devil when they think, and
you think, and everybody else thinks, they're behaving like an angel.
It's not for me to say whether you should go to see her or not,
but I believe I would if I were in your place. Maybe she has made
up her mind to be friendly, on the surface at least, and as you
are bound to meet each other at people's houses, parties, and all
such, perhaps it would be better to bury the hatchet. I think you
will be quite safe in going up there to-day, so far as Mrs. Gwyn
is concerned. She will not appear on the scene, I am confident.
You will not come in contact with her. You say that she has put
some of her furniture at your disposal, but she doubtless did so
on the advice of her lawyer. You must not forget that your father,
in his will, left half of his personal effects to you. She is just
smart enough to select in advance the part that she is willing for
you to have, feeling that you will not be captious about it."
"I have no desire to exact anything of--"
"Quite so, quite so," broke in the lawyer. "But she
could not be expected to know that. She is a long-headed woman,
Mr. Gwynne. I suspect she is considerably worried about Viola. Your
half-sister is being rather assiduously courted by a young man named
Lapelle. Mrs. Gwyn does not approve of him. She is strait-laced
and--er--puritanical."
"Puritanical, eh?" said Kenneth, with a short laugh that
Mr. Cornell totally misinterpreted.
"Barry isn't exactly what you would call sanctimonious,"
admitted the lawyer, with a dry smile. "The worst of it is,
I'm afraid Viola is in love with him."
His client was silent for a moment, reflecting. Then he arose abruptly
and announced:
"I agree with you, Mr. Cornell. I will go up to see her this
afternoon. I bear her no grudge,--and after all, she is my sister.
Good day, sir. I shall give myself the pleasure of calling in to
see you to-morrow."