"Who are you?"
There was no answer.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
Still no answer came.
Then the captor began to draw down on the arms he held, forcing the bones against the log at the bottom of the window. Down, down, and a groan of pain escaped his prisoner.
"Who are you?" he asked, for the third time.
"Don't break my arms!" said a voice.
Glenning recognized it.
"Are you Travers?"
"Yes—yes—I'm Travers! Let me go—for God's sake! You're killing me!"
"Who sent you to kill this horse?"
A little more force was brought to bear with the question.
"Marston—Devil Marston! Ease up a little and I'll talk—I swear I'll talk!"
John did as the man requested, though not lessening his grip on the wrists.
"Now let me tell you something. You don't know who I am, but I want you to know. You came out here expecting easy sailing, because you thought there was no one here to protect this horse. I'm the new doctor who came last night, and I'm at your hotel. I won't be there tomorrow night. I'm not making you any promises of secrecy about this matter, but I'd advise you to cut Marston. Now I want you to go to Marston tomorrow with this message from John Glenning. Tell him I say he's got to leave the Dudleys and the Dudley's horse alone. Tell him the next one who comes here on mischief will be shot, if it is himself. Do you understand, and will you promise to tell him?"
"Yes, I'll tell him every word. But for God's sake don't you tell anybody of this. It'd ruin me. It's the first time I've ever gone wrong, and if you'll let me off I'll swear not to do anything bad again. And I'll tell Marston. He got me into this."
"I'll not make you any promises, but I'll see how you behave, for I've come here to stay. Go, now, before daylight catches you, and thank the Lord you're alive!"
In the first gray dawn of the next morning Peter knocked dubiously on the smoke-house door. It was opened promptly, and when he saw The Prince alive and unharmed his joy knew no bounds. Glenning dismissed his exuberant manifestations somewhat abruptly, for he was in haste to be gone. Instructing the darky to say to the Dudleys that nothing of any consequence had happened, he went around the house and down the avenue towards the road.
And how was he to know that behind a partly lifted curtain in an upper room two sleep-sweet eyes, moist with beauty newly born, watched his retreating figure with something approaching tenderness in their depths?
When Devil Marston awoke that morning he was conscious of a vague feeling of satisfaction. As his brain grew more and more active he smiled broadly, showing his wolfish teeth, and threw himself from his bed. Good news would await him that morning. By covert watching he had seen where The Prince was to be stabled, and late the night before had gone in person to tell Dan Travers just how to go about the work. It was ridiculously easy—to make way with the colt—and ere this the thing had been done, for Travers had seemed eager for the undertaking. As he set about dressing Marston reviewed it all mentally; the success of his hireling's venture, the dismay and consternation of the Dudleys, the total lack of proof as to who committed the crime. But the consciousness that those whom he hated would know positively who was back of the crime was the sweetest thought of all. And Travers was coming this morning to make his report; this had been Marston's last order. He might arrive at any moment, and Marston wanted his breakfast before listening to good news, for it would sound better upon a full stomach. He opened a door and rudely bawled an order into vacancy, but a fear-filled negro's voice answered him in assuring words. His rule was one of absolute terror. His servants were no more to him than so many dogs, and they obeyed him as such. When he sat down to his meal a few minutes later an ill-favoured negro youth waited upon him, and a slatternly wench appeared at times from the kitchen, bringing new dishes to the door. Marston ate repulsively, as befitted his birth and character, and took an intense delight in his meal, which was coarse and poorly prepared. Throughout it all he listened repeatedly for his expected caller, and when he rose from the table there was not the slightest suspicion in his mind that anything had gone wrong. He would go to the stable and have a look at his favourite racers. The last barrier which stood in the way of their supremacy had been removed, and he would gloat over them with increased pleasure now. He issued some harsh orders for directing his caller when he should arrive, and left the house with quick strides.
As he walked around and about the noble animals which were his greatest pride his heart swelled with exultation. But when he came out of a stall presently and saw the man for whom he had been waiting standing before him, a swift alarm seized him and made his dark face pale. For a moment they stood staring into each other's eyes, one with mounting anger, the other with sullen passiveness. Then Marston strode forward and thrust his darkening visage close to Travers' face.
"Didn't you do it, you sneak?" he demanded, his upper lip curling back, showing his fangs. "Don't you dare to tell me you have failed me!"
Travers' accustomed nervousness had vanished. He was perfectly calm as he stood within arm's length of the infuriated Marston.
"I'm the man to make a fuss," he answered, "for you steered me into a hole which nearly cost me my life. I was discovered, captured, and had to tell all the business to get off with a whole skin!"
Marston's face grew black, and he shook in his track with rage.
"You coward! You traitor! Who was there to capture you, and wring anything from you? Tell me, before I knock you down!"
Travers pushed back his coat sleeves and held out his wrists. Each was ringed with purplish bands, and swollen. Then he related his experience in detail, and ended by delivering, word for word, the message which Glenning had sent. As Marston listened his rage rose up and choked him. At the conclusion of the recital he was wild, and moved about threshing the air with his fists. When he at length came to a standstill his face was the colour of ashes, and he was shaking from the violence of his emotion.
"He said that, did he? The upstart! He'll shoot me, will he? He's going to tell me what to do, and what not to do! I'll attend to him! He'd better have stayed where he came from."
Then, muttering to himself as was his wont when enraged, he wheeled and went towards the house, leaving Travers to look out for himself.
The landlord of the Union House did not tarry long. He had done a thing which yesterday he would not have believed himself capable of doing. Now he went slowly down to the yard gate, wondering at his bravery, got into a wornout road-cart which he had borrowed in town from a country friend, and began his return trip.
When Glenning had dispatched a hasty breakfast he sought the clerk in the hotel office and told him to have his bill ready some time that forenoon. That worthy at once evinced a loquacious interest in the new doctor's affairs, and would fain have inquired his departing guest's plans for the future, but John merely replied that he had no intention of leaving town, and went up to his room. Here he was soon joined by Tom Dillard, who came in wearing the most dejected air possible, tendered a perfunctory good morning to John's hearty greeting, and sank upon the edge of the bed, his round, soft face wofully elongated.
"Sick this morning, Dillard?" queried Glenning, busy with the damaged clothes which still lay on the chair. "I'd as lieve have you for my first patient as anybody."
Dillard sighed, and shook his head dolorously.
"Not exactly sick, and not exactly well," he replied, "but it's precious little sleeping I did last night."
"Indigestion?"
"No; worry."
Glenning, briskly wielding a clothes brush, glanced at Dillard. He was evidently in the depths of despair, and had most likely come for consolation or advice.
"Do you suppose I can help you?" queried John, sympathetically.
"I'm going to tell you about it, anyway, and see what you think. Maybe it looks pretty queer to you that I should come here and make a confidant of you when I hardly know you, but I have all kinds of faith in you, and this matter touches people I like immensely, and I know you'll regard all I say as confidential."
He stopped, and let his fat hands stray vaguely over his knees.
"Certainly I'll keep still, Dillard, and I'll be glad to help you all I can."
"You see it's about the Dudleys. I don't suppose you know it, but they're poor as Job's turkey. All they've got is that house and an acre or two of ground and that horse, and—fifty shares of bank stock. The old man bought this stock when he got too bad off to manage his racers properly—sold them, you see, and invested his money this way, so that he wouldn't have any worry, and it'd bring 'em in just enough to live on. The bank's boomin', doin' the best business it ever has, and has been declaring a five per cent, semi-annual dividend. That's ten per cent, a year on the Major's investment, which means five hundred dollars per annum for him and Miss Julia to live on—nothin' handsome, you see, but it'll keep 'em from gettin' hungry. Now these people are my friends, and I hate to see 'em suffer."
"Well, what's the worry? Is the bank insolvent? You just said it was doing a fine business."
"Best in its history! There's a dividend due the last of this month, but it's not going to be paid!"
Glenning wheeled from where he was bending over his open trunk.
"Why isn't it going to be paid?"
"I'll tell you."
Dillard looked around to see that no doors were open, then leaned forward and spoke in a loud whisper.
"The president of our bank is a Mr. Marston. He's rich as Jersey cream, and he owns the bulk of stock in the institution. He hates the Dudleys like snakes, and he never loses a chance to do something that'll hurt 'em. The last meeting of the directors was the one at which the six months' dividend should have been declared. We've earned it all right, and more besides. There's no just reason under the sun why it shouldn't have been paid. The whole board was in favor of it but Marston. They had a warm session. They hold their meetings in a back room at the bank, and while it was a closed meeting, I knew that an argument was in progress, for they were there an hour and a half. But they can't go against Marston's wishes. I learned later that he insisted on buying a new safe for the bank, which costs a pile o' money, and also declared that some improvements had to be made in the bank building. The whole thing was bosh, for we have a good safe, and there are no improvements needed. It was just a well-aimed blow at the Dudleys, but it went through. The new safe and the improvements were ordered to record, and the dividend was passed. If that doesn't mean starvation for our friends then I don't know what I'm talkin' about."
Glenning did some quick thinking. Then he came over and sat down by Dillard's side.
"Is this generally known?"
"No; but it will be when our statement is published in theHeraldnext Friday."
"I feel a warm personal interest in the Dudley's affairs, Dillard, and I thank you for speaking so frankly. You have been open with me, and I will be the same with you, and together we will fight this low scoundrel. Listen. I arrived in your town night before last, a total stranger. Since then I have learned this much. Devil Marston hired an emissary to burn that stable. Yesterday, in that room over there, he and the man who conducts this hotel concocted a scheme whereby Travers should kill the Dudley's colt last night. I overheard them, and went directly to the Dudleys with my story. They had no one to help them, so I volunteered. They consented, and I stood guard last night in the smoke-house where the horse was quartered. Travers came to do the foul deed and I caught him—literally caught him and held him with my hands and made him promise to go to this Marston and tell him that I would kill the next man who came to the Dudleys with mischievous intent."
Dillard looked at the earnest face before him with wide eyes and open mouth. He could scarcely believe the words he heard, though he did not doubt they were true.
"Now," resumed Glenning, firmly, "we at least know our man, and that is something. I do not fear him, but with you it is different. Yet if we confound him in the end I believe that you will have more to do with it than I. Let us speak with perfect candor. You are dependant for your living upon your salary?"
"Yes, there's ma and me. We haven't a thing, and our living comes from my salary at the bank."
"Just so. Then you couldn't afford to openly oppose your president. You would quickly lose your position if you did. We must move very carefully. Does Marston take an active interest in affairs at the bank? I mean is he familiar with the books, and the accounts—in other words, is he a live president, and not a figure-head merely?"
"He's in every day, poking and prying around. There's nothing goes on that he doesn't know about."
"Does the clerical force like him?"
"He hasn't a friend in the bank, not even the cashier. We all know he's a rascal, but he's so powerful that we're afraid to say a word aloud when he's around."
"What is your position, Dillard?"
"Head bookkeeper."
"Then let me make a suggestion to you. Watch Marston. Watch his every movement. You know the national banking laws. See that he doesn't infringe on them. A man as unscrupulous as he is liable to attempt anything. Watch him. Watch every mark he makes with a pen, and the first time he steps over the line come to me and let me know. Will you do it?"
"I'll do it, doctor, and I don't believe I'll have to wait very long."
Then they sat in silence for a few minutes, each thinking of what the other had said.
Glenning spoke.
"I hope you will understand me, Dillard, when I ask how Major Dudley's account stands?"
"Certainly, doctor. I was looking at it yesterday, and it's almost even. Only a few dollars to his credit. I swear I don't know what'll become of 'em!"
Glenning knit his brows thoughtfully.
"They'll have to live in spite of Marston," he said. "How this will be I can't say now, but they shan't want because a low-lived rascal has the upper hand for the time. I shall want to begin a small account with your bank today."
"All right. New depositors are always welcome."
"And I must get away from this hotel, Dillard. After my experience last night I think it wise for me to change my quarters. Don't you know of a vacant room upstairs over some one of your business houses, and isn't there a private boarding-house where I might get my meals?"
"I'm pretty sure I can fix you up that way. Suppose we start now, before I go to work? You can come back and finish packing."
"Good; I'll appreciate your help."
By three o'clock that afternoon the new doctor was thoroughly established in Macon. The boarding-house where he secured accommodations was diagonally across the street from the house which he had seen Doctor Kale enter the day before—and which he learned later was the old gentleman's residence—and he had secured two rooms over a dry goods store on Main street, just opposite the courthouse, which suited his purposes admirably for offices. The back apartment, which was entered first, was a consulting room, and contained his library, while the front one was his office proper. As a finishing touch John swung his sign over the sidewalk below, then came upstairs and sat down by an open window with a book. But his mind was not in a proper condition for either reading or study. Dillard's revelation had proven a source of much concern, and he had not been able to get away from it. In vain he tried to argue with his conscience that the Dudleys were nothing to him, and that he would have his hands full making his way in his new field of labor. This course of reasoning proved futile. The sweet face and trusting eyes of Julia dispelled the illusion, and he realized that he had to take a hand in the game which Fate had prepared. The conviction being established, the next thing was to work out the solution. But no plan would come; he knew that he was bound and helpless.
It was an ideal mid-afternoon in summer, and as Glenning gazed listlessly from the window he saw an almost deserted thoroughfare. A negro lad went whistling down the opposite pavement, clattering a stick along the iron palings of the courthouse fence; the leaves of the trees in the courthouse yard hung motionless in the quiet atmosphere, and even the ever-busy English sparrows seemed taking a siesta.
Directly several men emerged from one of the lawyer's offices which made up three sides of Court Square. None of them wore coats, and one was without either coat or vest. From the remainder of his apparel he was evidently a farmer. An old man with a long, white beard, holding in his hand a staff longer than himself. He was much excited, for he hopped about in a bird-like way, wagging his whiskers and scratching his head and ever and again thumping the earth with his staff. An altercation was evidently in progress among the men, and the voice of the old fellow was always loudest. He was plainly insisting upon a point which was meeting with some resistance. Another party now joined the group, and Glenning at once recognized Doctor Kale. As he made his appearance, the old fellow with the rod danced up to him with a gesture almost threatening and began a loud-voiced harangue. Doctor Kale was obdurate. He shook his head and thumped about, and remained firm. He of the long whiskers was rapidly working himself up to the fighting point, when a man who had been standing somewhat apart came up, caught him by the arm, and pointed across the street to a point directly beneath the window where John sat. What he said worked like magic. The old fellow beckoned Doctor Kale, grasped the arm of another member of the party, and the three at once started across the road. Another moment John heard heavy footsteps climbing the stair. Before he could reach the door it was opened hurriedly, and the men trooped in.
"There he is!" grumbled Doctor Kale, starting on a tour around the walls of the room, sniffing his wrath, and ignoring the necessity of any sort of an introduction.
"I want a doctor! I ain't sick 'n' my fam'ly ain't sick, but Dink Scribbens took with the small-pox las' night 'n' me 'n' my folks has to pass his door ever' time we come to town! That ol' hippity-hop (indicating the still marching figure of Doctor Kale) 's skeered to go, though he never caught anything in his life!"
"I'm not afraid!" promptly fired back Doctor Kale. "I've waited on small-pox, chicken-pox, rosiola, measles, and every skin disease you ever heard of, but I'm not going to give my time to these damned paupers! Paupers 've got no business gettin' sick!"
"Are these people—paupers?" asked John, addressing the question to the third man, who up to this time had maintained silence through necessity. He was a large, stout individual, bearing plainly upon his face the marks of conviviality. He came forward heavily, and held out his hand.
"I'm Joe Colver, county judge," he said, dragging his words as though each was anchored in his chest. "Uncle Billy Hoonover come in a while ago sayin' the Scribbenses had small-pox. I don't know whether he knows what he's talkin' about or not, but they live in our county and it's our duty to investigate it and if necessary put a quarantine on 'em." He smiled laboriously as he continued. "We usually give cases like this to the young fellers. The old hosses git above it, you know. If you'll go and take charge I'll promise the county'll allow you a reasonable fee. And you'll save Uncle Billy Hoonover a fit of some kind if you'll go pretty quick."
"Fit!" shrilled Uncle Billy, prancing up and down. "Who wouldn't have a fit with the ketchin' small-pox under his nose? Tell me that?"
"I'll go, judge," said Glenning; "where do they live?"
"Under my nose!" reiterated Uncle Billy. "A crick 'n' a narrer fiel' 'twixt them 'n' me! The win' could blow it right in my door if it set right!"
Doctor Kale had at last brought himself up, and he now cast a withering look of scorn upon the excited layman. He was plainly too full for words, for in a moment he clapped his hat on his head and bustled out with it riding his ears.
"Old Kale's a caution," commented the judge, laughing lazily, "but he's got plenty o' doctor sense. He's got the cream o' the practice about here. The best people want 'im, and they'll wait for 'im if they ain't pretty bad off. I knew you was on a cold trail, Uncle Billy, when you struck Kale."
"He'd better quit if he can't 'ten' to the sick. I don't b'lieve in 'scrimination, nohow. He might 'a' knowed the county'd 'a' paid 'im for his work. There never was a county without paupers in it, 'n' they're always gittin' somethin' worse'n anybody else!"
Judge Colver waved his hand and turned to go.
"Uncle Billy'll show you where they live, doctor. I wish you'd bring me your report as soon as you get back. We haven't had small-pox in the county for thirty years," he added, as his big figure moved ponderously out the door.
Mr. Hoonover had carried his point, but that fact in no wise stilled his tongue. He must talk. An argument was always better suited to his temperament, which was naturally belligerent, but when controversy was impossible he rambled on anyhow. While Glenning was making his brief preparations Uncle Billy's tongue was going.
"I hope you'll run ol' Kale till he takes in his sign!" he piped. "A doctor oughter be for ever'body, but ol' Kale's for the quality stric'ly. I do b'lieve he'd be glad if I was took with the small-pox, so't he could git a dig at me."
"Oh, then he is your family physician, too?"
"Yes, yes; I'm a fool like the balance of 'em. But it don't pay to git stuck on any one doctor, for they'll either neglect you or bulldooze you when you do. If you c'n cure the Scribbenses, durned if I don't switch off 'n' have you for a spell!"
Glenning smiled as he picked up his medicine case and reached for his hat.
"We don't cure small-pox as easily as we do some things," he said. "I understand these people live some distance from town?"
"Yes, on the Hillville pike—that is, you go that pike for a couple o' mile, 'n' then strike out a side road passin' my place."
"Am I to go with you?"
"Yes, my buggy's ready—" Uncle Billy stopped at the foot of the stair they had been descending, and squinted suspiciously up at John, one step above him. "But how'r' you goin' to git back? I can't tech you nor be a-nigh you after yo've handled the small-pox!"
"I'll have my horse and buggy here in a day or two—from Jericho," mused Glenning. "I tell you. I'll get a vehicle from the nearest stable. Where is it—your nearest livery stable?"
They came out on the pavement, side by side.
"Yonder." Uncle Billy pointed with his pilgrim's staff. "Half way down the square where them men are settin' tilted back talkin' hard times—that's what they're doin' if I can't hear 'em. I know ever' blessed one of 'em from here. See the place? Got a big red hoss painted over the door. Ask for Steve Duncan or Lige Lane—they run it, 'n' are good men. Say I sent you. Yonder's my nag, hitched to that lamp post."
The pilgrim's staff came swinging vigorously around to do its duty as an index, and caught Mr. Devil Marston's hat midway, knocking it into the dust of the gutter, where it rolled over a few times as knocked-off hats invariably do. The victim of this harmless accident would not, under ordinary circumstances, have taken it lightly. Mr. Hoonover made a motion to recover the property he had unintentionally mistreated, but Marston, cat-like, had the hat in his hands, brushing it with his sleeve, before Uncle Billy's wits could fully take in the situation.
"Mind what you're about, you damned old buzzard!" he gritted, his small eyes glinting wickedly. "If you've got to carry a fishing pole around with you why don't you stay in the cornfield, where you belong?"
Uncle Billy's booted feet began to go up and down. His straggling whiskers trembled from anger and he combed them with restless fingers as he fired back—
"I didn't go to do it, 'n' I's goin' to pick it up for you, you—you—you son of a nigger!"
A big brown fist came like a lightning bolt at the old fellow's convulsed face, but swifter yet was Glenning's stroke which threw up the threatening arm, and this was followed by another which sent the burly form reeling, though it did not fall. Then as John dragged Uncle Billy into the little passageway at the foot of the stair some men came running towards the scene. They arrived in time to lay restraining hands upon Marston, who had his revolver out and was advancing to renew the trouble. By main force they held him for a time, until he had become calmer, and it was big Joe Colver who took his pistol from him and told him he would be arrested if he did not go on his way peaceably, and at once. This he reluctantly consented to do, and the judge walked with him to the bank, which he entered.
While this was going on, John had literally held Uncle Billy captive. The touchy old man's ire was aflame at its highest pitch, and he wanted to fight. When the coast was clear John reminded him of the urgent need which called them to the country, and escorted him to his buggy. Then, assuring him that he would return immediately, and begging him to remain in his buggy, Glenning hastily sought the livery stable. While he was waiting for his horse to be gotten ready he saw, diagonally across the street, a brick building with the words Macon National Bank, in large letters over the door.
By the time the start was made Mr. Hoonover had cooled down somewhat. He went in front, of course, in his capacity as guide, but all along the two and a half miles drive he was constantly jerking about in his seat to look back and shout some question or remark to the man in his wake. Thus before their destination was reached he had proven, in tones loud enough for all the countryside to hear, that the man who had attacked him was indeed part negro, that he himself always lived at peace with his neighbours, and that from this day forward he intended to go "loaded" for Marston. The garrulity of the old farmer annoyed Glenning somewhat, who had his own forebodings as to the result of the unfortunate encounter on the street, and he replied to Mr. Hoonover's demonstrations only by a nod of the head, or a smile. So busy was that gentleman looking behind to see that his remarks were heard, that his horse drew him almost in front of the Scribbenses before he knew it. When he suddenly discovered his proximity to the infected shack, and realized that his horse was moving in a slow jog, he tightened his reins and began to belabour his beast with the staff he held. As he dashed at a gallop past the dreaded spot he shouted some unintelligible communication wildly over his shoulder, and was out of sight before Glenning drew up at a broken down stake-and-rider fence skirting the road. He looked about him as he got out and hitched his horse. The spot seemed the abomination of desolation. The by-road was rutty and not kept; deep sluices showed on either side of it, where no effort had been made to check the ravages of heavy rains. A worthless species of grass grew in sickly clumps, dust-covered. Blackberry vines, sassafras and sumac bushes made one inextricable tangle of vegetation along the zigzag fence. There was a gap in the fence which served for a gate. John went through, then stopped for a moment. Not from fear at entering the stricken place. He had no bodily fear, nor ever had. But the awful loneliness of the spot weighed upon him. Low hills, bush-dotted and gullied, arose on every side except the southern one, where a small field, untilled and marshy, lay along a creek bed, now nearly dry. Beyond this, and perhaps half a mile away, on higher ground, was a rather pretentious looking farmhouse which he guessed, rightly, to be the home of Mr. Hoonover. The miserable log shanty facing him was pitiful in its decay and loneliness. The ground all about it was bare, and a few stunted, shrivelled cedars stood at one side. The chinking had fallen from the stick-and-mud chimney, and it looked like the torso of some giant skeleton. The door was shut; the one window darkened from the inside by what appeared to be a ragged quilt. A lean brown cur lay by the rotten log serving for a door step, too lazy or too near dead from starvation to lift its voice at the intrusion of a stranger. The dog was the only sign of life. All the rest, was silence, poverty, desolation. No birds sang here; not even the shrilling of an insect cut the great stillness. A feeling almost of awe came over John Glenning, standing there alone in the strong sunlight, vigorous, assertive, confident of his power to do. He scarcely wondered that Doctor Kale had refused the case. But he was glad he had taken it. Not alone to get a start in the community, for this was a beginning at practice which most men would not value, but here was a fellow being, sick, friendless and helpless. He would save him if he could, although the pauper's life could scarcely be of use to anyone, and he would be better off dead.
John's grip tightened on the handle of his medicine case and he walked briskly and firmly to the door, and knocked. The cur arose and slunk a few paces to one side, then lay down again, with his yellow eyes fixed on the man. The door was opened a crack, and a rasping female voice said:
"Go 'way. My man's got the small-pox!"
"I'm the doctor," answered Glenning; "let me in."
There was a moment's hesitation, during which a brief argument took place between the woman and some one else inside, then the door was grudgingly opened wide enough for John to enter, when it was promptly closed.
"Thar he is," said the woman. "Go to 'im; he's purty bad."
The sudden transition from the bright sunlight to the gloom of the cabin made it impossible for Glenning to see distinctly. He was vaguely conscious of the presence of a number of persons, and he could barely discern the outlines of a figure stretched on a bunk in a corner.
"All of you'll die if you don't have light and air," he announced, almost harshly, and striding to the window, removed the flimsy curtain. Then he turned abruptly to the woman who stood with mouth agape in the middle of the room. "Open the door!" he commanded; "let some air in here!"
She was a slatternly creature of uncertain age, her stooped shoulders and lined face showing her kinship with want and all physical suffering. She looked with curious intentness at the tall young man who seemed to so fill the small room, and did his bidding.
"Ye don't b'long in Mac'n, do ye?" she asked. "'Pears to me I've never saw ye before."
"I belong there now," replied John, shortly. "Came several days ago."
His quick eyes were taking in the meagre appointments of the room, and its occupants, as he was walking towards the sick man in his corner. The place seemed swarming with children of all ages and both sexes; they were thick as rats in a corn-bin. He could not believe all of them the offsprings of this destitute pair, and he voiced his idea as he knelt by the pallet.
"What are all these children doing here? Send them home. Don't you know they're in danger?"
"Theyairhome, thank ye!" rasped the woman, in quick defense of her brood. "They'reour'n, I'd hev ye know, ever' blessed one, 'n' they've got more right here than you hev, ef youaira doctor!"
"No offense!" mumbled Glenning, taking the hairy wrist which listlessly lay on the ragged counterpane and feeling for the pulse with tips of practiced fingers.
The children had huddled like sheep against the wall furthest away, a tattered, unkempt crew of misbegotten humanity; terrible fruit of a union of ignorance and brute passion. They said not a word, but clung to each other as though menaced by some visible danger. The woman stood in the center of the floor, also silent, her hands clasped under her dirty apron, and her stringy neck outstretched as she watched the doctor. The thing under Glenning's hand must have been made by God, but it hardly looked it. It would not have looked it in health, and in the grip of a loathsome disease it was doubly repulsive. The man's figure was thin and bony. He lay sick in his shirt and trousers, for he had no night clothes, to say nothing of underwear, which in all probability he had never known. His shoes were off, and his feet, knotty, and grimy with the ground-in dirt of many months, stuck from under the narrow coverlet which lay over him. His soiled shirt was open at the throat—a throat presenting alternate ridge and hollow, and covered scantily with colorless hair. His face was gaunt; his teeth broken and tobacco-stained; his nose twisted oddly. His hair was a sandy mop. His eyes were cunning and treacherous. His face was already marked with dull red spots, and he was burning with fever.
Glenning's face was solemn.
"How long have you been sick?" he asked.
"Two weeks off 'n' on, I reck'n," answered the man.
"How long have you been in bed?"
"Tuk bed yistiddy."
"You should have been in bed ten days, at least. You're pretty sick, my man."
A shadow of alarm flashed over the bestial countenance.
"I won'tdie, doc, will I? Yo' don't mean I'm guntadie!"
In his eagerness he grasped the sleeve of the figure kneeling beside him.
"You'vegotto cyore 'im, doc!" wailed the woman. "I can't live 'ithout my man!"
She walked about wringing her hands.
"You've waited too long before seeking help," continued John, getting to his feet. "There's a chance for you—a slim one, but I'll do what I can."
He found a rickety chair, and sat down gingerly.
The older children began to snuffle, and the younger ones burst out crying and ran to their mother, hiding their dirty faces in her dirtier clothes.
"Small chance in this reeking hole for a man with small-pox," mused Glenning, then he looked at Mrs. Scribbens, and said:
"That man should have a bath, first of all, from head to foot; ascrubbing. Can you give it to him?"
"I 'low I kin," responded the woman, briskly, "but weuns ain't much on the wash. Will lye soap do, doc?"
John cast a look at the sick man, and guessed at the texture of his skin.
"Yes, lye soap will do, but have your water hot, and rinse him off well when you're through. I'm going to leave some medicine which I want you to give him through the night."
Mrs. Scribbens disappeared out a door in the rear which led to the back premises, and busied herself making a fire under a large iron kettle which hung from a blackened limb, itself supported by two forked sticks sunk in the ground. The numerous progeny trooped after heren masse, vaguely sensing an omen of evil in the presence of the doctor, and turning, like little wild things, to their best friend and protector.
Glenning had his case on his knees, rapidly preparing the doses to be given that night. There was a slight movement from the pallet, and a terror-laden voice called——
"Doc!"
John turned his head.
"Doc, fur hones'! Tell me! Don't be skeered it'll finish me right off. Now, while the woman 'n' the chil'n 're gone, tell me!"
A beam of pity struggled to the brown, tired eyes of the man sitting above him. After all this was his brother—this thing in its filth and misery and callousness had had a soul breathed into it by a common God years ago. Should he not feel compassion for anyone whose feet had come so near the brink of the Valley of the Shadow? He did feel compassion; the wave which swept him as the pleading, untaught tones came to him was almost protecting. His brother! Though one's feet had never left the shallows, and the other's, not long before, had fared through strange and awful deeps where dreadful monsters lurked in the guise of innocence and beauty so rare that it was blasting.
With a quick movement John leaned down and took the hard, seamed hand.
"You haven't got even chances," he said. "I can't promise anything but this: I'll do for you what I'd do for the richest man in Macon!"
"I never heerd sich talk!" exclaimed Scribbens. "What sort o' man air ye?"
"A pretty poor sort, but I've studied medicine mighty hard. You've got to pull like blazes to get through. Can you do it. Keep a stout heart, I mean, and believe all the time you're coming out all right?"
"I dunno. I hurt pow'ful, 'n' I'm burnt to scorchin'."
A paroxysm of abject fear seized him, and he pulled the quilt, full of holes, up over his head to hide the wild expression on his face. He lay there and shook with dread—dread of dying—dread of the vast unknown, and of the punishment he felt surely was awaiting him. John went on with his work. The packages were done up and the medicine case snapped to and placed on the floor. Still the coverlet was convulsed with erratic movements. Directly the man jerked the quilt from his face, showing it all a-sweat with anguish.
"Doc!" he groaned. "I can't! I can't go this way! It mought be tonight—in the dark! I feel cur'is! D'ye think I'll go tonight?"
"I think not, Scribbens—cheer up! You're not that sick yet."
"But ye can't tell!" persisted Dink. "Th' ketchin' small-pox is orful. I've heerd uv it before. It gits ye w'en ye're not watchin'. 'N' say, doc, I've got somethin' to tell—"
He raised himself on a sharp elbow and glanced dreadfully at the back door.
"'Fore the woman gits back. 'Tain't wuth while to bother 'bout a preacher ur a priest. I've never j'ined a church—ain't Cath'lic—ain't nothin'. But I've got to tell somebody. It'll make it easier. I'm goin' to tell you, doc."
He fell back, and his hands strayed about nervously over his breast.
"Tell me if you wish," said Glenning, gently; "if it will help you."
"Oh, it will, doc! It's been eatin' on me ever' since I done it. I's never shore 'nough bad till that man made me bad. I'm always been pore as a dawg, 'n' wuthless, 'n' no 'count fur nothin'. I've stole, sometimes, w'en the kids was hongry, but that don't bother me none. Them that I got frum never missed some cawn ur a chick'n now'n then. 'Tain't that, doc."
He stopped again, breathing fast. It was hard for him to lay bare the story of his wrong-doing.
"I heer ye tell th' woman that ye come a few days ago," he resumed, in a steadier tone. "Then ye don't know many folks 'bout here, I reck'n. But thar's some mighty bad uns, 'n' I reck'n Devil Marston's the wust. I 'low yo's heerd uv how a stable wuz burned a few nights ago, at the aidge o' town? Thar wuz a hoss in that stable, 'n' some feller ur 'nother drug 'im out. It wuz Major Dudley's. Thar's a good man, doc. He's give to me w'en I'd go to 'im with a tale o' no work 'n' hongry kids at home, 'n' maybe he wuz hongry at the same time, fur all his big house he's nigh bad off as I am. But his hoss's a wonder, 'n' Devil Marston's got some hisself whut kin run some. He comes to me one day, Marston did, 'n' shows me a ten-dollar greenback, 'n' said he'd give it to me ef I'd take some powders he had with 'im, all wropped up, 'n' slip in 'n' put that stuff in th' hoss's feed. I knowed it wuz wrong, doc. I knowed it wuz p'izen, but I tuk it, 'n' the money, too, 'n' that night I slipped in 'n' done whut he tol' me to do. The nex' day he come to me b'ilin' mad, 'n' 'lowed I'd tricked 'im. He said the hoss's still alive, 'cause he'd saw 'im, 'n' that I'd took 'is money 'n' didn't do whut I'd said I'd do. But he lied, doc, 'cause I toted fa'r. But he tore up snakes, and said he's gunta hosswhip me, 'n' come put nigh hittin' me. 'N' he cussed me some more 'n' pulled out another ten-dollar bill, 'n' th'owed it at me, 'n' 'lowed that ef I'd go that night 'n' burn the stable up with the hoss locked in it he'd call it squar. I didn't want to do it, doc, I sw'ar I didn't, 'cause Major Dudley's been good to me, but I's skeered not to. That Devil Marston jist looked at me with his snake eyes 'n' 'lowed that if I failed 'im ag'in he'd come 'n' shoot me daid. 'N' I went, nigh onto midnight, 'n' I got some straw out'n the lof'—a hull big armful o' dry straw, 'n' piled it ag'in the door o' the stable, 'n' sot fire to it. Then I run. I run till I got home, but I saw the light in the sky, 'n' knowed the hoss wuz gone this time. But the nex' day I heered o' some feller draggin' 'im out! Then I tuk sick, 'n' I s'pose it's a jedgment on me fur bein' so wicked. But hemademe do it! Hemademe! 'Twarn't so much his money, but I's skeered uv 'im. You don't know Devil Marston, doc. His name's fittin'. 'N' now I feel better, doc; I sw'ar I do!"
For a moment Glenning sat silent.
"Yes, I know Devil Marston," he said at last, "and he is a bad man. And I know the Dudleys, too, and I know the man who went in for the colt."
"Ye won't tell, doc, will ye?" asked Scribbens, in sudden alarm. "Ye won't give me 'way?"
"I'll promise that no harm shall come to you because of the things that you've told me. But you're a bad man, too, Dink Scribbens—a low down, dastardly coward!"
The figure below shrank back under the stern, accusing voice.
"I know it! I know it! It's kep' me 'wake ever since I done it!"
He was almost whimpering now, and John realized the utter futility of a sermon at this time. The arrival of Mrs. Scribbens at this juncture with her corps of satellites put an end to further confidences. John arose.
"I've het the water!" announced Mrs. Scribbens, standing with a chunk of lye soap in one hand and a battered and dented tin washpan in the other from which steam was rising.
"Very well," said Glenning. "Get him clean. Give him one of these when you have finished, another at midnight, and a third in the morning. Have you a clock?"
His gaze swept the pitifully bare room and failed to reveal one.
"Humph!" sniffed Mrs. Scribbens. "The roosters crow, don't they? He'll git his dose at midnight!"
"Keep the children out of doors as much as you can; make each of them bathe every day and do the same yourself. I'll come back in the morning and bring something for each of you to take to keep you from catching the small-pox. Good-day."
The sweet summer afterglow which immediately follows the going down of the sun was spread mysteriously over all the landscape as John got in his buggy and began his return trip. The confession to which he had just given ear did not occupy his mind much. He knew beforehand that it must have been some creature like this; some degraded, conscienceless, cast-off devil. Dink Scribbens didn't matter, but Marston did—Marston, whose heavy figure was beginning already to loom on his life's horizon portentously. Now, since the occurrence on the streets of Macon a couple of hours before, he knew that trouble was ahead for him, swift and sure. Marston hated him well enough before that incident, providing Travers had delivered his message properly, but now—to be struck on the chest and almost knocked down! Glenning heard the little voice which always speaks to us when we are alone saying that he had done right, that his course all along had been true and proper, and that he had no cause to regret anything. He must simply keep his eyes open, and at the same time not let his brain get rusty. Innocent people were in actual distress at that moment, and the girl of the trusting brown eyes, proud and brave, would soon be hungry.Hungry!The word stung his brain like something hot would sting the flesh, and he clicked his teeth and drew up his lines, urging his horse faster. He was passing a gloomy looking house set considerably off the road, surrounded by doleful firs and funereal cedars. It was of brick, square and not ugly, but the shutters to all windows visible were closed, and the front doors were inhospitably shut. Some gaunt dogs of ferocious breed were stalking about the yard. He had not noticed this house when coming out, but he might well have passed it unseeingly, all of his attention at that time being demanded by Mr. Hoonover. But instinctively he knew who lived there. The place savoured of its master; forbidding, grim, merciless. John was not sorry when it lay behind him.
Deep twilight had come. The time when vague stars shine shyly, uncertain whether or not to show their faces. Objects along the roadside were becoming slightly blurred, and the unsightly things of the garish day were softened into pleasant lines and tones. The man riding townward felt the witchery of the hour. It entered into him and lay upon his soul, speaking of peace. He breathed more gently, and let his horse take its time. From the gates of the west which had unclosed to receive the going day, a breeze had surely blown from Paradise. And alone there, in the soft dusk, two faces rose up before the man. One was fresh, unfretted, appealing, beautiful, with brown eyes which looked innocence and trust. The one beside it was crowned with a bewildering glory of bronze-gold hair, full of sullen splendours, like a stormy sunset; an oval face of perfect lines and charm ineffable, and winey eyes which lured. He looked upon the two, and his eyes grew strained; that look of awful weariness stole over his face, as though the battle were almost too hard, and he groaned in his throat while a shudder swept him, making him tremble from head to foot. He was conscious of a sound, far away, but growing more distinct.Clickety-clack! Clickety-clack! Clickety-clack!It was a horse on the highway ahead, running fast.Clickety-clack! Clickety-clack!It was just around the bend in front of him. In a dull way he drew his horse somewhat to one side. A huge black shape thundered into view, seemingly of mammoth proportions in the dim light. Straight to the middle of the road it clung, its hoofs striking fire at every leap, its rider making no effort to swerve it. Glenning called, and pulled his horse sharply aside. Horse and rider swept by, so close that the man's knee brushed John's sleeve. In that fraction of a second their eyes met, and each recognized the other. But neither stopped. Marston rode on till his horse drew up quivering at his gate, and Glenning, a new, strange light in his eyes, drove on towards town.
Arriving at the livery stable he inquired for Judge Colver. That gentleman lived in the country, and had gone home. He would have to make his report in the morning, when the people could be advised by bulletin of the presence of small-pox in the county, the proper quarantine established, and measures taken for preventing the disease from spreading. He suddenly remembered that, in the business of getting established, he had neglected opening the account at the bank, and had also forgotten his hotel bill. It was too late to keep his promise to Dillard that day, so he turned down street towards the hotel, resolving to settle his bill there. Supper was in progress when he entered the office, and the place was comparatively empty. He paid his reckoning to the smiling Jones, and was preparing to leave, when Travers came out of the passage leading to the hotel bar, and called his name. John turned, and coldly faced him. The landlord beckoned, and retreated to the passage. John hesitated a moment, for he desired no further dealings with this person, but upon second thought he followed. Travers' nervous manner had returned. He fidgeted, and shifted his weight, and toyed with his watch chain.
"I want to tell you I have kept my word," he said, in a low, cautious voice. "You played fair with me, and I have some appreciation. I went out to Marston's place this morning and told him all about it, to his face, and I told him what you said, word for word. I did, 'pon my honor!"
"That's more than I expected," answered Glenning, icily. "But I admire your pluck. It took a man to do that."
"I did it, doctor, and for a while I thought he was going to kill me. But he didn't touch me."
"I suppose he made some threats?"
"Yes, he talked mighty ugly about you. I'd advise you to be on your guard. You'd better carry a gun with you all the time."
"I've never carried a gun, and I don't intend to begin now. I fancy I can take care of myself without that. Thank you, Mr. Travers. I'm glad you told me this. Good evening."
He had turned to go, when he heard his name spoken in an agitated whisper. He stopped, and faced about.
"That ain't all, doctor. You've done me a fine turn, and I want to break even."
"Well?"
"Marston's just left here. He's been in the bar drinking for an hour or more, and he's been talkin' mighty reckless. It was about you, and he boasted he was going to make you sorry you ever came here—that he was going to run you out of town. He'd just been at the long distance telephone, and he said he'd found out something, and would know more tomorrow. He'd been drinking heavily, you know, and didn't care what he said. He leaves on the early mornin' train. I was standin' close to that swingin' door, and heard every word he said. He wasn't talkin' to anybody in particular—just easin' himself. But he'll hurt you if he can."
Glenning's voice was very low as he asked—
"Where is he going?"
"To Jericho," said Travers.
John slept very poorly that night. The news which Dan Travers had given him was enough to keep him awake. Marston was going to Jericho the next morning! What would he bring back? What would he have to tell upon his return? Ah, God! could a man never escape the slightest misstep? Must it dog him to his grave, even though he had won through by days of anguish and hours of wrestling in the silent night? What a morsel this would be for vile tongues to handle! What possibilities for enlargement, and opportunities for misrepresentation! Haggard with wide-eyed watching as the black moments slowly passed—it was not new to him, this grim facing of an ever-present spectre—he managed to gain a few hours sleep just before day. But his cheek bones showed more plainly when he appeared upon the street the following morning, and the faint lines about his strong mouth had deepened.
He found Judge Colver and made his report; there was a caucus of the board of health in Doctor Kale's office; dodgers were ordered printed and distributed telling the fearsome news and instructing the public as to what sanitary measures they should employ to keep down the plague. The local physicians gave him respectful attention when he talked, and adopted his suggestions cheerfully. This was pleasant, but it did not lift the weight which had fallen upon him. When the business meeting was over, John found a piece of yellow cloth at one of the dry goods stores, armed himself with a supply of disinfectants, and started on his second trip to his pauper patient.
He had a half formed notion when he left town to stop at the Dudleys for a moment, and when, driving somewhat slowly in front of the house, he saw Julia bending over gathering nasturtiums, his tentative idea became a fixed resolution. He left his horse at the gate, securing him to one of the iron palings, and went up the drive afoot. She had seen him coming, and she walked forward to meet him, her face tinting delicately, and a smile showing through the look of anxiety which she wore. She gave him a pliant palm, holding a huge armful of vari-coloured blooms to her breast with her other hand—the flowers spread out over her, a wonderful breast-plate of gorgeous hues. Some matched her cheeks, and some her lips, and some her throat, which had assumed a shy pink as she came within arm's length of John, standing with hat breast high, and searching eyes. He took her hand and held it a moment longer than was necessary, but she waited until he released it, and made no effort to draw it away. He did not attempt to veil the candid admiration which beamed from his face.
"You are lookingverywell this morning, if you will allow the compliment," he said, gravely, and she quickly noted the weary note in his voice. "I'm sure this flower bed is the most fitting environment you could possibly have. You seem one of them."
The blood rushed up in torrents at his words, and she turned scarlet. To hide all this she buried her face for a moment in the armful of nasturtiums. Her eyes were a-sparkle when she lifted her head at once, and said, reproachfully:
"Why did you run away yesterday before any of us could see you?"
"One saw me, and I left a message with him. It was too early for either you or your father to be up. Did Peter not tell you that all went well?"
"Yes, he told us that, and I went down myself to look at The Prince. Come here a moment, Doctor Glenning."
She crossed the drive with a faint swish of drapery, and walked across the lawn to the base of a large maple, not many yards from the front door of the mansion. Beneath this tree, resting against it, was an iron settee of ornamental design. Lying upon the settee was a large revolver. Julia picked it up, cocked as it was, and held it out, muzzle earthward.
"I found this, too, inside under the window. It isn't yours, is it?"
John recognized immediately the weapon he had wrested from the hand of Travers, and which he had neglected to procure before leaving the smoke-house.
"No, it isn't mine," he replied, readily.
"Peter said that you told him to say to us that nothing had happened."
"He did not quote me correctly. I told him to say that nothing ofconsequencehad happened."
"Whose revolver is this, Doctor Glenning?"
"It belongs to the man who came to shoot The Prince."
Julia gave a little start, and uttered an involuntary exclamation.
"You—" she began, then stopped and looked at him, her breath coming faster.
"I didn't see any use in making a fuss about it, you see," explained John, smiling. "Travers came, as we all knew he would, and I just waited and let him walk into the trap which Uncle Peter set when he cut that window, and baited when he led the colt in. That's all there is to it."
"Let's sit down," suggested Julia.
Then, side by side upon the settee, the revolver still in her hand, she resumed:
"This is a fearful looking thing. Did he have this?"
"Yes, that's what he came hunting with near three o'clock in the morning. It would kill an elephant if properly handled."
"How did you happen to get possession of it?"
"I see you must have the whole story," said John, with his inimitable chuckle, and thereat he proceeded, very faithfully and very accurately, to recount the entire tale.
Julia drew back in wonder as she listened.
"And youheldhim!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide and her brows contracted in surprise. Doubtless she did not know it, but her gaze went sweeping over the man, from top to toe, and her mind was wondering where all that power was stored, for he was very lean, though wonderfully broad of shoulder.
"Yes, it was easy, for I really took him at an unfair advantage, but it was the only way—that or nothing."
"Yes," she said, but nothing more, for she could not understand him. But she knew there was a sweet feeling of security when he was near. He could do anything; of that she was entirely confident.
"There's small-pox in the county," said John, presently, with such sudden irrelevance that the girl half rose from her seat.
"Where?"
"Some paupers out this road—I don't think you need be scared. I'm waiting on them."
"You!"
"Yes, I'm a doctor, you know. Old Mr. Hoonover came in yesterday afternoon with the news, and I am constrained to believe that it was more a matter of personal interest with him than it was love for his neighbour. He lives close to them. But what's worse than small-pox is the fact that I was compelled to strike Devil Marston yesterday afternoon on the streets of your town."
He rapidly detailed the encounter. Julia was all interest and concern, and hovered on his words eagerly, yet with dread.
"Travers told me last night that he's gone to Jericho," concluded Glenning.
"What for?"
"To try and ruin me, Miss Dudley!"
John turned upon her with a face every lineament of which bespoke suffering and strength.
"I came away from there, my friend, because had I stayed I would have gone to hell, along the broadest and most flowery of all the broad and flowery ways which lead there. My feet had turned in at that wide gate—God forgive me!—when all at once I awoke! I can't tell you now—I have no right—but some day I will tell you, some day when we know each other better, and there's nothing which makes for quick and understanding companionship like a common danger. We are each threatened, you the most, poor girl, for you cannot fight—but I have strength for two—" he stopped, and shut his teeth. He had nearly gone too far. Then he leaned towards her and took one of her hands, crushing it in both of his almost roughly. The flowers fell in a gorgeous heap between them, strewing her lap with their fresh beauty. He looked steadily into her eyes, and she looked back into his, fearlessly and earnestly.
"Trust me!" he said, in a strained voice. "Trust me! Believe in me! It will come to you! Devil Marston will not let his news suffer for want of garnishment—and you will hear! Am I asking too much to ask for your faith and trust? It means much to me—now! It means more to me than all of life, I believe—right now! Will you do it? Will you believe in me? It is going to be a strong test, Miss Dudley. Answer me!"
The situation was new and strange to the girl who had never known aught of life save that which the peaceful environs of home had disclosed. She knew nothing of the world—of its wickedness, trials and sins. She had never seen a strong man wrought up to a pitch like this; she had never heard such words before, and now she but vaguely sensed their meaning. She knew that she was trembling, but she was not afraid, for cowardice did not run in her blood. She knew that her hand was aching under the force he had unconsciously put upon it. Her eyes beheld the melancholy shadows which dwelt perpetually in his; she saw the fresh scars on his forehead and cheek where the burns had not yet healed—the singed hair. And back of it all she seemed to see his soul, suffering, but clean! A half sob struggled in her throat.
"I don't know what you mean!" she said, with child-like candour which was almost pitiful. "But I know you are a man! Nothing can change that opinion, Doctor Glenning, I do believe in you, and I have faith in you, and trust you!"
"Thank God!" he said, huskily, and released her hand.
They sat without speaking for several minutes. Peter appeared upon the other side of the lawn, hoe in hand, diligently searching for any weeds which might have come up within the last few days.
"Father is not very well this morning," Julia began, her hand straying absently among the scattered nasturtiums. "He fears a breakdown, and has been talking a great deal of his brother, my uncle Arthur, who went west before I was born, and from whom we haven't heard for years. We don't know whether he's living or not, and this distresses father, for he says he would like above all things to see him now."
"That is strange. How long has it been since you had a letter?"
"Oh, many years. Not since I was quite a little girl."
"I'm sorry to hear the Major is indisposed. Try and keep him in a cheerful mood if you can. It won't do for a man of his age to grow despondent. I fear these troubles which have come to him are the cause."
"Yes, he is so unlike himself. I suspect I had better go to him now."
She arose and began gathering up her flowers. Glenning picked up a few which had fallen upon the ground, and gave them to her.
"Won't you come in?" she asked.
"Not this morning, thank you. Give Major Dudley my regards, and tell him I'll call soon. I must go see my pauper now; the poor fellow's pretty sick."
He pressed her hand quickly and firmly and strode rapidly away. She went slowly towards the house, her head bent over the armful of flowers. Her thoughts were new, many and tumultuous, but they were not bitter. At the portico steps she remembered that this was the day when the town paper was issued. Ordinarily she cared little for what was going on in the vicinity, but now something made her turn and call to the old negro—
"Uncle Peter, will you please go to town at once, and bring the mail?"
The old fellow retreated to put his hoe away, and Julia, casting a glance at a buggy now being driven briskly down the road, went in to her father.
The Major was decidedly unwell. He was up and dressed, and was sitting in his favourite chair by the window. But his posture was not his own. Always erect hitherto, standing or sitting, this morning he slouched down in his chair, listlessly, and his shoulders had pulled forward. An expression almost of hopelessness was on his face, and Julia noticed, as she came quietly in, that there was no book in his hand. This fact, apparently trivial, worried her more than the dejected appearance her father presented. For she did not remember of ever seeing him alone before when he did not hold a book; if he was not reading it he was nursing it. The girl quickly and noiselessly arranged the flowers in sundry vases and bowls, then came and knelt by her father's side and took one of his passive, unresponsive hands.
"Daddy, don't you feel a little better?" she pleaded.
He did not look at her. His eyes were directed on the floor, and he merely shook his head slowly in answer to her solicitous query.
"What is it, daddy dear? Do you hurt anywhere? Won't you go to bed, or lie down on the couch and let me sit by you?"
The tender words from his beloved child roused the Major. He lifted his head and mechanically adjusted his stock. Then he turned to her and placed his hand caressingly upon her brown hair.
"Ah, little Julia! Little Julia!"
That was all for several moments. He sat and looked at her for some time, and the love in his soul beatified his countenance.
"I'm not sick," he said, after a while. "That is, no doctor on earth could help me. It's just the letting go, sweet daughter. I'm old, you must remember, and I can't endure things nor fight as I once could. It has come in the last few days—I have seemed to crumble—to wither, and it has weighed me down horribly. I should have risen above it. I do not care about myself; my life is lived, but you, dear child—it is the thought of your future which fills me with alarm and well-nigh breaks my heart. I have no inheritance for you—I have nothing to leave you but poverty and danger. Don't you understand?"
His voice was gravely tender as he spoke to her thus, and it made her heart ache, and the burning tears come to her lids.
"Oh, daddy!" she cried; "you must be mistaken! You will—youmuststay with me many years yet, for I could not get along without you. Tell me you will try—you know the mind has so much to do with the body. Brace up, daddy, for your Julia! You say you have no sickness; then try and let your spirit be bright—for me! Won't you?"
She arose, glided into his lap, curled one arm around his neck and kissed him on the forehead.
"For such a daughter one should try very hard for life," he replied, and the twinkle she had not seen for several days shone in his eyes. "I'm stricken, lassie, but I'll promise you this: I'll make the best fight of my life now, in its last days, and that shall be to stay with my precious little girl as long as I can. Does that satisfy you, young miss?"
The Major's last words were almost gay, and Julia's heart bounded with joy as she heard him speak in his old, brave way. It must be her constant duty to buoy him up and cheer him on. She smiled into his eyes happily, and asked him what book she should bring him. He mentioned a certain volume relating to archaeological research, which she at once procured, and seeing Peter coming up the drive she gave her father another caress and went out, almost tripping, for so quickly do we respond to conditions of joy or sadness. Peter bore nothing but the town paper, which he delivered with an obsequious bow, and immediately sought his hoe again. The lawn, next to The Prince, was his greatest pride, and some weeds were beginning to come up.
Julia sank down upon the portico step, and opened the still damp pages of theHerald. She tried to make herself believe that she was merely conning the column bearing on local happenings and people of the town, but surely such disinterested employment as that would not bring the blood to her checks, nor an added sparkle to her eyes. Directly she found that which she declared to herself she was not looking for, and which she read merely because she happened to see it. The item was in regard to the small-pox, and the attending physician. TheHeraldhad some very nice things to say of the new doctor; in fact, he and his actions took up a goodly portion of so much of theHeraldas was printed at home, because the fire had to be told of, with all things relating thereto. Truth to tell, Julia had never fully nor properly appreciated her town paper until this morning, when she found it brimming full of the most interesting news in the world. It seemed that John Glenning's name appeared in nearly every paragraph. There was also a notice of his encounter with Devil Marston, and this was most adroitly written, the editor evidently not wishing to offend the rich bank president, and at the same time endeavouring to keep the friendship of Uncle Billy Hoonover, who had a large county connection, all of whom subscribed for theHerald, and paid for it promptly. The editor opined, in conclusion, that it "was an unfortunate incident, and everyone hoped and believed it was now amicably settled."
But it was a news item on the other inside page which made the colour die out of the girl's face as the clouds grow gray in the west after the sun is gone. It was a news item only, printed without comment, but a cold hand was laid upon Julia's heart as she read on and on, down to the last bitter word, then sat crushed and shivering in the warm June sunshine. The item told of the passing of the bank dividend, giving in explanation the reasons which Marston had declared to the directors of the institution. She could scarcely believe it. It was their maintenance—their sole support. Without it was abject poverty, starvation. They could not live another month, to say nothing of six months, shorn of this income. Slowly her numbed mind came back to its normal state, and she tried to think it out. Why had it been done? Did the item say? Who had done it? Were there any names given? In a dazed way she lifted the paper which she had allowed to fall to the ground, and read the paragraph again. No names were given. "The directors deemed it necessary" because of the reasons which followed. She could not doubt its truth. She sat gazing in front of her, stunned, hopeless. Fate was surely unkind. Neither she nor her father merited treatment like this. Her spirit grew rebellious, almost wicked. After a time Aunt Frances came to receive orders for dinner. "Anything you can find" was Julia's reply, and she continued to gaze straight in front of her, A buggy passed, and its occupant lifted his hat, but she made no sign. She did not see the buggy, nor Glenning. He wondered that she did not return his salutation. Then he saw a newspaper crushed in her hand, and his active mind guessed the truth. He drove on with his heart seething at the injustice of it all, and his inability to help.
The moments passed, and still Julia sat like a woman of stone, a look on her fresh young face which was piteous in its tragic helplessness. "Daddy must not know! Daddy must not know!" This one sentence coursed through her mind with each throb of her pulse, and its constant reiteration almost maddened her, for how could she hold the truth from him? She saw nothing, not even the figure which presently laboured up the drive, wiping the streaming perspiration from its face as it came. Not till Dillard stopped in front of her, waiting to be recognized, did she lift her eyes to him, dully. But she said nothing. She felt as one who had suddenly come to the end of life, unexpectedly, in the heyday of his youth and happiness.
"Good morning, Miss Julia," said Dillard, "may I sit down? I can't stay but a moment."
She brushed her skirts aside, and the young man took the seat made vacant by her movement. He was breathing hard, and had evidently come in a hurry. He, too, noted the paper, and he saw where it was opened.
"It's a bloomin' shame, Miss Julia!" he blurted out, twirling his straw hat nervously between his hands. "You've read it, I know, and I've rushed out here at my dinner hour to tell you that it's the meanest trick I ever knew anybody to do, and—"
"Who did it?"
Her voice sounded hollow and old.
"Who did it?" he repeated. "Devil Marston did it! He did it just to spite you and the Major. We made the dividend, and two hundred and fifty dollars of it belongs to you, but Marston's word is law in that bank. Oh, it's a shame! I've come out here to let you know. I can't do anything. Nobody can do anything, but I wanted you to know that it wasn't the bank that played you false. It was Marston, and he did it to ruin you and your father! I know I'm talkin' plain to you, and I beg your pardon if I'm too outspoken, but I've known you a long time, Miss Julia, and we've been friends, in a way. I'd give my right hand to set matters right at the bank, but I can't move an inch. Does the Major know?"