“It is only ten days until you were to go north for the summer, go now.”
“I don't want to go north. I don't want to meet people I know. There, the story would precede me. I do not need pitying glances or rough condolences. I wonder if I could not hide at Uncle Ed's in Wisconsin for awhile?”
The book closed suddenly. The father leaned across the table and looked into the son's eyes.
“Phil, are you sure of what you just have said?”
“Perfectly sure!”
“Do you think you are in any condition to decide to-night?”
“Death cannot return to life, father. My love for Edith Carr is dead. I hope never to see her again.”
“If I thought you could be certain so soon! But, come to think of it, you are very like me in many ways. I am with you in this. Public scenes and disgraces I would not endure. It would be over with me, were I in your position, that I know.”
“It is done for all time,” said Philip Ammon. “Let us not speak of it further.”
“Then, Phil,” the father leaned closer and looked at the son tenderly, “Phil, why don't you go to the Limberlost?”
“Father!”
“Why not? No one can comfort a hurt heart like a tender woman; and, Phil, have you ever stopped to think that you may have a duty in the Limberlost, if you are free? I don't know! I only suggest it. But, for a country schoolgirl, unaccustomed to men, two months with a man like you might well awaken feelings of which you do not think. Because you were safe-guarded is no sign the girl was. She might care to see you. You can soon tell. With you, she comes next to Edith, and you have made it clear to me that you appreciate her in many ways above. So I repeat it, why not go to the Limberlost?”
A long time Philip Ammon sat in deep thought. At last he raised his head.
“Well, why not!” he said. “Years could make me no surer than I am now, and life is short. Please ask Banks to get me some coffee and toast, and I will bathe and dress so I can take the early train.”
“Go to your bath. I will attend to your packing and everything. And Phil, if I were you, I would leave no addresses.”
“Not an address!” said Philip. “Not even Polly.”
When the train pulled out, the elder Ammon went home to find Hart Henderson waiting.
“Where is Phil?” he demanded.
“He did not feel like facing his friends at present, and I am just back from driving him to the station. He said he might go to Siam, or Patagonia. He would leave no address.”
Henderson almost staggered. “He's not gone? And left no address? You don't mean it! He'll never forgive her!”
“Never is a long time, Hart,” said Mr. Ammon. “And it seems even longer to those of us who are well acquainted with Phil. Last night was not the last straw. It was the whole straw-stack. It crushed Phil so far as she is concerned. He will not see her again voluntarily, and he will not forget if he does. You can take it from him, and from me, we have accepted the lady's decision. Will you have a cup of coffee?”
Twice Henderson opened his lips to speak of Edith Carr's despair. Twice he looked into the stern, inflexible face of Mr. Ammon and could not betray her. He held out the ring.
“I have no instructions as to that,” said the elder Ammon, drawing back. “Possibly Miss Carr would have it as a keepsake.”
“I am sure not,” said Henderson curtly.
“Then suppose you return it to Peacock. I will phone him. He will give you the price of it, and you might add it to the children's Fresh Air Fund. We would be obliged if you would do that. No one here cares to handle the object.”
“As you choose,” said Henderson. “Good morning!”
Then he went to his home, but he could not think of sleep. He ordered breakfast, but he could not eat. He paced the library for a time, but it was too small. Going on the streets he walked until exhausted, then he called a hansom and was driven to his club. He had thought himself familiar with every depth of suffering; that night had taught him that what he felt for himself was not to be compared with the anguish which wrung his heart over the agony of Edith Carr. He tried to blame Philip Ammon, but being an honest man, Henderson knew that was unjust. The fault lay wholly with her, but that only made it harder for him, as he realized it would in time for her.
As he sauntered into the room an attendant hurried to him.
“You are wanted most urgently at the 'phone, Mr. Henderson,” he said. “You have had three calls from Main 5770.”
Henderson shivered as he picked down the receiver and gave the call.
“Is that you, Hart?” came Edith's voice.
“Yes.”
“Did you find Phil?”
“No.”
“Did you try?”
“Yes. As soon as I left you I went straight there.”
“Wasn't he home yet?”
“He has been home and gone again.”
“Gone!”
The cry tore Henderson's heart.
“Shall I come and tell you, Edith?”
“No! Tell me now.”
“When I reached the house Banks said Mr. Ammon and Phil were out in the motor, so I waited. Mr. Ammon came back soon. Edith, are you alone?”
“Yes. Go on!”
“Call your maid. I can't tell you until some one is with you.”
“Tell me instantly!”
“Edith, he said he had been to the station. He said Phil had started to Siam or Patagonia, he didn't know which, and left no address. He said——”
Distinctly Henderson heard her fall. He set the buzzer ringing, and in a few seconds heard voices, so he knew she had been found. Then he crept into a private den and shook with a hard, nervous chill.
The next day Edith Carr started on her trip to Europe. Henderson felt certain she hoped to meet Philip there. He was sure she would be disappointed, though he had no idea where Ammon could have gone. But after much thought he decided he would see Edith soonest by remaining at home, so he spent the summer in Chicago.
CHAPTER XXI
WHEREIN PHILIP AMMON RETURNS TO THE LIMBERLOST, AND ELNORA STUDIES THE SITUATION
“We must be thinking about supper, mother,” said Elnora, while she set the wings of a Cecropia with much care. “It seems as if I can't get enough to eat, or enough of being at home. I enjoyed that city house. I don't believe I could have done my work if I had been compelled to walk back and forth. I thought at first I never wanted to come here again. Now, I feel as if I could not live anywhere else.”
“Elnora,” said Mrs. Comstock,