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Lo, Michael!

<h3>Chapter XXVII</h3> All this while Michael had been in daily communication with Sam, as well as with Will French, who with Hester’s help had kept the rooms in the alley going, though they reported that the head had been sorely missed. Sam had reported daily progress with the house and about two weeks before Michael’s release from quarantine announced that everything was done, even to the papering of the walls and oiling of the floors. A fire had been burning in the furnace and fireplaces for several weeks, so the plaster was thoroughly dry, and it was Michael’s plan that Starr and her father were to go straight down to the farm as soon as they were free to leave the house. To this end Hester and Will had been given daily commissions to purchase this and that needful article of furniture, until now at last Michael felt that the house would be habitable for Starr and her precious invalid. During the entire winter Michael had pleased himself in purchasing rugs here and there, and charming, fitting, furniture for the house he was building. A great many things,—the important things,—had already been selected, and Michael knew he could trust Hester’s taste for the rest. For some reason he had never said much to Starr about either Hester or Will, perhaps because they had always seemed to him to belong to one another, and thus were somewhat set apart from his own life. But one morning, Starr, coming into the library where Michael was telephoning Hester about some last purchases she was making, overheard these words: “All right Hester, you’ll know best of course, but I think you better make it a dozen instead of a half. It’s better to have too many than too few; and we might have company, you know.” Now, of course, Starr couldn’t possibly be supposed to know that it was a question of dishes that was being discussed so intimately. In fact, she did not stop to think what they were talking about; she only knew that he had called this other girl “Hester”; and she suddenly became aware that during all these weeks of pleasant intercourse, although she had addressed him as Michael, he had carefully avoided using any name at all for her, except on one or two occasions, substituting pronouns wherever possible. She had not noticed this before, but when she heard that “Hester” in his pleasant tones, her heart, brought the fact before her at once for invoice. Who was this girl Hester? And why was she Hestered so carelessly as though he had a right? Could it be possible that Michael was engaged to her? Why had she never thought of it before? Of course it would be perfectly natural. This other girl had been down in his dear alley, working shoulder to shoulder with him all these years, and it was a matter of course that he must love her, Starr’s bright morning that but a moment before had been filled with so much sunshine seemed suddenly to cloud over with a blackness that blotted out all the joy; and though she strove to hide it even from herself, her spirit was heavy with something she did not understand. That evening Michael came into the library unexpectedly. He had been out in the kitchen helping Morton to open a box that was refractory. He found the room entirely dark, and thought he heard a soft sound like sobbing in one corner of the room. “Starr!” he said. “Starr, is that you?” nor knew that he had called her by her name, though she knew it very well indeed. She kept quite still for an instant, and then she rose from the little crumpled heap in the corner of the leather couch where she had dropped for a minute in the dark to cry out the strange ache of her heart when she thought Michael was safely in the kitchen for a while. “Why, yes, Michael!” she said, and her voice sounded choky, though she was struggling to make it natural. Michael stepped to the doorway and turned on the hall lights so that he could dimly see her little figure standing in the shadow. Then he came over toward her, his whole heart yearning over her, but a mighty control set upon himself. “What is the matter—dear?” He breathed the last word almost under his breath. He actually did not realize that he had spoken it aloud. It seemed to envelope her with a deep tenderness. It broke her partial self-control entirely and she sobbed again for a minute before she could speak. Oh, if he but dared to take that dear form into his aims and comfort her! If he but dared! But he had no right! Michael stood still and struggled with his heart, standing quite near her, yet not touching her. “Oh, my dear!” he breathed to himself, in an agony of love and self-restraint. But she did not hear the breath. She was engaged in a struggle of her own, and she seemed to remember that Hester-girl, and know her duty. She must not let him see how she felt, not for anything in the world. He was kind and tender. He had always been. He had denied himself and come here to stay with them in their need because of his gratitude toward her father for all he had done for him; and he had breathed that “dear” as he would have done to any little child of the tenement whom he found in trouble. Oh, she understood, even while she let the word comfort her lonely heart. Why, oh why had she been left to trifle with a handsome scoundrel? Why hadn’t she been worthy to have won the love of a great man like this one? These thoughts rushed through her brain so rapidly that they were not formulated at all. Not until hours afterward did she know they had been thought; but afterwards she sorted them out and put them in array before her troubled heart. A minute she struggled with her tears, and then in a sweet little voice, like a tired, naughty child she broke out: “Oh, Michael, you’ve been so good to me—to us, I mean—staying here all these weeks and not showing a bit of impatience when you had all that great work in the world to do—and I’ve just been thinking how perfectly horrid I was to you last winter—the things I said and wrote to you—and how I treated you when you were trying to save me from an awful fate! I’m so ashamed, and so thankful! It all came over me tonight what I owed you, and I can’t ever thank you. Can you forgive me for the horrid way I acted, and for passing you on the street that Sunday without speaking to you—I’m so ashamed! Will you forgive me?” She put out her little hands with a pathetic motion toward him in the half light of the room, and he took them in both his great warm ones and held them in his firm grasp, his whole frame thrilling with her sweet touch. “Forgive you, little Starr!” he breathed—“I never blamed you—” And there is no telling what might not have happened if the doctor had not just then unexpectedly arrived to perfect the arrangements for their going to the farm. When Michael returned from letting the doctor out, Starr had fled upstairs to her room; when they met the next morning it was with the bustle of preparation upon them; and each cast shy smiling glances toward the other. Starr knew that she was forgiven, but she also knew that there was a wall reared between them that had not been there before, and her heart ached with the knowledge. Nevertheless, it was a happy morning, and one could not be absolutely miserable in the company of Michael, with a father who was recovering rapidly, and the prospect of seeing him and going with him into the beautiful out-of-doors within a few hours. Michael went about the work of preparing to go with a look of solemn joy. Solemn because he felt that the wonderful companionship he had had alone with Starr was so soon to end. Joyful because he could be with her still and know she had passed through the danger of the terrible disease and come safely out of the shadow with her beauty as vivid as ever. Besides, he might always serve her, and they were friends now, not enemies—that was a great deal! The little world of Old Orchard stood on tiptoe that lovely spring morning when the party came down. The winding road that led to the cottage was arched all over with bursting bloom, for the apple trees had done their best at decorating for the occasion and made a wondrous canopy of pink and white for Starr to see as she passed under. Not a soul was in sight as they drove up to the cottage save Sam, standing respectfully to receive them in front of the piazza, and Lizzie, vanishing around the corner of the cottage with her pretty boy toddling after—for Lizzie had come down to be a waitress at Rose Cottage for the summer;—but every soul on the farm was watching at a safe distance. For Sam, without breathing a word, had managed to convey to them all the knowledge that those who were coming as their guests were beloved of Michael, their angel-hearted man. As though it had been a great ceremony they stood in silent, adoring groups behind a row of thick hedges and watched them arrive, each one glorying in the beauty of her whom in their hearts they called “the boss’s girl.” The room stood wide and inviting to receive them. There was a fire of logs on the great hearth, and a deep leather chair drawn up before it, with a smaller rocker at one side, and a sumptuous leather coach for the invalid just to the side of the fireplace, where the light of the flames would not strike the eyes, yet the warmth would reach him. Soft greens and browns were blended in the silk pillows that were piled on the couch and on the seats that appeared here and there about the walls as if they grew by nature. The book-case was filled with Michael’s favorites, Will French had seen to this, and a few were scattered on the big table where a green shaded lamp of unique design, a freshly cut magazine, and a chair drawn at just the right angle suggested a pleasant hour in the evening. There were two or three pictures—these Michael had selected at intervals as he learned to know more about art from his study at the exhibitions. “Oh!” breathed Starr. “How lovely! It is a real home!” and the thought struck her that it would probably be Michael’s and Hester’s some day. However, she would not let shadows come spoiling her good time now, for it was her good time and she had a right to it; and she too was happy in the thought that she and Michael were friends, the kind of friends that can never be enemies again. The invalid sank into the cushions of the couch with a pleased light in his eyes and said: “Son, this is all right. I’m glad you bought the farm,” and Michael turned with a look of love to the man who had been the only father he had ever known. It was good, good to be reconciled with him, and to know that he was on the road to health once more. The doctor who had come down with them looked about with satisfaction. “I don’t see but you are fixed,” he said to Endicott. “I wouldn’t mind being in your shoes myself. Wish I could stay and help you enjoy yourself. If I had a pair of children like those I’d give up work and come buy a farm alongside, and settle down for life.” The days at the farm passed in a sort of charmed existence for Starr and her father. Everything they needed seemed to come as if by magic. Every wish of Starr’s was anticipated, and she was waited upon devotedly by Lizzie, who never by so much as a look tried to win recognition. Starr, however, always keen in her remembrances, knew and appreciated this. After the first two days Michael was back and forth in the city. His business, which had been steadily growing before his temporary retirement from the world, had piled up and was awaiting his attention. His work in the alley called loudly for him every night, yet he managed to come down to the farm often and spent all his Sundays there. It was one Saturday evening about three weeks after their arrival at the farm, when they were all seated cosily in the living room of the cottage, the invalid resting on the couch in the shadow, Starr seated close beside him, the firelight glowing on her face, her hand in her father’s; and Michael by the table with, a fresh magazine which he was about to read to them, that a knock came at the door. Opening the door, Michael found Sam standing on the piazza, and another dark form huddled behind Him. “Come out here, can’t yer, Buck’s here!” whispered Sam. “Buck!” Michael spoke the word with a joyful ring that thrilled Starr’s heart with sympathy as she sat listening, her ears alert with interest. “I’m so glad! So glad!” said Michael’s voice again, vibrant with real welcome. “Come in, Buck, I’ve a friend in here who knows all about you. No, don’t be afraid. You’re perfectly safe. What? Through the windows? Well, we’ll turn the light out and sit in the firelight. You can go over in that corner by the fireplace. No one will see you. The shades are down.” Michael’s voice was low, and he stood within the doorway, but Starr, because she understood the need, heard every word. There was dissent in a low whisper outside, and then Sam’s voice growled, “Go on in, Buck, ef he says so.” and Buck reluctantly entered, followed by Sam. Buck was respectably dressed in an old suit of Sam’s, with his hands and face carefully washed and his hair combed. Sam had imbibed ideas and was not slow to impart them. But Buck stood dark and frowning against the closed door, his hunted eyes like black coals in a setting of snow, went furtively around the room in restless vigilance. His body wore the habitual air of crouching alertness. He started slightly when anyone moved or spoke to him. Michael went quickly over to the table and turned down the lamp. “You won’t mind sitting in the firelight, will you?” he said to Starr in a low tone, and her eyes told him that she understood. “Come over here, Buck,” said Michael motioning toward the sheltered corner on the other side of the fireplace from where Starr was sitting. “This is one of my friends, Miss Endicott, Mr. Endicott. Will you excuse us if we sit here and talk a few minutes? Miss Endicott, you remember my telling you of Buck?” Starr with sudden inspiration born of the moment, got up and went over to where the dark-browed Buck stood frowning and embarrassed in the chimney corner and put out her little roseleaf of a hand to him. Buck looked at it in dismay and did not stir. “Why don’t yer shake?” whispered Sam. Then with a grunt of astonishment Buck put out his rough hand and underwent the unique experience of holding a lady’s hand in his. The hunted eyes looked up startled to Starr’s and like a flash he saw a thought. It was as if her eyes knew Browning’s poem and could express his thought to Buck in language he could understand: “All I could never be, All men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.” Somehow, Starr, with her smile and her eyes, and her gentle manner, unknowingly conveyed that thought to Buck! Poor, neglected, sinful Buck! And Michael, looking on, knew what she had done, and blessed her in his heart. Buck sat down in the chimney corner, half in shadow with the lights from the great log flaring over his face. The shades were all drawn down, the doors were closed He was surrounded by friendly faces. For a few minutes the hunted eyes ceased their roving round the room, and rested on Starr’s sweet face as she sat quietly, holding her father’s hand. It was a sight such as poor Buck’s eyes had never rested upon in the whole of his checkered existence, and for the moment he let the sweet wonder of it filter into his dark, scarred soul, with blessed healing. Then he looked from Starr to Michael’s fine face near by, tender with the joy of Buck’s coming, anxious with what might be the outcome; and for a moment the heavy lines in forehead and brow that Buck had worn since babyhood softened with a tender look. Perhaps ’tis given, once to even the dullest soul to see, no matter how low fallen, just what he might have been. They had been sitting thus for about fifteen minutes, quietly talking. Michael intended to take Buck upstairs soon and question him, but, first he wanted time to think what he must do. Then suddenly a loud knock startled them all, and as Michael rose to go to the door there followed him the resounding clatter of the tongs falling on the hearth. A voice with a knife edge to it cut through the room and made them all shiver. “Good evening, Mr. Endicott!” it said. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’ve come on a most unpleasant errand. We’re after an escaped criminal, and he was seen to enter your door a few minutes ago. Of course I know your goodness of heart. You take ’em all in, but this one is a jail bird! You’ll excuse me if I take him off your hands. I’ll try to do it as quietly and neatly as possible.” The big, blustery voice ceased and Michael, looking at the sinister gleam of dull metal in the hands of the men who accompanied the county sheriff, knew that the crisis was upon him. The man, impatient, was already pushing past him into the room. It was of no sort of use to resist. He flung the door wide and turned with the saddest look Starr thought she ever had seen on the face of a man: “I know,” he said, and his voice was filled with sorrow, “I know—but—he was one whom I loved!” “Wasted love! Mr. Endicott. Wasted love. Not one of ’em worth it!” blustered the big man walking in. Then Michael turned and faced the group around the fireplace and looking from one to another turned white with amazement, for Buck was not among them! Starr sat beside her father in just the same attitude she had held throughout the last fifteen minutes, his hand in hers, her face turned, startled, toward the door, and something inscrutable in her eyes. Sam stood close beside the fireplace, the tongs which he had just picked up in his hands, and a look of sullen rage upon his face. Nowhere in the whole wide room was there a sign of Buck, and there seemed no spot where he could hide. The door into the dining-room was on the opposite wall, and behind it the cheerful clatter of the clearing off of the table could be plainly heard. If Buck had escaped that way there would have been an outcry from Morton or the maid. Every window had its shade closely drawn. The sheriff looked suspiciously at Michael whose blank face plainly showed he had no part in making way with the outlaw. The men behind him looked sharply round and finished with a curious gaze at Starr. Starr, rightly interpreting the scene, rose to the occasion. “Would they like to look behind this couch?” she said moving quickly to the other side of the fireplace over toward the window, with a warning glance toward Sam. Then while the men began a fruitless search around the room, looking in the chimney closet, and behind the furniture, she took up her stand beside the corner window. It had been Michael’s thoughtfulness that had arranged that all the windows should have springs worked by the pressing of a button like some car windows, so that a touch would send them up at will. Only Sam saw Starr’s hand slide under the curtain a second, and unfasten the catch at the top; then quickly down and touch the button in the window sill. The window went up without a noise, and in a moment more the curtain was moving out gently puffed by the soft spring breeze, and Starr had gone back to her father’s side. “I cannot understand it,” said Michael, “he was here a moment ago!” The sheriff who had been nosing about the fireplace turned and came over to the window, sliding up the shade with a motion and looking out into the dark orchard. “H’m! That’s where he went, boys,” he said. “After him quick! We ought to have had a watch at each window as well as at the back. Thank you, Mr. Endicott! Sorry to have troubled you. Good night!” and the sheriff clattered after his men. Sam quickly pulled down the window, fastening it, and turned a look of almost worshipful understanding on Starr. “Isn’t that fire getting pretty hot for such a warm night?” said Starr pushing back the hair from her forehead and bright cheeks. “Sam, suppose you get a little water and pour over that log. I think we will not need any more fire tonight anyway.” And Sam, quickly hastened to obey, his mouth stretching in a broad grin as he went out the door. “She’d make a peach of a burglar,” he remarked to himself as he filled a bucket with water and hurried back with it to the fire. Michael, in his strait betwixt law and love, was deeply troubled and had followed the men out into the dark orchard. “Daddy, I think you’d better get up to your room. This excitement has been too much for you,” said Starr decidedly. But Mr. Endicott demurred. He had been interested in the little drama that had been enacted before him, and he wanted to sit up and see the end of it. He was inclined to blame Michael for bringing such a fellow into Starr’s presence. But Starr laughingly bundled him off to bed and sat for an hour reading to him, her heart all the time in a flutter to know how things came out, wondering if Sam surely understood, and put out the fire; and if it would be safe for her to give him any broader hint. At midnight, Michael lay broad awake with troubled spirit, wondering over and over if there was anything he might have done for Buck if he had only done it in time—anything that would have been right to do. Softly, cautiously a man stole out of the darkness of the orchard until he came and stood close to the old chimney, and then, softly stealing on the midnight summer air there came a peculiar sibilant sound, clear, piercing, yet blending with the night, and leaving no trace behind of its origin. One couldn’t tell from whence it came. But Michael, keeping vigil, heard, and rose upon his elbow, alert, listening. Was that Buck calling him? It came again, softer this time, but distinct. Michael sprang from his bed and began hastily throwing on his garments. That call should never go unanswered! Stealthily, in the light of the low, late moon, a dark figure stole forth from the old chimney top, climbed down on the ladder that had been silently tilted against it, helped to lay the ladder back innocently in the deep grass again, and joining the figure on the ground crept away toward the river where waited a boat. Buck lay down, in the bottom of the boat, covered with a piece of sacking, and Sam took up the oars, when a long, sibilant whistle like a night bird floated keenly through the air. Buck started up and turned suspicious eyes on Sam: “What’s that?” “It’s Mikky, I reckon,” said Sam softly, reverently. “He couldn’t sleep. He’s huntin’ yer!” Buck lay down with a sound that was almost a moan and the boat took up its silent glide toward safety. “It’s fierce ter leave him this ’a’way!” muttered Buck, “Yous tell him, won’t yer, an’ her—she’s a ly-dy, she is. She’s all white! Tell her Buck’ll do ez much fer her some day ef he ever gits the chanct.” “In doin’ fer her you’d be doin’ fer him, I spekullate,” said Sam after a long pause. “So?” said Buck “So,” answered Sam. And that was the way Sam told Buck of the identity of Starr. Now Starr, from her darkened window beside the great chimney, had watched the whole thing. She waited until she saw Michael come slowly, sadly back from his fruitless search through the mist before the dawning, alone, with bowed head; and her heart ached for the problem that was filling him with sorrow. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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