The Girl Who Had No God/Part 2
BEAUTIFUL ELINOR KING-
STON AND HER FRIENDS
FACE EXPOSURE AND
SERIOUS CONSE-
QUENCES
Synopsis—-For years old Hilary Kingston lived with his daughter, Elinor, in a beautiful home on a hill in the suburban village of Woffingham. The neighbors knew nothing about the establishment, except that the father was quite wealthy, and the daughter very good looking and gentle. In reality Kingston was head of an anarchist band, composed of Huff, Boroday, Talbot and Lethbridge, that robbed the rich and gave to the poor and oppressed. One day old Hilary was shot dead, and the course of life changed abruptly for his daughter.
CHAPTER II—Continued.
—2—
The routine never varied. Elinor unlocked the door to a winding staircase, which led to a basement room where the steel vault stood in its cement walls. The five went down, returning shortly with the cash-boxes. The money was divided on the library table. It went by percentages. Hilary drew 20 that last year, each of the others 10—a total of 60 percent. The 40 percent remaining was divided, or sent as a whole, according to the sense of the meeting. Berlin got it all one year, for instance, to Boroday's disgust. Russia generally received a large proportion. The Chinese revolution; the defense of Berkhardt, who killed Ecker the pork-packer; a shipment of guns and ammunition to Central America—thus it went.
Although they preferred only money, now and then the loot included Jewels. By common consent, such gems, stripped of their settings, were put aside for Elinor. They meant nothing to her. Had anyone told her that for several years her share had been greater in actual value than all the money that had fallen to her father she would not have believed it....
Four days or so after the annual meeting, the rector of Saint Jude's was always asked to dinner. And although the reverend gentleman would under normal circumstances have been fishing in Canada, he never went until this function was over. For old Hilary, detesting his creed, respected the man. A certain percentage, then, of old Hilary's share went over the library table, after the dinner, to the rector.
"Use it where it will do the most good," he would say.
"The church organ—"
"Not a cent to the church organ. Buy the youngsters a playground, or—build a lying-in ward in the hospital."
Elinor's mother had died in child-birth.
The last check had been unusually generous. The rector, who had been smoking one of old Hilary's choice cigars, put it down and faced his host resolutely. It took courage.
"Mr. Kingston." he said, "the church needs men like you. Why be a Christian in the spirit and—avoid the letter?"
"Tut." Old Hilary rose and looked down at him. "I am like all gamblers. This annual check to your poor is the sop I throw to luck. That's all, sir."
And his tone closed the discussion. The word "gambler" worried the rector. He thought over it on his way down the hill to the rectory. But his poor were very poor. He cashed the check the next day,...
Elinor was in the library that sunny August day when they brought old Hilary to her. She had never seen death before, except on the streets of Mexico, and for a many years he had been all she had—since her last governess, in fact, had been discovered secreting the rosary and had been word-scourged from the house in tears. She fainted, and wrinkled Henriette laid her on a couch.
Boroday, the Russian, had brought the body home, and now he stood, looking down at Elinor and stroking his English-cut beard.
"He expected it, Henriette," he said. "He thought it would have come sooner, in the Parker matter. I wonder—"
He glanced through the open door to the billiard room, where old Hilary's body lay on the table. He was minded, was Boroday, to wonder many things—whether, after all, old Hilary's dauntless spirit had gone out like a lamp, or if—
This white and carven thing in the next room, with stiffening hands and the gray derby at its feet, surely there was no mystery about it. This was not old Hilary: that was all. But where, then, was old Hilary? The Russian, who had been raised within the pale and on an ancient faith, and who had now lost his best friend, felt all the bitterness of his unbelief.
Elinor stirred.
"Let them Bury Him as They will," Said Boroday
"He will have to be buried," said Henriette. "The news has gone through the town. The assistant rector of the church has telephoned, and is on his way here now. What am I to do?"
"Let them bury him as they will," said Boroday. "What does it matter? he would himself have seen the humor of it"
Hilary Kingston had been shot during the daylight robbery of the Agrarian bank messenger. He was shot as an innocent bystander, and was referred to by the press as a philanthropist and martyr. So much for years of caution and the annual gift to Saint Jude's.
As a matter of fact, the Agrarian affair was calamitous in several ways. It bore too close a resemblance to a St. Louis matter of several years back, in which Boroday had come under suspicion.
On a Tuesday morning, the cash being more than the bank cared to have about, two hundred and ten thousand dollars was sent to the clearing house. Two clerks from the bank accompanied the messenger, who went by taxicab.
There are two direct routes to the clearing house: one along one of the great avenues, the other through the newspaper district. Here, at ten-thirty in the morning, things are rather quiet, and except for vans delivering rolls of paper, there is little traffic.
The taxicab went by this latter route. Opposite the Record office, where the presses stood, silent monsters waiting to leap, old Hilary Kingston was standing, kldgloved and wearing the gray derby hut he affected. As the taxicab bore down toward him he hailed it.
"Taxi!" he called.
The taxicab slowed down. Old Hilary, seeing it occupied, waved it off with his stick. But it had come to a full stop. There was an alleyway beside the Record building, and now three men ran out from there, and thrust revolvers through the open windows of the cab. After that it was hot work.
Marshall of the bunk went back with a bullet through his lung. The bank messenger fired pointblank, and missed his target; but old Hilary, gray derby and all, went down where he stood, twenty feet away. The uninjured clerk had an automatic gun, and swept a circle with it over the bag which lay at his feet. There was no getting inside that ring of death. The bandits retreated, firing as they ran, and climbed into an automobile up the street. When the reporters in the Record office wakened to the fact that there was a story under their windows, the street was clear. Only old Hilary lay dead on the pavement, with a bullet in his head.
The chauffeur of the taxicab drove madly to the hospital with Marshall, who was dying, and then to police quarters, where he gave himself up. He was released, of course. His name was Walter Huff. He was shown to be a new man, but sober and industrious, one of the best drivers in the employ of the taxicab company. It was also shown that Hilary Kingston had hailed him; Huff explained his stopping. Mr. Kingston was a regular patron; he had meant to tell him that in five minutes he would come back and pick him up.
Huff was under surveillance for three days. His conduct was impeccable.
CHAPTER III.
It was, after all, the assistant rector of Saint Jude's who came up the hill that hot August day. The news of old Hilary's death had come down from the city on an early train. The rector was away on his deferred fishing trip, where, having exchanged his clerical collar for none at all and having blistered the end of hie ecclesiastical nose he was quite happy.
The assistant, Mr. Ward, whistled as he climbed the hill. As the hill was steep, this proved two things—his youth, and his lightness of heart. True, old Hilary Kingston was dead, and violently done to death. But to Mr. Ward death was but the gateway to a larger life; and only very sad in the young, who have not yet lived.
Mr. Ward was young, a broad-shouldered young man, with clear, rather deep-set eyes, and a firm mouth. The people of Saint Jude's prophesied that the world would hear of Mr. Ward. There was only one bar to his progress: he had too much humor. It seemed to the people of Saint Jude's that religion is a serious thing, forgetting that good cheer is one of (he things it must bring, and it be religion.
Boroday met Ward in the hall. Old Hilary was upstairs by that time, lying in his great bed. All the doors and windows were open, and sunshine filled the rooms. Ward thought it an unusually sane house of mourning.
"I'm glad to see the sun," he said. "So many people close things up."
"Miss Kingston wished things undisturbed."
"I came to tell her—but I suppose she doesn't car© to see anyone—the rector is away on a holiday. I'll wire him, of course."
Boroday led the way into the library where the rector had so recently received his check. He turned and eyed Ward.
"Why bring the rector back?" he asked. "It is a little late for—the comforts of religion."
"Mr. Kingston gave lavishly to the church. Whatever the church can do—"
"I rather think," said Boroday politely, "that he gave, not to the church, but to the poor."
"'Inasmuch as ye give unto one of the least of these,'" Ward replied, and returned Boroday's gaze.
Elinor had pulled herself together. By the one standard that had ruled her life she acted now—her father's wishes.
Ward, brought face to face with her, found her unapproachable, calm, almost cold. Found her very lovely, too, and let his ardent young eyes rest on her oftener than was wise. Her situation appealed to him. She seemed to be quite alone, save for the Russian with the beard.
"If I can do anything," he said, "wire to your relatives—anything of that sort—"
"I have no relatives. My mother died when I was born. I—I have a curious feeling that everything in the world has stopped—as though I'd reached the end of things."
It seemed to Mr. Ward that he should offer some of the comfort of his faith to this shrinking, wide-eyed girl before him. But what? Rumors had come to him, of course.
"Death is only a tragedy when we think of it as an end and not as a beginning," he said. "It is always sad. I hope you understand that I know how terrible all this is for you. But to have lived one's life, active and well and useful to the end. and then to depart, in the fullness of days, for new activities—somewhere else—"
Elinor shivered in the warm sunshine.
"You see, she said drearily, "I do not believe those things. I should like to just now." Then, almost defiantly: "He was useful. You will never know the things he did that were helpful. But perhaps we would not agree on that, either."
The Russian was walking up and down the hall, impassive, watchful. Under his stoical indifference, he was suffering tortures. A bullet from the automatic had gone through his left arm, grazing the bone. Luckily, the bullet was not in the wound. Henriette had bathed and cleansed it, but he was in agony. He was suffering pain, bereavement, defeat. His face expressed only decorous and conventional regret.
Now and then he glanced in at the library door, but generally he watched the road up the hill. As he had watched the Church ascending, so now at any time might come Law. He would be prepared.
He had grown a beard since the St. Louis matter. That would help. And he had waited to return and claim old Hilary's body, until the Record extra had announced his killing. Walking up and down the wide hall, his keen mind was going back, detail by detail, over the day. Talbot and Lethbridge in the car had kept on. They had had changes of clothing in the machine. By now they should be at the country club, and halfway around the links. The car, with its changed license plates, would be standing in the eminently respectable country club garage.