business, if for no other reason than that he needed it less than the rest did. But Mr. Clarke was getting old, and was in feeble health as well. Perhaps he would be glad to have a young, active, and able partner, who had had the advantage of European study. Or it might be—who could tell?—that the young man with the European education could go in on his own account, and by sheer weight of cleverness, energy, and superior social address win over the Minster business. What unlimited opportunities such a post would afford him! Not only would he be the only young man in Thessaly who had been outside of his own country, the best talker, the best-informed man, the best-mannered man of the place—but he would be able to exhibit all these excellences from the favored vantage-ground of an intimate, confidential relation. The very thought was intoxicating.
Mr. Horace Boyce was so pre-occupied with these pleasing meditations that he overtook a man walking in the other track, and had nearly passed him, before something familiar in the figure arrested his attention. He turned, and recognized an old schoolmate whom he had not seen for years, and had not expected to find in Thessaly.
“Why—Reuben Tracy, as I live!” he exclaimed, cordially. “So you’re back again, eh? On a visit to your folks?”
The other shook hands with him. “No,” he made answer. “I’ve had an office here for nearly a year. You are looking well. I’m glad to see you again. Have you come back for good?”
“Yes. That’s all settled,” replied Mr. Horace, without a moment’s hesitation.
CHAPTER IV.—REUBEN TRACY.
The two young men walked along together, separated by the ridge of snow between the tracks. They had never been more than friendly acquaintances, and they talked now of indifferent topics—of the grim climatic freak which had turned late November into mid-winter, of the results of the recent elections, and then of English weather and politics as contrasted with ours. It was a desultory enough conversation, for each had been absorbed in his own mind by thoughts a thousand leagues away from snowfalls and partisan strife, and the transition back to amiable commonplaces was not easy.
The music of a sleigh-bell, which for some time had been increasing in volume behind them, swelled suddenly into a shrill-voiced warning close at their backs, and they stepped aside into the snow to let the conveyance pass. It was then that the express-man called out his cheery greeting, and that Reuben lifted his hat.
As the sleigh grew small in the near distance, Reuben turned to his companion. “I notice that you told him you weren’t quite sure about staying here for good,” he remarked. “Perhaps I was mistaken—I understood you to say a few minutes ago that it was all settled.”
Horace was not to be embarrassed by so slight a discrepancy as this—although for the instant the reappearance of Jessica had sent his wits tripping—and he was ready with a glib explanation.
“What I meant was that I am quite settled in my desire to stay here. But of course there is just a chance that there may be no opening, and I don’t want to prematurely advertise what may turn out a failure. By the way, wasn’t that that Lawton girl?”
“Yes—Ben Lawton’s oldest daughter.”
Reuben’s tone had a slow preciseness in it which caused Horace to glance closely at him, and wonder if it were possible that it masked some ulterior meaning. Then he reflected that Reuben had always taken serious views of things, and talked in that grave, measured way, and that this was probably a mere mannerism. So he continued, with a careless voice:
“I haven’t seen her in years—should scarcely have known her. Isn’t it a little queer, her coming back?”
Reuben Tracy was a big man, with heavy shoulders, a large, impassive countenance, and an air which to the stranger suggested lethargy. It was his turn to look at Horace now, and he did so with a deliberate, steady gaze, to which the wide space between his eyes and the total absence of lines at the meeting of his brows lent almost the effect of a stare. When he had finished this inspection of his companion’s face, he asked simply:
“Why?”
“Well, of course, I have only heard it from others—but there seems to be no question about it—that she—”
“That she has been a sadly unfortunate and wretched girl,” interposed Reuben, finishing the sentence over which the other hesitated. “No, you are right. There is no question about that—no question whatever.”
“Well, that is why I spoke as I did—why I am surprised at seeing her here again. Weren’t you yourself surprised?”
“No, I knew that she was coming. I have a letter telling me the train she would arrive by.”
“Oh!”
The two walked on in silence for a minute or two. Then Horace said, with a fine assumption of good feeling and honest regret:
“I spoke thoughtlessly, old fellow; of course I couldn’t know that you were interested in—in the matter. I truly hope I didn’t say anything to wound your feelings.”
“Not at all,” replied Reuben. “How should you? What you said is what everybody will say—must say. Besides, my feelings are of no interest whatever, so far as this affair is concerned. It is her feelings that I am thinking of; and the more I think—well, the truth is, I am completely puzzled. I have never in all my experience been so wholly at sea.”
Manifestly Horace could do nothing at this juncture but look his sympathy. To ask any question might have been to learn nothing. But his curiosity was so great that he almost breathed a sigh of relief when Reuben spoke again, even though the query he put had its disconcerting side:
“I daresay you never knew much about her before she left Thessaly?”
“I knew her by sight, of course, just as a village boy knows everybody. I take it you did know her. I can remember that she was a pretty girl.”
If there was an underlying hint in this conjunction of sentences, it missed Reuben’s perception utterly. He replied in a grave tone:
“She was in my school, up at the Burfield. And if you had asked me in those days to name the best-hearted girl, the brightest girl, the one who in all the classes had the making of the best woman in her, I don’t doubt that I should have pointed to her. That is what makes the thing so inexpressibly sad to me now; and, what is more, I can’t in the least see my way.”
“Your way to what?”
“Why, to helping her, of course. She has undertaken something that frightens me when I think of it. This is the point: She has made up her mind to come back here, earn her own living decently, face the past out and live it down here among those who know that past best.”
“That’s a resolution that will last about three weeks.”
“No, I think she is determined enough. But I fear that she cruelly underestimates the difficulties of her task. To me it looks hopeless, and I’ve thought it over pretty steadily the last few days.”
“Pardon my asking you,” said Horace,
