9175
HILE these things were being enacted, Sanders, who had taken supper at Warren's, and Helen sat on the front veranda in the moonlight. Scarcely any other topic than Mam' Linda's trouble had been broached between them, though the ardent visitor had made many futile efforts to draw the girl's thought into more cheerful channels. It was shortly after ten o'clock, and Sanders was about to take his leave, when old Lewis emerged from the shadows of the house and was shambling along the walk towards the gate leading into the Dwight grounds, when Helen called out to him: “Where are you going, Uncle Lewis?”
He doffed his old slouch hat and stood bare and, bald, his smooth pate gleaming in the moonlight.
“I started over ter see Marse Carson, missy,” he said, in a low, husky voice. “I knows good en well dat he can't do a thing, but Linda's been beggin' me ever since she seed him en Mr. Garner drive up at de back gate. She thinks maybe dey l'arnt suppin 'bout Pete. I knows dey hain't, honey, 'ca'se dey ud 'a' been over 'fo' dis. Dar he is on de veranda now—oh, Marse Carson! Kin I see you er minute, suh?”
“Yes, I'll be right down, Lewis,” Carson answered, leaning over the railing.
As he came out of the house and approached across the grass, Sanders and Helen went to meet him. He bowed to Helen and nodded coldly to Sanders, to whom he had barely been introduced, and then with a furrowed brow he stood and listened as the old man humbly made his wants known.
“I'm sorry to say I haven't heard a thing, Uncle Lewis,” he said. “I'd have been right over to see Mam' Linda if I had. So far as I can see, everything is just the same.”
“Oh, young marster, I don't know what I'm ergoin' ter do,” the old negro groaned. “I don't see how Linda's gwine ter pass thoo another night. She's burnin' at de stake, Marse Carson, but thoo it all she blesses you, suh, fer tryin' so hard. My Gawd, dar she come now; she couldn't wait.”
He hastened across the grass to where the old woman stood, and caught hold of her arm.
“Whar Marse Carson? Whar young marster?” Linda cried, and then, catching sight of the trio, she tottered unaided towards them.
“Oh, young marster, I can't stan' it; I descan't!” she groaned, as she caught Dwight's hand and clung to it. “I am a mother ef Iamblack, an' dat my onliest child. My onliest child, young marster, en de po' boy is 'way over in dem mountains starvin' ter death wid dem men en dogs on his track. Oh, young marster, ol' Mammy Lindy is cert'nly crushed. Ef I could see Pete in his coffin I could put up wid it, but dis here—dis here”—she struck her great breast with her hand—“dis awful pain! I can't stan' it—I des can't!”
Carson lowered his head. There was a look of profound and tortured sympathy on his strong face. Garner came out of the house smoking a cigar and strolled across the grass towards them, but observing the situation he paused at a flowering rose-bush and stood looking down the moonlit street towards the court-house and grounds dimly outlined in the distance. Garner had never been considered very emotional; no one had ever detected any indications of surprise or sorrow in his face. He simply stood there to-night avoiding contact with the inevitable. As a criminal lawyer he had been obliged to inure himself to exhibitions of mental suffering as a physician inures himself to the presence of physical pain, and yet had Garner been questioned on the matter, he would have admitted that he admired Carson Dwight for the abundant possession of the very qualities he lacked. He positively envied his friend to-night. There was something almost transcendental in the heart-wrung homage the old woman was paying Carson. There was something else in the fact that the wonderful tribute to courage and manliness was being paid there without reservation or stint before the (and Garner chuckled) very eyes of the woman who had rejected Carson's love, and in the very presence of the masculine incongruity (as Garner viewed him) by her side. All the display of emotion,per se, had no claims on Garner's interest, but the sheer, magnificent play of it, and its palpable clutch on things of the past and possible events of the future, held him as would the unfolding evidence in an important law case.
“But oh, young marster,” old Linda was saying; “thoo it all you been my stay en comfort; not even God's been as good ter me as you have; you tried ter he'p po' ol' Lindy, but de Lawd on high done deserted her. Dar ain't no just, reasonable God dat will treat er po' old black 'oman es I'm treated, honey. In slavery en out I've done de best—de very best I could fer white en black, en now as I stan' here, after er long life, wid my feet in de grave, I don't deserve ter be punished wid dis slow fire. Go ter de white 'omen er dis here big Newnited States en ax' 'em how dey would feel in my fix. Ef de mothers in dis worl' could see me ter-night en read down in my heart, er river of tears would flow fer me. Dat so, en' yet de God I've prayed ter-night en mornin', in slavery en out, has turned His back on me. I've prayed, young marster, till my throat is sore, till now I hain't got no strength nor faith lef' in me, en—well, here I stand. You all see me.” Without a word, his face wrung with pain, Carson clasped her hand, and bowing to Helen and her companion he moved away and joined Garner.
“It was high time you were getting out of that,” Garner said, as he pulled at his cigar and drew his friend back towards the house. “You can do nothing, and letting Linda run on that way only works her up to greater excitement. But say, old man, what's the matter with you?”
Carson was white, and the arm Garner had taken was trembling.
“I don't know, Garner, but I simply can't stand anything like that,” Dwight said, his eyes on the group they had left. “It actually makes me sick. I—I can't stand it. Good-night, Garner; if you won't sleep here with me, I'll turn in. I—I—”
“Hush! what's that?” Garner interrupted, his ear bent towards the centre of the town.
It was a loud and increasing outcry from the direction of Neb Wynn's house. Several reports of revolvers were heard, and screams and shouts: “Head 'im off! Shoot 'im! There he goes!”
“Great God!” Garner cried, excitedly; “do you suppose it is—”
He did not finish, for Carson had raised his hand to check him and stood staring through the moonlight in the direction from which the sounds were coming. There were now audible the rapid and heavy foot-falls of many runners. On they came, the sound increasing as they drew nearer. They were only a few blocks distant now. Carson cast a hurried glance towards the Warren house. There, leaning on the fence, supported by Helen and Lewis, stood Linda, silent, motionless, open-mouthed. Sanders stood alone, not far away. On came the rushing throng. They were turning the nearest corner. Somebody, or something, was in the lead. Was it a man, an animal, a mad dog, a——
On it came forming the point of a human triangle. It was a man, but a man doubled to the earth by. fatigue and weakness, a man who ran as if on the point of sprawling at every desperate leap forward. His hard breathing now fell on Carson's ears.
“It's Pete!” he said, simply.
Garner laid a firm hand on his friend's arm.
“Now's the time for you to have common-sense,” he said. “Remember, you have lost all you care for by this thing—don't throw your very life into the damned mess. By God, yousha'n't!I'll—”
“Oh, Marse Carson, it's Pete!” It was Linda's voice, and it rang out high, shrill, and pleading above the roar and din. “Save 'im! Save 'im!”
Dwight wrenched his arm from the tense clutch of Garner and dashed through the gate, and was out in the street just as the negro reached him and stretched out his arms in breathless appeal and fell sprawling at his feet. The fugitive remained there on his knees, his hands clutching the young man's legs, while the mob gathered round.
“He's the one!” a hoarse voice exclaimed. “Kill 'im! Burn the black fiend!”
Standing pinioned to the ground by Pete's terrified clutch, Carson raised his hands above his head. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” he kept crying, as the crowd swayed him back and forth in their effort to lay hold of the fugitive who was clinging to his master with the desperate clutch of a drowning man.
“Stop! Listen!” Carson kept shouting, till those nearest him became calmer, and forming a determined ring, pressed the outer ones back.
“Well, listen!” these nearest cried. “See what he's got to say. It's Carson Dwight. Listen! He won't take up for him; he's a white man. He won't defend a black devil that—”
“I believe this boy is innocent!” Carson's voice rang out, “and I plead with you as men and fellow-citizens to give me a chance to prove it to your fullest satisfaction. I'll stake my life on what I say. Some of you know me, and will believe me when I say I'll put up every cent I have, everything I hold dear on earth, if you will only give me the chance.”
A fierce cry of opposition rose in the outskirts of the throng, and it passed from lip to lip till the storm was at its height again. Then Garner did what surprised Carson as much as anything he had ever seen from that man of mystery.
“Stop! Listen!” Garner thundered, in tones of such command that they seemed to sweep all other sounds out of the tumult. “Let's hear what he's got to say. It can do no harm! Listen, boys!”
The trick worked. Not three men in the excited mob associated the voice or personality with the friend and partner of the man demanding their attention. The tumult subsided; it fell away till only the low, whimpering groans of the frightened fugitive were heard. There was a granite mounting-block on the edge of the sidewalk, and feeling it behind him: Carson stood upon it, his hands on the woolly pate of the negro still crouching at his feet. As he did so, his swift glance took in many things about him: he saw Linda at the fence, her head bowed upon her arms as if to shut out from her sight the awful scene; near her stood Lewis, Helen, and Sanders, their expectant gaze upon him; at the window of his mother's room he saw the invalid clearly outlined against the lamplight behind her. Never had Carson Dwight put so much of his young, sympathetic soul into words. His eloquence streamed from him like a swollen torrent of logic. On the still night air his voice rose clear, firm, confident. It was no call to them to be merciful to the boy's mother bowed there like a thing cut from stone, for passion like theirs would have been inflamed by such advice, considering that the fugitive was charged with having slain a woman. But it was a calm call to patriotism. Carson Dwight plead with them to let their temperate action that night say to all the world that the day of unbridled lawlessness in the fair Southland was at an end. Law and order on the part of itself was the South's only solution of the problem laid like another unjust burden on a sorely tried and suffering people.
“Good, good! That's the stuff!” It was the raised voice of the adroit Garner, under his broad-brimmed hat in the edge of the crowd. “Listen, neighbors; let him go on!”
There was a fluttering suggestion of acquiescence in the stillness that followed Garner's words. But other obstacles were to arise. A clatter of galloping horses was heard round the corner on the nearest side street, and three men, evidently mountaineers, rode madly up. They reined in their panting, snorting mounts.
“What's the matter?” one of them asked, with an oath. “What are you waiting for? That's the damned black devil.”
“They are waiting, like reasonable human beings, to give this man a chance to establish his innocence,” Carson cried, firmly.
“They are, damn you, are they?” the same voice retorted. There was a pause; the horseman raised his arm; a revolver gleamed in the moonlight; there was a flash and a report. The crowd saw Carson Dwight suddenly lean to one side and raise his hands to the side of his head.
0183
“My God, he's shot!” Garner called out. “Who fired that gun?”
For an instant horrified silence reigned; Carson still stood pressing his hands to his temple.
No one spoke; the three restive horses were rearing and prancing about in excitement. Garner made his way through the crowd, elbowing them right and left, till he stood near the fugitive and his defender.
“A good white man has been shot,” he cried out—“shot by a man on one of those horses. Be calm. This is a serious business.”
But Carson, with his left hand pressed to his temple, now stood erect.
“Yes, some coward back there shot me,” he said, boldly, “but I don't think I am seriously wounded. He may fire on me again, as a dirty coward will do on a defenceless man, but as I stand here daring him to try it again I plead with you, my friends, to let me put this boy into jail. Many of you know me, and know I'll keep my word when I promise to move heaven and earth to give him a fair and just trial for the crime of which he is accused.”
“Bully for you, Dwight! My God, he's got grit!” a voice cried. “Let him have his way, boys. The sheriff is back there. Heigh, Jeff Braider, come to the front! You are wanted!”
“Is the sheriff back there?” Carson asked, calmly, in the strange silence that had suddenly fallen.
“Yes, here I am.” Braider was threading his way towards him through the crowd. “I was trying to spot the man that fired that shot, but he's gone.”
“You bet he's gone!” cried one of the two remaining horsemen, and, accompanied by the other, he turned and, they galloped away. This seemed a final signal to the crowd to acquiesce in the plan proposed, and they stood voiceless and still, their rage strangely spent, while Braider took the limp and cowering prisoner by the arm and drew him down from the block. Pete, only half comprehending, was whimpering piteously and clinging to Dwight.
“It's all right, Pete,” Carson said. “Come on, we'll lock you up in the jail where you'll be safe.” Between Carson and the sheriff, followed by Garner, Pete was the centre of the jostling throng as they moved off towards the jail.
“What dey gwine ter do, honey?” old Linda asked, finding her voice for the first time, as she leaned towards her young mistress.
“Put him in jail where he'll be safe,” Helen said. “It's all over now, mammy.”
“Thank God, thank God!” Linda cried, fervently. “I knowed Marse Carson wouldn't let 'em kill my boy—I knowed it—I knowed it!”
“But didn't somebody say Marse Carson was shot, honey?” old Lewis asked. “Seem ter me like I done heard—”
Pale and motionless, Helen stood staring after the departing crowd, now almost out of view. Carson Dwight's thrilling words still rang in her ears. He had torn her very heart from her breast and held it in his hands while speaking. He had stood there like a God among mere men, pleading as she would have pleaded for that simple human life, and they had listened; they had been swept from their mad purpose by the fearless sincerity and conviction of his young soul. They had shot at him while he stood a target for their uncurbed passion, and even then he had dared to taunt them with cowardice as he continued his appeal.
“Daughter, daughter!” her father on the upper floor of the veranda was calling down to her.
“What is it, father?” she asked.
“Do you know if Carson was hurt?” the Major asked, anxiously. “You know he said he wasn't, but it would be like him to pretend so, even if he were wounded. It may be only the excitement that is keeping him up, and the poor boy may be seriously injured.”
“Oh, father, do you think—?” Helen's heart sank; a sensation like nausea came over her, and she reeled and almost fell. Sanders, a queer, white look on his face, caught hold of her arm and supported her to a seat on the veranda. She raised her eyes to the face of her escort as she sank into a chair. “Do you think—did he look like he was wounded?”
“I could not make out,” Sanders answered, solicitously, and yet his lip was drawn tight and he stood quite erect. “I—I thought he was at first, but later when he continued to speak I fancied I was mistaken.”
“He put his hands to his temple,” Helen said, “and almost fell. I saw him steady himself, and then he really seemed stunned for a moment.”
Sanders was silent. “I remember her aunt said,” he reflected, in grim misery, his brows drawn together, “that she once had a sweetheart up here.Is this the man?”
9188
EN minutes later, while they still sat on the veranda waiting for Carson's return, they saw Dr. Stone, the Dwights' family physician, alight from his horse at the hitching-post nearby.
“I wonder what that means?” the Major asked. “He must have been sent for on Carson's account and thinks he is at home. Speak to him, Lewis.”
Hearing his name called, Dr. Stone approached, his medicine-case in hand.
“Were you looking for Carson?” Major Warren asked.
“Why, no,” answered the doctor, in surprise; “they said Mrs. Dwight was badly shocked. Was Carson really hurt?”
“We were trying to find out,” said the Major. “He went on to the jail with the sheriff, determined to see Pete protected.”
There was a sound of an opening door and old Dwight came out to the fence, hatless, coatless, and pale. “Come right in, doctor,” he said, grimly. “There's no time to lose.”
“Is it as bad as that?” Stone asked.
“She's dying, if I'm any judge,” was the answer. “She was standing at the window and heard that pistol-shot and saw Carson was hit. She fell flat on the floor. We've done everything, but she's still unconscious.”
The two men went hastily into the room where Mrs. Dwight lay, and they were barely out of sight when Helen noticed some one rapidly approaching from the direction of the jail. It was Keith Gordon, and as he entered the gate he laid his hand on Linda's shoulder and said, cheerily, “Don't worry now; Pete is safe and the mob is dispersing.”
“But Carson,” Major Warren asked; “was he hurt?”
“We don't exactly know yet.” Keith was now at Helen's side, looking into her wide-open, anxious eyes. “He wouldn't stop a second to be examined. He was afraid something might occur to alter the temper of the mob and wasn't going to run any risks. The crowd, fortunately for Pete, was made up mostly of towns-people. One man from the mountains, a blood relative of the Johnsons, could have kindled the blaze again with a word, and Carson knew it. He was more worried about his mother than anything else. She was at the window and he saw her fall; he urged me to hurry back to tell her he was all right. I'll go in.”
But he was detained by the sound of voices down the street. It was a group of half a dozen men, and in their midst was Carson Dwight, violently protesting against being supported.
“I tell you I'm all right!” Helen heard him saying. “I'm not a baby, Garner; let me alone!”
“But you are bleeding like a stuck pig,” Garner said. “Your handkerchief is literally soaked. And look at your shirt!”
“It's only skin-deep,” Carson cried. “I was stunned for a moment when it hit me, that's all.” Helen, followed by her father and Sanders, advanced hurriedly to meet the approaching group. They gave way as she drew near, and she and Dwight faced each other.
“The doctor is in the house, Carson,” she said, tenderly; “go in and let him examine your wound.”
“It's only a scratch, Helen, I give you my word,” he laughed, lightly. “I never saw such a squeamish set of men in my life. Even stolid old Bill Garner has had seven duck fits at the sight of my red handkerchief. How's my mother?”
Helen's eyes fell. “Your father says he is afraid it is quite serious,” she said. “The doctor is with her; she was unconscious.”
They saw Carson wince; his face became suddenly rigid. He sighed. “It may not be so well after all. Pete is safe for awhile, but if she—if my mother were to—” He went no further, simply staring blankly into Helen's face. Suddenly she put her hand up to his blood-stained temple and gently drew aside the matted hair. Their eyes met and clung together.
“You must let Dr. Stone dress this at once,” she said, more gently, Sanders thought, than he had ever heard a woman speak in all his life. He turned aside; there was something in the contact of the two that at once maddened him and drew him down to despair. He had dared to hope that she would consent to become his wife, and yet the man to whom she was so gently ministering had once been her lover. Yes, that was the man. He was sure of it now. Dwight's attitude, tone of voice, and glance of the eye were evidence enough. Besides, Sanders asked himself, where was the living man who could know Helen Warren and not be her slave forever afterwards?
“Well, I'll go right in,” Carson said, gloomily. He and Keith and Garner were passing through the gate when Linda called to him as she came hastily forward, but Keith and Garner were talking and Carson did not hear the old woman's voice. Helen met her and paused. “Let him alone to-night, mammy,” she said, almost bitterly, it seemed to Sanders, who was peering into new depths of her character. “Yourboy is safe, but Carson is wounded—wounded, I tell you, and his mother may be dying. Let him alone for to-night, anyway.”
“All right, honey,” the old woman said; “but I'm gwine ter stay here till de doctor comes out en ax 'im how dey bofe is. My heart is full ter-night, honey. Seem 'most like God done listen ter my prayers after all.”
Sanders lingered with the pale, deeply distraught young lady on the veranda till Keith came out of the house, passed through the gate, and strode across the grass towards them.
“They are both all right, thank God!” he announced. “The doctor says Mrs. Dwight has had a frightful shock but will pull through. Carson was right; his wound was only a scratch caused by the grazing bullet. But God knows it was a close call, and I think there is but one man in the State low enough to have fired the shot.”
When Keith and Sanders had left her, Helen went with dragging, listless feet up the stairs to her room.
Lighting her lamp, she stood looking at her image in the mirror on her bureau. How strangely drawn and grave her features appeared! It seemed to her that she looked older and more serious than she had ever looked in her life.
Dropping her glance to her hands, she noted something that sent a thrill through her from head to foot. It was a purple smudge left on her fingers by their contact with Carson Dwight's wound. Stepping across to her wash-stand, she poured some water into the basin, and was on the point of removing the stain when she paused and impulsively raised it towards her lips. She stopped again, and stood with her hand poised in mid-air. Then a thought flashed into her brain. She was recalling the contents of the fatal letter of Carson's to her poor brother; the hot blood surged over her. She shuddered, dipped her hands, and began to lave them in the cooling water. Carson was noble; he was brave; he had a great and beautiful soul, and yet he had written that letter to her dead brother. Yes, she had openly encouraged Sanders, and she must be honorable. At any rate, he was a good, clean man and his happiness was at stake. Yes, she supposed she would finally marry him. She would marry him.
9193
ARSON was slightly weakened by the loss of blood and the unusual tax on his strength, and yet, wearing a strip of sticking-plaster as the only sign of his wound, he was at the office betimes the next morning, anxious to make an early start into the arrangements for a hurried preliminary trial of his client. Garner, as, was that worthy's habit when kept up late at night, was still asleep in the den when Helen called.
Carson was at his desk, bending over a law-book, his pipe in his mouth, when, looking up, he saw her standing in the doorway and rose instantly, a flush of gratification on his face.
“I've come to see you about poor Pete,” she began, her pale face taking on color as if from the heat of his own. “I know it's early, but I couldn't wait. Mam' Linda was in my room this morning at the break of day, sitting by my bed rocking back and forth and moaning.”
“She's uneasy, of course,” Carson said. “That's only natural of a mother placed as she is.”
“Oh yes,” Helen answered, with a sigh. “She was thoroughly happy last night over his rescue, but now you see she's got something else to worry about. She now wonders if he will be allowed a fair trial.”
“The boy must have that,” Carson said, and then his face clouded over and he held himself more erect as he glanced past her out at the door. “Is Mr. Sanders—did he come with you? You see, I met him on the way to your house as I came down.”
“Yes, he's there talking over the trouble with my father,” Helen made rather awkward answer. “He came in to breakfast, but—but I wasn't at the table. I was with Mam' Linda.” And thereupon Helen blushed more deeply over the reflection that these last words might sound like intentional and even presumptuous balm to the sensitiveness of a rejected suitor.
“I was afraid he might be waiting on the outside,” Carson said, awkwardly. “I want to show hospitality to a stranger in town, you know, but somehow I can't exactly do my full duty in his case.”
“You are not expected to,” and Helen had tripped again, as her fresh color proved. “I mean, Carson—” But she could go no further.
“Well, I am unequal to it, anyway,” Carson replied, with tightening lips and a steady, honest stare. “I don't dislike him personally. I hold no actual grudge against him. From all I've heard of him he is worthy of any woman's love and deepest respect. I'm simply off the committee of entertainment during his stay.”
“I—I—didn't come down to talk about Mr. Sanders,” Helen found herself saying, as the shortest road from the trying subject. “It seems to me you ought to hate me. I have, I know, through my concern over Pete, caused you endless trouble and loss of political influence. Last night you did what no other man would or could have done. Oh, it was so brave, so noble, so glorious! I laid awake nearly all night thinking about it. Your wonderful speech rang over and over in my ears. I was too excited to cry while it was actually going on, but I shed tears of joy when I thought it all over afterwards.”
“Oh, that wasn't anything!” Dwight said, forcing a light tone, though his flush had died out. “I knew you and Linda wanted the boy saved, and it wasn't anything. I ran no risk. It was only fun—a game of football with a human pigskin snatched here and there by a frenzied mob of players. When it fell of its own accord at my feet, and I had laid hands on it, I would have put it over the line or died trying, especially when you and Sanders—who has beaten me in a grander game—stood looking on. Oh, I'm only natural! I wanted to win because—first, because it was your wish, and—becausethat man was there.”
Helen's glance fell to the ragged carpet which, clogged with the dried mud of a recent rain, stretched from her feet to the door. Then she looked helplessly round the room at the dusty, open bookshelves, Garner's disreputable desk strewn with pamphlets, printed forms of notes and mortgages, cigar-stubs, and old letters. Her eyes rested longer on the dingy, small-paned windows to which the cobwebs clung.
“You always bring up his name,” she said, almost resentfully. “Is it really quite fair to him?”
“No, it isn't,” he admitted, quickly. “And from this moment that sort of banter is at an end. Now, what can I do for you? You came to speak about Pete.”
She hesitated for a moment. It was almost as if, after all she had said, that if the subject was to be dropped, hers, not his, should be the final word.
“I came to tell you that Mam' Linda and I have just left the jail. She was so wrought up and weak that I made Uncle Lewis take her home in a buggy. He says she didn't close her eyes all last night and this morning refused to touch her breakfast. Then the sight of Pete in his awful condition completely unnerved her. Did you get a good look at him last night, Carson—I mean in the light?”
“No.” Dwight shrugged his broad shoulders. “But he looked bad enough as it was.”
“The sight made me ill,” Helen said. “The jailer let us go into the narrow passage and we saw him through the bars of the cell. I would never have known him in the world. His clothing was all in shreds and his face and arms were gashed and tom, his feet bare and bleeding. Poor mammy simply stood peering through at him and crying, 'My boy, my baby, my baby!' Carson, I firmly believe he is innocent.”
“So do I,” Dwight made prompt answer. “That is, I am reasonably sure of it. I shall knowpositivelywhen I talk to him to-day.”
“Then you will secure his liberty, won't you?” Helen asked, eagerly. “I promised mammy I'd talk to you and bring her a report of what you said.”
“I am going to do everything in my power,” Dwight said; “but I don't want to raise false hopes only to disappoint you and Linda all the more later.”
“Oh, Carson, tell me what you mean. You don't seem sure of the outcome.”
“You must try to look-at the thing bravely, Helen,” Dwight said, firmly. “There is more in it than an inexperienced girl like you could imagine. I think we can arrange for a trial to-morrow, but it seems often that it is while such trials are in progress that the people become most wrought up; and then, you know, to-day and to-night must pass, and—” He broke off, avoiding her earnest stare of inquiry.
“Go on, Carson, you can trust me, if Iamonly a girl.”
“To tell you the truth,” Dwight complied, “it is the next twenty-four hours that I dread most. That mob last night, it seems, was made up for the most part of men here in town, workers in the factories and iron-foundries—many of whom know me personally and have faith in my promises. If it were left with them I'd have little to fear, but it is the immediate neighbors of the dead man and woman, the members of the gang of White Caps who whipped Pete and feel themselves personally affronted by what they believe to be his crime—they are the men, Helen, from whom I fear trouble.”
Helen was pale and her hands trembled, though she strove bravely to be calm.
“You still fear that they may rise and come—and—take—him—out—of—jail? Oh!” She clasped her hands tightly and stood facing him, a look of terror growing in her beautiful eyes. “And can't something be done? Mr. Sanders spoke this morning of telegraphing the Governor to send troops to guard the jail.”
“Ah, that's it!” said Carson, grimly. “But who is to take that responsibility on himself. I can't, Helen. It might be the gravest, most horrible mistake a man ever made, one that would haunt him to his very grave. The Governor, not understanding the pulse of the people here, might take the word of some one on the spot. Garner and I know him pretty well. We've been of political service to him personally, and he would do all he could if we telegraphed him, but—we couldn't do it. By the stroke of our pen we might make orphans of the children of scores of honest white men, and widows of their wives, for the bayonets and shot of a regiment of soldiers would not deter such men from what they regard as sacred duty to their families and homes. If the Governor's troops did military duty, they would have to hew down human beings like wheat before a scythe. The very sight of their uniforms would be like a red rag to a mad bull. It would be a calamity such as has never taken place in the State. I can't have a hand in that, Helen, and not another thinking man in the South would. I love the men of the mountains too well. They are turning against me politically because we differ somewhat, but I simply can't see them shot like rabbits in a net. Pete is, after all, onlyone—they are many, and they are conscientiously acting according to their lights. The machinery of modern law moves too slowly for them. They have seen crime triumphant too often to trust to any verdict other than that reached from their own reasoning.”
“I see; I see!” Helen cried, her face blanched. “I don't blame you, Carson, but poor mammy; what can I say to her?”
“Do your best to pacify and encourage her,” Dwight answered, “and we'll hope for the best.”
He stood in the doorway and watched her as she walked off down the little street. “Poor, dear girl!” he mused. “I had to tell her the truth. She's too brave and strong to be treated like a child.”
He turned back to his desk and sat down. There was a deep frown on his face. “I came within an inch of losing my grip on myself,” his thoughts ran on. “Another moment and I'd have let her know how I am suffering. She must never know that—never!”
9200
ALF an hour later Garner came in. He walked about the room, a half smile on his face, sniffing the air as if with unctuous delight, casting now and then an amused glance at his inattentive partner.
“What do you mean? What are you up to now?” Carson asked, slightly irritated over having his thoughts disturbed.
“She's been here,” Garner answered. “She told me so just now, and I want to inhale the heavenly perfume she left in this disreputable hole. Good Lord, you don't mean that you let her see those rotten slippers of mine! If you'd been half a friend you'd have kicked them out of sight, but you didn't care; you've got on a clean collar and necktie, and that plaster on your alabaster brow would admit you to the highest realm of the elect—provided the door-keeper was a woman and knew how you got your ticket. Huh! I really don't know what will become of me if I associate with you much longer. Your conduct last night upset me. I turned in to bed about two o'clock. Bob Smith was doing night-work at the hotel, and he came in and had to be told the whole thing; and he'd no sooner got to bed than Keith came in, and Bob had to hearhisversion. I had a corking dime novel, but it was too tame after the racket you went through. TheRed AvengerI was trying to get interested in couldn't hold a candle, even in his bareback ride strapped to a wild mustang in a mad dash across a burning prairie, to your horse-block rescue act. Whatyoudid wasnew, and I wasthere. The burning prairie business has been overdone and the love interest in theRed Avengerwas weak, while yours—well!”
Garner sat down in his creaking revolving-chair and thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest.
“Mine?” Carson said, coldly. “I don't exactly see your point.”
“Well, the love business was there all the same,” Garner laughed, significantly; “for, thrilling as it all was, I had an eye to that. I couldn't keep from wondering how I'd have felt if I'd been in your place and had your chances.”
“Mychances!” Dwight frowned. It was plain that he did not like Garner's bold encroachments on his natural reserve.
“Yes, your chances, dang you!” Garner retorted, with a laugh. “Do you know, my boy, that as a psychological proposition, the biggest, most earnest, most credulous-looking ass on earth is the man who comes to a strange town to do his courting and has nothing to do but that one thing, at stated hours through the day or evening, while everybody around him is going about attending to business. I've watched that fellow hanging around the office of the hotel, kicking his heels together to kill time between visits, and in spite of all I've heard about his stability and moral worth I can't respect him. Hang it, if I were in his place and wanted to spend a week here, I'd peddle cigars on the street—I'd certainly havesomethingto occupy my spare time. But I'll be flamdoodled if you didn't give him something to think about last night. Of all things, it strikes me, that could make a man like that sick—sick as a dog at the very stomach of his hopes—would be to see a former sweetheart of his fair charmer standing under shot and shell in front of her ancestral mansion protecting her servants from a howling mob like that, and later to see the defender, with the step of a David with a sling, come traipsing back victorious in her cause, all gummed up with blood and fighting still like hell to keep his friends from choking him to death in sheer admiration. She and Sanders may be engaged, but I'll be dadblamed if I wouldn't be worried if I were in his place.”
“I wish you would let up, Garner,” Dwight said, almost angrily. “I know you mean well, but you don't understand the situation, and I have told you before that I don't like to talk about it.”
“Ididwant to tell you how it was rubbed in on him this morning,” Garner said, only half apologetically, “and if you don't care, I'll finish.”
Carson said nothing. Spots of red were on his cheeks, and with a teasing smile Garner went on: “I had stopped to speak to her on the corner just now, when the Major and his Highness from Augusta joined us. The old man was simply bursting with enthusiasm over what you accomplished last night. According to the Major, you were the highest type of Southerner since George Washington, and the obtuse old chap kept turning to Sanders for his confirmation of each and every statement. Sanders was doing it with slow nods and inarticulate grunts, about as readily as a seasick passenger specifies items for his dinner, while Helen stood there blushing like a red rose. Well,” Garner concluded, as he kicked off one of his untied shoes to put on a slipper, “it may be cold comfort to you, viewed under the search-light of all the gossip in the air, but your blond rival is so jealous that the green juice of it is oozing from the pores of his skin.”
“It isn't fair to him to look at it as you are,” Dwight said. “Under the same circumstances he could have taken my place.”
“Under the same circumstances, yes,” Garner grinned. “But it is circumstances that make things what they are in this world, and I tell you that fellow needs circumstances worse than any man I ever saw. He is worried. I stopped and watched him as he walked on with her, and I declare it looked to me like he kicked himself under his long coat at every step. Say, look! Isn't that Pole Baker across the street? The fellow behind the gray horse. Yes, that's who it is. I'll call him. He may have news from the mountains.”
Answering the summons, Baker led his horse across the street to where the two friends stood waiting on the edge of the pavement.
“Have they heard of the arrest over there, Pole?” Garner asked.
“Yes,” the farmer drawled out. “I was at George Wilson's store this morning, where a big gang was waiting for food supplies from their homes. Dan Willis fetched the report—by-the-way, fellows, just between us three, I'll bet he was the skunk that fired that shot. I'm pretty sure of it, from what I've picked up from some of his pals.”
“But what are they going to do?” Carson asked, anxiously.
“That's exactly what I come in town to tell you,” answered the mountaineer. “They are taking entirely a new tack. A report has leaked out that Sam Dudlow was seen prowling about Johnson's just 'fore dark the night of the murder, and they are dead on his track. They are concentrating their forces to catch him, and, since Pete Warren is safe in jail, they say they are going to let 'im stay thar awhile anyway.”
“Good!” Garner cried, rubbing his hands together. “We've got two chances, now, my boy—to prove Pete innocent at court or by their catching the right man. In my opinion, Dudlow is the coon that did the Job, and I believe he did it alone. Pete is too chicken-hearted and he's been too well brought up. Now let's get to work. You go talk to the prisoner, Carson, and put him through that honeyfugling third degree of yours. He'll confess if he did it, and if he did, may the Lord have mercy on his soul! I won't help defend him.”
“That's whar I stand,” Pole Baker said. “It's enough trouble savin'innocentniggers these days without bothering over the guilty. Shyster lawyers tryin' to protect the bad ones for a little fee is at the bottom of all this lawlessness anyway.”