A girl ought to be perfectly happy who is going to be married.And I am so miserable.I can't tell Mother and Father because they would not believe me.They would think I just imagined it all.
But YOU won't think that, will you? You will see him and try to help him, for my sake."And so on, eight closely written pages, ending with another plea to me to see "poor George" and help him, and begging me to "burn this letter, because I should be so ashamed to have any one else see it."It was a pitiful letter and, even in the frame of mind I was then in, disgusted with humanity and hating the entire feminine ***, Icould not help feeling sorry for Nellie Dean.Of course I was surprised at receiving such a letter and I believed, just as she begged me not to believe, that the cause of her distress and anxiety was more imaginary than real.But that something was troubling George Taylor I had felt certain for a good while.The idea that he did not love Nellie I knew was preposterous.That was not it.There was something else, but what I could not imagine.Iwanted to help the girl if I could, but how could I ask George to tell me his secrets? I, with a secret of my own.
After pondering for some time I decided to walk up to George's boarding place and talk with him.Nothing would come of the interview, probably, but I might as well do that as anything else.
I must do something, something besides sit in that room and see mocking faces in every corner, faces with dark eyes and scornful lips which told me that my charming and cultivated society was not necessary to their happiness.
Taylor rented the upper floor of a house a quarter of a mile from the bank.His housekeeper answered my ring and informed me that her employer had not yet come home.
"He did not even come home for supper," she said."Stayed over to Nellie's probably.You'll most likely find him there."But I was pretty certain he was not at the Deans', for as I passed their house, I noticed the windows were dark, indicating that the family, like most of respectable Denboro, had already retired.Iwalked on to the Corners.Eldredge's store was closed, but the billiard room was radiant and noisy.I could hear Tim Hallet's voice urging some one to take a new cue, "'cause that one ain't pocketed many balls yet."I looked across at the bank.The front portion of it was black enough, but the window of the directors' room was alight.I had located the object of my search; the cashier was there, working overtime, as he did so often nowadays.
I had my key in my pocket and I unlocked the big door and entered quietly.The door of the directors' room was open a little way and I tiptoed over and peeped in through the crack.Taylor was seated in a chair beside the big table, his elbows upon the table and his head in his hands.As I stood there, watching him, he took his hands away and I saw his face.Upon it was an expression of abject misery and utter despair.I opened the door and entered.
He heard the sound of the opening door and leaped to his feet.His chair fell backward on the floor with a clatter, but he paid no attention to it.
"Good God!" he cried, wildly."Who's that?"He was deathly pale and trembling violently.His appearance startled and alarmed me.
"It's all right," I said, hastily."It is I--Paine.I saw the light and knew you must be here.What ails you? What IS the matter?"For a moment he stood there staring.Then he turned and picked up the fallen chair.
"Oh, it's you, Ros, is it?" he faltered."I--I--Lord, how you scared me! I--I--""George! what IS the matter with you? For heaven's sake! stand up, man!" He was swaying and I thought he was going to faint.
"George! George Taylor! Are you ill? I am going for the doctor.""No, no! Stay where you are.I ain't sick.I'll be all right in a minute.You--you scared me, creeping in that way.Sit down, sit down."He steadied himself with one hand on the table and with the other reached to shut a drawer which had been open beside him.The drawer was almost full of papers, and, lying upon those papers, was a revolver.
