poor, so poor!... Lead us not into... Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no one would ever know... Lead us....' The voice died out in mumblings. After a little she glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-glad way—
'He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late—too late... Maybe not—maybe there is still time.' She rose and stood thinking, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shudder shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry throat, 'God forgive me—it's awful to think such things—but... Lord, how we are made—how strangely we are made!'
She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily over and knelt down by the sack and felt of its ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lovingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old eyes. She fell into fits of absence; and came half out of them at times to mutter 'If we had only waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not been in such a hurry!'
Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and told his wife all about the strange thing that had happened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in the town who could have helped a suffering stranger with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and silent. And by-and-by nervous and fidgety. At last the wife said, as if to herself,
'Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses... and us... nobody.'
The husband came out of his thinkings with a slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment she was alone, and mumbling to herself.
And now Richards and Cox were hurrying through the deserted streets, from opposite directions. They met, panting, at the foot of the printing-office stairs; by the night-light there they read each other's face. Cox whispered:
'Nobody knows about this but us?'
The whispered answer was:
'Not a soul—on honour, not a soul!'
'If it isn't too late to—'
The men were starting up-stairs; at this moment they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked,
'Is that you, Johnny?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You needn't ship the early mail—nor ANY mail; wait till I tell you.'
'It's already gone, sir.'
'GONE?' It had the sound of an unspeakable disappointment in it.
'Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the towns beyond changed to-day, sir—had to get the papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—'
The men turned and walked slowly away, not waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone,
'What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I can't make out.'
The answer was humble enough:
'I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you know, until it was too late. But the next time—'
'Next time be hanged! It won't come in a thousand years.'
Then the friends separated without a good-night, and dragged themselves home with the gait of mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives sprang up with an eager 'Well?'—then saw the answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing, without waiting for it to come in words. In both houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a new thing; there had been discussions before, but not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions to- night were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each other. Mrs. Richards said:
'If you had only waited, Edward—if you had only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight to the printing-office and spread it all over the world.'
'It SAID publish it.'
'That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?'
'Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it so—'
'Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had only stopped to think, you would have seen that you COULDN'T find the right man, because he is in his grave, and hasn't left chick nor child nor relation behind him; and as long as the money went to somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would be hurt by it, and—and—'
She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to think of some comforting thing to say, and presently came out with this:
'But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it must be; we know that. And we must remember that it was so ordered—'
'Ordered! Oh, everything's ORDERED, when a person has to find some way out when he has been stupid. Just the same, it was ORDERED that the money should come to us in this special way, and it was you that must take it on yourself to go meddling with the designs of Providence—and who gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more becoming to a meek and humble professor of—'
'But, Mary, you know how we have been trained all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is absolutely second nature to us to stop not a single moment to think when there's an honest thing to be done—'
'Oh, I know it, I know it—it's been one everlasting training and training and training in honesty—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against every possible temptation, and so it's ARTIFICIAL honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes, as we have seen this night. God knows I never had shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and indestructible honesty until now—and now, under the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward, it is my belief that this town's honesty is as rotten as mine is; as rotten as yours. It is a mean town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin like a house of cards. There, now, I've made confession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I've been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no man call me honest again—I will not have it.'
'I—Well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do: I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange. I never could have believed it—never.'
A long silence followed; both were sunk in thought. At last the wife looked up and said:
'I know what you are thinking, Edward.'
Richards had the embarrassed look of a person who is caught.
'I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—'
'It's no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same question myself.'
'I hope so. State it.'
'You were thinking, if a body could only guess out WHAT THE REMARK WAS that Goodson made to the stranger.'
'It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed. And you?'
'I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the morning and admits the sack... Oh dear, oh dear—if we hadn't made the mistake!'
The pallet was made, and Mary said:
'The open sesame—what could it have been? I do wonder what that remark could have been. But come; we will get to bed now.'
'And sleep?'
'No; think.'
'Yes; think.'
By this time the Coxes too had completed their spat and their reconciliation, and were turning in—to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and worry over what the remark could possibly have been which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand dollars, cash.
The reason that the village telegraph-office was open later than usual that night was this: The foreman of Cox's paper was the local representative of the Associated Press. One might say its honorary representative, for it wasn't four times a year that he could furnish thirty words that would be accepted. But this time it was different. His despatch stating what he had caught got an instant answer:
