“It settled the business, and saved us, Mary. The subject was
dropped.”
“Bless you, I’m not doubting THAT.”
Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again, with strong interest.
Soon the conversation began to suffer breaks–interruptions caused
by absorbed thinkings. The breaks grew more and more frequent. At
last Richards lost himself wholly in thought. He sat long, gazing
vacantly at the floor, and by-and-by he began to punctuate his
thoughts with little nervous movements of his hands that seemed to
indicate vexation. Meantime his wife too had relapsed into a
thoughtful silence, and her movements were beginning to show a
troubled discomfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aimlessly
about the room, ploughing his hands through his hair, much as a
somnambulist might do who was having a bad dream. Then he seemed to
arrive at a definite purpose; and without a word he put on his hat
and passed quickly out of the house. His wife sat brooding, with a
drawn face, and did not seem to be aware that she was alone. Now
and then she murmured, “Lead us not into t . . . but–but–we are so
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.