“Peter! Didn’t you ever see the papers? Didn’t you ever know all about the search for you and how he disappeared, too? Oh, Peter! And it was supposed he killed you and pushed you over the bluff and then ran away. Oh, Peter! But it was kept out of the home paper by the Elder so your mother should not know–and Peter–didn’t you know Richard lived?”
“Lived? lived?” He lifted his clasped hands above his head, and they trembled. “Lived? Betty, say it again!”
“Yes, Peter. I saw him and I know–”
“Oh, God, make me know it. Make me understand.” He fell on his knees beside her and hid his face in the scant jail bedding, and his frame shook with dry sobs. “I was a coward. I told you that. I–I thought myself a murderer, and all this time my terrible thought has driven me–Lived? I never killed him? God! Betty, say it again.”
Betty sat still for a moment, shaken at first with a feeling of resentment that he had made them all suffer so, and Richard most of all. Then she was overwhelmed with pity for him, and with a glad tenderness. It was all over. The sorrow had been real, but it had all been needless. She placed her hand on his head, then knelt beside him and put her arm about his neck and drew his head to her bosom, motherwise, for the deep mother heart in her was awakened, and thus she told him all the story, and how Richard had come to her, broken and repentant, and what had been said between them. When they rose from their knees, it was as if they had been praying and at the same time giving thanks.
“And you thought they would find him lying there dead and know you had killed him and hunt you down for a murderer?”
“Yes.”
“Poor Peter! So you pushed that great stone out of the edge of the bluff into the river to make them think you had fallen over and drowned–and threw your things down, too, to make it seem as if you both were dead.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Peter! What a terrible mistake! How you must have suffered!”
“Yes, as cowards suffer.”
They stood for a moment with clasped hands, looking into each other’s eyes. “Then it was true what Richard told me? You did not love me, Betty?” He had grown calmer, and he spoke very tenderly. “We must have all the truth now and conceal nothing.”
“Not quite–true. I–I–thought I did. You were so handsome! I was only a child then–and I thought I loved you–or that I ought to–for any girl would–I was so romantic in those days–and you had been wounded–and it was like a romance–”
“And then?”
“And then Richard came, and I knew in one instant that I had done wrong–and that I loved him–and oh, I felt myself so wicked.”
“No, Betty, dear. It was all–”
“It was not fair to you. I would have been true to you, Peter; you would have never known–but after Richard came and told me he had killed you,–I felt as if I had killed you, too. I did like you, Peter. I did! I will do whatever is right.”
“Then it was not in vain–that we have all suffered. We have been saved from doing each other wrong. Everything will come right now. All that is needed is for father to hear what you have told me, and he will come and take me out of here–Where is Richard?”
“No one knows.”
“Not even you, Betty?”
“No; he has dropped out of the world as completely as you did.”
“Well, it will be all right, anyway. Father will withdraw his charge and–did you say his bank was going to pieces? He must have help. I can help him. You can help him, Betty.”
“How?”
Then Peter told Betty how he had found Richard’s father in his mountain retreat and that she must write to him. “If there is any danger of the bank’s going, write for me to Larry Kildene. Father never would appeal to him if he lost everything in the world, so we must do it. As soon as I am out of here we can save him.” Already he felt himself a new man, and spoke hopefully and cheerfully. He little knew the struggle still before him.
“Peter, father and mother are out there in the corridor waiting. I was to call them. I made them let me come in alone.”
“Oh, call them, call them!”
“I don’t think they will know you as I did, with that great beard on your face. We’ll see.”
When Bertrand and Mary entered, they stood for a moment aghast, seeing little likeness to either of the young men in the developed and bronzed specimen of manhood before them. But they greeted him warmly, eager to find him Peter, and in their manner he missed nothing of their old-time kindliness.
“You are greatly changed, Peter Junior. You look more like Richard Kildene than you ever did before in your life,” said Mary.
“Yes, but when we see Richard, we may find that a change has taken place in him also, and they will stand in their own shoes hereafter.”
“Since the burden has been lifted from my soul and I know that he lives, I could sing and shout aloud here in this cell. Imprisonment–even death–means nothing to me now. All will come right before we know it.”
“That is just the way Richard would act and speak. No wonder you have been taken for him!” said Bertrand.
“Yes, he was always more buoyant than I. Maybe we have both changed, but I hope he has not. I loved my friend.”
As they walked home together Mary Ballard said, “Now, Peter ought to be released right away.”
“Certainly he will be as soon as the Elder realizes the truth.”
“How he has changed, though! His face shows the mark of sorrow. Those drooping, sensitive lines about his mouth–they were never there before, and they are the lines of suffering. They touched my heart. I wish Hester were at home. She ought to be written to. I’ll do it as soon as I get home.”
“Peter is handsomer than he was, in spite of the lines, and, as you say, he does look more like his cousin than he used to–because of them, I think. Richard always had a debonair way with him, but he had that little, sensitive droop to the lips–not so marked as Peter’s is now–but you remember, Mary–like his mother’s.”
“Oh, mother, don’t you think Richard could be found?” Betty’s voice trailed sorrowfully over the words. She was thinking how he had suffered all this time, and wishing her heart could reach out to him and call him back to her.
“He must be, dear, if he lives.”
“Oh, yes. He’ll be found. It can be published that Peter Junior has returned, and that will bring him after a while. Peter’s physique seems to have changed as well as his face. Did you notice that backward swing of the shoulders, so like his cousin’s, when he said, ‘I could sing and shout here in this cell’? And the way he lifted his head and smiled? That beard is a horrible disguise. I must send a barber to him. He must be himself again.”
“Oh, yes, do. He stands so straight and steps so easily. His lameness seems to have quite gone,” said Mary, joyously,–but at that, Bertrand paused in his walk and looked at her, then glancing at Betty walking slowly on before, he laid his finger to his lips and took his wife’s arm, and they said no more until they reached home and Betty was in her room.
“I simply can’t think it, Bertrand. I see Peter in him. It is Peter. Of course he’s like Richard. They were always alike, and that makes him all the more Peter. No other man would have that likeness, and it goes to show that he is Peter.”
“My dear, unless the Elder sees him as we see him, the thing will have to be tried out in the courts.”
“Unless we can find Richard. Hester ought to be here. She could set them right in a moment. Trust a mother to know her own boy. I’ll write her immediately. I’ll–”
“But you have no authority, Mary.”
“No authority? She is my friend. I have a right to do my duty by her, and I can so put it that it will not be such a shock to her as it inevitably will be if matters go wrong, or Peter should be kept in prison for lack of evidence–or for too much evidence. She’ll have to know sooner or later.”
Bertrand said no more against this, for was not Mary often quite right? “I’ll see to it that he has a barber, and try to persuade the Elder to see him. That may settle it without any trouble. If not, I must see that he has a good lawyer to help in his defense.”
“If that savage old man remains stubborn, Hester must be here.”
“If the thing goes to a trial, Betty will have to appear against him.”
“Well, it mustn’t go to a trial, that’s all.”
That night two letters went out from Leauvite, one to Hester Craigmile at Aberdeen, Scotland, and one to the other end of the earth, where Larry Kildene waited for news of Harry King, there on the mountain top. On the first of each month Larry rode down to the nearest point where letters could be sent, making a three days’ trip on horseback. His first trip brought nothing, because Harry had not sent his first letter in time to reach the station before Larry was well on his way back up the mountain. He would not delay his return, for fear of leaving the two women too long alone.
After Harry’s departure, Madam Manovska had grown restless, and once had wandered so far away as to cause them great alarm and a long search, when she was found, sitting close to the fall, apparently too weak and too dazed to move. This had so awakened Amalia’s fears that she never allowed her mother to leave the cabin alone, but always on one pretext or another accompanied her.
The situation was a difficult one for them all. If Amalia took her mother away to some town, as she wished to do, she feared for Madam Manovska’s sanity when she could not find her husband. And still, when she tried to tell her mother of her father’s death, she could not convince her of its truth. For a while she would seem to understand and believe it, but after a night’s rest she would go back to the old weary repetition of going to her husband and his need of her. Then it was all to go over again, day after day, until at last Amalia gave up, and allowed her mother the comfort of her belief: but all the more she had to invent pretexts for keeping her on the mountain. So she accepted Larry’s kindly advice and his earnestly offered hospitality and his comforting companionship, and remained, as, perforce, there was nothing else for her to do.
CHAPTER XXXIII
HESTER CRAIGMILE RECEIVES HER LETTER
The letters reached their opposite destinations at about the same time. The one to Amalia closely buttoned in Larry’s pocket, and the short one to himself which he read and reread as his horse slowly climbed the trail, were halfway up the mountain when the postboy delivered Hester Craigmile’s at the door of the sedate brick house belonging to the Craigmiles of Aberdeen.
Peter Junior’s mother and two elderly women–his grandaunts–were seated in the dignified parlor, taking afternoon tea, when the housemaid brought Hester her letter.
“Is it from Peter, maybe?” asked the elder of the two aunts.
“No, Aunt Ellen; I think it is from a friend.”
“It’s strange now, that Peter’s no written before this,” said the younger, leaning forward eagerly. “Will ye read it, dear? We’ll be wantin’ to know if there’s ae word about him intil’t.”
“There may be, Aunt Jean.” Hester set her cup of tea down untasted, and began to open her letter.
“But tak’ yer tea first, Hester. Jean’s an impatient body. That’s too bad of ye, Jean; her toast’s gettin’ cold.”
“Oh, that’s no matter at all, Aunt Ellen. I’ll take it as soon as I see if he’s home all right. Yes, my friend says my husband has been home for three days and is well.”
“That’s good. Noo ye’re satisfied, lay it by and tak’ yer tea.” And Hester smilingly laid it by and took her tea, for Mary Ballard had said nothing on the first page to startle her friend’s serenity.
Jean Craigmile, however, still looked eagerly at the letter as it lay on a chair at Hester’s side. She was a sweet-faced old lady, alert, and as young as Peter Junior’s father, for all she was his aunt, and now she apologized for her eagerness by saying, as she often did: “Ye mind he’s mair like my brither than my nephew, for we all used to play together–Peter, Katherine, and me. We were aye friends. She was like a sister, and he like a brither. Ah, weel, we’re auld noo.”
Her sister looked at her fondly. “Ye’re no so auld, Jean, but ye might be aulder. It’s like I might have been the mither of her, for I mind the time when she was laid in my arms and my feyther tell’t me I was to aye care for her like my ain, an’ but for her I would na’ be livin’ noo.”
“And why for no?” asked Jean, quickly.
“I had ye to care for, child. Do ye no’ understand?”
Jean laughed merrily. “She’s been callin’ me child for saxty-five years,” she said.
Both the old ladies wore lace caps, but that of Jean’s was a little braver with ribbons than Ellen’s. Small lavender bows were set in the frill all about her face, and the long ends of the ribbon were not tied, but fell down on the soft white mull handkerchief that crossed over her bosom.
“I mind when Peter married ye, Hester,” said Ellen. “I was fair wild to have him bring ye here on his weddin’ journey, and he should have done so, for we’d not seen him since he was a lad, and all these years I’ve been waitin’ to see ye.”
“Weel, ’twas good of him to leave ye bide with us a bit, an’ go home without ye,” said Jean.
“It was good of him, but I ought not to have allowed it.” Hester’s eyes glistened and her face grew tender and soft. To the world, the Elder might seem harsh, stubborn, and vindictive, but Hester knew the tenderness in which none but she believed. Ever since the disappearance of their son, he had been gentle and most lovingly watchful of her, and his domination had risen from the old critical restraint on her thoughts and actions to a solicitous care for her comfort,–studying her slightest wishes with almost appealing thoughtfulness to gratify them.
“And why for no allow it? There’s naething so good for a man as lettin’ him be kind to ye, even if he is an Elder in the kirk. I’m thinkin’ Peter’s ain o’ them that such as that is good for–Hester! What ails ye! Are oot of ye’re mind? Gi’e her a drap of whuskey, Jean. Hester!”
While they were chatting and sipping their tea, Hester had quietly resumed the reading of her letter, and now she sat staring straight before her, the pages crushed in her hand, leaning forward, pale, with her eyes fixed on space as if they looked on some awful sight.
“Hester! Hester! What is it? Is there a bit o’ bad news for ye’ in the letter? Here, tak’ a sip o’ this, dear. Tak’ it, Hester; ’twill hairten ye up for whatever’s intil’t,” cried Jean, holding to Hester’s lips the ever ready Scotch remedy, which she had snatched from a wall cupboard behind her and poured out in a glass.
Ellen, who was lame and could not rise from her chair without help, did not cease her directions and ejaculations, lapsing into the broader Scotch of her girlhood under excitement, as was the way with both the women. “Tell us what ails ye, dear; maybe it’s no so bad. Gie me the letter, Jean, an’ I’ll see what’s intil’t. Ring the bell for Tillie an’ we’ll get her to the couch.”
But Hester caught Jean’s gown and would not let her go to the bell cord which hung in the far corner of the room. “No, don’t call her. I’ll lie down a moment, and–and–we’ll talk–this–over.” She clung to the letter and would not let it out of her hand, but rose and walked wearily to the couch unassisted and lay down, closing her eyes. “After a minute, Aunt Ellen, I’ll tell you. I must think, I must think.” So she lay quietly, gathering all her force to consider and meet what she must, as her way was, while Jean sat beside, stroking her hand and saying sweet, comforting words in her broad Scotch.
“There’s neathin’ so guid as a drap of whuskey, dear, for strengthnin’ the hairt whan ye hae a bit shock. It’s no yer mon, Peter? No? Weel, thank the Lord for that. Noo, tak ye anither bit sup, for ye ha’e na tasted it. Wull ye no gie Ellen the letter, love? ’Twill save ye tellin’ her.”
Hester passively took the whisky as she was bid, and presently sat up and finished reading the letter. “Peter has been hiding–something from me for–three years–and now–”
“Yes, an’ noo. It’s aye the way wi’ them that hides–whan the day comes they maun reveal–it’s only the mair to their shame,” exclaimed Ellen.
“Oh, but it’s all mixed up–and my best friend doesn’t know the truth. Yes, take the letter, Aunt Ellen, and read it yourself.” She held out the pages with a shaking hand, and Jean took them over to her sister, who slowly read them in silence.
“Ah, noo. As I tell’t ye, it’s no so bad,” she said at last.
“Wha’s the trouble, Ellen? Don’t keep us waitin’.”
“Bide ye in patience, child. Ye’re always so easily excitet. I maun read the letter again to get the gist o’t, but it’s like this. The Elder’s been of the opeenion noo these three years that his son was most foully murder’t, an–”
“He may ha’e been kill’t, but he was no’ murder’t,” cried Jean, excitedly. “I tell ye ’twas purely by accident–” she paused and suddenly clapped both hands over her mouth and rocked herself back and forth as if she had made some egregious blunder, then: “Gang on wi’ yer tellin’. It’s dour to bide waitin’. Gie me the letter an’ lat me read it for mysel’.”
“Lat me tell’t as I maun tell’t. Ye maun no keep interruptin’. Jean has no order in her brain. She aye pits the last first an’ the first last. This is a hopefu’ letter an’ a guid ain from yer friend, an’ it tells ye yer son’s leevin’ an’ no murder’t–”
“Thank the Lord! I ha’e aye said it,” ejaculated Jean, fervently.
“Ye ha’e aye said it? Child, what mean ye? Ye ha’e kenned naethin’ aboot it.”
But Jean would not be set down. She leaned forward with glistening eyes. “I ha’e aye said it. I ha’e aye said it. Gie me the letter, Ellen.”
But Ellen only turned composedly and resumed her interpretation of the letter to Hester, who sat looking with dazed expression from one aunt to the other.
“It all comes about from Peter’s bein’ a stubborn man, an’ he’ll no change the opeenion he’s held for three years wi’oot a struggle. Here comes his boy back an’ says, ‘I’m Peter Junior, and yer son.’ An’ his feyther says till him, ‘Ye’re no my son, for my son was murder’t–an’ ye’re Richard Kildene wha’ murder’t him.’ And noo, it’s for ye to go home, Hester, an’ bring Peter to his senses, and show him the truth. A mither knows her ain boy, an’ if it’s Peter Junior, it’s Peter Junior, and Richard Kildene’s died.”
“I tell ye he’s no dead!” cried Jean, springing to her feet.
“Hush, child. He maun be dead, for ain of them’s dead, and this is Peter Junior.”
“Read it again, Aunt Ellen,” said Hester, wearily. “You’ll see that the Elder brings a fearful charge against Richard. He thinks Richard is making a false claim that he is–Peter–my boy.”
Jean sat back in her chair crying silently and shrinking into herself as if she were afraid to say more, and Ellen went on. “Listen, now, what yer frien’ says. ‘The Elder is wrong, for Bertrand’–that’s her husband, I’m thinkin’–?”
“Yes.”
“‘Bertrand and Betty,–’ Who’s Betty, noo?”
“Betty is their daughter. She was to–have–married my son.”
“Good. So she would know her lover. ‘Betty and I have seen him,’ she says, ‘and have talked with him, and we know he is Peter Junior,’ she says. ‘Richard Kildene has disappeared,’ she says, ‘and yet we know he is living somewhere and he must be found. We fear the Elder will not withdraw the charge until Richard is located’–An’ that will be like Peter, too–‘and meanwhile your son Peter will have to lie in jail, where he is now, unless you can clear matters up here by coming home and identifying him, and that you can surely do.’–An’ that’s all vera weel. There’s neathin’ to go distraught over in the like o’ that. An’ here she says, ‘He’s a noble, fine-looking man, and you’ll be proud of him when you see him.’ Oh, ’tis a fine letter, an’ it’s Peter wi’ his stubbornness has been makin’ a boggle o’ things. If I were na lame, I’d go back wi’ ye an’ gie Peter a piece o’ my mind.”
“An’ I’ll locate Richard for ye!” cried Jean, rising to her feet and wiping away the fast-falling tears, laughing and weeping all in the same moment. “Whish’t, Ellen, it’s ye’rsel’ that kens neathin’ aboot it, an’ I’ll tell ye the truth the noo–that I’ve kept to mysel’ this lang time till my conscience has nigh whupped me intil my grave.”
“Tak’ a drap o’ whuskey, Jean, ye’re flyin’ oot o’ yer heid. It’s the hystiricks she’s takin’.”
“Ah, no! What is it, Aunt Jean? What is it?” cried Hester, eagerly, drawing her to the seat by her side again.
“It’s no the hystiricks,” cried Jean, rocking back and forth and patting her hands on her knees and speaking between laughing and crying. “It’s the truth at last, that I’ve been lyin’ aboot these three lang years, thank the Lord!”
“Jean, is it thankin’ the Lord ye are, for lyin’?”
“Ellen, ye mind whan ye broke ye’r leg an’ lay in the south chamber that lang sax months?”
“Aye, weel do I mind it.”
“Lat be wi’ ye’re interruptin’ while I tell’t. He came here.”
“Who came here?”
“Richard–the poor lad! He tell’t me all aboot it. How he had a mad anger on him, an’ kill’t his cousin Peter Junior whan they’d been like brithers all their lives, an’ hoo he pushed him over the brink o’ a gre’t precipice to his death, an’ hoo he must forever flee fra’ the law an’ his uncle’s wrath. Noo it’s–”
“Oh, Aunt Jean!” cried Hester, despairingly. “Don’t you see that what you say only goes to prove my husband right? Yet how could he claim to be Peter–it–it’s not like the boy. Richard never, never would–”
“He may ha’ been oot o’ his heid thinkin’ he pushed him over the brink. I ha’e na much opeenion o’ the judgment o’ a man ony way. They never know whan to be set, an’ whan to gie in. Think shame to yersel’, Jean, to be hidin’ things fra me the like o’ that an’ then lyin’ to me.”
“He was repentit, Ellen. Ye can na’ tak the power o’ the Lord in yer ain han’s an’ gie a man up to the law whan he’s repentit. If ye’d seen him an’ heard the words o’ him and seen him greet, ye would ha’ hid him in yer hairt an’ covered wi’ the mantle o’ charity, as I did. Moreover, I saved ye from dour lyin’ yersel’. Ye mind whan that man that Peter sent here to find Richard came, hoo ye said till him that Richard had never been here? Ye never knew why for that man wanted Richard, but I knew an’ I never tell’t ye. An’ if ye had known what I knew, ye never could ha’ tell’t him what ye did so roundly an’ sent him aboot his business wi’ a straight face.”
“An’ noo whaur is Richard?”
“He’s awa’ in Paris pentin’ pictures. He went there to learn to be a penter.”
“An’ whaur gat he the money to go wi’? There’s whaur the new black silk dress went ye should ha’ bought yersel’ that year. Ye lat me think it went to the doctor. Child! Child!”
“Yes, sister; I lee’d to ye. It’s been a heavy sin on my soul an’ ye may well thank the Lord it’s no been on yer ain. But hark ye noo. It’s all come back to me. Here’s the twenty pun’ I gave him. It’s come back wi’ interest.” Proudly Jean drew from her bosom an envelope containing forty pounds in bank notes. “Look ye, hoo he’s doubl’t it?” Again she laughed through her tears.
“And you know where he is–and can find him?”
“Yes, Hester, dear, I know. He took a new name. It was Robert Kater he called himsel’. So, there he’s been pentin’ pictures. Go, Hester, an’ find yer son, an’ I’ll find Richard. Ellen, ye’ll have to do wi’ Tillie for a week an’ a bit,–I’m going to Paris to find Richard.”
“Ye’ll do nae sic’ thing. Ye’ll find him by post.”
“I’ll trust to nae letter the noo, Ellen. Letters aften gang astray, but I’ll no gang astray.”
“Oh, child, child! It’s a sorrowful thing I’m lame an’ can na’ gang wi’ ye. What are ye doin’, Hester?”
“I’m hunting for the newspaper. Don’t they put the railroad time-tables in the paper over here, or must I go to the station to inquire about trains?”
“Ye’d better ask at the station. I’ll go wi’ ye. Ye might boggle it by yersel’. Ring for Tillie, Jean. She can help me oot o’ my chair an’ get me dressed, while ye’re lookin’ after yer ain packin’, Jean.”
So the masterful old lady immediately began to superintend the hasty departure of both Hester and Jean. The whole procedure was unprecedented and wholly out of the normal course of things, but if duty called, they must go, whether she liked the thought of their going or not. So she sent Tillie to call a cab, and contented herself with bewailing the stubbornness of Peter, her nephew.
“It was aye so, whan he was a lad playin’ wi’ Jean an’ Katherine, whiles whan his feyther lat his mither bring Katherine and him back to Scotland on a veesit. Jean and Katherine maun gie in til him if they liket it or no. I’ve watched them mony’s the time, when he would haud them up in their play by the hour together, arguyin’ which should be horse an’ which should be driver, an’ it was always Peter that won his way wi’ them. Is the cab there, Tillie? Then gie me my crutch. Hester, are you ready? Jean, I’ll find oot for ye all aboot the trains for Dover. Ye maun gang direc’ an’ no loiter by the way. Come, Hester. I doot she ought not to be goin’ aboot alone. Paris is an’ awfu’ like place for a woman body to be goin’ aboot alone. But it canna’ be helpit. What’s an old woman like me wi’ only one sound leg and a pair o’ crutches, to go on sic’ like a journey?”
“If I could, I’d take you home with me, Aunt Ellen; if I were only sure of the outcome of this trouble, I would anyway–but to take you there to a home of sorrow–”
“There, Hester, dear. Don’t ye greet. It’s my opeenion ye’re goin’ to find yer son an’ tak him in yer arms ance mair. Ye were never the right wife for Peter. I can see that. Ye’re too saft an’ gentle.”
“I’m thinking how Peter has borne this trouble alone, all these years, and suffered, trying to keep the sorrow from me.”
“Yes, dear, yes. Peter told us all aboot it whan he was here, an’ he bade us not to lat ye ken a word aboot it, but to keep from ye all knowledge of it. Noo it’s come to ye by way of this letter fra yer frien’, an’ I’m thinkin’ it’s the best way; for noo, at last ye ha’e it in ye’re power to go an’ maybe save an innocent man, for it’s no like a son of our Katherine would be sic’ like a base coward as to try to win oot from justice by lyin’ himsel’ intil his victim’s own home. I’ll no think it.”
“Nor I, Aunt Ellen. It’s unbelievable! And of Richard–no. I loved Richard. He was like my own son to me–and Peter Junior loved him, too. They may have quarreled–and even he might–in a moment of anger, he might have killed my boy,–but surely he would never do a thing like this. They are making some horrible mistake, or Mary Ballard would never have written me.”
“Noo ye’re talkin’ sense. Keep up courage an’ never tak an’ affliction upo’ yersel’ until it’s thrust upo’ ye by Providence.”
Thus good Aunt Ellen in her neat black bonnet and shawl and black mits, seated at Hester’s side in the cab holding to her crutches, comforted and admonished her niece all the way to the station and back, and the next day she bravely bade Jean and Hester both good-by and settled herself in her armchair to wait patiently for news from them.