account for it.”
“I don't remember it,” answered the boy.
“That's all right,” said the doctor. “Don't try. I guess you better let him alone, now,” he added to Bartley, with such a significant look that the young man retired from the bedside, and stood awkwardly apart. “He'll get along. You needn't be anxious about leaving him. He'll be better alone.”
There was no mistaking this hint. “Well, well!” said Bartley, humbly, “I'll go. But I'd rather stay and watch with him,—I sha'n't eat or sleep till he's on foot again. And I can't leave till you tell me that you forgive me, Mrs. Bird. I never dreamed—I didn't intend—” He could not go on.
“I don't suppose you meant to hurt Henry,” said the mother. “You always pretended to be so fond of him, and he thought the world of you. But I don't see how you could do it. I presume it was all right.”
“No, it was all wrong,—or so nearly all wrong that I must ask your forgiveness on that ground. I loved him,—I thought the world of him, too. I'd ten thousand times rather have hurt myself,” pleaded Bartley. “Don't let me go till you say that you forgive me.”
“I'll see how Henry gets along,” said Mrs. Bird. “I don't know as I could rightly say I forgive you just yet.” Doubtless she was dealing conscientiously with herself and with him. “I like to be sure of a thing when I say it,” she added.
The doctor followed him into the hall, and Bartley could not help turning to him for consolation. “I think Mrs. Bird is very unjust, Doctor. I've done everything I could, and said everything to explain the matter; and I've blamed myself where I can't feel that I was to blame; and yet you see how she holds out against me.”
“I dare say,” answered the doctor dryly, “she'll feel differently, as she says, if the boy gets along.”
Bartley dropped his hat to the floor. “Get along! Why—why you think he'll get well now, don't you, Doctor?”
“Oh, yes; I was merely using her words. He'll get well.”
“And—and it wont affect his mind, will it? I thought it was very strange, his not remembering anything about it—”
“That's a very common phenomenon,” said the doctor. “The patient usually forgets everything that occurred for some little time before the accident, in cases of concussion of the brain.” Bartley shuddered at the phrase, but he could not ask anything further. “What I wanted to say to you,” continued the doctor, “was that this may be a long thing, and there may have to be an inquiry into it. You're lawyer enough to understand what that means. I should have to testify to what I know, and I only know what you told me.”
“Why, you don't doubt—”
“No, sir; I've no reason to suppose you haven't told me the truth, as far as it goes. If you have thought it advisable to keep anything back from me, you may wish to tell the whole story to an attorney.”
“I haven't kept anything back, Doctor Wills,” said Bartley. “I've told you everything—everything that concerned the quarrel. That drunken old scoundrel of a Morrison got us into it. He accused me of making love to his daughter; and Henry was jealous—I never knew he cared anything for her. I hated to tell you this before his mother. But this is the whole truth, so help me God.”
“I supposed it was something of the kind,” replied the doctor. “I'm sorry for you. You can't keep it from having an ugly look if it gets out; and it may have to be made public. I advise you to go and see Squire Gaylord; he's always stood your friend.”
“I—I was just going there,” said Bartley; and this was true.
Through all, he had felt the need of some sort of retrieval,—of re-establishing himself in his own esteem by some signal stroke; and he could think of but one thing. It was not his fault if he believed that this must combine self-sacrifice with safety, and the greatest degree of humiliation with the largest sum of consolation. He was none the less resolved not to spare himself at all in offering to release Marcia from her engagement. The fact that he must now also see her father upon the legal aspect of his case certainly complicated the affair, and detracted from its heroic quality. He could not tell which to see first, for he naturally wished his action to look as well as possible; and if he went first to Marcia, and she condemned him, he did not know in what figure he should approach her father. If, on the other hand, he went first to Squire Gaylord, the old lawyer might insist that the engagement was already at an end by Bartley's violent act, and might well refuse to let a man in his position even see his daughter. He lagged heavy-heartedly up the middle of the street, and left the question to solve itself at the last moment. But when he reached Squire Gaylord's gate, it seemed to him that it would be easier to face the father first; and this would be the right way too.
He turned aside to the little office, and opened the door without knocking, and as he stood with the knob in his hand, trying to habituate his eyes, full of the snow-glare, to the dimmer light within, he heard a rapturous cry of “Why Bartley!” and he felt Marcia's arms flung around his neck. His burdened heart yearned upon her with a tenderness he had not known before; he realized the preciousness of an embrace that might be the last; but he dared not put down his lips to hers. She pushed back her head in a little wonder, and saw the haggardness of his face, while he discovered her father looking at them. How strong and pure the fire in her must be when her father's presence could not abash her from this betrayal of her love! Bartley sickened, and he felt her arms slip from his neck. “Why—why—what is the matter?”
In spite of some vaguely magnanimous intention to begin at the beginning, and tell the whole affair just as it happened, Bartley found himself wishing to put the best face on it at first, and trust to chances to make it all appear well. He did not speak at once, and Marcia pressed him into a chair, and then, like an eager child, who will not let its friend escape till it has been told what it wishes to know, she set herself on his knee, and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked at her father, not at her, while he spoke hoarsely: “I have had trouble with Henry Bird, Squire Gaylord, and I've come to tell you about it.”
The old squire did not speak, but Marcia repeated in amazement, “With Henry Bird?”
“He struck me—”
“Henry Bird struck you!” cried the girl. “I should like to know why Henry Bird struck you, when you've made so much of him, and he's always pretended to be so grateful—”
Bartley still looked at her father. “And I struck him back.”
“You did perfectly right, Bartley,” exclaimed Marcia, “and I should have despised you if you had let any one run over you. Struck you! I declare—”
He did not heed her, but continued to look at her father. “I didn't intend to hurt him,—I hit him with my open hand,—but he fell and struck his head on the floor. I'm afraid it hurt him pretty badly.” He felt the pang that thrilled through the girl at his words, and her hand trembled on his shoulder; but she did not take it away.
The old man came forward from the pile of books which he and Marcia had been dusting, and sat down in a chair on the other side of the stove. He pushed back his hat from his forehead, and asked drily, “What commenced it?”
Bartley hesitated. It was this part of the affair which he would rather have imparted to Marcia after seeing it with her father's eyes, or possibly, if her father viewed it favorably, have had him tell her. The old man noticed his reluctance.
