CHAPTER IX THE SECRET OF AN OLD DESK

Full as the day had been for Morey the coming of night did not put a stop to the working of his brain. Thinking seriously for the first time in his life, he had enough to engage him. Concerning his encounter with Judge Lomax he said nothing. In comparison with the difficult problem of saving his mother’s property this encounter was a small matter. And yet it was this that decided his first step in the struggle that was before him.

The boy was hungry for advice, the counsel of some good friend. His first thought was of Lieutenant Purcell. The soldier was a stranger, but Morey had already cut himself off from the people at Lee’s Court House whom, twenty-four hours before, he would have counted as his best friends.

“There isn’t one of them, young or old,” said the lad to himself, “who would give me a square deal if it cost them a cent.” And by “them” he meant Carey, Barber and Bradner of the bank.

Since Lieutenant Purcell had already left for Washington this avenue of help was closed. Morey’s mother, of course, could be of no more assistance than a child. Never before had Morey felt so lonesome. For the first time he realized that he was fatherless and alone. When night fell a breeze came down from the mountains and it became too cool to stay outdoors. Mrs. Marshall, who had been sitting on the decaying gallery, retired to the musty old parlor and after Mammy Ca’line had lighted the crystal-hung table lamp, she made herself comfortable with an ancient copy of Dickens. Morey, standing by her side, gazed upon the shadowy painting of his father.

Suddenly, out of the new longing in him, came an inspiration; he bethought him of his father’s old room and desk and papers. Perhaps there might be something there, some scrap to help him in his dilemma. He had no idea what there might be among his father’s things. But at least, since he had never even looked inside the desk, he wished to do so. He did not speak of what was in his mind, for the room and its contents were held almost sacred by his mother.

Slipping quietly from his mother’s side, he had not reached the door when she recalled him.

“Mortimer,” she said in her tone of fine breeding, “I have been worrying about you all evening. We have not been considerate enough. I have been thinking of your dear father.”

“Yes, mother, so have I.”

“Major Carey says you take after me in some respects.”

Morey smiled.

“It is your father you resemble. This wild fancy of yours is natural. If your father had had his way—”

Then she paused and sighed.

“What, mother? I never knew—”

“You never knew that he spent two years abroad as a young man—that he studied in Germany—chemistry I think.”

Morey caught his mother’s arm.

“Some foolish idea. But he abandoned it. His father wished otherwise and he was as dutiful as you are going to be.”

“What was it?” exclaimed Morey. “What was his idea? What were his hopes?”

His mother sighed again.

“I never understood,” she added. “It was all behind him when I knew him first. But it was something about paint made out of rocks or dirt—I can’t remember now.”

“And they wouldn’t let him work out his ambitions?” exclaimed Morey.

His mother smiled.

“He became a planter, a gentleman and my husband.”

“Well,” said Morey, a little bitterly, “don’t think of me any more this evening if it makes you think of father.”

“And he had other notions,” continued Mrs. Marshall in a reminiscent tone, “why, before we were married, he had a workshop somewhere here on the plantation.”

“What was he working on?” asked Morey abruptly.

The mother shook her head.

“I never knew,” she answered lightly, “but I do know, now, that his boy ought not be blamed for having the same fancies. I know you’ll get over them,” she said, patting his hand, “and that’s why I’ve relented. It may be extravagant but, Morey, I’m not going to countermand your purchase. You may have your engine.”

His mother straightened up in her chair ready for Morey’s burst of gratitude. But it did not come.

“It’s awfully good of you,” said Morey slowly and with the tears almost in his eyes, “but I’m reconciled. I think Major Carey knows best. We can’t get it just now.”

“Morey, I’m proud of you. There you are really like your father. He quit his foolish experiments to please me.” And drawing the lad to her she patted his cheek.

Morey’s head filled with a dozen ideas—among them, the wild desire to examine his father’s desk drew him like a magnet. When his mother had returned to her book again the boy slipped into the hall. A single candle flickered in the gloom. With this in his nervous fingers he made his way to the hall above. He knew that his father’s old office and study—the room in front across from his mother’s bed room was locked but he knew, too, where her keys hung. From the hook at the head of her bed he took these and, a moment later, he was in the long-locked apartment.

He had been in it before but never alone. The air was heavy and hot. Between the two front windows stood the flat-topped table with its three drawers on each side. In the room were many other things—discarded clothing, two trunks, a case of books, a box of plantation account books—all these Morey had seen and wondered at on the few occasions when he had been permitted to remove, from time to time, his father’s saddle, gun, rod and—only the fall before, as a great prize—the old riding crop.

But these things did not interest him now. Falling on his knees he drew open the drawers, tight with disuse. Each was full; insurance policies, bills of sale, weight tickets, auction lists, letters, small account books. In one a case of pistols; in another, European guide books and old steamship circulars. His hands covered with dust and his clothes white with it he paused after a quick examination. Then, with boyish impulse he turned again to the drawer containing the pistol case. As he drew the case from its dusty bed he saw, beneath it, a flat packet of blue paper tied with red tape.

Holding the mahogany pistol box under one arm with his free hand he lowered the dripping candle to the drawers. On the packet, about eight inches long by four inches wide and an inch deep, he read with difficulty, for the inscription was in faded brown ink: “To whom it may concern. A dream of the future. Aspley Marshall, February 5th, 1889.”

Grasping the package, he let the pistol case sink back into the drawer and, his heart beating wildly, hurried from the room. Locking the door and replacing the keys, he ran to his own little bedroom at the far end of the dark and wide upper hallway. Lighting his own candle he hesitated a moment and then slipped the rotten tape from the parcel.

Opened, the packet turned out to be twelve sheets of heavy blue letter paper. The two bottom ones were covered with the outlines of a mechanical device resembling the cylinder of an engine. These were in black with figures on them in red, and seemed to be front and side elevations of some power apparatus. Next to them were two sheets of formulæ in red figures with chemical equations. Morey made no attempt to understand them. Like the projections on the last pages they were beyond his comprehension. Between these four sheets and a single sheet containing a few lines in brown ink on top, lay seven closely written pages beginning, “Stuttgart, 1888—Last will and testament of a man with a dream.”

The inscription on the top sheet, evidently written later, was brief:

“To whomsoever may take the trouble to open and read this record:

“To those who are striving to harness and apply the forces of nature to man’s uses, these experiments are dedicated and bequeathed. In the knowledge that hydrogen gas in its free and pure state is the most powerful force known, I herein propound, theoretically, the practicability of using it as a motive power. The inefficiency of coal, as transformed into steam, and the known high efficiency of hydrogen as an explosive force being recognized, placing it first in the list of potentialities, I suggest the introduction of hydrogen gas into engine cylinders. The following pages discuss:

“1. The liquefaction of pure hydrogen to render it practically portable.

“2. Its admixture with air behind a piston to secure a maximum of expansive force.

“In brief, a plan for indefinitely increasing the power of gas engines by mixing unstable hydrogen with air.”

Morey laid the sheets on the table as if they weighed pounds. He drew a long breath and whistled.

“Well, what do you think of that,” he exclaimed to himself.

He had no idea what it meant. But that was not his first surprise. His astonishment was over the fact that such a record had been made by his father. That was more than he could reason out. Then he read the top sheet again.

“The practicability of using hydrogen gas as a motive power!”

Suddenly a bit of information Morey had learned at Hammondsport came back to him—“hydrogen is sixteen times as powerful as dynamite.”

He began thinking. “When my father wrote that we had no automobiles and no automobile motors. We had not even dreamed of the aeroplane and the delicate, powerful engine it demands. His idea must have been a dream. If he had a practical plan for increasing the efficiency of the motor he thought ahead of his day.”

Morey tried to examine further into the technical manuscript. But it was wholly beyond him. In the midst of his examination he sprang to his feet.

“The trouble with aeroplanes,” he said to himself, “is that the power developed is not sufficient. My father’s dream may solve the problem. His hydrogen may make engines powerful enough to make the perfect airship.”

The perplexities of the day seemed to disappear. Rays of hope burst through the gloom of the boy’s despondency. Mingled with the wave of sorrow that swept over him when he thought of his little understood, and no doubt disappointed father, was a sudden glow of enthusiasm. He would finish his father’s work. He would carry forward the dream into a practical idea for the sake of his mother.

It was nine o’clock. Tingling with excitement Morey hastily concealed the precious manuscript and drawings in his trunk and sought his mother. In the lower hall he heard a familiar low whistle. It was Amos crouching in the dark at the foot of the stairs. The black boy put his hand on Morey’s arm and motioned him silently to come out to the rear of the house. He shook his head ominously.

“Wha’ fo’ yo’ don’ tell me yo’ beat up Jedge Lummix?”

“I didn’t beat him up,” laughed Morey.

“Dey say yo’ nigh kilt ’im. De town’s all ’citement.”

“Is he hurt?” asked Morey, a little alarmed. Then he told the colored boy what had happened. At the end Amos shook his head.

“I been to town fo’ a pail o’ lard. Marshall Robi’son gwine come fo’ yo’ in de mornin’. Yo’ gwine be ’rested an’ locked up. Da’s what.”

“Who told you?” asked Morey now thoroughly alarmed. “I only acted in self defense. They can’t do anything to me.”

“Mr. Robi’son done ast me was I Miss Marshall’s boy. An’ he said I kin tell yo’ he gwine come an’ git yo’ tomorrer.”

“Why didn’t he come today?”

Amos shook his head.

“Ain’t tol’ me dat. But yo’ better make has’e and see Major Carey.”

“Is that what he told you to say?” asked Morey indignantly, clinching his fists.

“Da’s what he says prezacly.”

Morey walked down the path in a feverish quandary, Amos following him like a dog. Why had he not been arrested at once if a warrant was out? Why should he be told to go and see Major Carey? The possibilities alarmed him. What if he was arrested and fined? He had no money to pay a fine. Would he be locked up in jail? Would the whole thing be used as a club over him? And just when he had the big, new project in mind—a resolution to put his father’s dream to the test?

Suddenly a wild thought came to him. His face flushed and then his jaw set. He did not mean to be arrested and submit to the disgrace of it; he was determined to see and consult with those who would properly estimate the value of his mother’s farm and sell it if possible; he meant to find those who could understand the meaning of his father’s secret. He had resolved to leave Aspley Place at once. But where should he go? There was only one answer. He had but one friend old enough to advise him—Lieutenant Fred Purcell. But Lieutenant Purcell was in Washington.

At eight o’clock the next morning, when Mammy Ca’line took Mrs. Marshall’s black coffee to her room she found, beneath the door, a note. She handed it to her mistress, who read:

“Dear Mother: I have gone away for a short time—a few weeks, I reckon. It’s on business. Amos is with me. I took him because I know you’ll feel better about my going. Don’t worry. I can’t tell you where I am. In a short time I’ll write. You’ll hear that I licked Judge Lomax. I didn’t. He insulted me and I protected myself. If Major Carey or Captain Barber asks you where I am, tell him it’s none of their business. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you good-bye, but I was afraid you wouldn’t stand for what I’m doing, and I had to go.

“Your loving son,

“Morey.”