The next day was a wet one. Charles heard the rain beating on his window when he waked. Dressing hurriedly, for his watch showed that he was late, he went down-stairs. No one was in sight. Going to the dining-room, he saw Zilla putting his coffee at his plate.
I heard yer comin', she said, agreeably. "My white folks ain't up yit. Marse Andy al'ays sleeps late on er wet day, en young miss just got back from town en is in 'er room, tryin' ter res'. She saddled de hoss 'erse'f 'bout midnight en rode off. She said she couldn't sleep nohow widout knowin' how Tobe Keith was gittin' on. I tried ter stop 'er, en so did 'er pa, but she would go."
And did she get favorable news? Charles asked.
He's des de same as he was, Zilla replied, with a sigh. "He's powerful critical. She waited dar all night at de hotel wid Miz' Quinby. One minute she'd hear one thing, and den ergin sumpin' else. Po' chile talk erbout war-times en slave days? Dat po' chile has mo' ter bear dan 'er ma en pa ever went th'oo when dey was all fightin' fer de ole state."
The rain was still falling heavily when he left the table, and as he stood in the front doorway and realized that it was too wet for hoeing, he suddenly thought of the blacksmith shop and the work he had planned to do in sharpening the tools. Glad of something to busy himself with, he went to the shop, kindled a fire in the antiquated forge, and began to work. There was something vaguely soothing in the splash and patter of the rain on the low, blackened roof of split oaken boards, the sucking of the air into the bellows, the creaking of the bellows chains, the ringing of the anvil, and the spray of metallic sparks in the half darkness of the room.
It was near noon. The rain had ceased, though the clouds were still heavy and lowering. He was hammering on a red plowshare when Mary suddenly appeared in the doorway. Her back was to the outer daylight, her face dimly lighted by the slow blaze of the forge. She advanced into the shop, paused and scanned the heap of sharpened tools on the ground near the tub of blackened water which was used for cooling the metal.
What a wonder you are! she cried, with an attempt at a lightness he knew she did not feel. "You have already done ten dollars' worth of work this morning. You see I know, for I pay the bills."
It is nothing, he answered. "I wanted to be busy."
I heard the ringing of the anvil when I waked, and knew what it meant. Yes, you are wonderful, and I am afraid—she tried to smile—"that you are too valuable for us. I was thinking about you on my way to town last night. You won't stay here. You can't stand this sort of thing—I mean the awful mess you find us in. I wouldn't blame you for leaving us. Why, I'll be frank with you, Mr. Brown—it is only fair to you as a stranger in this locality. There are plantations only a few miles away where you would find more people employed, where they have some sort of amusement, and where the people you'd work for would not be upset and depressed as we are. I did want to save our crops, now that they are planted, but, facing this other thing, the crops count for nothing—nothing at all. If God would show me a way to save my brothers I'd give my very soul in payment. You don't know—no one could know how I feel. I am stretched on a cross, Mr. Brown. I am praying with every breath I draw, but I am stifling under the dread of what may happen. At this very minute Tobe Keith may—may—" she groaned, leaned against the bellows and stood shuddering, cowed and wild-eyed, under the horror her mind had pictured.
Don't, don't, please don't! he cried. "Don't give up. Don't lose hope. There is always hope. I lost it once in—in a great trouble, but I lived through it somehow. You will, too. Some wise man has said that God does not lay any burden on any one that is too heavy to bear. Think of that—believe that; it comforted me once. It is comforting me now in the belief that you will escape from this terrible thing."
Oh, do you think so—do you? and she wrung her hands, lowered her head again, and uttered a little wail that ended in a sob.
He all but reached out his hands toward her in a strange, bold impulse to take her into his arms, but checked himself and stood aghast as he contemplated the catastrophe which might have followed such an unwarranted act. Had he subconsciously leaped back to the free period before his downfall, or, as a regenerated man, had he for an instant felt himself to be on her level? Ah no, it was the kinship again—the kinship of suffering souls.
I'm sure of it, he repeated. "If I thought otherwise I'd see no good in life at all. Men deserve punishment for the wrong they do, but gentle girls like you must not suffer for the mistakes of men. It will pass over—your cloud will blow away."
Oh, oh! and she put her hands to her dry eyes while her shoulders shook. "I hope—you make me hope a little, somehow—that what you say may be true. You comfort me more than everybody else put together. It is your way, your voice, your look. You are a good, kind man, Mr. Brown. How strange that you came just when you did! I'll try to be braver. I'll try to stop thinking that every approaching person on the road is coming to tell me the worst."
That is right, he said.
And would you pray—would you continue to pray? she asked, with the timid simplicity of a child groping in the dark.
Their eyes met steadily. "I don't know how to advise you as to that," he said, after a pause full of thought. "I must confess that I am not religious. I used to pray, as a child, but I don't now."
Well, I shall keep it up, she said, quietly. "There are moments when it seems to help. I prayed to be allowed to sleep this morning, and I did. You see, I need the strength. If I go to pieces all may be lost, for my father can do nothing."
She turned back to the house. The rain had ceased, though the clouds were still thick and lowering. The forge blazed again; the anvil rang as he pounded the yielding steel into shape. He had forgotten himself and his past; the new existence was buoying him up again. Nothing mattered but the woes which had come to Mary Rowland and the necessity of his shouldering them—fighting them.
When the bell rang for lunch he went into the house. He found Mary in the dining-room, packing some food into a basket.
It is for the boys, she explained. "I am glad it is clearing up, for I must take it to them."
You? he cried, in surprise.
Yes, she made answer, simply. "Father and I are the only ones who know where the boys are. Father is in town now to wait for news and to attend to some business with Mr. Frazier at the bank. Father would not want me to go, but some one must."
Might I not go in your place? he asked, and he actually held his breath while he waited for her reply.
You don't know the way, she said. "It is hard even for me to find."
He looked at the heavy basket. "But you can't carry that by yourself. May I not carry it for you?"
She glanced at him gratefully. "Would you really care to go?" she inquired. "It is a long walk, and difficult even in dry weather."
Please! he said. "You ought not to go alone."
Thank you; but first get your dinner. I don't want any. I have only just eaten my breakfast.
When they started out, half an hour later, the clouds had lifted somewhat, though they were still full of rain. They went through the barn-yard, climbed over the rail fence, and entered the near-by thicket, which stretched on into the sloping woodland of the mountains. The wet weeds and grass were already dampening her shoes, and, noting it, he paused suddenly.
You really ought not to expose yourself this way, he protested. "Your feet will be soaked in a very short time."
It doesn't matter, she said. "Nothing matters, Mr. Brown, but the fate that hangs over my brothers. I think I could wade in water up to my knees for days at a time and not be conscious of discomfort. It isn't one's body that feels the greatest pain, it is the mind, the soul, the memory. The pain comes from the futility of hoping. Life is a tragedy, isn't it?"
Yes and no, he answered, smiling into her expectant, upturned face, the beauty of which had deepened under her gloom. "I have thought so at times, but there were always rifts in my clouds. There will be in yours."
How sweet and noble of you! she said, tremulously, in her emotion. Suddenly he saw that she was studying his face closely, feature by feature. Then she continued, as one rendering a verdict: "Yes, you have suffered. I see the traces of it. It lurks in the tone of your voice; it shows itself in your sympathy for me."
Without revealing his new-found passion for her, which surged within him like a raging torrent, there was nothing he could say. Presently they came to a brook several yards in width and he could see no means of crossing it. She was disturbed for a moment, but to her surprise he stepped into the shallow water, took the basket to the other side and, wet to his knees, came wading back to her.
You must let me carry you across, he said, smiling.
No, I'm too heavy. She shook her head.
I could carry one of you under each arm, he jested. "Come!" He held out his hands. She hesitated. A touch of pink colored her cheeks, and then she came into his arms.
There, he directed, as he lifted her up, "put your arm around my neck and lean toward me. Don't be afraid. That's right. I must be steady, you know, for there are round stones under my feet, and if I slipped we'd both go down."
Reaching the other side, he put her down and took up the basket. His heart was beating like a trip-hammer. The flush was still on Mary's face.
You carried me as if I were a baby, she said. "How very strong you are! I could feel the muscles of your arms like knotted ropes. What an odd mixture you are!"
In what way? he asked, as they moved on side by side.
I hardly know, she answered. "Well, for one thing, you seem out of place as a common workman in the fields. You have the manner, the way of—" She broke off, and the flush in her cheeks deepened.
I've been several things, he admitted, with a sigh. "I ought to know something of life, for I've had many experiences."
I was in your room this morning, she said. "It is a desolate place for a man of your temperament. I must fix it up. The attic is full of old things—curtains, pictures, and even books. You must be lonely at times. I noticed a photograph on your bureau in a frame. It was that of a child, a beautiful little girl. She was so refined-looking, and so daintily dressed. She resembled you, about the eyes and brow."
Charles stared fixedly. He looked confused. "Yes, I think we do look alike," he finally replied. Probably she expected him to say more, but how was it possible to explain?
I think I understand, she said, almost in an undertone, as she strode on ahead of him. "I now know why you look homesick at times. You must miss her."
He saw that she did not fathom the truth about the child, but he was not prepared for an adequate explanation and so he remained silent. However, the girl was making deductions.
It must be, she thought, as she forged her way through the damp bushes still ahead of him. "It is his child. His wife must be living and they are separated, or he would speak of her. Poor fellow!"
For four miles they walked over very uneven, rocky ground. Deeper and deeper they went into the mountains. There were hills to climb in places where there was no sign of path or road; there were yawning gulches to cross; dank, stream-filled ca?ons filled with dead and leaning trees to pass through. He felt that she was leading him aright, for her step was firm and her progress rapid and sure. Now and then she would look at the western sky where the presence of the sun was indicated by a somewhat brighter spot than the rest of the dun expanse.
We really must hurry, she kept saying, "for we'll be overtaken by night on our return if we don't get to them pretty soon."
Have you a landmark to guide you? he asked.
Yes, there to the left. Do you see that mountain peak? Well, their hiding-place—it is a little cave they know about—is in the thick jungle at the foot of it, on this side. We can't go all the way in. It would be impossible. I shall get nearer and whistle for them to come out. They know my whistle. They taught me how to do it when I was little. It is like this, and she clasped her hands together tightly, leaving an orifice between the thumbs into which she blew her breath sharply. A keen whistle was produced. "There is no mistaking it," she continued. "They would know it anywhere. Every pair of hands makes a different sound."
Half an hour later they were on the edge of the dense jungle of which she had spoken. A veritable riot of dank undergrowth was massed beneath giant trees and around green, moss-grown boulders. The greater part of it was a miasmatic swamp, the boggy soil of which could not be walked upon with safety even in dry weather. Mary paused on a spot where the ground was firm and folded her hands. "Be still and listen," she said. "If they are there, they will answer. They will know that I'd not whistle if it were not safe."
The flutelike note rose on the still air; it was echoed from a near-by cliff and died down. No sound followed. Mary looked perplexed, worried. She whistled again. This time a distant whistle caught up the echo. It was a coarser tone than hers but produced in the same way.
That's Kensy! she cried, in relief. "Listen! Hear the twigs breaking? He is coming—maybe both. She whistled again, now more softly, and in her excitement tremulously. The sound of bending bushes and the cracking of dry branches was growing nearer.
Hello, brother! Mary suddenly cried out. "Here we are. Come on."
Hello, sis! Who is with you—father?
No, Mr. Brown.
The sound of his movements ceased. "Who?" he asked, dubiously.
Mr. Brown, you know. He is working for us. Come on. It is all right, Kensy.
Oh! Kenneth was heard ejaculating. "All right. Coast clear, sis?"
Yes, yes, Kensy. We've got some food.
Food, thank God! We are starving, sis. We haven't had a bite to eat since the night before we left home. With this he appeared from a clump of weeping willows, and stood before them. She introduced him to Charles. Kenneth simply nodded. He was coatless, without a hat, and besmeared with the dark mud of the morass from head to foot.
I fell down back there, he said. "My foot slipped while I was on a log. I was wet, anyway. We were away from the cave, trying to kill some birds to eat, and got caught in the rain. Afraid to make a fire, anyway. No matches."
I have some in a dry box, Charles said. "Won't you take them?"
Never mind. I put plenty of them in the basket, Mary said. "Where is Martin?"
In the cave. He had his clothes off, trying to dry them, and so I came out alone. He is all right, but acting like a baby. Oh God! what have you got, sis. He had the basket in his muddy hands and was removing the napkin which covered the contents. There he comes now. He couldn't wait.
The other boy now appeared, barefooted, his trousers rolled up to his knees. On being introduced he shook hands timidly. He ignored the basket of food. His glaring, dark-ringed eyes rested on his sister's face. He panted as he bent toward her. "How is Keith?" he asked.
Yes, how is he? Kenneth echoed, glancing up from the contents of the basket.
Charles thought it was significant that Mary hesitated for an instant before replying. "He is just the same as he was—no better, no worse," she answered.
No better? My God! Martin seemed to shrink together like a touched sensitive-plant. "Then—then he may die?"
Kenneth had his hands full of baked chicken, but he lowered them and, leaving the food in the basket, he stood up. "Is it as bad as that, sis?" he faltered, his lips betraying a tendency to shake.
I hate to say so, Mary faltered, "but I must not deceive you and make you reckless. This is the only safe place now." She told them of Albert Frazier's aid in misleading his brother.
He is a good one, Kenneth said, more at ease. "He is sharper any day than his blockhead of a brother. If he stays on our side we'll be all right, even—even if—"
Don't say it, Ken! Martin's young mouth was twisted awry. "I can't bear it. I can't—I simply can't!"
Kenneth uttered a forced laugh of defiance. "He is like that all the time," he said. "He didn't sleep a wink last night. He cried. He prayed to God and to mother's spirit: 'Save Tobe Keith—save Tobe Keith! Don't let 'im die!'"
It is because I held him, Martin feebly explained. "You see, I had him so he couldn't move, and—and when Ken shot I felt his body sort of crumble up and hang limp in my arms. If he dies it will be my fault, for—for he could have dodged the shot but for me. If he dies, sis, it will be my fault and it will mean the rope and the scaffold."
Kenneth had bent to the basket again, but he refrained from taking up the food. He faced his sister. "We'll have to stay hid," he said, grimly. "Don't offend Albert Frazier, for all you do. He won't let his brother find us. Even if he found us, I'll bet Albert could keep him from making an arrest. He owes Albert money, I've heard. They always work into each other's hands. Albert had some trouble himself once that the sheriff squashed."
Charles was now looking at Mary. There was an expression about her face, and all but swaying body, that was akin to that of her fainting-spell in the field the preceding day. She had locked her hands together and he saw a flare of agony in her tortured eyes. There was a fallen tree near her and she sank down on its trunk and lowered her head. Finally she accomplished what he knew she was trying so hard to do; she mastered her weakness.
Martin, sit here by me, she said, pleadingly, and the younger boy obeyed, the far-reaching terror still in his bland blue eyes. She stroked back his matted hair and picked the fragments of leaves and grass from it. "My sweet boy!" she faltered, "I don't know what to say to comfort you and quiet your fears about—Tobe's condition. I'm glad mother is not alive, Martin. She could not have borne this. You are so young—just a boy—and you are sensitive and imaginative. It looks worse to you than it really is. I feel down deep in me that Tobe will get well. We are sure to get good news before long. Now eat something."
I was hungry this morning, but it is gone, Martin said. "The sight of the stuff almost sickens me."
Mary put both her arms around his neck and kissed him. "You are making yourself sick," she said. "Eat, won't you, for my sake?"
His brother was eating now, and Martin went to his side and took a piece of chicken and a biscuit. Mary watched them for a moment with wide-open glittering eyes—the sort of stare that sometimes seems to float on a rising tide of tears invisible. Then her head sank again.
Look here, Kenneth said, suddenly, as he glanced toward the western sky. "You and Mr. Brown have a long walk before you to get back before night. You are doing no good here now. Hadn't you better start?"
Mary stood up. "Yes, we must be going. Are you comfortable in the cave?"
Yes, Kenneth returned. "It is good enough. We have a big bed of dry leaves and grass, and if Martin would only sleep we'd be all right."
I try, but I can't, the blue-eyed boy said, in an uncertain, half-abashed tone. "There was a night-owl near us last night, and it was hooting, and, my God! sis, the thing seemed to talk. I never had anything against Tobe Keith in my life. In fact, he and I used to fish and swim together when we'd run away from school, and to think that I actually—Turn around, and I'll show exactly how I clamped his arms and how he was bent down when Ken fired."
No, not now, Charles protested. "Your sister is very nervous. She almost fainted just now."
No, don't go into it, Kenneth mumbled, his mouth full. "I haven't anything against Tobe, either. We were both drinking, but they tell me the law doesn't excuse a fellow on that account. I didn't know what I was doing, but I couldn't prove it to a jury. I reckon they would call it deliberate. You see, Tobe and I had had words the day before over another matter, and I remember I made some threats about what I'd do to him. Oh, if he dies they will have a case against us. I know that well enough, and we must stay under cover till we can get West."
I thought Tobe had a knife, Martin said, piteously. "I was sure I saw him draw it, and I held him to keep him from stabbing Ken. You know Tobe did rip a fellow open once in a fight. They say I was mistaken and that it was just a spoon he had been eating oysters with, and that he dropped it as soon as I grabbed him. Sis, will you let us know how he is as often as you can?"
Yes, yes, the girl promised, "and if you don't hear it will be a sign of good news. Remember that, and, brother, do try to sleep to-night. You look sick."
She glanced at the sky again. She kissed them both and walked away. They had gone only a few paces when Charles suddenly turned back and joined them.
Your sister may not be able to come every time, he said. "But I know the way now, for I took note of the landmarks, and I'll come by myself."
That will be bully of you, Kenneth said. "By the way, we must have a signal, so that I'll know who it is. Suppose you whistle twice slowly and three times fast, and I'll answer and come out."
Mary was looking at Charles from sadly inquiring eyes when he caught her up a moment later. "What did you say to them?" she asked.
He told her and she forced a wan smile, while a warm glow of gratitude rose in her eyes.
How sweet and kind of you! she said. "You have proved yourself to be a friend, and we have known you such a short time."
I'd give my life to help you out of this, he suddenly said, surprised at his boldness of speech and the raging storm of sympathy which had fairly forced the words from him.
Your life? She was close at his side, for he was holding the dripping bough of a mountain cedar aside for her to pass. "That is a strong expression. Your life? That is all one has, you know."
My life is worthless to me and to every one else, he said, frankly, and as he uttered the words he was viewing his career in a flash-light of memory from its beginning to the present. "Yes, Miss Rowland, it is no good—absolutely no good. That's why I feel as I do for your brothers, and—I mean it—I'd give my life to-day to lift you out of this trouble and see you as I did that day in the store when you hired me."
Hired you? Don't use that word, she suddenly cried out, and she put her hand on his arm in a gentle stroke of protest. "Mr. Brown, it seems to me—I don't know how to explain it, but it seems to me that I've known you for ages and ages. I can see that you are sad at times, and I know that you have suffered somehow, somewhere. That picture of the pretty child in your room—she is linked with your trouble, is she not?"
Indirectly, he admitted, not seeing her drift. "Yes, it was partly on her account—for her own future—that I left home."
I see, I see; and her mother? Mary's voice had sunken almost to inaudibility; the cracking of the twigs under their feet all but drowned its sound. "Did you leave her with the child?"
Oh yes! They are inseparable, he answered. He felt that he was admitting too much, and he turned the subject to that of the lessening sunlight on a cliff to their left. He thought the dense clouds massing behind them indicated a high wind and a heavy downpour of rain.
But his companion was not thinking of the state of the weather. "You will go back to them some day, of course," she persisted.
Charles shuddered; she was probing a subject that he felt honor bound not to touch upon. She repeated her words, steadily fixing his eyes with her own.
No, he repeated, firmly, "I shall never go back, Miss Rowland—never in the world. My future home is here, anywhere, but never there again."
And you do not like to speak of your family? Is that it? Mary went on, softly, sympathetically.
I can't—I haven't the moral right to speak of them now. That is all I can say. I'm dead to my past, Miss Rowland. I am blotting it out. Serving you in any capacity helps kill memories that ought to be dead. There are memories that reproach and torture one. I have my share of them.
For perhaps a mile they trudged along in silence. Presently Mary stopped and turned on him.
A drop of rain fell in my face, she said, looking up at the sky.
His eyes followed hers. Along the brow of a mountain to the west clouds as black and thick as the smoke of pitch were massing. The tops of the trees in the near distance were swaying violently and the breeze had become cooler and was full of swift and contending currents. Little whirlwinds lifted the leaves at their feet and sent them sky-ward in shafts and spiral columns. More drops of rain fell. The brighter spot in the west was becoming cloud-veiled, and it was growing dark on all sides.
We are sure to get caught, Mary said, in alarm. "It is an awful storm, both wind and rain. They are terrible here in the mountains when they rise suddenly like that. See, it is coming fast. What shall we do?"
He could offer no helpful suggestion. There was no sort of shelter in sight. Still they hurried on breathlessly, Mary leading the way. At times, in her haste, she plunged as aimlessly into tangled undergrowth as a pursued animal, and had to be extricated by his calm, firm hands.
Running like this won't do any good, he advised her, gravely. "I'm afraid of one thing, very much afraid, and that is that we may lose our way. You see, up to now we had the light in the west to guide us, but it is all gone now. Those shifting clouds are very misleading."
Oh, I'm sure we are right as to the direction, Mary said, "but I am afraid of the storm. See the lightning over there, and hear the thunder. The storm is getting nearer, and it is dangerous among trees like these at such times. They are shattered and torn up by the roots very often."
It was raining sharply now, and the darkness had thickened so much that it was impossible to discern the landmarks which Charles had made note of as they passed the spot before.
Ah, we are right! the girl suddenly cried. "I know that flat-faced boulder there, but it is miles and miles from home. I know the way now, but we can't possibly make it in time to escape the storm."
In a veritable sheet the rain beat down now. The thunder roared and the lightning flashed about them. The black clouds hurtled along the mountainside and drooped down from the threatening sky. The water was running in streams from Mary's bonnet. Charles jerked off his coat and was putting it about her when she protested.
No, don't! she cried. "You'll need it." She tried to resist, but, as if she had been an unruly child, he drew the garment about her forcibly and buttoned it at the neck.
You must, he said, simply; "you must!"
Must! she repeated, sharply. "How dare you speak to me like that?"
Pardon me, Miss Rowland, he said. "I don't want to offend you, but you must keep it on. You are not well. I have noticed your tendency to faintness. Your trouble, loss of sleep, and worry have weakened you. Your feet are wet, and—"
Thank you; I was wrong, she answered, as the wind bore his words away and the rain dashed into her face.
For a little while they forged their way through the wet bushes, wild vines, and mountain heather. Suddenly she paused again.
We are in for it, she sighed. "There used to be an old hut of logs near the flat boulder. It is somewhere here. If we could find it we would be sheltered for a while."
A hut? he echoed. "Then we must find it if possible. The storm is just beginning. To be exposed to it might cost you your life."
I think it is over that way, she replied, and they turned sharply in the direction she indicated. It was now so dark that they could scarcely see where they were walking. Streams newly made from the accumulating water on the heights above flooded their feet to the depths of their shoes, and the rain fell upon them as if by the pailful. Once Mary slipped and fell, and he lifted her as tenderly as if she had been a sick child.
Too bad! too bad! she heard him saying, and then: "Excuse me, but I must hold you." With that he put his arm around her waist. She shrank back for a moment, but she made no protest, and side to side, like a pair of lovers, they struggled along. Sometimes she stumbled, sometimes he, but the footing of one or the other always held.
The hut must be here somewhere, Mary said. There was a vivid flash of lightning, and in it Mary saw a giant oak which she remembered. "We are right," she exulted, aloud. "It is just beyond that oak."
But other difficulties were to be met. A torrent of water coming down from the mountain ran between them and the goal. Again he lifted her in his arms, this time without protest on her part, and bore her across. The rain, broken into a mist by the wind, filled their mouths, nostrils, and eyes. They could scarcely breathe, or see. Once he took a clean handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded it, and without apology wiped her face.
You treat me as if I was a baby, she said, but the act had not displeased her. It was significant that he called her "Miss Rowland" the next moment, and that he wore the same air of humility as when she had "hired" him in the village store.
Another flash of lightning revealed the dark, low roof of the hut, and with his arm around her waist they hastened to it. Its door was closed, but not locked, and he easily pushed it open. Drawing her inside, he stood facing her. Neither spoke; both were panting from the loss of breath.
This will never do, he said. "You will take cold in those wet things. I must make a fire."
A fire? she said. "How could you?"
I have matches in a water-proof box, he explained. "But I'll have to be careful in opening it. My hands are dripping wet."
Shake them out on the floor, Mary suggested, "and you can then pick them out separately."
Good! I shouldn't have thought of it, he laughed. He took the box from the pocket of his coat and carefully emptied the matches on the floor a little away from where they were standing. "Now," he said, picking one up. "Here goes."
It failed, owing to the water dripping from his hands. He tried again. This time he was successful and he raised the burning match above his head. The tiny flame lit up the room. Bare walls of logs from which the dry bark was falling, a floor of planks, a roof of split-oak boards, a chimney of logs plastered over with clay, and a broad stone hearth were all they saw, save a heap of fire-wood and small pieces of pitch-pine in one corner.
Fine! he cried. "That wood will burn like tinder. It looks to be very old." A gust of damp wind from the door blew the light out. Again they were in the dark. "Wait," he advised. "I'll gather up some of that dry bark, and then we'll set it on fire."
Yes; it will burn easily, she agreed.
He noted that she spoke as if she were shivering with cold, and he made haste to get the bark. With his hands full, he groped to the chimney and bent down over the ashes in the fireplace. She picked up a match and succeeded in striking it. She held it against the heap of bark. The bark ignited. He hastened for more, and then, as the flame was now sufficient, he added small pieces of wood, and then larger sticks. Soon a fine fire was crackling and blazing in the crude stone fireplace.
You must get dry, he said, taking his coat from her shoulders. "Everything depends on it."
She laughed almost merrily, as they stood side by side in the rising steam from their drying clothing.
You must sit down, and put out your feet to the fire, he declared. "I'll make a seat for you." He brought some logs from the corner and made two heaps of them about five feet apart, and then raised one of the loose floor boards, and laid it across, thus forming a sort of bench. She smiled gratefully; sat down and put out her feet to the flames.
You must take off your shoes and stockings and dry them, he said, with the firm confidence of a family doctor.
Must! She repeated the word to herself, and bit her lip; she made no motion to obey his wishes.
Surely you are not offended at what I said, he went on, after a little silence. "It is a serious thing, you know. Dry feet at such a time as this are more important than a dry body."
Oh, I don't mind! she answered, and she bent down and began to fumble the strings of her shoes; but the water had drawn the knot tight and her fingers were benumbed with cold.
You must permit me, Miss Rowland, Charles said, calmly. He sank on his knees before her and, without waiting for her consent, he skilfully loosened the knotted string and drew her shoe off. "Now the other, please."
She thrust it out, but rather reluctantly. "You have such a strange way about you!" she said, coldly. "That is, I mean—sometimes."
The string he was now working on seemed to be more tightly tied, and she heard him mutter something impatiently: "I don't want to cut it." (Surely he had not heard her last remark, she thought.)
But he evidently had heard, for when he had removed the other shoe he said, "So you think I have a strange way about me at times, do you?"
He had seated himself on the bench beside her. Her head, neck, and shoulders in the red glow of the fire formed an exquisite picture. She had removed her hat, and her damp hair shone like a mass of bronze cobwebs. She was so dainty, so frail, so appealing! Not only had her young soul been torn to shreds, but the very elements had pounced upon her defenseless body. In her he saw the richest embodiment of a long line of patrician ancestors. How strange the whole situation! There she was storm-bound with a man whom the law held as no better than a felon, a nameless wanderer with no possibility of a respectable future ahead of him. She was silent, and he repeated what he had said.
I don't mean anything wrong, she replied, smiling on him sweetly. "Now I suppose you will order me to take off my stockings. I don't have to, for they are drying as they are. See!"
She had put her small feet out to the fire. Her whole form was veiled in the rising vapor. It seemed to him to be a mist of enchantment out of which her eyes shone and her voice came like inexplicable music. An exquisite fancy held him in its grasp. His life and hers were but of a night's duration. They were besieged in an impenetrable forest by wild beasts, the prey of elemental forces. For the moment she was his, all his own. Frazier, her family, conventions, his own misfortune, would ultimately part them, but now in his ecstatic vision she was his, and the world might end with the dawn, for aught he cared. But one thing he suddenly began to fear, and that was that thoughts of her brothers' trouble might again depress her. So he bent all his energies toward her entertainment. He told her of a trip to Europe he had made just after leaving college, filling his account with amusing anecdotes. Her eyes were bent on him with a stare of profound interest.
How wonderful, she exclaimed, "to meet one who has been there so recently! It has always been like a dream of heaven to me. My mother went when she was a girl, and she used to tell us about it when we were children. There were some far-off cousins of hers living in London. The head of the house had a title. I don't remember what it was—my father knows. Strange to say, he is proud of it, as if it would help us now. I suppose—I suppose"—her voice shook and mellowed as it fell deeper into her throat—"that those people over there would not care to keep up with us, now that we are so poor and my brothers are—like they are. I have an idea that old English families are very particular when it comes to the violation of the law."
Don't think of your brothers' trouble, he pleaded. "Let us try to have cheerful, hopeful thoughts."
I am trying, she responded, but even while she was speaking her face and tone showed the futility of her effort. "Poor Martin!" she went on. "Do you know, somehow, I feel more for him than for Kensy. Kensy is rougher, harder, less sensitive, less imaginative. Martin has always been my baby of the two. He was sick once several years ago, and I waited on him, nursed him, and petted him nearly to death. This is terrible on him. He may be awake now in that cold, damp cave, and with those ghastly thoughts to keep him company. Oh, life is a tragedy, Mr. Brown! As a child, I thought it was an endless dream of beauty and joy, and I have waked to this—to this!"
He tried again to cheer her with his stories, but her sweet face held shadows which he could not banish. Now and then she would smile faintly, but he saw that she was forcing herself to do so.
Something he said about his school-days evoked a sudden question for which he was not prepared.
You speak of your home, but you have not yet told me where it was, she said.
He looked down at the pool of water which had dripped from his clothing, and hesitated. His pause brought a quick remark from her.
Pardon me, I have no right to ask, she sighed.
But you have the right, he floundered, conscious of the flush on his face and the agitation in his manner. "It is only that—that I have put it behind me forever. It is mine no longer, you see."
Never mind. I'm sorry I touched upon it. She sighed again and looked through the open door out into the raging wind and rain. "I'm always prying into your personal affairs, as when I spoke of the photograph of the pretty little girl in your room."
Oh, I'm glad you noticed the picture of Ruth, he said, still embarrassed, "for I love her very dearly."
You miss her, I know you do, Mary said, softly. "The picture looks as if you had carried it in your pocket for a long time."
I used to do that, he confessed, "but I found that it kept the past too close to me. Now I see it only just before going to bed."
Suddenly Mary leaned toward him; a portion of her wonderful hair fell against her cheek; her eyes gleamed as if with coming tears. "Mr. Brown," she said, "you are so good and kind and noble that I am going to pray for one thing in particular to happen to you. God may have wise reasons for withholding it from you just at present, but I am going to pray that He will some day give you back your child."
My child! He groped for her meaning. "She is not my own child. She is only my niece."
Oh, then you are not married!
No, and I never have been. In fact, I never can be. My conduct in the past has made that impossible. Other men may marry and have children, but I am not like them.
How strangely you talk—how very strangely! Mary said, her eyes still tensely strained toward his. "You talk as if—as if there were certain dishonorable things against you. Why"—here she actually laughed in derision—"if you were to lay your hand on an open Bible and say that you were dishonorable, or ever had been, I'd not believe it! It isn't in you; it never was. My intuition tells me so, and I know I am right."
I am what I am, he said, sighing. "I won't go into it all; it would do no good. I have no right to a decent place in any society. I want you to know me for what I am, Miss Rowland. God knows I'll not make false pretenses while I am under your father's roof. I am here to work for you both. What I was when you picked me up in my filth and squalor I still am and shall continue to be."
Mary stood up and turned her back to the fire, to dry her clothing. He rose as she did and stood beside her. He looked at his watch. It was near midnight. He showed the dial to her in the firelight. She nodded thoughtfully, but was silent. The rain was steadily beating on the roof, a newly made brook was gurgling and swashing past the door. The wind had died down. Drops of water fell through the low chimney into the hot coals, but not in sufficient quantity to depress the fire. He put on some more wood. His vision of the short-lived possession of her companionship still swirled about him like ineffable, soul-feeding light. He could have touched her with his hands; he almost felt that she would not have been deeply offended; the yearning to do so rose from depths that could not be fathomed. She was looking at him steadily from beneath her long lashes, the lashes which gave to her features the evasive expression he could not describe.
How strange you are! she said, softly, sincerely. "I don't know why it is, Mr. Brown, but when I'm here with you like this my troubles seem to stand aside. I almost hope. I do—I really do."
I was wondering if your father will worry, knowing that we are out in the storm, he said.
No, he won't, but it would have driven my mother crazy with anxiety. Even if she knew we were sheltered here she would worry. She belonged to the old school. The fact—Mary laughed softly—"that we have no chaperon would be a terrible misfortune. But don't think I care about such things. This is a new age and I'm simply a hang-over from an older one. Even if the rain were to let up we couldn't make our way back in the dark. There is nothing to do but wait till daylight."
Your clothing is quite dry, he said, touching her sleeve, "and so is my coat. Would you like to recline here by the fire and take a nap? I can put the coat down. It would be a hard couch, but—"
I'm not sleepy—not a bit! she assured him; "but you must be, and tired, too, after all you've been through. Suppose you lie down by the fire, and I'll keep watch over you."
He smiled and flushed as he declined, and then his face became grave.
You touched upon something just now, he faltered, "that perhaps I ought to think about. Since your mother would not have quite approved of your being here like this with a stranger, there may be others in the neighborhood who might gossip about it. If you would not be afraid to remain alone, I could go on home and send some conveyance. I can find the way, and as for the rain, it's nothing. I have often worked all day and part of the night up to my knees in water."
How silly of me to have said what I did! she exclaimed, and caught his arm. He felt the warmth of her pulsing fingers through the thin sleeve of his shirt as she turned him toward her. "Why do you hold that against me? I wasn't thinking how it sounded. Why did you speak of it?"
Because I'd rather die than be the cause of the slightest whisper against you, he said, reverently. "I know how narrow-minded small communities are, Miss Rowland, and I know better than any one else how little I have to recommend me to strangers. I am worse than nothing in the eyes of the world, and it is beyond my power now ever to change their view."
A pained look crossed Mary's face. She sat down again and put her feet out toward the fire. She folded her arms. "I wish," she said, compressing her lips, "that you would stop abusing yourself. The rest of the world may condemn you, as you say they do, but I shall not. I have known a good many gentlemen in my life, but I've never met one in whom I had more confidence. I could swear by you. You may think that strange, but I could. I feel the truth streaming from your whole personality, your voice, your eyes, your very silence at times. I don't know how it was, but in some way you have not been fairly treated. You have not! You have not! I thought it might be perhaps an unfortunate marriage, but since it is not that it is something else. You seem to me to be the loneliest man in all the world, with a great aching heart; but notwithstanding that you are thinking and acting only for me. Do you think I can overlook that sort of thing? Mr. Brown, you are helping me, and if I am not able to help you some day I shall never be content."
He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Don't think of me at all," he sighed. "I am responsible for my position in life, but I am not unhappy—I really am not. There is such a thing, Miss Rowland, as throwing off an old shackled life for a new, freer one; and the new one will be normal, if the old one is crushed out completely. It is simply a psychological fact. The most wonderful thing in the world is autosuggestion. If one holds before himself constantly the thought that things are beautiful they will be so. If he thinks otherwise, he thereby damns himself. When it became necessary for me to adopt my—my present way of living, I determined always to look upon it as a sort of rare adventure, and it has been one full of something like hope. Since I came to work for you and found you in trouble I have thought of nothing but the prospect of seeing you happy again."
The girl was strangely moved. She had lowered her head, and he looked down now only on the mass of wonderful, firelit hair that hid her face from view.
Sit down, please, she suddenly said, huskily, and he obeyed. She was silent. The rain still beat heavily on the boards overhead; the mountain streams still gurgled and sang. The wind had died down. The darkness was heavy and thick.
Presently Mary seemed to find her voice. She raised her head and smiled sweetly as she remarked: "How strange we two are! Life is beating, pounding, crushing us—you in one way and me in another; and yet here we are like two ants huddled together on a floating chip, drifting we know not where. I cling to you for support, and I wish it were so that you could cling to me. The only difference is—well, you know why I'm on the chip, but I may only surmise why you are on it. I'll bet I know, though; I'll bet I know," was her afterthought.
You know what? he asked, startled slightly, and he sat wondering what she would say as she locked her hands and seemed to hesitate.
Well, I'll bet there is one true explanation. The thing you are—are involved in—the thing that caused you to leave home, has to do with the welfare of others.
Why do you think that? he asked, half fearfully.
Because you are that rare type of man, she returned.
I have nothing in the way of self-defense to offer, he answered. "My early life was a mistake. I may be atoning for it a little. I sometimes hope so. You are right in one guess—some others are the better and happier for my absence. It is so that I can never return; that is settled for all time. The new life is all that I have, but I assure you it isn't bad. It is heaven compared to the one I renounced."
So the night passed. The rain ceased toward dawn, but there was little light till the sun was up. Then they fared forth over the wet, rain-washed ground for home. The sun was breaking through a cloud when they reached the old house.
Rowland was on the back porch when they appeared before him, wet to the waist from contact with the dripping weeds and bushes through which they had made their way. He seemed not much surprised.
I thought you'd find shelter somewhere, he said, casually. "I sat up most of the night on my book. I was trying to tie the main branch of the Westleighs to our line through the Barbadoes record, and I noticed how hard it rained."
How is Tobe Keith? the girl broke in to ask.
He is just the same—no better and no worse, Rowland answered. "That is a late report, too. I got it from Tom Gibbs, who passed along just now and stopped to let me know."
Oh, I'm glad, I'm glad he is not worse! Mary's face beamed faintly. "I was afraid we'd get bad news. Poor Martin! He may think the worst has happened." She turned to Charles. "Will you get your breakfast now, or wait till you change your clothing?"
I don't mind the dampness, he smiled. "Is it ready?"
It was on the table and he went in alone, while Mary ran up to her room. Returning half an hour later, she found that he was gone.
He was in de kitchen des now, young miss, explained Zilla, "en' he seed de basket er stuff I had fixed raidy fer de boys t' eat, en' picked it up en' said he was gwine tek it ter um."
What? Mary asked. "You don't mean that he has gone back?"
Yassum. Mr. Brown say Martin is worried, en' he wants ter tell 'im dat Tobe Keith ain't no wuss dan he was yistiddy. I tol' Mr. Brown ter wait till you come down, but he said dar wasn't no time to lose. He said Martin looked sorter puny-like en' needed 'couragement. Yo' pa seed 'im start out, en' didn't say nothin' erginst it.
It was as if Mary had something further to say, but she restrained herself. She went back to her room, ascending the stairs rapidly. Her window looked out toward the hiding-place of her brothers, and crossing a little glade beyond the barn she saw Charles, the basket on his arm. He was striding vigorously toward the forest. In a moment he was out of sight and Mary turned from the window. By her bureau she stood motionless, full of thought. Presently she heard Zilla calling to her, and, answering, she went slowly down the stairs.
About noon Charles returned. Mary, at the window of the kitchen, saw him emerge from the wood back of the barn and come toward the house. There was a vague droop of weariness on him of which he seemed unaware. She met him in the front hall; his eyes fell under her stare and he flushed.
Why did you go? she asked, reproachfully.
He gave one of his characteristic shrugs and began to fumble in his coat pocket for a note which he finally handed her.
It is from Martin, he said. "They managed to keep dry last night, I understand. They were glad to get the basket. The water spoiled most of the other things and they were hungry."
She read the note.
It ran: "Dear Sis,—How sweet and good of you to send Mr. Brown back so quickly! I couldn't have stood the suspense any longer. I was afraid Tobe was dead—I thought it all night during that awful rain. I couldn't sleep, but maybe I can now. Don't let Mr. Brown leave us. He sat and talked to us this morning for an hour, and I've never heard from human lips the sort of things he said. He helped me a lot; he was so kind and gentle and kept putting himself up as a man who had made mistakes and suffered. Oh, he is wonderful, wonderful! Even Ken listened close and seemed affected. He is our friend. He shows that. He wants to help us, and he will if he can. He used to drink, but gave it up; he says it is easy. He has made me decide to act differently in the future—that is, if Tobe lives."
Mary read the rest of the note, folded the paper, and thrust it into the bosom of her dress. Charles stood at the foot of the stairs, his hat in his hand, his boots covered with mud.
I didn't want you to tire yourself out like that, she said, gratefully, "but I'm glad you went. From this note I see how much good you have done my poor brothers. Now listen to me—I will have my way about this. Go up to your room, take off those damp things and go to bed. I am going to be your nurse for to-day, anyway. I'll bring you your lunch and you may take it in bed, and then go to sleep."
He laughed lightly and shrugged his shoulders. "Really, you must not make a baby of a great hulk like me, Miss Rowland. I've been through things ten times as bad as that little walk. I simply couldn't eat in bed. I'll be down in a few minutes."
She was about to protest, but he left her and ascended the stairs.
Coming down a few minutes afterward, he saw a saddled horse at the gate and heard voices in the parlor.
His spirits sank, for he recognized the horse as the one Albert Frazier had ridden when he had first seen him. He caught a few words the visitor was saying in his gruff, unpolished way.
You are too high-strung and nervous, little girl. All is well so far. Leave my brother to me. I'm pulling the wool over his eyes, all right. I've made 'im think the boys are on their way to Texas, and if Tobe lives—
Unwilling to listen, Charles passed on into the sitting-room. Glancing through the open doorway into the dining-room, he saw that the cloth was not yet spread on the table for luncheon, and he sat down to wait. The voices still came from the parlor, but he did not catch any part of what was being said. Zilla entered the dining-room and spread the cloth on the table. Presently Frazier was heard leaving. His heavy boots clattered on the steps, and the gate-latch clicked as he went out. Then Mary came in. She did not know that he was there and he surprised an unreadable, almost hunted expression on her face.
Oh! she exclaimed, on seeing him, "so dinner is not ready? Mr. Frazier could not stop. He is working hard to keep the sheriff off my brothers' track. He says when he left town Tobe Keith was just the same. The doctors at Carlin are afraid to probe for the—the ball. They have held a consultation, and agreed that the great specialist, Doctor Elliot of Atlanta, might operate and save him. They refuse to undertake it themselves."
Then this Doctor Elliot ought to come and see him, Charles said.
But Doctor Elliot is so busy that he never leaves Atlanta, except in instances where enormous fees are paid. The Carlin doctors say that Tobe ought to be taken to him. They say it would be safe to move him that distance.
Then he must be moved, said Charles.
Yes, he must go, Mary agreed. "The only thing is that it will cost considerable. You see, Tobe and his mother (she is a widow) are awfully poor. Yes, the money must be gotten up, and I must get it."
You? Charles cried. "Why should you?"
Because no one else will do it. Even my father has the silly idea that we ought not to have anything to do with it, because it would look as if we admitted the boys' guilt. That is rubbish. A man's life—three lives—are at stake. Yes, I must raise four hundred dollars. They say it will cost that much, including transportation, nurses, and the like. I may be able to borrow it from some one, but we are hard run. Father is over his head in debt. I know where I can get the money—in fact, it has been offered to me already—but I don't like to take it. I have my reasons for—for not wanting to take it.
It was offered you this morning—not many minutes ago, Charles said, fiercely and impulsively.
She looked up in mild surprise at his tone and the rebellious glare in his eyes, and then said, slowly and wonderingly:
Why do you think that?
I don't know, but I am sure of it, he blurted from the depths of his restrained passion. "Something tells me that this Mr. Frazier wants to furnish it, and also that you shrink from being in his debt."
Mary avoided his desperate gaze. "You are a great reader of minds," she faltered. "Many men would make me angry by saying what you are saying, but I can't be offended with you. It is strange, but nothing you could do or say would annoy me. Well, you are right. As I told you once, Mr. Frazier and I are not actually engaged. Somehow, I want to be free in that way a little longer. I'm so young, you know, that marriage does not appeal to me yet. Mr. Frazier has helped my father raise money in several instances, but I have never felt that those transactions bound me in any way; but I know, and he feels, that this particular offer of his—" Her voice sank and trailed away into inaudibility.
That if you accepted this offer it would be binding? Charles threw into the gap.
It seemed to him that she flushed slightly. She was very erect, very stately. Somehow he thought of her as a captured young queen suffering under the indignities of her enemies. She made no answer, and, leaning toward her, he repeated his words even more earnestly and in greater agitation.
Yes, as I look at it, the acceptance would bind me, she finally gave out. "I could not take the money otherwise, for I simply have no way of paying. He put it that way himself; that he was as much interested in my brothers as I, because, in a sense, they would be his brothers."
Charles was pale; he was trembling; he knew that his voice was unsteady, for his whole being was surcharged with a passion which his reason could not justify, and which his sheer helplessness only intensified.
You must not accept his money; you must not bind yourself, he cried.
Why? she asked, with the half-eager look even a desperate woman may wear when facing the evidence of a man's growing passion for her.
Because you don't love him, was the reply which further fed her curiosity as to his trend of thought. "You couldn't love such a man. He is incapable of appreciating you. For two such persons to marry would be a crime against the holiest laws of the universe."
I can't quite agree with you, she replied, as she slowly shook her proud head. "You see, Mr. Brown, there are things more important than even marriage. It is important that I save my brothers, for their own sakes. I don't count. If I should have to accept this money, it may save Tobe Keith and my dear boys." She laughed half-bitterly. "What would I care after that? Do you think I would begrudge the price? Never, and I'd be as true a wife as ever was bought in a slave-mart in the Orient. Always—always after that I'd know positively that I'd accomplished some actual good in life."
Never! never! he cried. "It would be wrong unpardonably wrong!"
How can you say that—you, of all men? she suddenly demanded. "Didn't you intimate last night that by giving up your home and becoming a wanderer you had helped make others happy?"
That was different, he flashed out. "I was a worthless drunkard, a disgrace to my home, relatives, and friends. I was compelled to leave, anyway. I could not have held my head up another day. But it is different with you. You have been nothing but a help and a blessing to your family and friends. You deserve all that life can possibly give to any one, and you must get your just dues."
She smiled and slowly shook her head. "You are a poor witness for your argument," she said. "When the time came you forgot yourself, and that really is the ideal course. You have intimated that the decision, whatever it was, has not made you unhappy, and I think it will be the same with me. Thousands of women have been contented after marriage with men they did not love very deeply. Women have even married for sordid reasons alone, and led normal lives afterward. Why should I not take the risk with such a motive as mine would be? No, if Albert Frazier is the means of saving Tobe Keith's life and restoring my brothers to me, I shall withhold nothing from him that I can give. Already he is working night and day to prevent their arrest. I couldn't bear to see them behind the bars of a jail. Kensy could stand it, but not my poor, sensitive, fanciful Martin. Let's not talk about it any more."
Tears were in her eyes, and her lips were twitching under a flood of emotion about to burst from its confines. Here the bell was rung for luncheon.
You go on in, Mary said, huskily. "I am not a bit hungry. You will excuse me, won't you?" She turned toward the stairs to go up to her room, and, like a man walking in a dream, he went to his place at the table. What a mockery the act of eating seemed when his soul was in such turmoil! On his walk home he had felt very hungry, but his appetite had left him. He ate perfunctorily, so much so that Aunt Zilla showed concern.
What ails yer, sir? she asked. "Yer ain't gwine ter mek yo'se'f sick, is yer? Dat strain, two trips in one, thoo all dat mud en' slush, was onreasonable, 'long wid no sleep."
He smiled up at her. His contact on a level with the lowest of mankind had broadened his sympathies for humble people, and he felt drawn to her, for her tone was unmistakably kind.
No, I'm all right, Aunt Zilla, he answered.
She went to the kitchen for some hot waffles, and when she put them before him she said: "I'm gwine tell you some'n', Mr. Brown. I'm gwine ter tell you, 'kase you is er stranger in dis place en' orter know. I know nice white folks when I sees 'um, en' I know dey ain't nothin' wrong 'bout you. I'm gwine tell you ter look out fer dis yer Frazier man. He won't do. He ain't de right stripe, en' ef we-all wasn't po' now he wouldn't be let in at de front do' er dis yer house. Bofe him en' his brother come fum low stock. Deir daddy was a overseer dat couldn't write his name. You kin tell what dis one is by de way he set at de table en' handle his knife en' fork en' spout wid his loud mouf when Marse Andy is talkin'. Yes, I'm gwine tell you what I heard 'im say ter Marse Andy when dey was in de settin'-room des now. Marse Andy tol' 'im what you went to de mountains fer, en' he fairly ripped en' snorted. He was mad 'kase dey-all let you know de boys' hidin'-place. He said you couldn't be trusted; dat you had some secret reason fer helpin' out wid de boys. He said de sheriff was on de lookout fer some house-breakers dat was wid de circus, en' done lef' it ter 'scape fum de law. De low rapscallion said he was bounden shore dat you was one of 'em. He said he was des lyin' low, right now, but dat befo' long when dey got de papers ter serve on you, dey was gwine arrest you."
Charles laughed softly. "Well, I am not a house-breaker, Aunt Zilla," he said. "I am not boasting of what I am. I make no claims of any sort, but I am not one of the men the Fraziers are looking for."
Marse Andy tol' 'im dat, the woman went on, "but it des made 'im all de madder, en' he went on tryin' ter 'suade Marse Andy ter send you off. Marster has ter take er lot off'n 'im 'kase he owes 'im some money, I hear 'um say. Dey was talkin' about you when young miss come in en' hear 'um."
Oh, she heard! Charles exclaimed. "I'm sorry she did."
Huh! young miss don't believe it! Zilla cried. "She tol' 'im so ter his face, en' was purty sharp erbout it, too. She woulder say mo' on de same line ef she wasn't afeard he'd turn erginst de boys. I seed she was good mad en' tryin' powerful hard ter hold in. She come in de kitchen while 'er pa en' Mr. Frazier was talkin' en' tol' me, she did, dat I mus' not listen ter anything he say erginst you. She say you is had trouble en' is all erlone in de world widout kin en' er home, but dat you was er honorable gen'man. Shucks! I already knowed dat. I knows white folks of de right stripe es soon as I see how dey handle black folks."
Charles thanked her warmly and left the table. The soil was too wet for working in the field, and he was about to sit down on the veranda when Mary suddenly came from the parlor and faced him.
She was smiling sweetly. "Do you know what you are going to do?" she demanded, playfully and yet firmly. "You are going right up to your room and take off those damp clothes. Then you are going to cover up in bed and take a good nap."
Am I? he retorted, and yet he was deeply touched. He was reminded of the days in his boyhood when his mother kept watch over his well-being, and of a later period when Celeste had nursed him after his unpardonable debauches. He had been a homeless wanderer for a long time, and here in this out-of-the-way place he was being treated kindly, almost lovably. He told himself that he was unworthy of it, and yet it was sweet, so comforting that he hoped he would never lose it. He had made friends of the two boys, of the old, preoccupied gentleman, of the black serving-woman, and, above all, he had the friendship and gratitude of the marvelous young creature before him.
Yes, she persisted, "you must go; and don't wait, either. While you were walking your wet things were not so bad, but you are inactive now, and may take cold."
With a smile he obeyed her. In his room, as he undressed, he caught sight of the picture of Ruth on his bureau, and for a moment his eyes lingered on it. It was the only visible link between him and a life that was never to be his again, but he didn't care. How wonderful the new life was! How good to feel that he was helping that particular family to bear its troubles! What did his own amount to? Nothing at all. They had become non-existent.
He was about to lie down when he heard the sound of a horse's hoofs in the yard below, and, going to a window, he looked out. Mary was mounting the horse Zilla had led from the stables to the block at the gate. The girl had donned a black riding-skirt and she wore an attractive little cap; she took her place in the saddle very gracefully. In a moment she was galloping away toward the village. He surmised what it meant. She was going to get news of the wounded man's condition.
Charles knew there was no sleep for him. How could he sleep when his mind was in its present turmoil? It was impossible. He gave up the effort, and, dressing, went down-stairs.
It was well for Charles's state of mind that he was unaware of what had happened at his home at the time of his disappearance and shortly afterward.
Two weeks from the day of the exposure of the affair at the bank, a personage of great importance in the estimation of the Brownes arrived from Europe. It was an uncle of William and Charles, an elderly man of considerable wealth, a childless widower, who, having long since retired from business, lived on a private income and traveled extensively, that he might pass the remainder of his days with less monotony than the quiet life of Boston afforded; he was a lonely old man who cared little for club life and had no tastes in art, music, or literature.
James Browne reached the home of his nephew one Sunday morning just as the little family were leaving the table. They were expecting him, but not quite so soon, for they had thought that he would stop as usual for a few days in New York, where he had landed.
He was tall and slender, with a pink complexion and rather long snow-white hair and beard. It was plain that he was angry, and it was evident in a moment that he had been so since he sailed from Southampton a week before. He shook hands with William perfunctorily and kissed Celeste and Ruth as if it were a mere matter of form which the relationship demanded. He was about to speak, when Celeste interrupted him by rising and leading the child to the door, where she was turned over to a maid.
We think it best for her not to hear anything about her uncle, Celeste said. "She simply thinks he has gone away for a while. She was devoted to him."
She may as well know, the old man retorted, gruffly. "She will hear it quickly enough. I heard it even in London. You see, my name was mentioned along with all the rest of you. The papers, even over there, had accounts of it. It was thought the scoundrel had sailed for England under an assumed name. My bankers asked for particulars. They are more blunt about such things over there than we are. Well, well! has he been caught yet?"
No, not yet, William answered, and both Celeste and his uncle stared at him. His face was very rigid and had the bloodless look of a man who was in a low nervous condition.
Where do they think he is? the old man demanded.
No one knows, William managed to say, "He has not been heard of since he left."
The elder Browne sniffed in disgust and stroked his beard with his carefully manicured fingers. William noticed that their nails glistened in the light from the window. He noticed the loose English cut of his uncle's tweed suit, and the quaint watch-fob which had been picked up somewhere abroad.
Do you think he will be caught? the old man went on.
I don't know. I can't say, was William's slow reply. "The police have not—not consulted me as to that. The bank officials don't mention it, either. They are very considerate. In fact, they are very kind and anxious to have me feel—feel that they do not hold me responsible for what happened."
I suppose so, the elder Browne said, promptly. "I read that you had made the loss good. Have you?"
Half of it is paid already, and they know where the rest is coming from in a few days. They are well secured and satisfied.
I was going to speak of that debt later, the old man said. "We are all one family, and a disgrace like this against our name and blood ought to be shouldered equally, as far as cost is concerned. William, I'm going to pay half of that shortage. I'll give my check for it to-morrow. I'll see Bradford in the morning. Do you know, I don't want the scamp brought back here. I think when the loss is paid the chase will let up. What is your idea?"
William was astounded by the unexpected offer, so much so that he hardly noted the questions which followed it.
I'm afraid, William answered, "that the police will not be influenced by it. A reward has been offered and the detective force of the city is trying to win it. The offer has gone to other cities as well."
Well, I don't want him brought back and tried and sent up, the old man went on, frowning and jerking his beard. "The papers would be full of it again, day after day, and everybody would be pitying us. I don't want any one's pity. I've tried to live decently myself, and at my time of life I don't deserve all this publicity for no fault of mine. I must say that I liked the young scamp, even at his worst. You see, I never thought of his being anything but a drunkard, and a rather good-natured one at that. He was always doing kind things. I've heard of some. Michael once told me of quite a sum Charlie advanced for him when he needed it. Where is Michael?"
He has gone to New York, Celeste explained. "His mother lives there, and is not very well again. We are expecting him home soon. Yes, Charlie was kind to him, and Michael is heartbroken by what has happened."
Have you discovered what the boy was investing in? the old man asked. "How did he lose such a large amount, or did he really take it with him, as some think?"
William had become pale. He lowered his eyes. He had the look of a man on trial for his life. The ordeal was more severe than any he had passed through since his brother left. His friends and associates had seldom broached the topic, but the present questioner saw no reasons for reserve. Seeing that her husband was overlooking his uncle's last question, Celeste answered it.
I don't think he had a large amount of money when he left, she said, in crisp, firm tones, and William felt her eyes sweep steadily toward him as she spoke. "That seems to be out of the question, and I am sure that William agrees with me."
I—I've never said anything about that, William stammered, without looking at either his wife or his uncle. "I only know that Bradford, the directors, and the—the police department have made no report on that line."
Any one could keep such transactions hidden, could they not? Celeste asked. "By acting through secret agents outside of Boston, for instance."
Yes, oh yes! the old man answered. "Many men who are important heads of great concerns and who handle the public's funds often speculate that way, on the quiet. Banks would lose their depositors if such dealings were known. Agents can easily be found who will hold their tongues. So you think the boy may have some associate, Lessie?"
I didn't say that, exactly, Celeste retorted, coldly. "I only thought that William might know if such an agent could have been employed."
No reply was forthcoming from the pale man of whom she was speaking, and suddenly the new-comer turned upon him. "What is the matter here, anyway?" he almost fiercely demanded.
Matter? William asked, with a start. "Where? What do you mean?"
Why, we don't seem to be getting anywhere, the old man answered, petulantly. "Both of you somehow seem changed. You don't seem to know much about the affair. I expected, when I saw you, to learn something more than has been published, but you both talk in riddles and in a shifting, roundabout way."
To his astonishment, Celeste got up and left the room, closing the door behind her.
The two men stared at each other. "You must excuse her," William finally said. "She is all upset over it. She has shut herself in and doesn't go out at all now. She has refused to receive several callers. She goes about with Ruth a little, but that is all."
Ah, I see—the shame of it, I presume! the old man said. "Well, I can sympathize with her. She thought a lot of Charlie. Perhaps she can't find it in her heart to blame him seriously. Women are that way, you know. She used to overlook his wild conduct, I remember. Well, well! Perhaps we might as well not talk about it before her. She seems different to me—looks as if she were soured on everything and everybody. Now when I said just now that I was going to pay half the loss, instead of looking pleased I thought she half resented it."
You must not blame her, William said, with drawn lips. "She has a lot to bear. She feels the—the disgrace of it on Ruth's account."
We all feel the disgrace of it, the old man answered, "but women are more sensitive, imaginative, and high-strung than men."
Celeste may have gone to see about your room, William said, just as the church-bells began ringing. He caught their tones and hoped that they would somehow interrupt a conversation which he felt he could no longer sustain. The old man was on his feet now, having risen at the departure of Celeste, and he began to stride back and forth across the room. He folded his hands and wrung them together. He muttered some words which William failed to catch, as he paused at a window, and then he came back.
If it is hard for me, I presume it is even harder for you to bear, he said, aloud. "On the way over, as I sat in the sun in my steamer chair, with nothing else to think about, I often pictured you there at the bank with those associates. My reason tells me that they are sympathetic with you and must feel a certain regret for allowing you to pay back such a large amount; still, if I may be allowed to say so, you must feel awkward. You must meet big depositors who—well, who think perhaps that you ought to have had better judgment than not to have kept track of the boy's plunging. To have retained a dissipated young scamp like that in your employment was imprudent in itself, to say nothing of all the rest."
They may blame me, William said, reluctantly. "I don't know how they feel, or how they talk together in private. I only know they still seem to have confidence in me and in my business judgment. God knows I am doing the best I can to run things straight, and I keep showing them the figures. They laugh at me for being so particular, and assure me that it is unnecessary, but I intend to keep it up."
This is a hidebound, Puritan community, the old man responded, with a slow frown, "and I feel that you are against conditions at the bank that you don't yet fully realize. Bradford and the others are sly, long-headed business men, and they are not going to tell you all they think."
William stared, his mouth falling open, a heavy hand splaying over the cap of his knee. "I don't understand," he faltered. "What could they be keeping from me?"
Well—and the old man seemed to be probing his vocabulary for adroit words—"it may be like this. In a community of this kind there is perhaps a certain class of well-meaning people who have the—the old-fashioned idea that dishonesty runs in the blood of certain families. I remember that when I was younger I imbibed that idea from some source or other. It is silly, of course, but it may exist, and if there is any place that it would be apt to thrive it would be among a lot of nervous bank depositors and stockholders. Now that is one thing I have come to fight by my influence and with my money."
William's groping, even bewildered, stare showed that he did not understand what his uncle was driving at, and in a few halting words he managed to say so.
Why, it is like this, my boy, the old man explained. "I know Bradford well, and several of your directors, and when I plank down my half of the missing money to-morrow I am going to take such a firm, fatherly stand behind you that—well, two of us fighting for the family honor will be a stronger force than one, that's all. I stand well here in Boston, I know that, and I am going to back you."
I haven't really felt that I was in need of— William was breaking in, but his uncle did not suffer him to finish.
Well, you do need it, he said, sharply. "I can see it in your looks. You have lost weight. You look nervous. You have an agitated manner. You speak in jerks. This thing is killing you. Your mind may break under the strain. Yes, I'm going to hang about the bank. I'll transfer my chief deposit—and it happens to be a big one just now—from New York to your bank. I'll buy all the floating stock I can pick up. I'll be in the market for it at all times. Now—now what do you think of that?"
It will help wonderfully, William declared, with faintly rising fervor which in a moment seemed to pass away, for Celeste was entering the room. She came in softly and resumed the chair she had left a few minutes before.
Suppose you tell her what I am going to do, the old man said to his nephew. "It may brace her up, you know."
A helpless, bewildered expression filled the face of the younger man. He hesitated, licked his dry lips, and then wiped them with a handkerchief which he had kept tightly balled in his hand. "You can do it better than I," he managed to get out. "It is most kind, and—and thoughtful of you."
It is nothing but an effort to defend the family honor, the old man began, and he repeated what he had just said to his nephew, and with some elaboration of details. "What do you think of that?" he ended, with a straight look into the face of the quiet listener.
It is kind of you, she answered, coldly. "It will be a great help to my husband at the bank. By the way, between you two do you expect to do anything at all toward helping Charlie?"
Help him! How can we? the old man asked, with a startled glance at his nephew. "Do you mean, my dear, if we intend to help him escape pursuit?"
If he has to escape, yes. What can he do alone, and out in the world as he is without friends or money?
Money? I guess he has plenty of that, from all accounts, and her uncle suppressed a mirthless smile. "Don't you think so, my dear?"
I have an idea that he was almost penniless, Celeste answered, her eyes on the floor, her thin white hands clasped firmly in her lap.
Have you any positive evidence of that? the old man inquired.
But to his surprise, Celeste made no answer beyond saying:
I have a strong feeling that he needs both friends and money.
But, her uncle fired up impatiently, "how can we help him? Even if we could find him, and didn't let the authorities know, we would be aiding, abetting, and even concealing a lawbreaker. Oh no, my dear, the thing for us to do is to make it thoroughly known that we have cut him off, that we are ashamed of the relationship, and that we are honest, if he isn't."
Celeste shrugged her shoulders; an evanescent sneer curled her lip, but that was all. Presently she said: "Your room is ready. You must be tired and dusty. I'm sorry Michael is not here to wait on you, as he used to do."
As she spoke she rose, and, with stilted courtesy, so did the two men. The older man started up to his room, leaving Celeste and her husband face to face.
That is a wonderful plan your uncle has, she said, coldly. "I presume it will work well in your behalf. Yes, they will be influenced at the bank by your uncle's money and backing. If they have ever blamed you for employing Charlie they won't any more."
I am glad for Ruth's sake—and for yours, William added. "My affairs are in better shape now, anyway, and if I were to die—I assure you I don't feel very strong—you and the child would be fairly well provided for, along with the heavy life insurance I carry."
I am not afraid that you will die soon, Celeste said, in a low, firm voice. "I have the feeling that you will be permitted to live long enough to straighten out everything in your life that should be attended to."
He took her arm, leading her toward the door. "I want you to know one thing—I want you to think of it constantly," he said, tremulously. "I mean it when I say that I'd rather die than bring trouble down on you and our little girl. In a situation like this there are some things that are worse than death. And you must remember that men sometimes take risks for the sake of those they love that they would not take for themselves."
The face of the little woman darkened rebelliously. She frowned and drew her arm from his fawning grasp. She started to speak, but choked up, and, lowering her head, she went up the stairs hurriedly as if to hide her rising emotion. Alone in her room, she stood listening to the ringing of the church-bells. She went to a window and looked out.
When Mason parted from Charles at Carlin he went straight to New York without stopping. It had been his intention to remain in the city only a few days, but, chancing to find his old room at Mrs. Reilly's unoccupied, he took it; he would wait for letters from home before deciding what to do in the future. Having sufficient funds to pay his way for a while, he felt rather independent.
One morning he happened to be passing through Washington Square when he came face to face with a man whose features were strangely familiar, and yet Mason could not tell where he had seen him before. It was evident, too, that the stranger had recognized him; indeed, there seemed to be a flash of surprised delight in the man's eyes. He passed on, and Mason, looking back, saw that the man was looking back also, though he quickly turned his head and walked on, now more slowly.
Seating himself on a park bench and opening a newspaper, Mason, by looking over its top, kept the man in view. Where had he seen him? he asked himself. Was it among the professional followers of the circus; perhaps he was some one he had chatted with at a restaurant? These questions were unanswered till a little thing happened. It was the surprising act of the stranger in pausing behind the great arch at the entrance of the park and peering stealthily at him. In a flash it came to Mason that it was the plain-clothes detective whom he had first seen at Madison Square a year before, who had followed him and Charles to their rooms, and from whom they had so narrowly escaped by flight at night.
This is a pretty mess! Mason muttered. "Now he will perhaps nab me as a witness and I'll be put through some sort of a third degree to force me to tell where Brown is and what I know about him. I'll make a move and see what he will do, anyway."
With this thought, and lowering his paper, Mason rose, sauntered carelessly along the walk to another bench, and sat down. Looking toward the arch, he saw the stranger coming in his direction. Opening the paper, Mason pretended to be reading, though he could still see the approaching man. He reached him, but, to his surprise, passed on. However, he came to a halt near by, and, with his hands in the pockets of his short coat, he stood staring hesitatingly at Mason. "He may be waiting for a policeman to help him take me in," was Mason's dejected mental comment. "I think I am in for trouble this time sure. I don't see any bluecoat about. I wonder if I'd better make a run for it?"
He decided that such a course was impossible; the detective would blow a whistle and some one in the crowd would stop him; besides, the man looked as if he might be swift of foot. "We thwarted him before, and he will run no chances this time," Mason decided, gloomily, and he began drawing mental pictures of himself seated in the midst of a group of uniformed officers bent on locating the man in whose company he had been seen. The big price on the head of his friend was, no doubt, still offered, and that was inducement for extra work. Mason decided that he would lie with as straight a face as possible, though he was afraid that he might become tangled in his statements; the detectives might uncover discrepancies which could be turned against himself. There was no doubt that he was in a "pickle," as he put it, and he was both angry and alarmed. Charles had never alluded during their long friendship to the published charges against him, but somehow Mason had come to believe that his friend was not guilty.
The stranger, with what looked like an absolutely timid expression of face and mien, was coming toward him. There was nothing to do but to brazen it out, and Mason braced himself for the most difficult ordeal of his life. The man stopped in front of him, bent forward, and said:
I beg your pardon, sir, but it seems to me that your face is somewhat familiar, and I was wondering if we have ever met before. I am a stranger in the city, sir, but I have an idea that I saw you a year ago here in New York.
It may be, Mason answered, conscious that he must make as few admissions as possible and yet not appear to be keeping back anything. Suddenly his line of procedure became clear to him. He would simply say to this man, and his associates, that he had not seen Charles for more than a year. How could they prove otherwise, for if they had known Charles to be with the circus they would have taken him? That point was clear and Mason now felt more confident. He found that he could calmly return the stranger's bland stare. In fact, he began to study the fellow. He fancied he knew the exact spot under the man's lapel where his metal badge was concealed.
It was in the crowd at Madison Square where I saw you, the stranger went on, as if eager to remind Mason of the fact. "You were listening to the speakers."
Yes, I remember going there, Mason said, taking out a box of cigarettes. "Do you happen to have a match about you?"
The man fished one from a vest pocket with fingers which seemed to quiver slightly, and there was no doubt as to the look of suspended excitement in his mild eyes. Mason decided that he would not offer him a cigarette. "I think I recall seeing you there," he remarked. "In fact, as you passed me just now your face seemed familiar. You say you are a stranger in the city?"
Yes, I only come here once in a while.
Silence fell. A lame Italian was playing a wheezy hand-organ at the end of the walk, and a group of ill-clad children were dancing near by. Charles wondered what his companion would do if he suddenly got up and left. Would he then declare himself in his official capacity or dog his steps as formerly? Mason somehow wanted the thing settled for good and all. How could he sleep or have any peace of mind with an uncertainty like that hanging over him?
I think I may venture to be plain with you, sir, the stranger broke the silence to say. "The day I saw you you were in the company of a—a young man that I desire very much to meet."
Oh, let me see, and Mason deliberately flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Who was I with that day? I ran with several chaps about that time."
The stranger described Charles accurately, and all but held his breath as he waited.
Oh, that fellow! Mason exclaimed, carelessly. "He was a stranger to me. I met him by accident at the house I roomed at. So you want to meet him?"
Yes, very much. He is an old friend of mine.
I see, Mason answered. "Well, I'm sorry I can't help you find him. He and I parted about that time and I have not seen him since. I'm rather sorry, too, for I found him a rather agreeable chap."
So you don't know where he is? The stranger's face fell, and a shadow of absolute gloom seemed to come into his earnest eyes. "When I saw you just now, sir, I hoped that you might put me on the track of him."
He dies hard, Mason mused, now more at his ease. "No, I can't help you," he said, aloud. "If I remember rightly he said something about working his way to England on a cattle-ship."
England? My God! then I'll not find him at all! the stranger sighed.
It would be a difficult job, Mason went on, with real pleasure in the tale he was concocting. Then suddenly he was emboldened to pursue different tactics. "Say," he said, "I think you are the man I saw hanging about our house the night after I noticed you in Madison Square. Am I right?"
Something like a sigh escaped the lips of the stranger. Surely, if he was a detective, he was either a poor one or a most accomplished actor. Mason suddenly decided that he was dealing with the latter when his companion answered:
Yes, I followed you both to that house, sir. I wanted a word with my friend. I tried to catch his eye in the crowd at Madison Square, but failed.
But if you wanted to speak to him, or see him, why didn't you do it while he was with me? Mason demanded, with no little pride now in his skill at cross-examination, and a growing sense of his own security.
There were reasons why I should not, was the slow answer. "I wanted to see him alone, sir. I watched the house that night till—" The stranger paused as if he had said more than he intended.
Till I came out and made you run away? Mason smiled. "I didn't intend to spoil your game, whatever it was."
I came back and watched the house after that, the man went on, dejectedly. "I saw you both come out with your things. I followed you up-town and across to the river. I saw you at the boat-house. I didn't know you intended to cross over till your boat had started; then it was too late. You see, sir, I am pretty sure that you do know more about my friend than you are willing to tell. I've got to know more about him, and I'm going to stick to you till you help me locate him. You see, I don't believe the story about the cattle-ship. Men don't go to New Jersey in a small boat at night to ship for England. Now, do they, sir, really?"
But you see, it was after we got across that he thought of England, Mason added, carelessly. "Come on, my friend, spit it out. What is it that you have up your sleeve, anyway?"
I am sorry, sir, the stranger answered, regretfully, "but I cannot take you fully into my confidence. You see, if it were my affair alone it would be different, but, as it is, I cannot say more."
Sly dog, Mason thought. "I've seen a few detectives at their game, but I never knew that any of them ever played the part of absolute idiocy to gain a point." "Well," he added, aloud, "we may as well change the subject. Have you ever noticed how gracefully these street kids dance? Watch that slim girl waltzing with the tiny tot. Why, she—"
Excuse me, sir, the stranger broke in, "but I am not satisfied about what you have told me. I don't want to doubt your word, sir, but this is a very grave matter. I have been looking for you for a year, hoping that if I met you I'd learn something about my young friend. You yourself make me doubt the story of the cattle-ship. It is the way you tell it, I suppose. I think, sir, that we are playing at cross-purposes. I'm sure, sir, that my young friend must have placed confidence in you. He showed that, it seems to me, sir, by leaving the city with you as he did that night. Nobody but two close friends would act as you did. You see, I kept you in sight all the way to the boat-house. I crossed over myself the next morning, and looked all about over there, but saw nothing of you." Mason stood up. He was no longer afraid of the man, and yet he was irritated by his persistence. He looked at his watch. "I must be going," he said. "I have an appointment down-town."
The stranger was on his feet also. "Don't leave me like this, sir," he implored. "I have reasons to believe that our young friend would be glad to see me if he could safely do so. Somehow I feel that he is here in the city and that you know where he is."
You are barking up the wrong tree, Mason said, crisply. "I know nothing more than I have told you."
But I have caught you in a contradiction—about the cattle-ship for England, you see, and the man actually grasped Mason's lapel and clung to it desperately. "I don't want to go back to Boston without some favorable news. He has one true friend there who would do anything to get news of him—a good kind lady and a relation of his. I haven't much money, sir. I am only a poor servant with a sick mother to support out of my earnings, but if you will give me some helpful information I am willing to pay you."
Pay me? Come off. What do you take me for? Mason drew back and detached his lapel from the man's clutch. "Do you think I don't know your game? Well, I do, and let that end it. Good day."
Turning suddenly, Mason strode off toward Broadway. "That will settle him, I guess," he muttered, "unless he calls a cop to take me in. That was mushy sob-talk he was giving me. I guess he thought it would go down, but it didn't. Good Lord! a man that can act like that ought to be playing Hamlet. He is after that ten thousand dollars and he is willing to work for it. Good gracious! he no doubt knows where I hang out. Perhaps he dogged my steps here to-day and that startled look of recognition was all part of his game. He and several others may now have Mrs. Reilly's house under watch. Gee! that mountain town is the place for poor Brown, after all!" He had reached the edge of the square when, happening to glance back, he saw the stranger following him. "My Lord! what is he up to now?" Mason said, under his breath. The man was signaling to him with his handkerchief.
Wait, sir! he called out. "I must see you a moment."
Mason turned back into the walk he had just left, and advanced to meet the man. "I'll have it out with him and be done with it," he decided. "I can't stand this. I'd as soon be in jail myself. If he wants to take me to the police I'll go. I'll stick to the cattle-ship yarn, and let them disprove it."
One evening, several days after Charles's trip with Mary to the hiding-place of the two boys, he and Rowland sat on the front veranda. It was dusk and supper was almost ready.
We may have to wait a little while, the old gentleman explained, in his languid way. "Mary is looking for company, I understand, and he may be slow getting here. He is sometimes, for he is a little careless about such things—more careless, I know, than I used to be in my courting-days."
With a sudden depression of spirits Charles surmised that the expected visitor was Albert Frazier, and he made no comment. Presently Mary came down the stairs. She had changed her dress, rearranged her hair, and looked very pretty as she stood in the doorway and glanced down the road toward Carlin.
You and Mr. Brown need not wait, father, she said. "You know how slow Albert is. I'm sure Mr. Brown is both hungry and tired. He has finished the cotton and started on the corn. Albert and I can eat later. I want to get news from Tobe Keith. Albert promised to go by his house before starting out."
I am not at all hungry, Charles declared, as Mary disappeared in the parlor.
Well, I am, Rowland said, "and I shall not wait longer for Frazier, or any one else. I have some notes to make after supper, and this delay is upsetting me. Come, let's go in and leave the two sweethearts to eat and coo together. They won't eat much, I reckon. By the way, in my genealogical research I find that there are many family names of French origin in our mountains. This Frazier—'Frazyea' would be the French pronunciation—may have had fine old Huguenot ancestors away back in the early settlement of South Carolina. He has his good points. He is not exactly the stamp of man I would have wanted my daughter to marry in the old days, you know, but things are frightfully changed. The financial shoe is on the other foot, you see, and it is money that founds families."
Their supper was soon ended, and on their return to the veranda they found Mary still watching the road. "I see him, I think," she announced, wearily. "It looks like a man with a broad-brimmed hat on. Yes, that is Albert."
The rider drew in at the gate and dismounted, leading his horse into the yard and up to the steps. "You must excuse me, little girl," he said. "I couldn't make it earlier and get the news you wanted. The doctor was making an examination and was delayed. Tobe fainted several times. He is weak, the doctor says tell you, but there is still hope." Here catching sight of Charles, he continued, gruffly: "Say, fellow, put up my horse. And, say, give him a pail of water from the well and some shelled corn and a bundle of fodder."
Starting in surprise, Charles was about to thunder out a furious reply; to save himself from such a display of temper in the presence of a lady he simply turned back into the sitting-room.
Did he hear me? he heard Frazier asking his host, in a rising tone of anger.
He was not hired for that sort of work, Albert, the old man said, pacifically. "He has been in the field ever since sunup. Zilla takes care of our own stock. Come, I'll go with you and show you the stall and the feed."
Frazier swore aloud and muttered something about "tramp farm-hands" which Charles could not catch; then he and Rowland led the horse to the stable. Charles was standing in the center of the room when Mary came in. She walked straight up to him and laid her hand on his arm.
Don't let that bother you; please don't! she urged, excitedly. "I don't want you to have trouble with him. He is a dangerous sort of man. If he takes a dislike to you he will do his best to injure you, and he has it in his power to do all sorts of things, along with his brother as an officer of the law."
I understand. I have already heard a few things he has said about me, Charles replied, still furious, and yet trying to calm himself. "I know the kind of man he is exactly. But you are in trouble, and I shall not worry you in the matter. If he insults me again I'll try to overlook it—I will overlook it."
Thank you, Mary said, gently and sweetly, in a voice which quivered with curbed emotion, "but he mustn't do it again. I must talk to him. He has no right to come here giving orders like that to people who have been as kind and unselfish as you have been. Oh, I don't know what I am to do, Mr. Brown! When he was telling about how weak Tobe Keith was my very soul seemed to die in my body."
The room was dimly lighted by an oil-lamp on a table in the center of the room. She stood facing him, her wondrous eyes filling with tears of anxiety, her lips twitching, her brows knitted, her hands clasped over her snowy apron.
I don't know what to say to comfort you, said Charles. His voice shook and he tried to steady it. "I am ashamed of myself for sinking so low as to be angry with that man at such a time as this. You are stretched on the rack, Miss Rowland, and you are being tortured. I wish I could take your place—as God is my judge, I do! I can't bear the sight of it. It is unfair, hellish, satanic! It must not go on like this."
I want you to—to think well of me, Mary said, haltingly, "and I believe you will. You must not think me shallow if I appear to be light-hearted to-night with Mr. Frazier. You see, everything depends on him now. He knows where the boys are, and if I were to anger him or rouse his suspicions in any way he would turn against us. I am sorry he is like that, but he is. I see now that I made a mistake in allowing him to pay such constant attention to me, but I am only a weak girl and couldn't help it. You see, at first he offered to take me to places, parties, picnics, and I wanted to go, as any girl would in my place, and that is the way it began. Then he became dictatorial and jealous, and so it went on till—well, you see how it now is. My father is indebted to him and so am I now."
Surely you haven't obligated yourself— stammered Charles.
Not in so many words, Mary broke in, "but it amounts to the same thing. He wants me to let him furnish the money to pay Tobe Keith's expenses to Atlanta, and I see no other way than to accept his offer. If it goes that far, I shall consent to be his wife. If he saves my brothers from the scaffold I'll be his slave for life. Love? I don't expect love. What he feels for me is not love, and what I would be giving would not be, either. Love is a dreamlike thing, more of the soul than the body."
I know what love is now, Charles thought. "I never knew before, but I do now."
The steps of the two men were heard coming from the barn, and Mary went hastily out of the lamplight and into the gloom of the hall.
Our supper is ready, Albert, Charles heard her say. "Come on before it is cold."
Passing through the dining-room, Charles managed to reach the yard by means of a side door without having to meet Frazier. He found himself standing among some fig-trees and grape-vines in the dewy grass, surrounded by what had been beds of flowers in the day when the place had been well kept. An unshaded window of the dining-room was before him, and through it Charles saw Frazier and Mary approaching the table. The man's arm was actually about the girl's waist, his coarse lips were close to her pale cheek. He was smiling broadly, and laughing as if over some jest of his own making. Charles would have withdrawn his eyes, but he was held as if spellbound by the tragedy which was being enacted, with him as the sole spectator. Charles noted that Frazier sank heavily into a chair without first seeing that Mary was seated. He saw him take a cigar damp with saliva from the corner of his great mouth and place it on a plate at his side. He saw him reach out and take Mary's hand and fondle it patronizingly as he continued to talk. Even in the dim lamplight Charles read in the girl's face the growing desire to resent the fellow's coarse familiarity.
Charles uttered a groan and turned away. Off toward the barn he wandered, finding himself presently at the blacksmith's shop. The wide sliding-door was open, and for no reason of which he was conscious he went into the dark room and sat on the anvil. Money was now the thing he wanted above all else in the world. If only he could anonymously send to the suffering girl the funds needed for Keith's treatment, how glorious it would be! So small a thing and yet it might free the girl from a union that would be a lifelong outrage against her sensitive spirit. Only four hundred dollars! He remembered having spent more than that in a single night at a card-table—more than that on a drunken trip to Atlantic City in the company of reckless associates. Obtaining the money, however, was out of the question. He might get it from William, but he had pledged his honor never to enter his brother's life again; besides, the time was too short. The window of the dining-room gleamed in a sheen of light through the boughs of the trees about the house. He fancied he saw the pair again, and the thought maddened him. Marry that man! Could she possibly work herself up to the ordeal? Yes, for she was simply ready to sacrifice herself, and Charles knew from experience what self-sacrifice was like. He groaned as he left the shop and went toward the barn. The dense wood beyond it, lying under the mystic light of the rising moon, lured him into its bosom, and he decided that he would walk there, for no reason than that he hoped in that way to throw off the gnawing agony which lay upon him.
He had climbed over the fence and was about to plunge into the thicket when he heard a low, guarded whistle. He recognized it as the one Kenneth had used in response to his own as he approached the secret hiding-place. In a low whistle he answered and stood still.
It's him! He now recognized Kenneth's voice. "I knew him as he got over the fence. Come on, stupid! It's all right!"
Yes, it is all right. I'm alone, Charles said softly.
Come here to us, then, Kenneth proposed. "The bushes are thicker."
Charles obeyed, and soon stood facing the two bedraggled boys.
What does this mean? he asked, aghast over the risk they were running.
It means that we've made up our minds to hide closer to home, Kenneth half-sheepishly explained. "Nobody's looking for us here in the mountains; you said so yourself. Sister said Albert Frazier was keeping the sheriff off the track. We don't like it out there, and—"
How is Tobe Keith? Martin's tremulous voice broke in. "What is the use of so much chatter about smaller things? How is he?"
The doctors say there has been no vital change, Charles informed the quaking boy.
No change? My God! when will there be a change? Martin groaned. He was covering his pale face with his hands, when Kenneth roughly swept them down.
Don't be a baby, silly! he snarled. "Blubbering won't undo the matter. If he dies, he dies, and we can't help it." Kenneth forced a wry smile which on his soiled, bloodless face was more like a grimace in the white moonlight. "Martin behaves like that all the time, morning, noon, and night. That is one reason I decided to come nearer home. He needs sister to cheer him up and pet him. I don't know how. Then our cave is damp and chilly. I'm afraid he will get sick. He don't eat enough. I get away with most of the grub. Here is my plan, Brown. You are a good chap, and a friend, too. We may as well sleep in the hay in the loft of the barn. We'd have nothing to fear in the night, and through the day, with all of the family to keep a lookout up and down the road, we could get away even if the sheriff did come."
Charles informed him of Albert Frazier's presence in the house and that he might remain over night. At this the two boys exchanged dubious glances.
Well, Kenneth opined, slowly, "I am sure he can be trusted in the main. As long as he and sister understand each other he will be on our side. He has stood behind the old man often in raising money; though, take it from me, Brown, Albert is not made of money. He owes a lot here and there and has to be dunned frequently even for small amounts. In her last note sister said that he would raise the money to send Keith to Atlanta. He can get it, I guess, by some hook or crook."
Sister mustn't let him furnish the money, Martin faltered, his voice raising in uncertainty and ending in firmness.
Mustn't? What do you mean, silly? and Kenneth turned on him impatiently.
Because she doesn't want to accept it from him, that's why, Martin stated, almost angrily. "She doesn't want to bind herself to him like that. I know how she feels about that fellow. She was just amusing herself with him and was ready to break off when this awful thing came up. If she takes the money and binds herself we'll be responsible, for if we hadn't been drunk that night at Carlin—"
Oh, dry up! dry up! you sniffling chump! Kenneth retorted. "We are in a hole, and we have got to get out the best we can."
She mustn't take the money from him, reiterated the younger boy, turning his twisting face aside. "If she takes it she will marry him, and she is no wife for that dirty, low-bred scoundrel. You and I know all about the girls he has ruined. Didn't Jeff Raymond come all the way from Camden County to shoot him like a dog for the way he treated his niece, and then the sheriff stepped in and smoothed it over? Pouf! do you think I want my sweet, beautiful sister to marry a man like that to save my neck? I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Brown, if she starts to do that for my sake I'll drown myself. She is an angel. She has had enough trouble from me and Ken. We have treated her worse than a nigger slave ever was treated."
For the Lord's sake, let up! thundered Kenneth. "This is no camp-meeting. If sis wants to take the money, let her do it. Now, Brown, I'm willing to trust Albert Frazier to some extent, but he need not know just yet that we are bunking in the barn. Let him keep on thinking we are at the other place. Tell the others about it, though. We've had enough to eat to-night, but please have Aunt Zilla get us up a warm breakfast in the morning. It will tickle the old soul and she will spread herself. You see, I'm in a better mood than Martin is. I don't cross a bridge till I get to it, but he has attended Keith's funeral a hundred times in a single night, and as for the other"—Kenneth uttered a short, hoarse laugh and made a motion as if tying a rope around his neck—"he has been through that quite as often. That boy is full of imagination. Mother used to say he would write poems or paint pictures. He has 'painted towns red' with me often enough, the Lord knows. Some say I am ruining him. I don't know. I don't care. If a fellow is weak enough to be twisted by another—well, he deserves to be twisted, that's all."
I don't blame anybody but myself, Martin whispered from a full, almost gurgling throat. "I know I never let sister twist me, and I ought to have done so. A man is a low cur that will bring his sister down to this sort of thing, and that's what I am. But she shall not marry Frazier if I can help it. The trouble is, I can't help it!" he ended, with a groan. "By my own conduct I have sealed her fate and mine. If our gentle mother were—"
Kenneth abruptly turned his back on his brother. "Come on," he said to Charles, with a frown of displeasure, "let's go to the barn and put the baby to bed in the hay. Then you may go tell sister, if you will be so kind."
When they had disappeared in the barn, Charles, for precautionary reasons, skirted the stable lot, plunged into the thicket at the side of the house, and entered the yard at the front gate. The parlor was lighted, and he knew that Mary was there, entertaining her visitor. He tried to walk noiselessly, but his tread made a low grinding sound on the gravel, and the broken steps creaked as he ascended them. To his consternation he heard Mary coming. She stood in the front doorway, staring in agitation.
Oh! she cried out, in relief, when her glance fell on him. "I thought—thought that you might be a messenger from town. Mrs. Quinby said she would send word if a dangerous change came."
I must see you about your brothers— he was beginning, when they heard Frazier's heavy tread in their direction.
In a flash of comprehension she acted. Stepping close to him, she whispered, softly, "After he goes up to bed—meet me under the apple-trees out there!"
She stepped back to the doorway just as Frazier was emerging from the parlor. "Yes, I thought it was a messenger from town," she said, aloud. "Good night, Mr. Brown."
Good night, Charles answered, and he passed on to the stairway and went up to his room. He heard the voices of Mary and Frazier on the veranda. They were walking to and fro, for he could hear their steps side by side.
Charles did not undress. He did not light his lamp, but sat waiting. There was a certain undefinable comfort in the knowledge that he was serving Mary, that she had made the appointment to meet him later. At all events, her uncouth suitor did not have her full confidence. But how slowly the time dragged along, how irritating the thought that the girl was tortured by suspense over his interrupted disclosure!
It was eleven o'clock when he heard Mary saying good night and Frazier went clattering up the stairs. He carried a lighted candle in his hand, and Charles, peering from his darkened coign of vantage through the half-opened door, beheld the sensual visage in a circle of light. How he detested it! Frazier turned into the guest-room at the head of the stairs, the windows of which overlooked the lawn in front of the house. The door was closed after him. Charles heard the key turned and the bolt rattle into its socket. Frazier was evidently a cautious man even in the house of friends, and it was known that he had enemies who would not hesitate to take advantage of him. He always carried a revolver. He was permitted to do so by the law as an occasional deputy under his brother.
Frazier continued his noise. He made a clatter as he doffed his heavy boots. A rickety old chair creaked under him as he sat in it. Charles heard even his dull tread as he thumped about in his bare feet, removing his outer clothing. A window-sash was thrown up with a jarring bang. Then the groaning of the mahogany bedstead announced that he had retired for the night.
Charles went to a window and looked out. He could see the apple-trees Mary had indicated, and he was glad that they were not in view of the windows of Frazier's room. He waited, wondering if the visitor were a quick and sound sleeper. He took off his shoes that he might as noiselessly as possible descend the stairs. He decided that he must go at once; it would be discourteous to let Mary reach the rendezvous first. So, with his shoes in his hand, he started down. In the great, empty hall the creaking of the worn, well-seasoned steps seemed to ring out sharply as exploding gun-caps. After each sound he paused, waited, and listened to see if Frazier had been aroused. All was still, and he moved on. Reaching the outer door, he found that Mary had left it unlocked. He was soon outside and under the trees at the side of the house. He could see the window of Mary's room. It was dark. She had not retired, of that he was sure; like himself, she must be waiting somewhere in the dark. The moon was higher now, and its pale, star-aided light fell over the fields and mountains and the long, winding road to the village.
Presently he saw Mary coming. She wore slippers and was very swift of foot. As lightly as a wind-blown wisp of smoke she flitted across the grass toward him.
Are you here, Mr. Brown? she asked, her voice trilling like the suppressed warbling of a bird.
Yes, Miss Rowland, he answered, softly, and he advanced toward her.
Thank God! she ejaculated, fervently. "I was afraid you would not be able to get down past Albert's room. What is it you have to say? Oh, I'm crazy—crazy to hear!"
He told her, watching her face closely. She started, narrowed her eyes in perplexity, and then, unconsciously, put both of her hands on his arm and held it as she might have that of a long-tried and trusted friend.
Oh, what do you think? What do you think? she all but moaned. "Will it be safe?"
She had lifted her sweet face close to his. Her touch on his arm was a thing never to be forgotten. It seemed to rivet his very soul to hers.
He weighed his decision deliberately. "I cannot really see that they are in much more danger," he finally got out. "It is a fact, as Kenneth says, that, with us to keep watch on the road, we could warn them of any approach that had a suspicious look. After all, perhaps the very last place the officers would think of searching would be one so close at home. At any rate, the boys want to be near you—Martin especially."
My poor baby! Mary suddenly broke down and began to weep.
Don't, don't! Please don't! Charles put his arm around her; he drew her to him. He wiped her eyes with his own handkerchief; his toil-hardened fingers touched the velvety skin of her cheeks. She did not resent his action.
He is just a baby! she sobbed; "he is as gentle and timid at times as a little girl. I must see him to-night."
To-night! Charles exclaimed, in surprise.
Yes, and she drew herself from his embrace as if unconscious of having yielded to it, though her tear-wet face was still raised to his, the tremulous, grief-twisted lips never before so maddeningly exquisite. "Yes, I must see him to-night. I'll go alone. I can whistle and they will know who it is. Kensy may be asleep—he no doubt is—but Martin will be awake, poor boy!"
May I not go with you to— he began, hesitatingly.
No, I'd better go alone. You see, if I happened to be discovered I could make some excuse, but it would be different if we were seen together. Don't wait for me. Please go back to your room. You are tired. We are making you do both night and day work, but, oh, I am so grateful! Good night.
Good night, he echoed, as she flitted away from him like a vanishing sprite produced by the moon and starlight.
At the steps he took off his shoes again. No experienced house-breaker could have turned the bolt of the great door more softly than he did, and yet an accident happened. The large brass key, which was loose in the worn keyhole, fell to the floor just as he was opening the door. In the empty hall it sounded to him as loud as a clap of thunder. He stood still, holding the door ajar for a moment, and then softly closed it. Cautiously he crept up the steps, and was half-way to the floor above when a harsh command from Frazier's door rang out, followed by the sharp click of the hammer of a revolver.
Halt! cried Frazier. "Stand where you are, and hold up your hands. If you value your life, don't move."
Charles stood still, but did not raise his hands. "I'm going up to my room," he said, calmly. He now saw Frazier in his white underclothing, leaning over the balustrade, the revolver aimed at him.
To your room, with your shoes in your hand? was the incredulous retort. The revolver was lowered reluctantly and Frazier swore in his throat. "Is that the way you come and go in the house of decent people?" he went on, insultingly.
Beside himself with rage, Charles silently pursued his way up the stairs. Frazier seemed surprised at receiving no answer, and, with the weapon swinging at his side, he muttered something under his breath and retreated to his room door.
I'll look into this, he called out. "I'm sure Mr. Rowland doesn't know this sort of a thing is going on under his roof."
In a flash of far-reaching insight Charles saw the disastrous consequences of a nocturnal row with the bully. Mary was then outside the house, and if Frazier were to catch her returning no sort of explanation except the truth would satisfy him. What was to be done? In an instant Charles took the only available course, crushing his pride to accomplish it.
I am sorry I disturbed you, Mr. Frazier, he said to the white figure in the doorway. "I took off my shoes to make as little noise as possible. I am sorry, too, that I have forgotten something and must go back after it. I'll try not to disturb you when I return."
With a low growl, Frazier vanished in his room. Charles heard him drop the revolver on a table and the creaking of the bed as he sank on it. Down the stairs Charles went. Slipping on his shoes outside, he crept around the house toward the barn, over-joyed by the discovery that Mary was not yet in sight. At the barn-yard fence he paused. He could hear low voices from the dark loft; now it was Mary speaking, now Martin, now Kenneth. Charles crept to the main door and softly whistled. Immediately there was silence within the building. Then a whistle sounded. It was Mary's, he was sure, and he heard her descending the narrow steps from the loft.
Frightened she must have been, for when she reached him she was all aquiver and her voice hung dead in her throat.
Don't worry, he said, promptly, to allay her fears. "All is safe, but I had to warn you."
Kenneth and Martin were now at her side, and he explained the situation to them all. "I was afraid you might come in at the front door and be seen by him," Charles said. "You see, he may not go to sleep easily, and—"
I was going in that way, Mary broke in. "He would have caught me, and I would have had to tell the truth. He mustn't know the boys are here. The truth is, I am a little bit more afraid of him than I was. He—he holds everything over me that he finds out. He talks about our marrying more than he did. I can get in by the back stairs, and I'll go up very soon. Don't wait, Mr. Brown. He is sure to lie awake till you return. Lock the door after you. Don't remove your shoes this time. Show him that you don't care what he thinks."
Charles found the way clear for him on his return, and as he passed Frazier's room he noticed that the door was closed; he heard no sounds within.
Show him that you don't care what he thinks! Mary's last words were ringing in his ears. Somehow they were the sweetest words he had ever heard. They warmed, thrilled, encouraged him. He took them to sleep with him. They followed him through strange turbulent dreams that night. They were back of his first waking thoughts the next morning. "Show him that you don't care what he thinks!" He could have sung the words to the accompaniment of the rising sunlight as it bathed the fields in yellow. With them she had thanked him for the service he had rendered, and the service had been her protection against that particular individual. Marry him? Could she marry a man she feared? And yet she had said she would under certain conditions, and the conditions were on the way to fulfilment. Great God! how could it be? His short-lived hope was gone; the music of her magic words had ceased. He heard the clatter of Frazier's boots in his bed-chamber. As he passed down the steps, he heard the burly guest emptying soiled water from his wash-bowl out of a window upon the shrubbery below. How he hated the man!
A few days later Mary left on horseback immediately after breakfast. From Rowland, Charles learned that she was going to see certain persons who owned near-by farms, with the hope of borrowing money for the removal of the wounded man to Atlanta and for his treatment there by the famous surgeon, Doctor Elliot.
Charles was at work, hoeing corn, when from the thicket bordering the field Kenneth and Martin stealthily emerged and joined him, having crept around from the barn.
It is all right, Kenneth said, with an assuring smile. "Nobody is in sight on the road for a mile either way. We can dodge back any minute at the slightest sound. It's hell, Brown, to stay there like a pig being fattened for the killing. This is monotonous, I tell you. I can't stand it very long. That man must get to Atlanta. Mary is off this morning to borrow cash for it. Our credit is gone. Nobody will indorse for the old man but Albert Frazier, and I think his name is none too good here lately."
He will get the money for sister, see if he doesn't, Martin spoke up, plaintively. "She is trying to keep him from it, though; that's why she went off this morning. She doesn't care for him—she doesn't—she doesn't! She knows what he is. She couldn't love a man like that. I hate him. He claims to be helping us, and he is, I reckon, but he has an object in view, and I'd die rather than have him gain it."
No, I don't want her to marry him, either. Kenneth's voice had a touch of genuine manliness in it which Charles noticed for the first time. Moreover, his face was very grave. He shrugged his shoulders and flushed slightly as he went on. "I've been watching you, Brown. Having nothing else to do all day long, I've watched you at your work and seen you come and go from the field to the house and back. I envy you. To tell you the God's truth, I'm sick and tired of the way I've been living. They say I am responsible for Martin being in this mess, too. I reckon I am, and I know I am the cause of sister's worry and the disgrace of all this on the family. They say an honest confession is good for the soul, and I say to you that if this damned thing passes over I'm going to take a different course. I see the pleasure you get out of working, and I am going to work. The other thing is not what it is cracked up to be."
Kenneth's voice had grown husky, and he cleared his throat and coughed; the light of shame still shone in his eyes.
He means it, Martin said, throwing his arm about his brother and leaning on him affectionately. "Last night when he found me awake he came over to my corner and sat down and talked. He said he'd got so he couldn't sleep sound, either. It was wonderful the way he talked, Mr. Brown. I didn't know Ken was like that. He talked about mother and about sister's brave fight against so many odds—and, may I tell him, Ken? You know what I mean."
I don't care what you say, Kenneth answered. He was seated on the ground, his eyes resting on the gray roof of the house which could be seen above the trees, outlined against the blue sky and drifting white clouds. "I'm not ashamed of anything I said."
Why, he said, Martin went on, "that he admired you more than any man he had ever run across. He said what you told him about how you used to drink and gamble—when you could have kept it to yourself—and how you had quit it all and put it behind you because it was the sensible thing to do—Ken said that was the strongest argument he had ever heard, and that he liked you because you seemed to want him to do the same thing."
I did appreciate that talk, Brown, Kenneth admitted. "You put it to me in a different light from any one else. You spoke like a man that had burnt himself at a fire, and was warning others to stay away from it. I don't care where you come from or what you were when you landed here, you are a gentleman. You have made me feel ashamed of myself, and I am man enough to say so. I've been bluffing in this thing. I have felt it as much as Martin, but wouldn't let on. I've not been asleep all the time when he thought I was. God only knows how I've lain awake and what I've been through in my mind."
Suddenly Kenneth rose; his face was full and dark with suppressed emotion, and he stalked away toward the barn.
He is not like he used to be, Martin remarked, softly, his eyes on his brother. "All this has had a big effect on him. It is strange, but I often try to comfort him now. He is worried about Albert Frazier."
About him? Charles exclaimed, under his breath.
Yes. He doesn't like to feel that we are in his power so completely. He is afraid sister will marry him, and she will, Mr. Brown, if she fails to get that money elsewhere. I don't think she really wants to marry him. She pretends to like him, but that is all put on to fool me and Ken. He is working for us. Every day he tells the sheriff something to throw him off our track. He actually forged a letter that he showed to his brother which he claimed was from a friend in Texas saying that me and Ken had been seen at Forth Worth, on our way West. When sister told Ken that it made him mad. A week ago he would have chuckled over it, but now he hates it because it sort o' binds sister to Frazier. A man that will fool his own brother like that is not the right sort for a sweet girl like my sister to live with all her life. Father wouldn't care much, but Ken and I would. We have been running with a tough crowd, but we know that we've got good blood in our veins.
Presently Martin left, went to keep his brother company, and Charles resumed his plodding work in the young corn. He gave himself up to gloomy meditation. What a strange thing his life had been! How queer it was that nothing prior to his arrival there in the mountains now claimed his interest. William, Celeste, Ruth, old Boston friends, college chums, business associates—all had retired from his consciousness, almost as if they had never existed. The fortunes of this particular family wholly absorbed him. He could have embraced Martin while the boy was talking, because of his resemblance in voice and features to Mary. He respected Kenneth for his fresh resolutions, and pitied him as he had once pitied himself. His hoe tinkled like a bell, at times, on the small round stones buried in the mellow soil. The mountain breeze fanned his hot brow. Accidentally he cut down a young plant of corn, and all but shuddered as he wondered if it, too, could feel, think, and suffer. He saw a busy cluster of red ants, and left them undisturbed. They were sinking a shaft, he knew not how deep, in the earth. One by one they brought to the surface tiny bits of clay or sand, rolled them down a little embankment, and hurried away for other burdens. That they thought, planned, and calculated he could not doubt. He himself was a monster too great in size for their comprehension. Had he stepped upon them their universe would have gone out of existence. He wondered if they loved one another, if their social system would have permitted one of their number to go into voluntary exile and in that exile to find a joy never before comprehended.
Mary rode to house after house on her way to Carlin, but met with no success in the matter of borrowing money. It was near noon when she entered the straggling suburbs of the village. At a ramshackle livery-stable she dismounted and left her horse in the care of a negro attendant whose father had once been owned by her family. She called him "Pete"; he addressed her as "Young Miss," and was most obsequious in his attentions and profuse in promises to care for her horse.
Opposite the hotel stood a tiny frame building having only one room. It was a lawyer's office, as was indicated by the sanded tin sign holding the gilt letters of the occupant's name—"Chester A. Lawton, At'y at Law."
He was a young man under thirty, who had met Mary several times at the hotel when she was visiting Mrs. Quinby. He was seated at a bare table, reading a law-book, when she appeared at the open door. He had left off his coat, the weather being warm, and on seeing her he hastily got into it, flushing to the roots of his thick dark hair.
You caught me off my guard, Miss Mary, he apologized, awkwardly. "I know I oughtn't to sit here without my coat in plain view of the street, but the old lawyers do it, and—"
It is right for you to do so, Mary broke in, quite self-possessed. "I only wanted to see you a moment. I wanted to ask you what is customary in regard to fees for getting legal advice."
Lawton pulled at his dark mustache, even more embarrassed. "I—I—really am rather new at the work, Miss Mary; in fact, I'm just getting started," he answered, haltingly. "I suppose that such things depend on the—the nature of the case, and the research work, reading, you know, and—oh, well, a lawyer sometimes has expenses. He has to travel in some cases. Yes, fees all depend on that sort of thing."
He was politely proffering a straight-backed chair, and as she sat down she forced a smile. "To be frank," she went on, "I don't know whether I really ought to employ a lawyer or not, and I was wondering how much it would cost to find out the probable expense."
Oh, I see! laughed Lawton, as he sat down opposite her, leaned on the table, and pushed his open book aside. "Well, I'll tell you, Miss Mary. I don't know what the older chaps do, but I make it a rule not to charge a cent for talking over a case with a person. That is right and proper. If you have any legal matter in mind, all you've got to do is to state it to me—that is, if you have honored me by thinking my advice might be worth while—and if I see anything in your case I'll then advise you to proceed, or not, as I deem best."
Lawton seemed rather pleased at the untrammeled smoothness of his subdued oratory, and waited for her to speak.
Mary was silent for a moment, and then she said, "You see, I don't know whether I really ought to seek legal advice yet, at any rate, and—" She broke off suddenly.
Miss Mary, said Lawton, trying to help her out, "may I ask if you are referring to—to the little trouble your brothers are in?"
She nodded, swallowed a lump of emotion in her throat, and looked him straight in the eyes. "Father wouldn't attend to it, and I got to worrying about it—about whether advice ought to be had or not. We are terribly hard up for ready money and have got into debt already."
Well, I'll be frank with you, Miss Mary, and I'm going to tell you something that may be to your interest. Now if you had gone to—we'll say to Webster and Bright, across the street, they, no doubt, would expect you to pay and pay big whether you needed a lawyer or not. Old law firms have strict rules on that line, I understand. Everything is 'grist that comes to their mill,' as the saying is, for they will tell anybody that they are not paying office rent for fun. But it is different with a young chap that is just getting on his feet in the profession. Now, knowing you as I do, and having had several agreeable talks with you, I'd hate like rips to charge for any advice I can give unless—unless it was of great benefit to you; and the truth is, I am not at all sure that you need a lawyer.
Oh, you mean—But I don't understand! Mary exclaimed, not knowing whether his words boded well or ill for her.
Why, it is like this, Miss Mary. There are tricks in my trade, as in all others, and as matters stand in the case of your brothers—well, if Tobe Keith should happen to pull through, the charges against them would be so insignificant that the courts would be likely to dismiss them entirely. That, no doubt, is a slipshod method, but it is peculiar to us here in the South. You see, your father stands high—nobody higher, in fact; he fought for the Confederacy, has always been a perfect gentleman, and has no end of influential kinsfolk. Why, the district attorney himself is a sort of distant cousin, isn't he? Seems to me that I have heard him telling your father one day that if he ever printed that family history he'd subscribe for several copies, because his name was to be in it, somehow—on his mother's side, I think. Then the Governor is akin, too, isn't he? I thought so (seeing Mary nod) "and the Kingsleys and Warrens. Oh, take it from me, Miss Mary, if Tobe Keith does get on his feet your brothers will not even be arrested. So I'll not take any fee from you—yet awhile, anyway; and I'm going to say, too, that I'd keep the boys out West. It is a good thing they went to Texas. I suppose they are out there, dodging about. I heard Sheriff Frazier say so the other day (his brother Al had picked up the news somehow or other), but he hadn't decided to institute a search till there was a change in Tobe's condition."
Have you heard from him to-day? Mary asked, and she all but held her breath as she steadily eyed the lawyer.
No change at all, I understand, Lawton answered. "The doctors still say he must be taken to Atlanta to get the ball out."
Yes, that must be done, Mary sighed, and her face became graver. "I am trying to raise the money—four hundred dollars. Mr. Lawton, can you tell me how to do it? I have no security."
I'm sorry, Miss Mary—Lawton's color heightened and he screwed his eyes up in embarrassment—"that I can't help you out on that line. Everybody I know is in debt or short of funds. The bank is awfully strict, and high on interest, too. Your father and Albert Frazier drew up some sort of a paper at this table the other day. I think Frazier went his security, put his name on a note at the bank. I heard them talking about how difficult it was to get money. I think Albert has about run through the little pile his old daddy left him. He is a high-flyer for these times—free and easy with his money as long as it lasts."
So you can't tell me any one to go to? Mary rose and began to adjust the veil on her hat.
No, I can't, Miss Mary. There ought to be a public fund for such cases of need as Tobe's. Yes, you must take some steps in his behalf. It would look well from any point of view. Tobe didn't know what he was doing, and neither did your brothers. If Tobe gets over it, it may be a good lesson to all three.
Mary was at the door now; he followed and stood bowing her out, while she thanked him for his helpful advice.
She was crossing the street when Albert Frazier, seated in a buggy, with his brother, drove by. She thought he might get out and speak to her, but he simply tipped his hat and transferred his gaze to the back of the trotting bay horse. She noted that the sheriff, whom she had never met, had not noticed her nor his brother's salutation.
She went into the post-office to get some stamps, and when she came out Albert Frazier was waiting for her on the sidewalk.
I would have got out when I passed you just now, he said, beaming on her admiringly, "but I was with John, you see; and—well, to be plain, he doesn't know about me and you, and right now especially I don't want him to get on to it."
I understand, she said, coldly, looking away from him. "Aren't you afraid he will see us now?"
No. He has gone on home. His wife isn't well. Say, little girl, you are not mad, are you?
Oh no, she answered, forcing a smile.
Well, he bridled, "it is for your own good and the boys'. I'm having a tough job keeping John from suspecting the truth. If I hadn't got up that bogus letter from Texas he might have had his men searching the mountains, or watching you and that hobo circus man take food out to them in their cave. I'm doing all I can for you and I think you ought not to get on your high horse as you do sometimes."
Forgive me, she said, tremulously, the muscles of her lips twitching. "I know what you are doing, and I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart."
Her grateful words put him in a better mood. They were about to cross the street again; a wagon loaded with cotton-bales was passing. He was hardly justified in doing so, for she needed no assistance, but he took hold of her arm, and she felt his throbbing fingers pressing it. She drew away from him. "Don't!" she said, impulsively.
There you go again, he cried, but not angrily, for her natural restraint had been one of her chief attractions. Other girls had given in more easily and had been forgotten by him, but Mary was different. There was, moreover, always that consciousness on his part of her social superiority. He wanted her for a wife, and, situated as she now was, he had never felt so sure of her.
When are you going to let me give you that money? it now occurred to him to ask. "Tobe must be removed, you know."
A look of deep pain struggled in the features she was trying to keep passive. "I haven't quite given up the hope of getting it elsewhere," she finally said. "If I quite fail, I'll come to you. I've said so, and I'll keep my word."
At this moment a farmer came up to Frazier and said that he wanted to speak to him a moment. Excusing himself and bowing, Frazier left her.