“Who’s there?” came Delamere’s voice, in a somewhat startled tone, after a momentary silence.
“It’s me, suh; Sandy.”
They both spoke softly. It was the rule of the house when Mr. Delamere had retired, and though he was not at home, habit held its wonted sway.
“Just a moment, Sandy.”
Sandy waited patiently in the hall until the door was opened. If the room showed any signs of haste or disorder, Sandy was too full of his own thoughts—and other things—to notice them.
“What do you want, Sandy,” asked Tom.
“Mistuh Tom,” asked Sandy solemnly, “ef I wuz in yo’ place, an’ you wuz in my place, an’ we wuz bofe in de same place, whar would I be?”
Tom looked at Sandy keenly, with a touch of apprehension. Did Sandy mean anything in particular by this enigmatical inquiry, and if so, what? But Sandy’s face clearly indicated a state of mind in which consecutive thought was improbable; and after a brief glance Delamere breathed more freely.
“I give it up, Sandy,” he responded lightly. “That’s too deep for me.”
“ ’Scuse me, Mistuh Tom, but is you heared er seed anybody er anything come in de house fer de las’ ten minutes?”
“Why, no, Sandy, I haven’t heard anyone. I came from the club an hour ago. I had forgotten my key, and Sally got up and let me in, and then went back to bed. I’ve been sitting here reading ever since. I should have heard anyone who came in.”
“Mistuh Tom,” inquired Sandy anxiously, “would you ’low dat I’d be’n drinkin’ too much?”
“No, Sandy, I should say you were sober enough, though of course you may have had a few drinks. Perhaps you’d like another? I’ve got something good here.”
“No, suh, Mistuh Tom, no, suh! No mo’ liquor fer me, suh, never! When liquor kin make a man see his own ha’nt, it’s ’bout time fer dat man ter quit drinkin’, it sho’ is! Good night, Mistuh Tom.”
As Sandy turned to go, Delamere was struck by a sudden and daring thought. The creature of impulse, he acted upon it immediately.
“By the way, Sandy,” he exclaimed carelessly, “I can pay you back that money you were good enough to lend me this afternoon. I think I’ll sleep better if I have the debt off my mind, and I shouldn’t wonder if you would. You don’t mind having it in gold, do you?”
“No, indeed, suh,” replied Sandy. “I ain’ seen no gol’ fer so long dat de sight er it’d be good fer my eyes.”
Tom counted out ten five-dollar gold pieces upon the table at his elbow.
“And here’s another, Sandy,” he said, adding an eleventh, “as interest for the use of it.”
“Thank y’, Mistuh Tom. I didn’t spec’ no in-trus’, but I don’ never ’fuse gol’ w’en I kin git it.”
“And here,” added Delamere, reaching carelessly into a bureau drawer, “is a little old silk purse that I’ve had since I was a boy. I’ll put the gold in it, Sandy; it will hold it very nicely.”
“Thank y’, Mistuh Tom. You’re a gentleman, suh, an’ wo’thy er de fam’ly name. Good night, suh, an’ I hope yo’ dreams’ll be pleasanter ’n’ mine. Ef it wa’n’t fer dis gol’ kinder takin’ my min’ off’n dat ha’nt, I don’ s’pose I’d be able to do much sleepin’ ter-night. Good night, suh.”
“Good night, Sandy.”
Whether or not Delamere slept soundly, or was troubled by dreams, pleasant or unpleasant, it is nevertheless true that he locked his door, and sat up an hour later, looking through the drawers of his bureau, and burning several articles in the little iron stove which constituted part of the bedroom furniture.
It is also true that he rose very early, before the household was stirring. The cook slept in a room off the kitchen, which was in an outhouse in the back yard. She was just stretching herself, preparatory to getting up, when Tom came to her window and said that he was going off fishing, to be gone all day, and that he would not wait for breakfast.
XIX
A Midnight Walk
Ellis left the office of the Morning Chronicle about eleven o’clock the same evening and set out to walk home. His boardinghouse was only a short distance beyond old Mr. Delamere’s residence, and while he might have saved time and labor by a slightly shorter route, he generally selected this one because it led also by Major Carteret’s house. Sometimes there would be a ray of light from Clara’s room, which was on one of the front corners; and at any rate he would have the pleasure of gazing at the outside of the casket that enshrined the jewel of his heart. It was true that this purely sentimental pleasure was sometimes dashed with bitterness at the thought of his rival; but one in love must take the bitter with the sweet, and who would say that a spice of jealousy does not add a certain zest to love? On this particular evening, however, he was in a hopeful mood. At the Clarendon Club, where he had gone, a couple of hours before, to verify a certain news item for the morning paper, he had heard a story about Tom Delamere which, he imagined, would spike that gentleman’s guns for all time, so far as Miss Pemberton was concerned. So grave an affair as cheating at cards could never be kept secret—it was certain to reach her ears; and Ellis was morally certain that Clara would never marry a man who had been proved dishonorable. In all probability there would be no great sensation about the matter. Delamere was too well connected; too many prominent people would be involved—even Clara, and the editor himself, of whom Delamere was a distant cousin. The reputation of the club was also to be considered. Ellis was not the man to feel a malicious delight in the misfortunes of another, nor was he a pessimist who
