One cloudy night a few days later Mostyn was walking home from the river where he had spent the day fishing. Thinking that he might shorten the way by so doing, he essayed a direct cut through the dense wood intervening between the river and Drake's. It was a mistake, for he had gone only a short way when he discovered that he had lost his bearings. He wandered here and there for several hours, and it was only when the moon, which had been under a cloud since sundown, came out, that he finally found a path which led him in the right direction.
He was nearing the house when in the vague light, due to the moon's being veiled again, he saw a man stealthily climb over the fence, stand as if watching the house for a moment, and then creep through the rose bushes and other shrubbery to the side of the house beneath the window of Dolly's room.
Wondering, and suspecting he knew not what, Mostyn crept to the fence, and, half-hidden behind an apple tree, he stood watching. The figure of the man was quite distinct against the white wall of the building, and yet it was impossible to make out who he was. Then a surprising thing happened. Mostyn saw the figure raise its hands to its lips, and a low whistle was emitted. There was a pause. Then the window of Dolly's room was cautiously raised, and her head appeared as she leaned over the sill.
"Is your father at home?" a muffled masculine voice was heard inquiring.
"No, he's been gone all day." It was plainly Dolly who was speaking.
The stares of the two seemed to meet. There was a pause. It was as if the girl's head had furtively turned to look back into the room.
"Then come down. Meet me at the front gate. I'll keep hid."
"Very well—in a minute."
She was gone. Mostyn saw the man glide along the side of the house, treading the grass softly and making his way round to the front gate. Filled with suspicion and hot fury, Mostyn kept his place, afraid that any movement on his part might too soon betray his presence to the man he now saw near the gate.
"My God," he cried, "she's like all the rest! I've been a fool—me, of all men! Here I've been thinking she was to be for me and me alone. This has been going on for God only knows how long. She has been fooling me with her drooping lashes and flushed cheeks. I was ready to marry her—fool, fool that I was. She might, for reasons of her own, have married me. There is no knowing what a woman will do. Bah! What a mollycoddle I have been! She, and he too, perhaps, have been laughing at me for the blind idiot I am—me, the man who thought he knew all there was to know about women."
Mostyn heard the front door open softly. It was just as softly closed, and then the girl crossed the porch and advanced to the gate. She and the man stood whispering for a moment, and then they passed out at the gate and, side by side, went into the wood beyond the main road.
Filled with chagrin, to which an odd sort of despair clung like a moist garment, Mostyn advanced along the fence to the gate and entered the yard. Putting his rod and game-bag down, he seated himself on the step of the porch. His blood seemed cold and clogged in his veins. He could not adjust himself to the situation. He could not have met a greater disappointment. The discovery had completely wrecked his already strained faith in the purity of woman. He sat watching the moon as the clouds shifted, now thinly, now thickly, before it. He heard a step in the wood. Some one was coming. He started to rise and flee the spot, but a dogged sort of resentment filled him. Why should he let the matter disturb him? Why should he conceal from any one the knowledge of her shame? He remained where he was. The step was louder, firmer. It was Dolly, and she was now at the gate. He saw her, as with head hung low, she put her hand on the latch. She opened the gate, entered, and paused, her face toward the wood. There she stood, not aware of the silent, all but crouching spectator behind her. Mostyn heard something like a sigh escape her lips. Then a furious impulse to denounce her, to let her know that he now knew her as she was, flashed through him. He rose and went to her. He expected her to start and shrink from him as he approached, but she simply looked at him in mild surprise.
"Have you just got home?" she inquired. "Mother and I were worried about you, but George and Uncle John said you were all right."
He stared straight at her. She would have noted the sinister glare in his eyes but for the half darkness.
"I was lost for a while," he said. "I got back just in time to see a man climb over the fence and whistle to you."
"Oh, you saw that!" She exhaled a deep breath. "I'm sorry you did, but it can't be helped. I suppose you know everything now."
"I can guess enough," he answered, with a bitterness she failed to catch. "I don't know who he was, but that is no affair of mine."
"I ought to have told you all along." She was avoiding his eyes. "I felt that I could trust you fully, but I was ashamed to have you know. I was anxious for you to take away as good an opinion of us all as was possible. You have been so kind to us. I'm sure no such degradation has ever come into your family."
"Nothing likethis, at any rate," he answered. "As far as I know the—women of my family have—"
"Have what? What are you talking about? Do you think—do you imagine—is it possible that you—who do you think that man was?"
"I have said I did not know," he retorted, frigidly.
She stepped closer to him. She put her little hand on his arm appealingly. She raised her fathomless eyes to his. "Oh, you mustn't think it was any young man—any—Why—it was—I see I must tell you everything. That was Tobe Barnett. He has wanted to help me for a long time, and he got the chance to-night. He knows the one great sorrow of my life. Mr. Mostyn, my father is a moonshiner. I don't mean that he is a regular member of a gang, but he helps a certain set of them, and to-day Tobe accidentally heard of a plan of the Government officers to surround the still where my father happens to be to-night. He heard it through a cousin of his who is employed in the revenue detective service. Tobe is law-abiding; he didn't want to have anything to do with such things, but he knew how it would break my heart to have my father arrested, so he came to me late this afternoon to see if father had returned. He was going to tell him, you see, and warn him not to be with the men to-night. But father was still away. Tobe went home; he said he would come later to see if father was back. I sat up waiting for him all alone in my room in the dark. I did not want George or Ann or my mother to know about it. So just now when Tobe came to my window and found that father had not returned, he determined to go to the still and warn him. He may get there in time, and he may not, though it is not far. I promised to wait here at the gate till he returns. I could not possibly close my eyes in sleep with a thing like that hanging over me."
Her voice shook; she turned her head aside. The cold mass of foul suspicion in Mostyn's breast gave way to a higher impulse. A sense of vast relief was on him. He would have taken her into his arms, confessed his error, and humbly begged her forgiveness, but for an unlooked-for interruption. There was a sound in the distance. It was the steady beat of horses' hoofs on the hard clay road in the direction of Ridgeville.
"It is the revenue men!" Dolly gasped. "Quick, we must hide!" And, catching his hand as impulsively as a startled child, she drew him behind a hedge of boxwood. "Crouch down low!" she cried. "We must not let them see us. They would think—"
She failed to finish. Seated on the dewy grass, side by side, they strained their ears for further sounds of the approaching horsemen. Mostyn marveled over her undaunted calmness. She still held his hand as if unconscious of what she was doing, and he noted that there was only a slight tremor in it. The horses were now quite near. A gruff voice in command was distinctly heard.
"We'll dismount at the creek," it said, "creep up on the scamps, and bag the whole bunch. If they resist, boys, don't hesitate to fire. This gang has bothered us long enough. I'm tired of their bold devilment."
"All right, Cap!" a voice returned. "We'll make it all right this time. I know the spot."
A dozen horsemen, armed with rifles, came into view and passed on, leaving a hovering cloud of dust in their wake. Moving swiftly, and paler and graver, Dolly stood up, her steady gaze on the departing men.
"Did you hear that?" she said, dejectedly. "He ordered his men to—to fire. Who knows? Perhaps before daybreak I shall have no—" She checked herself, her small hand at her throat. "I shall have no father, and with all his faults I love him dearly. He doesn't think moonshining is wrong. Some of the most respectable persons—even ministers—wink at it, if they don't actually take part. My father, like many others, has an idea that the Government robbed the Southern people of all they had, and they look on the law against whisky-making as an infringement on their rights. I wish my father would obey the law, but he doesn't, and now this has come. He may be killed or put in prison."
"You must try not to give way," Mostyn said, full of sympathy. "Don't forget that Barnett has had time, perhaps, to warn them, and they may escape."
"Oh, I hope so—I do—I do!" Still holding his hand, she led him back to the gate, and stood resting her arms on its top, now almost oblivious of his presence. Half an hour dragged by, during which no remark of his could induce her to speak. Presently a low whistle came from the wood across the road.
"That's Tobe now!" she cried. "Oh, I wonder if he was in time!" Then, as she reached for the gate-latch he heard her praying: "God have mercy—oh, Lord pity me—pity me!"
She opened the gate and passed out. He hung back, feeling that she might not desire his presence at the meeting with Barnett, but again she grasped his hand.
"Come on," she said. "Tobe will understand."
Crossing the road and walking along the edge of the wood for about a hundred yards, they were presently checked by another whistle, and the gaunt mountaineer emerged from the dense underbrush. Seeing Mostyn, he paused as if startled, saying nothing, his eyes shifting helplessly.
"It's Mr. Mostyn—he knows everything, Tobe," Dolly threw in quickly. "He's on our side—he's a friend. Now, tell me, what did you do?"
"Got to the still just in the nick o' time," Tobe said, panting, for he had been running. "The gang started to handle me purty rough at first—thought I was a spy—but your pa stepped in an' made 'em have sense. They couldn't move any of their things on such short notice, but the last one escaped just as the officers was ready for the rush."
"But my father?" Dolly inquired, anxiously.
"He's all right—he said he'd be home before morning. He has no idea that you know about it."
"I'm glad of that. Oh, Tobe, you have been good to me to-night!" Dolly took the humble fellow's hands and shook them affectionately.
"Well, if you hain't been good to me an' mine nobody ever was to a soul onthisearth," Barnett half sobbed. "Mr. Mostyn, maybe you don't know what Miss Dolly has—"
"Yes, I do, Barnett," Mostyn declared. "I know."
"Now, go back to Annie and Robby, Tobe," Dolly advised. "Poor girl! She will be uneasy about you."
"No, she won't bother," Barnett answered, firmly. "She'd be willing to have me go to jail to help you, Miss Dolly. She is that grateful she'd cut off her hands to oblige you, an' she will be powerful happy when she knows this went through all right. Good night, Miss Dolly; good night, Mr. Mostyn."
Dolly and her companion turned back toward the house as Barnett trudged off down the road.
"Well, I'm glad it came out all right," Mostyn said, lamely; but Dolly, still listless, made no reply. Silently she walked by his side, her pretty head down. An impulse of the heart impelled him to take her hand. He was drawing her yielding form to him when she looked straight into his eyes.
"I was wondering—" she began, but checked herself.
"What were you wondering, Dolly?" The fire of his whole being was roused; it throbbed in his lips, thickened his tongue, and blazed in his eyes. It filled his voice like a stream from a bursting dam.
"Why, I was wondering"—her sweet face glowed in the moonlight as from the reflection of his own—"I was wondering how you happened to think that Tobe was some young man that—that I cared enough for to—"
"I was insanely jealous." Mostyn put his arm about her, drew her breast against his, and pressed his lips to hers. "I was mad and crazy. I couldn't think—I couldn't reason. Dolly, Iloveyou. I love you with all my heart."
"Yes, I know." She seemed not greatly surprised at the avowal. She put her hand on the side of his face and gently stroked it. Then, of her own accord, she kissed him lightly on the lips. "There," she said, "that will do for to-night. I ought not to be here like this—you know that—but I am happy, and—"
"You have not said"—he held her closer to him, now by gentle force, and kissed her again—"you have not said that you love me."
"What is the use?" she sighed, contentedly. "You have known it all these years. I have never cared for any one else, or thought of any one else since you were here before. I was only a child, but I was old enough to know my heart. You are the only man who ever held me this way. There is no use saying it—you know I love you. You know I couldn't help it. I'd be a queer girl if I didn't."
He tried to detain her at the steps, but she would not stay. She entered the house, leaving the door open so that he might go up to his room.
The next day was Sunday. Mostyn did not see Dolly at breakfast. Drake sat at the head of the table as unconcerned as if nothing unusual had happened to him in the night. He spoke to John Webb and Mrs. Drake about the meeting to be held that day at the church and praised the preacher's powers and sincerity. It was the philosophical Webb who had something to say more in harmony with Mostyn's reflections.
"I understand the revenue men made another haul last night," he said, a watchful eye on his brother-in-law.
"You don't say?" Drake calmly extended his cup and saucer to Ann, to be handed to George, and from him to Mrs. Drake, for a filling. "Whose place was it?"
"Don't know whose still it was," Webb answered, "but they landed the whole shootin'-match—sour mash, kegs, barrels, jugs, demijohns, copper b'ilers, worms, a wagon or two, and some horses."
"Who did they ketch?" Drake asked. "I reckon it happened when I was t'other side the mountain."
"Nobody, it seems," Webb answered. "The gang was too slick for 'em. They must have had sentinels posted around the whole shebang."
Drake apparently found no further interest in the subject, for he began to talk of other matters. He had heard that Saunders was expected to spend the day at his farm, and added to Mostyn: "I reckon you will see 'im an' get news of business."
"I almost hope he won't mention it," the banker smiled. "I have scarcely thought once of the bank. I never allow my mind to rest on it when I am off for a change like this."
"Fine idea," Drake said, "but I don't see how you can help it, 'specially if you are concerned in the rise and fall of market-prices. But I reckon you've got that down to a fine point."
Mostyn made some inconsequential response, but Drake's remark had really turned his thoughts into other channels. After all, he reflected, with a sudden chill of fear, how could he know but that some of his investments were not so prosperous as when he had left Atlanta? He became oblivious of the conversation going on around him. He failed to hear the cautious dispute over some trifle between George and Ann.
A little later, Mostyn was walking to and fro on the lawn in front of the house when Dolly came down-stairs. She had on the pretty pink dress he had admired so much the day she had tried it on for the first time. He threw down his cigar and went to the steps to meet her, his troubled thoughts taking wing at the sight of her animated face.
"Why have you not worn it before?" he said, sweeping her slender figure from head to foot in open admiration.
"For the best reason in the world," she laughed. "I only got the cash to pay for it yesterday, and I would not wear it till it was mine. I collected some money a man owed me for giving private lessons to his children and sent it right away to the dressmaker."
"It is simply wonderful," he said, glad that no one else was present. "I'm proud of you, little girl. You are the most beautiful creature that ever lived."
"Oh, I don't know!" She shook her head wistfully. "I wish I could think so, but I can't. There are so many other things that count for more in the world than good looks. Do you know I didn't sleep more than an hour last night?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "What was the matter?"
She glanced through the open door into the house as if to see if any one was within hearing. Then she came nearer to him, looking down on him from the higher step on which she stood, her pretty brow under a frown. "I was bothered after I went to bed," she said, frankly. "I don't think I ought to—to have kissed you as I did there at the gate. I would have scolded Ann for the same thing, even if she were as old as I am. I trust you—I can't help it—and last night I was so happy over Tobe's message that—Tell me honestly. Do you think that a man loses respect for a girl who will act as—as boldly as I did? Tell me; tell me truly."
"Not if he loves her as I do you, Dolly," he said, under his breath, "and knows that she feels the same way. Don't let a little thing like that trouble you. It is really your wonderful purity that makes you even think of it."
She seemed partially satisfied, for she gave him her glance more confidingly. "It is queer that I should have let it worry me so much," she said. "It was as it some inner voice were reproving me. All sorts of fears and queer ideas flocked about me. I—I am just a simple mountain girl, and you now know what my—my people are like. Why, if my father were now in prison I could not refuse to—to stick to him as a daughter should, and for a man in your position to—to—" She broke off, her eyes now on the ground.
"You mustn't think any more about it," he managed to say, and rather tardily. "You can't help what he does." Mostyn's passionate gaze was fixed on her again. "How pretty, how very pretty that dress is!" he flared out. "Are you going to church this morning?"
"Oh yes," she replied, half smiling down into his eyes. "I must set a good example to Ann and George."
Burning under the memory of her kiss of the night before, Mostyn told himself that he must by all means see her alone that day. He must hold the delicious creature in his arms again, feel the warmth of her lips, and capture the assurance of a love the like of which was a novelty even to him.
"What are you thinking about?" she suddenly demanded.
"I am thinking, Dolly, that you have the most maddening mouth that ever woman had, and your eyes—"
"Don't, don't!" she said, with a shudder. "I can't explain it, but, somehow, when you look and speak that way—"
"I can't help it," he blurted out, warmly. "You make my very brain whirl. I can hardly look at you. It is all I can do to keep from snatching you to my arms again, even here where any one could see us. Say, darling, do me a favor. Don't go to church to-day. Make some excuse. Stay at home with me and let the others go. I have a thousand things to tell you."
The slight, shifting frown on her face steadied itself. She gave him a swift glance, then avoided his amorous eyes.
"Oh, I couldn't do that,even for you," she faltered. "They have asked me to sing in a quartette. That is why I put on this dress. The other girls are going to fix up a little."
"Then you won't oblige me?"
"I can't. I simply can't. It would be deceitful, and I am not a bit like that. I'm just what I am, open and aboveboard in everything. And that is why I know—feelthat I did not act right last night."
"There you go again," he cried, lightly, forcing a laugh. "When will you ever drop that? You say you love me, and IknowI love you, so why should younotlet me kiss you? I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll order a horse and buggy sent out from Ridgeville this afternoon, and we will take a nice drive over the mountain."
"To-day?—not to-day," Dolly said, firmly. "There is to be an afternoon service at the church. I'd be a pretty thing driving about the country with a handsome city man while all the other girls were—oh, it never would do! I'm sorry, but I couldn't think of it. People talk about a school-teacher more than any one else, and this valley is full of malicious gossips."
He was wondering if a little pretense of offense on his part—which, to his shame, he remembered using in former affairs of the heart—might make her relent, when he noticed that she was watching something on the road leading to the village. It was a horse and buggy. Her sight was keener than his, for she said, in a sudden tone of gratification:
"It is Mr. Saunders. He is on his way out home."
"So it is," Mostyn said, impatiently. "I'll go down to the gate and speak to him. Will you come?"
With her eyes on the vehicle, and saying nothing, Dolly tripped down the steps. How gracefully she moved, he thought. They reached the gate just as Saunders drew rein.
"Hello!" he cried, cheerily. "How are you, Dolly?" And, doffing his hat, he sprang down and shook hands with them both. "I'm lucky to catch you," he added to the girl. "I have something for you."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" Dolly cried. "You are always so kind and thoughtful."
"It is only a couple of books." Saunders had flushed slightly, and he turned back to the buggy, taking from beneath the seat a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "Mostyn, they have a most wonderful reading-circle here in the mountains. I have quit trying to keep pace with them." He held the parcel toward Dolly. "I heard you say all of you wanted to know something of Balzac's philosophy. I find that he has expressed it in his novelsLouisLambertandSeraphita. The introductions in both these volumes are very complete and well written."
"Oh, they areexactlywhat we want." Dolly was very happy over the gift, and she thanked the blushing Saunders warmly. Mostyn stood by, vaguely antagonistic. He had not read the books in question, and he had a feeling that his partner was receiving a sort of gratitude which he himself could never have won. Then another thought possessed him. How well the two seemed mated! Why, Saunders—plain, steady, ever-loyal Saunders, with his love of books and Nature, and his growing aversion to gay social life—was exactly the type of man to make a girl like Dolly a good husband.
Dolly was trying to break the twine on the parcel. "Let me!" Saunders, still blushing, was first to offer assistance. He took out his pocket-knife, cut the twine, unwrapped the books, and handed them back to her.
"Oh, they are so pretty—you always get such costly bindings!" Dolly added, almost reproachfully, as she fairly caressed the rich red leather with her hands. "You—you intend to lend them to the club, of course, and we must be very careful not to soil them. I shall have some covers made to—"
"Oh no!" Mostyn had never noticed before that his partner was such a weakling in the presence of women, and he wondered over the man's stumbling awkwardness. "Oh no," Saunders stammered. "I have inscribed them to—to you, as a little personal gift, if—if you don't mind."
"Oh, how sweet, how lovely of you!" Dolly cried. "Now, I sha'n't even want the others to handle them. I'm awfully selfish with what isreallymy own. Oh, you aretoogood!" Her richly mellow voice was full of genuine feeling, and a grateful moisture glistened in her shadowy eyes. Saunders heard, saw, and averted his throbbing glance to the mountain.
"Well, well," he said, awkwardly, "I must be going. It is Sunday, but I must talk to my overseer about his work. He was down in Atlanta the other day, and I did not like his showing as well as I could have done. I shall throw up banking, Mostyn, one of these days and settle down here. I see that now."
He was returning to the buggy, Dolly having gone to the house eager to exhibit her gift, when Mostyn stopped him. "Shall I see you again before you go back?" he inquired.
Saunders reflected. "I hardly think so, unless—Say, why couldn't you get in and go over home with me? My cook, Aunt Maria, will give us a good dinner, and we can lounge about all day."
"I don't think I could stay to dinner"—Mostyn was thinking that it might prevent a possible chat with Dolly in the parlor or a stroll to the spring—"but I'll ride over with you and walk back. I need the exercise."
"All right, hop in!" There was a ring of elation in Saunders's voice which was not often heard from him during business hours.
"These outings seem to do you a lot of good," Mostyn remarked. "You are as lively as a cricket this morning."
"I love the mountains," was the answer. "I love these good, old-fashioned people. Back at the station as I left the train I saw some revenue officers with the wreck of a mountain still piled up in the street. I know the moonshiners are breaking the law, but they don't realize it. Many a poor mountain family will suffer from that raid. Do you know, I was glad to hear that no arrests were made. Imprisonment is the hardest part of ft."
Mostyn was discreetly non-communicative, and as they drove along the conversation drifted to other topics. Suddenly Saunders broke into a laugh. "You know, Mostyn, you are doing your very best to force me to talk about business. You have edged up to it several times."
Mostyn frowned. "I have succeeded in keeping my mind off of it fairly well so far," he declared; "but still, if anything of importance has taken place down there I'd like to know it."
"Of course, you would," Saunders answered; "and from now on you'd fairly itch to get back to your desk. Oh, I know you!"
"Not if everything was all right." There was a touch of rising doubt in Mostyn's voice.
Saunders hesitated for a moment, then he said: "I have something for you from—from Marie Winship." He rested the reins in his lap, took a letter from his pocket, and gave it to his companion. It was a small, pale blue envelope addressed in a woman's handwriting. In the lower left-hand corner was written "Personal and important."
Mostyn started and his face hardened as he took it. He thrust it clumsily into his pocket. "How did you happen to—to get it?" he asked, almost angrily. "I see it was not mailed."
Saunders kept his eyes on the back of the plodding horse.
"The truth is, she came to the bank twice to see you—once last week and again yesterday. I managed to see her both times alone in your office. The clerks, I think, failed to notice her. She was greatly upset, and I did what I could to calm her. I'm not good at such things, as you may know. She demanded your address, and, of course, I had to refuse it, and that seemed to make her angry. She is—inclined, Mostyn, to try to make trouble again."
Mostyn had paled; his lower lip twitched nervously. "She had better let me alone!" he said, coldly. "I've stood it as long as I intend to."
"I don't know anything about it," Saunders returned. "I could not pacify her any other way, and so I promised to deliver her letter. She would have made a scene if I had not. She has heard some way that you are to marry Miss Mitchell, and it was on that line that her threats were made."
"Marry? I have never said that I intended to marry—any one," Mostyn snarled, a dull, hunted look in his eyes.
"I know," Saunders said, still unperturbed, "but you know that the people at large are generally familiar with all that society talks about, and they have had a lot to say about you and that particular young lady. If you wish to read your letter, don't mind me—I—"
"I don't want to read it!" Mostyn answered. "I can imagine what's in it. I'll attend to it later. But you have seen her, Saunders, since I have, and you would know whether the situation really is such that—"
"To be frank"—Saunders had never spoken more pointedly—"I don't feel, Mostyn, that I ought to become your confidant in exactly such a thing. But through no intention of mine I have been drawn into it—drawn into it, Mostyn, to protect the dignity and credit of the bank. She was about to make a disturbance, and Ihadto speak to her."
"I know—of course, I understand that"—Mostyn's fury robed him from head to foot like a visible garment—"but that is not answering my question."
"Well, if you want my opinion," Saunders said, firmly, "I think if the woman is not appeased in some way that you and I, the directors, and all concerned—friendly depositors and everybody-will regret it. Scandal of this sort has a bad effect on business confidence. Mitchell came in just as she was leaving. Of course, he is not a great stickler on such matters, but—"
"I didn't know he was in town," Mostyn said, in surprise.
"Yes, they returned rather suddenly the day before yesterday. By the way, he is impatient to see you. He wouldn't mind my telling you, for that is what he wants to do. He has had a great streak of luck. You remember the big investments you advised him to make in wild timberlands in Alabama and North Georgia a few years ago? Well, your judgment was good—capital. His agent has closed out his entire holdings for a big cash sum. I don't know the exact figure, but he banked a round one hundred thousand with us yesterday, and said more was coming."
Mostyn stared excitedly. "I thought it would be a good thing, but I didn't expect him to find a buyer so soon."
Saunders smiled. "I know you thought so," he chuckled. "He is as happy as a school-boy. He is crazy to tell you about it. He thinks a lot of you. He swears by your judgment. In fact, he said plainly that he expected you to handle this money for him. He says he has some ideas he wants you to join him in. He sticks to it that you are the greatest financier in the South."
Mostyn drew his lips tight. "He is getting childish," he said, irritably. "I have no better judgment than any one else—Delbridge, for instance, is ahead of me."
"Delbridgeislucky," Saunders smiled. "They say he has made another good deal in cotton."
"How was that?" Mostyn shrugged his shoulders and stared, his brows lifted.
"Futures. I don't know how much he is in, but I judge that it is considerable. You can always tell by his looks when things are going his way, and I have never seen him in higher feather."
Mostyn suppressed a sullen groan. "That is whattheyare doing while I am lying around here like this," he reflected. "Mitchell thinks I am a financial wonder, does he? Well, he doesn't know me; Irene doesn't know me. Dolly doesn't dream—my God, I don't knowmyself!A few minutes ago I was sure that I would give up the world for her, and yet already I am a different man—changed—full of hell itself. I am a slave to my imagination. I don't know what I want."
Then he thought of the unopened letter in his pocket. Light as it was, he could all but feel its weight against his side. They were now at the gate of Saunders's house. No one was in sight. The tall white pillars of the Colonial porch gleamed like shafts of snow in the sunlight. It was a spacious building in fine condition; even the grass of the lawn and beds of flowers were well cared for.
"You'd better decide to stop," Saunders said, cordially. "I will soon get over my talk with the overseer, and then I'll take you around and show you some of the richest land in the South—black as your hat in some places. I wouldn't give this piece of property for all you and Delbridge and Mitchell ever can pile up. Both my grandfather and father died in the room up-stairs on the left of the hall. It seems sacred to me."
Mostyn nodded absently. "No, thanks, I'll walk home," he said, getting out of the buggy. He was turning away, but paused and looked back.
"Would you advise—" he began, hesitatingly, "would you advise me to return to Atlanta to-morrow—on—on account of this silly thing?"
Saunders hesitated. "I hardly know what to say," he answered, frankly. "Perhaps you can tell better when you have read her letter. The situation is decidedly awkward. In her present nervous condition the woman is likely to give trouble. Somehow I feel that it is nothing but your duty to all of us to do everything possible to prevent publicity. She seems to me to have a dangerous disposition. She even spoke of—of using force. In fact, she said she was armed—spoke of killing you in cold blood. You might restrain her by law, but you wouldn't want to do that."
A desperate shadow hovered over Mostyn's face. "I'll go back in the morning," he said, doggedly. "Mitchell, you say, wants to see me. I'm not afraid of the woman. If I had been there she wouldn't have made such a fool of herself."
When Mostyn got back to the farmhouse he found no one at home, the entire family being at church. He strolled about the lawn, smoked many cigars, and tried to read a Sunday paper on the porch. His old nervous feeling had him in its grasp. Try as he would to banish them, the things Saunders had told him swept like hot streams through his veins. Mitchell had doubled his fortune; Irene was now a richer heiress than ever; Delbridge was in great luck; and a shallow-pated woman, whom Mostyn both feared and despised, was threatening him with exposure. Mitchell, and other men of the old regime, laughed at the follies of youth, it was true, but a public scandal which would cripple business was a different matter in any man's eyes. Besides, the old man must be told of his intention to marry Dolly, and that surely would be the last straw, for all of Mitchell's intimate friends knew that the garrulous old man was counting on quite another alliance.
Mostyn heard the voices of the Drakes down the road, and to avoid them he went up to his room, and from a window saw them enter the gate. How wonderfully beautiful Dolly seemed as she walked by her mother! The girl was happy, too, as her smile showed. The others came into the house, but Dolly turned aside to a bed of flowers to gather some roses for the dinner-table. Bitterly he reproached himself. He had won her heart—there was no doubt of it; she was his—soul and body she was his, and with his last breath he would stand to her. From that day forth, in justice to her, he would cleanse his life of past impurities and be a new man. Delbridge, Mitchell, Henderson, Marie Winship—all of them—would be wiped out of consideration. He would get rid of Marie first of all. He would force her to be reasonable. He had made her no actual promises. She had known all along what to expect from him, and her present method was unfair in every way. He had paid her for her favors, and for aught he knew other men had done the same. However, that did not lessen the woman's power. She might even make trouble before he got back to Atlanta—there was no counting on what a woman of her class would do. He would send her a telegram at once, stating that he would be down in the morning. But, no, that would only add to the tangible evidence against him. He would wait and see her as soon as possible after his arrival. Yes, yes, that would have to do, and in the mean time—the mean time—
Mostyn paced the floor as restlessly as a caged tiger. There were mental pictures of himself as already a discredited, ruined man. Mitchell had turned from him in scorn; Saunders was placidly appealing to him to withdraw from a tottering firm, and old Jeff Henderson was going from office to office, bank to bank, whining, "I told you so!" At any rate—Mostyn tried to grasp it as a solace worth holding—there was Dolly, and here was open sunlight and a new and different life. But she would hear of the scandal, and that surely would alter the gentle child's view of him. Irene Mitchell would overlook such an offense if she gave it a second thought, but Dolly—Dolly was different. It would simply stun her.
Dinner was over. Tom Drake and John Webb were chatting under the apple trees in the orchard, where Webb had placed a cider-press of a new design which was to be tried the next day. Mrs. Drake had retired to her room for a nap. Ann had gone to see a girl friend in the neighborhood, and Dolly was in the parlor reading the books Saunders had given her. Mostyn hesitated about joining her, but the temptation was too great to be withstood. She looked up from her book as he entered and smiled impulsively, then the smile died away and she fixed him with a steady stare of inquiry.
"Why, what has happened?" she faltered.
"Nothing particular," he said, as he took a seat near her and clasped his cold, nervous hands over his knee.
She shook her head slowly, her eyes still on him. "I know better," she half sighed. "I can see it all over you. At dinner I watched you. You look—look as you did the day you came. You have no idea how you improved, but you are getting back. Oh, I think I know!" she sighed again, and her pretty mouth drooped. "You are in trouble. Mr. Saunders has brought you bad news of business."
He saw a loophole of escape from an embarrassing situation, and in desperation he used it. "Things are always going crooked in a bank like ours," he said, avoiding her despondent stare. "Men in my business take risks, you know. Things run smoothly at times, and then—then they may not do so well."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," she faltered; "you were getting on beautifully. You—you seemed perfectly happy, too, and I hoped that—" Her voice trailed away in the still room, and he saw her breast under its thin covering rise and fall suddenly.
"Don't let it worry you," he said.
"How can I help it?" She put the books on the window-sill and raised her hand to her brow. "I know how to fight myowntroubles, but yours are too big, too intricate, too far away. What—what are you going to do?"
He felt the need of further pretense. He looked down as he answered:
"I shall have to take the first train in the morning, and—and—"
"Oh!" The simple ejaculation was so full of pain that it checked his tardy subterfuge. He rose to take her in his arms to soothe her, to pledge himself to her forever, but he only stood leaning against the window-frame, the puppet of a thousand warring forces. No, he would not touch her, he told himself; she was to be his wife—she was the sweetest, purest human flower that ever bloomed, and until he was freer from the grime of his past he would not insult her by further intimacy. So far he had not spoken to her of marriage, and he would not do so till he had a better right.
"So you really are going?" She had turned pale, and her voice shook as she stared up at him, helplessly.
"Yes, but I am coming back just as soon as I possibly can," he said. "Besides, I shall write you, if—if you will let me?"
"Why should you sayifI will let you? Don't you know—can't you see? Oh,can'tyou see?"
Again the yearning to clasp her in his arms rose to the surface of his inner depths, and he might have given way to it but for the panorama of accusing pictures which was blazing in his brain.
"I wish you would try—try to understandonething, Dolly," he said, pitying himself as much as her. "I have meant everything I have said to you. The little that is good in me loves you with all its force, but I do not want you to—to even trust me—to even count on me—till I have straightened out my affairs in Atlanta. Then—then if all goes well I shall come back, and—and talk to you as I want to talk to you now—but can't."
Her brows met in a troubled frown. Her pale lips were drawn tight as if she were suffering physical pain.
"I see, and I shall not ask questions, either," she said, calmly. "I realize, too, that you are speaking to me in confidence. I shall tell no one, but I am going to pray for you. I believe it helps. It seems to have helped me many, many times."
"No, no, you must not do that," he said, quickly, almost in alarm. "I am not good enough for that."
"But I can't help it. Some philosopher has said that every desire is a prayer, and in that case I shall be praying constantly till your trouble is over."
It was as if she understood, and appreciated the momentary check he had put upon his passion. They were quite alone. His face was close to hers; it was full of shadowy yearning, and yet he made no effort to repeat the blissful caresses of the night before.
Presently he heard her sigh again.
"What is it?" he asked, uneasily.
She was silent for a moment, then she asked: "Do you believe in premonitions?"
"I don't think I do," he said, wondering what was forthcoming. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I do to some extent," she said, slowly, a reminiscent expression in her eyes, "and something seems to tell me that you and I are in danger of being parted. I have felt forewarnings often. Once I actually knew my father was in trouble when he was several miles from me, and there was no hint of the matter from any external source."
"Strange," he said. "Was it something serious?"
"His life was in danger," Dolly said, "and he was on the point of committing a crime which would have ruined us all. It was this way. A rough mountaineer had become angry with me for keeping his disobedient child in after school was out. He was drinking, and he made a disrespectful remark at the store about me which reached my father's ears. My father has an awful temper which simply cannot be controlled, and, taking his revolver, he went to find the man. None of us at home knew what he intended to do, but exactly at the hour in which he met the man, fought with him, and shot him almost fatally, I felt that something was wrong, I was in the schoolroom trying to get my mind on my work, but I could not do it. I could think of nothing but my father and some crisis which he seemed to be going through. So I was not surprised later to learn of his trouble."
"I did not know your father had such a hot temper," Mostyn said. "He looks like a man who is not easily upset."
"It is all beneath the surface," Dolly answered. "You have no idea how careful I have to be. He seldom is willing for the young men about here to visit me at all. That is his worst fault."
Dolly rose. She put her hand lightly on Mostyn's. "I must go to my room now," she said. "I shall see you before you leave. I am going to do my best to subdue the premonition about you and me. It is so strong that it depresses me—fairly takes my breath away. It is exactly as if we are not going to meet again, or something just as sad."
Mostyn stood still, looking at her steadily. "Am I to understand, Dolly, that your father might not—not quite like for us to be together even like this, and is that why you are leaving me now?"
Dolly's long lashes flickered. She seemed to reflect as she kept her glance on the doorway. "I think I may as well tell you something, so that if anything comes up you may be somewhat prepared for it. Last night when Tobe Barnett called me to the window and I went out, as you know, to meet him, Ann, whose room is next to mine, was awake. She heard Tobe whistle and saw me leave. She couldn't see who it was, but later, when you and I were at the gate, she saw us quite clearly."
"Oh, I see," Mostyn said, anxiously, "and she thought that I called you out."
"I could not explain it any other way," Dolly answered. "I don't want her to know, you see, about father and the moonshiners. She began teasing me about you this morning, and I was afraid father would hear it, so I simply had to admit that I was with you. I even confessed—confessed"—Dolly's color rose—"that I care a great deal for you, for, you see, she actually saw—saw—"
"I understand." Mostyn tried to smile lightly. "You mean that she saw me kiss you?"
Dolly's flushed silence was her answer. "Ann is so young and romantic that it has made a great impression on her," Dolly added, lamely, as she moved toward the door, her eyes downcast. "You see how I am placed, and I hope you won't blame me. There was no other way out of it. I think I can keep her from mentioning it. I shall try, anyway. After all," she sighed, deeply, "it is onlyoneof our troubles—yours and mine."
"Onlyoneof them," he repeated, with a sudden guilty start—"what do you mean?"
She swept his face with a flash of her eyes, seemed to hesitate, then she said, resignedly: "I am quite sure that your Atlanta set, especially your relatives, would not approve of me—that is, if I were thrown with them as an equal."
"How absurd!" he began, awkwardly; but she fixed him with a firmness that checked him.
"Your sister, Mrs. Moore, would scarcely wipe her feet on me. You see, I met her once."
"When? how?" he asked, wonderingly.
"She was at the house-party Mr. Saunders gave last summer, and he introduced us on the road one day," Dolly explained, with an indignant toss of the head. "Oh, I could never—never like her. She treated me exactly as if I had been a hireling. She is your sister, but Lord deliver me from such a woman. Well, what's the use denying it—she is part of my premonition. You may settle your business troubles satisfactorily, but if—if you should tell her about me, she will move heaven and earth to convince you that I am unworthy of your notice."
"Nonsense!" he began; but with a sad little shake of the head she hurried away.
Left alone, Mostyn's heart sank into the lowest ebb of despair. Back and forth he strode, trying to shake off his despondency, but it lay on him like the weight of a mountain. What would the morrow bring forth? To him his sister's objections would be the very least. The real disaster lay in the matter Dolly's pure mind could not have grasped. He took out the letter Saunders had brought and read it again.
"She is simply desperate—the little cat!" he cried. "I might have known she would turn on me. For the last three months she has been 'a woman scorned,' and she is not going to be easily put aside. Fool, fool that I was, and always have been, I deserve it! It may ruin me—men have been ruined by smaller things than this. Can this be the beginning of my end?" He sank into the chair Dolly had vacated and rocked back and forth. Suddenly he had a sort of inspiration.
"I might take the midnight train," he reflected. "Why, yes, I could do that, and have my trunk sent on to-morrow. In that case I'd avoid riding back with Saunders and be there early in the morning. Surely she will be quiet that long."