"Father is not well, and this news must be kept from him," she answered. "The paper—I will destroy it myself, now." She began to tear it into strips, methodically. "It's good of you to come, Tom, so good of you, and I'm grateful. I'm glad to know who was back of this crime—for it amounts to that as far as we are concerned. It has a bit gotten the best of me."
She stopped her occupation of shredding theHerald, and gazed pensively at the ground in front of her. Dillard's round, baby-blue eyes dwelt upon her in a protectingly hungry way. His pudgy face showed his keen distress, and his fat hands toyed unceasingly with his hat. It was plain there was something else he wanted to say, but he could not find the words in which to express himself. Then, too, the time was not propitious. If he had loved Julia Dudley silently and in a worshiping way for six years, he surely could love her that same way a few days longer, when he would come to her with the offer of his honest heart, and plead with her to come with him away from all the troubles which beset her. So he got to his feet rather awkwardly, dropping his hat as he did so, and remarked—
"It's hot as blazes today, Miss Julia. If I can doanythingfor you or the Major, call on me."
"Thank you, Tom. But I'm sorry to have been the cause of you coming out here in the sun at noonday."
"That doesn't matter a fig. I felt that you would want to know, and I wanted to be the one to tell you. Good-bye; I must be back by one."
He held a red, moist hand towards her. She smiled at him and took it with a few added words of appreciation, then Dillard was departing down the avenue with such dignity as his avoirdupois would allow, for he felt that the eyes of the girl were following his retreating form. Such was not the case, however. Julia arose the instant her caller's back was turned, gathered the streaming bits of paper into a tight wad in her two hands, and going to the kitchen, flung them in the stove.
The rest, of the day was a waking nightmare to the poor girl. She had nowhere to turn; there was no one to whom she could go and ask for advice or help. She dared not broach the fearful subject to her father, for his despondency would be sure to return, and it might be she could not raise him from it again. The blow had fallen upon tender shoulders, unused to the bearing of loads, but she did not murmur after the first flame of resentment had passed. She even brought herself to accept it as right, and all that afternoon Major Dudley saw no change in the smiling, sweet-voiced, bright-tempered being who flitted about him, attending to his wants or engaging him in light conversation.
After tea the old gentleman seemed markedly improved, and readily retired at a rather early hour upon his daughter's suggestion. Then, when she knew he was asleep, the desolate girl stole out upon the lawn, down to the spot where that morning she and Glenning had sat, and throwing herself upon the settee, she sobbed and cried for nearly an hour. It was awful—awful! and she was so helpless! Then bitter despair seized her and she prayed to die. She asked God to take her with her father and not leave her alone to fight these strange and awful battles with the world. When her grief and terror had spent themselves in tears she grew calmer, and still lying prone and motionless, strove to think of a way out. The problem was set for her. Could she solve it? She thought, and thought, and in time her thinking brought results. Marston had done this; then Marston alone could undo it. The money was theirs; he was stealing it from them. What then? Was there no law to protect the innocent? She did not know, but she presumed there wasn't, in this case. There was but one way, and that was a horrible one. She must go to Devil Marston in person, and demand that which was her right. Insist that he revoke his cruel order to pass the dividend, and compel him, if she could, to have it declared yet. She sat up as she reached this conclusion, a strange thrill sweeping through her. It would be terrible to go to this man, this being whose nature was a composite of many dreadful and evil strains. But she would go—she knew it on the moment—and she would go quickly. Tomorrow morning, as soon as she could slip away from the Major, she would make the venture. It was the only chance to escape genteel starvation. There could be little doubt that he would be at home. He was seldom gone longer than a day at a time. Doctor Glenning had told her that he went away that very morning. Would he return that night? She must know. She would sit up for the train from Jericho. It did not come until eleven, or thereabouts, but she was not sleepy, and she loved the calm, mysterious nights in summer. The time sped swiftly. Some of the thoughts which came to her chilled her very heart; some brought anxiety and worry, and some filled her virgin soul with strange, elusive whisperings; premonitory warnings of something wonderfully sweet. If she dwelt upon these most; if her mind's eye saw beside her at times in the starlight a long shape, lean of limb and lean of face, with eyes constantly filled with troubled shadows, but true and unfaltering—who would say her nay? For the approach of love is a beautiful mystery, fraught with emotions which frighten while they charm, which awe while they inspire, and there is no more sacred or precious time in a young girl's life than that when her soul quickens in response to the summons of love.
So preoccupied was she that Julia barely heard the shriek of the express from the north as it thundered into the station in Macon. But the sound of the whistle recalled her to herself—made her remember why she was sitting there. It was hard to give up dreams for reality. But she faced the road and pressed her lips together, and waited. She heard the train pull out and resume its journey southward; its rumble became fainter and fainter and was lost in the distance. Then she fell to listening for another sound which she dreaded, yet hoped to hear. She wanted him to return that night. She wanted the fearful task over and done while her courage was high. She was perfectly aware that nothing short of desperation could have driven her to this determination. She felt it of the utmost importance that he should return that night. But the minutes passed, and he did not come. A vehicle went by, and later a horse at a canter. Neither of these was Devil Marston. She did not need the aid of light to tell her when he rode by. The air began to grow a little chilly. She had come out without wrap of any kind, and all at once she realized her imprudence. She arose with a slight shiver, and stood for a moment with head inclined attentively. What was it? Hoofs? She held her breath and waited. An indistinguishable sound was on the air. It was lost; it came again faintly. Then suddenly it burst upon her ears unmistakably—the noise of a horse running at breakneck speed. She shuddered involuntarily, but tarried yet a moment longer to be sure. Then he passed in his whirlwind way—she heard again that sound in the night which never failed to bring terror to her heart—and then she went in and locked the door and went up to her room. She had grown calm. She was surprised at her own coolness, and the deliberateness with which she went about her preparations to retire. Even when she opened her bureau drawer and took therefrom a pearl-handled, thirty-two caliber revolver, she was not stirred. Her father had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday, and had taught her how to use it. She could shoot straight. She even smiled as she laid it down in front of the mirror, after breaking it to see that its chambers were full. Her adventure in the morning would be fraught with danger, and the revolver which she knew so well how to handle should go with her when she made her call on Devil Marston.
That night John Glenning sat alone in his office with a letter spread out on the table before him. Something had come to pass which he could not understand; which had plunged him in a maze of incredulity in spite of visual evidence. The letter had come that afternoon—had been forwarded to him from Jericho—and he had taken it from the post-office upon his return from his second visit to Dink Scribbens. The letter was dated and post-marked New York City, and read as follows:
"John Glenning, Esq.,"Jericho, Ky."Dear Sir—The death of our client, and your uncle, John Glenning, on the 14th inst., reveals the fact that one of his life insurance polices was executed with you as beneficiary. Proofs of his death having been properly forwarded to the company by us, we are this day in receipt of a draft for $2000, payable to your order. Find said draft enclosed. Please acknowledge receipt."Yours truly,"Benner & Locke, Attorneys."
"John Glenning, Esq.,
"Jericho, Ky.
"Dear Sir—The death of our client, and your uncle, John Glenning, on the 14th inst., reveals the fact that one of his life insurance polices was executed with you as beneficiary. Proofs of his death having been properly forwarded to the company by us, we are this day in receipt of a draft for $2000, payable to your order. Find said draft enclosed. Please acknowledge receipt.
"Yours truly,
"Benner & Locke, Attorneys."
This letter, with the draft beside it, lay upon his table in the light of a lamp none too clean. Letter and draft had been lying there for about an hour and a half, and a coatless, tumbled-haired, hunted-eyed man had been sitting in front of them for the same length of time, alternately fingering the thin piece of paper which represented two thousand dollars, and staring at the larger sheet, with its short, business-like message. Many men would have rejoiced wildly at this piece of good luck, and it may be told in a whisper here that few could have needed it worse than the one to whom it had come. But it had a quieting and peculiar effect upon the new doctor. Parents he had none. An older married sister lived in Missouri. He had fought pretty hard since he was sixteen, hugging honour and truth to his heart as priceless possessions in the great struggle before him. He did not come of wealthy folks, nor even well-to-do. They were poor, but were people of quality. Misfortune came, such as may come to the best, and so the death of each parent was hastened. Yes, he had an uncle John. He was named for this relative. He had seen him only once or twice in his life. He had heard his father speak of him as a crotchety, peculiar person, who all his life long did the most unexpected things. He lived in New York, but had never married, and never amassed money. This freak he exhibited in privately taking out life insurance in favour of his namesake was characteristic. Possibly that accounted for it—the name. John didn't know. He had never seen this uncle since he had been grown. Once he was tempted to write to him and ask him to give help in getting him (John) through college, but he had refrained from writing this letter. He had, instead, written one telling of his struggles, and how he knew he would get through. To this he received no reply of any kind. So John had put this strange relative out of his mind, and had scarcely given him a thought in years. And now, behold how he had misjudged him! The proof of his love for his brother's child was here, silent, but convincing.
How good it was to take this first upward step towards independence! With a balance like this in the Macon National Bank the people would have greater respect for him; practice would come if he was diligent and attentive, and—Suddenly his eyes set, and an undefinable look settled upon his face. At first it seemed dismay, unbelief, then through varying gradations of emotion the changing features passed until firm resolve was fixed upon them, mingled with an expression of acute happiness which was almost painful. Then he got up, the first time in two hours, slipped the edge of a book over the precious draft as a weight, and crossing his arms on his chest fell to walking up and down. A smile had crept to his sensitive lips, and a musing, tender gleam to his eyes. It was plain his thoughts sat well with him. Up and down, with measured tread he walked, minute after minute. He was laying a plan, and if it involved deception it evidently did not disturb his conscience. When he at length resumed his chair, put his elbows on the table edge, and ran the long fingers of each hand through the hair above his ears, he appeared nearer absolute content than at any time since he had come to Macon.
The night was hot, the lamp almost touching him was hotter, but he did not know it. He did not know that perspiration was streaming from his forehead, and that the backs of his hands were beaded with moisture. It was no time for such small physical concerns. He was lifted up. He was above such trivial things as heat and cold, hunger and thirst. He had known in that hour the first sweet joy-pangs of sacrifice! The way was not all clear; only the beginning was plain. But he would light the entire road by the might of his will, if it took till morning. He had accomplished tasks of lesser import by setting his head to them; this paramount problem he would make his own. He did not hear the passing on the street, though both his windows were up as high as they could go. But when a tolerably heavy step began to ascend the stair he looked up almost with a scowl. He didn't want any callers that night. It was one night in his life when he wanted to be let alone. If some one was sick—there were other doctors! At any other time he would have welcomed the approach of a possible patient, but now his whole being rebelled against the leisurely oncomer. Would he never get up the steps! Another moment young Dillard came dragging into the room with his hands in his pockets, glanced about for a chair, and finding none, perched his bulk upon the end of the table, and sighed. John rose and shoved the chair towards him viciously.
"Sit down!" he growled.
"Damn if somethin' ain't got to be done!" was the rather peculiar response, and Dillard looked almost scared when he said it, for it is doubtful if he ever swore before in his life.
"What's the matter?" queried John, quelling his choler as he suddenly realized that his visitor was the only person in town who might be able to assist him in the work he had mapped out for that night.
"Matter! Don't you know that both Major and Miss Julia'll be dead in four weeks unless we can put our heads together to some purpose? I was out there today, between twelve and one, and I found her sittin' on the front steps huddled over thatHeraldlike a bird with a broken wing. She'd just read what that—thatdevilhad done, and she was crushed, man, literally crushed!"
Dillard's voice rose with his anger, and he slid to his feet, his blue eyes blinking and blazing, and his round fists clenched till the knuckles showed white. Glenning, in striking contrast, stood disheveled by the lamp, the angles of his face strongly outlined and his hair falling over his forehead. One hand rested on the table, the other lightly on his hip.
"It was a terrible sight, doctor—a terrible sight! I shan't forget it if I live to be a thousand. There she was, a girl, alone, for she told me the Major was sick and she couldn't tell him. Alone, I say, to bear unaided this villain's hellish blow. Innocent, mistreated, helpless, but brave! We'vegotto do it, doctor, you and I; we'vegotto find a way—do you hear?"
Almost beside himself with love and rage, Dillard strode up and shook his fist in his new friend's face, forgetting, no doubt, that Glenning shared his views.
"Yes, we've got to find a way, Dillard," repeated John, in even tones, and he looked down at the table where the papers lay.
"Then how,how, I say?" demanded his caller, furiously. "It's got to be done quickly—at once! Major hasn't ten dollars in bank, and Marston's positive orders are he shan't overdraw!"
"No, he shan't overdraw," again repeated John, and his gaze was still downcast.
"Then how in hell are you goin' to manage it?"
Dillard's religious training was slipping away in the stress of the moment.
John went into his reception room and came back with another chair. This he placed on the other side of the table and occupied, motioning his friend to draw up to the spot where he had formerly sat. When Dillard, fuming and wrathful, had done so, he again fired the query:
"How are you goin' to do it?"
"This way," answered John, and he quietly picked up the draft and laid it between Dillard's hands.
The bank clerk's fingers closed upon the paper, and when he had read the wording on its face, simple amazement and a total lack of comprehension was reflected from his flushed countenance.
"What's this got to do with it?" he asked, almost petulantly. "This is to you—this is your money."
"It's my money tonight. The question is, how can we make it Major Dudley's money without them, or anyone else, suspecting anything?"
Tom's mouth came open, and he lifted baffled eyes to the face before him.
"You mean—this money—whatdoyou mean, anyway, doctor?"
Glenning merely repeated his last speech, enunciating it more clearly.
Dillard sank back in his chair, a nerveless mass.
"You mean you're goin' togivethem this money!" he gasped; "this little fortune!"
John's arm shot out across the table, and his slim fingers twined about the soft hand which lay there, inert.
"See here, Tom Dillard!" he said, earnestly. "You say you are a friend to these people. I believe you, or I'd never have taken you into my confidence. I'm their friend, too, and Fate has said that I shall be the one to bring relief to them in their present predicament. Promise me to work with me, now, to the perfecting of some plan, and to keep all this a secret to your dying day! Promise, boy, and then we'll plot!"
"Yes, I promise!" replied Dillard, in an awed voice. "But are you sick, or crazy, or—"
"Neither. I've nothing. Let that alone. It has nothing to do with this."
A dull flush was on the speaker's face.
"Then—" began Dillard, but he stopped, reddened, and glanced aside. In that moment jealousy was added to his other worries. He had never supposed for an instant that Doctor Glenning was in love with Julia Dudley. The idea was silly, for their acquaintance had been limited to a few days. But what did this mean? His mind was not preternaturally acute; in fact, he was rather dull than bright, but a simpleton would have cause to suspect something when a man, himself almost penniless, was willing to sacrifice a considerable sum of money in order that a destitute old man and his lovely daughter should not suffer humiliation and hunger. It was possible for this act to be one of pure philanthropy, but even Dillard's slow-moving intellect could not see it in that light. It simply meant that another man had found and appreciated this sheltered flower of womanhood that he had watched grow, and bud, and bloom, and that she had aroused in this other man a passion akin to his own. These thoughts traveled with unusual rapidity through Dillard's brain, the while his companion sat with head thrust forward, watching him.
"Then—what?" queried Glenning. "What were you going to say?"
"What are you doing this for?"
"What wouldyoudo it for, if you could?"
"Friendship for the family," was the somewhat sullen reply.
"Friendship fiddlesticks!" retorted John. "You'd do it for no such reason, but for that sweet girl-woman in distress!"
He brought his fist down on the table as he said this so that the lamp jumped and the blaze shot up the chimney, and glared defiance at the man across from him.
Dillard's heart seemed trying to pump the blood through his skin, but he only looked at John as though he had been addressed in Arabic or Chinese.
"There's no use side-tracking the truth," resumed Glenning. "We've agreed to work together in a common cause, and do it as friends who trust each other. There can be no good work nor full trust where there is concealment. I know you love Miss Dudley—why shouldn't you! So own up, and let's get to business!"
"I've loved her for six years!" Dillard said, the words struggling through a tight throat. "But I've never told anyone before, not even her. I'd give ten years from the other end of my life to have this check, instead of you! I've told you the truth; you do the same," he added, with a sort of eagerness mixed with dread.
"That's fair. This is the truth. I've never met a more lovely character or beautiful face in a woman. I've been drawn towards her strongly—so strongly—almost irresistibly. It must be the rare and indefinable charm of her personality; her pure, sweet, unsullied nature. She is entirely unlike any other woman I have ever known." A shadow of pain came and went from his mouth unobserved by the one to whom he was talking. "You want to know if I love her, and I tell you truly, Tom Dillard, so help me God, I don't know! But I'll say this in all candour: were it not for her I'd never turn this money over to Major Dudley. Now you may think me a liar if you wish, but that is as near the truth as I can come tonight. Now we find ourselves back to the business in hand. A mutual exchange of confidence is good. I really fear I am drifting on the shoals, old fellow, but I'm not near enough to them to declare it positively. Are you satisfied?"
A grayish pallor had settled on Dillard's face as John talked.
"If you go in it's all up with me," he said, despondently. "But we'll play fair."
The eyes which he lifted were honest and straightforward.
"You're a man, Dillard; shake hands!" said John.
They did, in a firm grasp.
"Now to business," resumed the speaker, producing a black briar pipe and filling it slowly from a "hand" of natural leaf which lay on the top of his desk. "You're a banker, Dillard. How's a fellow to transfer money to another fellow and not let the other fellow nor anyone else in the world know anything about it?" The round face before him broke into a smile, at the same time becoming thinly veiled by the smoke of a light cigar.
"That takes me back to school," he answered. "It sounds exactly like one of those puzzle problems in arithmetic which I used to sweat and groan over. It's about as hard, too, don't you think?"
"Harder, by far. It seems impossible on the face of it, but it must be done. You're the banker; you can't expect me to teach you your business. I'll give you half an hour to solve it. In the meantime I'll be thinking, too, just for mind culture."
"You'd better think of something closer to hand, for I'll never unriddle it."
"Not another word for half an hour!" commanded John, placing his open watch upon the table between them. "We'll pass this night in silence periods of thirty minutes duration each, then have five minutes recess after each, unless one or the other has solved the great question. It is now ten-thirty. Aren't you sorry you came in?—To work!"
He tilted his chair, elevated his heels to the other end of the table, let the long-stemmed pipe sink between his two hands, and lapsed into a meditative silence.
Dillard kept his feet on the floor, probably because of his extra amount of flesh, and likewise endeavoured to think. Just as the first half hour was up the figment of a tenable plan floated into Glenning's brain.
"How goes it?" he asked, squinting across at the placid face of his friend.
"Slow. You're right; it's worse than arithmetic."
"I've started," announced John, quietly elated. "Give me another thirty minutes, and I believe I can let you go home."
"Proceed," was the laconic reply, and again silence.
Glenning, searching desperately about in his mind, had really hit upon an entirely feasible way to carry out his idea. The project quickly developed as he brought his brain into active service, and long before the time he had asked for had expired, it was all clear, and ready to his hand.
"There's no use wasting further time in reflection, my boy," said John, suddenly lowering his feet and swinging around. "Listen, and I'll a tale unfold."
"I'm listening. You're a wonder if you've got it straight."
"There's not a hitch in the whole thing. Here's my plan. I can't write my name on the back of this piece of paper, walk in your bank and request the teller to place it to the credit of Major Dudley. That would cause comment, and Major Dudley would naturally and rightly refuse to touch a cent of it. And I would be in bad odour with them and the community. My plan is to make Major Dudley deposit this money himself."
He stopped for a moment to enjoy the look of undisguised curiosity and blank amazement on Dillard's face.
"Now I know something of the family history, in spite of the fact that I have but recently become a citizen of the town. There was a brother, you perhaps know this also, who went west many years ago, and disappeared soon after. They suppose he died long ago, and very likely he did, but for our purposes we will say he died last week. He was on his way back to Kentucky, to see his brother once more in the flesh. He reached St. Louis, and was taken ill. His sickness assumed a malignant turn, and he realized that he must die. He sent for a reliable lawyer, who happened to be my college friend and chum, Will Porter. While not attaining riches, this brother, Arthur Dudley, had something over two thousand dollars in cash with him. The surplus was enough for his board, doctor bill, lawyer fee and burial expenses, and he had Porter purchase a draft with the two thousand left, payable to his brother in Kentucky. This draft Porter forwarded to Major Dudley, with a brief letter explaining all the circumstances. Now if you don't think I'm a first-class rascal with a long head for schemes I don't know why. Can you find a flaw in this skein of base duplicity?"
Dillard rose to his feet and slowly shook his head.
"You're a marvel. You've got it. When are you going to do this?"
"Tonight. Now. We'll have to explain the whole thing to Porter, but he's true as steel, and will do his part without fail. Two days for my letter to go to St. Louis; two for his to get back. Major and Miss Dudley will be relieved of their financial embarrassment the fourth day from tomorrow!"
John took a pen and endorsed the draft to the order of his western friend in a firm, bold hand, free from flourishes.
Ten minutes later Dillard was gone, and by the light of a smoky lamp a man sat driving a pen frantically across sheet after sheet of paper. He had to make things plain, or Porter would think his mind had gone wrong. He wrote feverishly, and soon the message was done, sealed and addressed, with the draft inside. He looked at the envelope for several moments fixedly, then suddenly he sighed, cast his arms across the table and let his face fall in them, his laced fingers writhing and an inarticulate prayer falling from his lips. The old phantom had returned, even as he wrote—that dread night visitant which had robbed him of so many hours of sleep, and planted gray streaks about his temples. It came tonight with its eyes of languor and its scented hair and its smile of temptation—to drag him back! Its power was awful; its presence so real. Would not his present act be some expiation for his past weakness? Would it not serve to help banish this haunting vision which still sought to claim him?
Julia slept soundly and sweetly, but awoke early and arose at once. It was an awful thing—this sudden transition from carefree, blissful girlhood into woman's estate, with the attending hardships and strange trials which she had to face. Her plan of action for that morning was not at all clear. She merely knew that she was going to face a desperate and wicked man who had wofully mistreated her and her father. She conceived this to be her duty, and there was no shrinking or hanging back in her soul when she thought of it. But as she combed her hair into place and put on a flowered muslin—she could not wear her riding habit, because her expedition must be kept from her father—she did not know what she would do, or say, when she came before Devil Marston. Her face grew hot as she thought of the swiftly approaching encounter, but this only heightened her unusual beauty. That moment, for the first time in her life, she wished that she was plain. Her beauty had not brought her love or happiness, but had cursed her instead with the obnoxious attentions of a beast in the shape of a man. Concealing the revolver in the folds of a light wrap, she went down stairs. The Major had not risen. Swiftly she passed through the library and dining-room, and entered the kitchen. Aunt Frances' fat person was bustling about, and breakfast was in preparation.
"Good morning, Aunt Frances!" said Julia, cheerily; "where's Uncle Peter?"
"Mawnin', missus—whar he allus is 'cep'n' w'en he's sleepin'—foolin' roun' dat colt ob a Prince!"
There was a degree of asperity in the old colored lady's speech, coupled with an ominous shake of the head. But Julia had been accustomed to the family difficulties upon which Peter and Aunt Frances throve, since infancy, and she paid no heed to the present demonstration of a ruffled temper.
"Thank you," she answered, sweetly. "I want to see him, so I'll run down to the smoke-house."
She passed onto the small kitchen porch as she said this, and here the old negress' voice halted her. There was a protesting, plaintive, sad inflection in the one word—
"Missus?"
Julia stopped and turned abruptly, vaguely alarmed.
"Yes, Aunt Frances?"
"Missus, de flour bar'l done gone plum', clean em'ty; de side meat goes dis mawnin' foh breakfus', 'n' de meal bar'l ain' much bettuh. I done kotch a chick'n foh dinner yistiddy, but de Massa lub his biscuit breakfus', dinner,ensuppuh!"
"You are right to tell me when things get low," she answered bravely, but in a peculiarly low voice. "I'll send Uncle Peter into town with an order this morning. Be careful not to let the flour run out completely again."
"Bress dat chile!" exclaimed Aunt Frances, lifting the corner of her apron to her eye as Julia disappeared. "I wonduh ef she t'inks she's foolin' her ol' mammy? Hain't I lived heah always, 'n' hain't I seen dis house go down 'n' down 'twell now hit mos' tech rock bottom? Some'in's gwi' drap, sho! But me 'n' Peter'll be hyar w'en it comes!"
She tossed her turbaned head, and, stanch old Methodist that she was, began crooning a "'vival" tune, wherewith to bolster up her sinking courage.
Julia came to a standstill in the smoke-house doorway. Within, with his back to her, stood Peter. A curry-comb was in one hand, and a brush in the other. He had evidently come to a halt while making The Prince's morning toilet, to spend a few moments in silent contemplation and admiration. He had withdrawn several feet from the satin-sleek form of the young colt, and reposed in an attitude of adoration, his skinny, ridged neck stretched towards the object of his devotion. Julia was compelled to speak his name twice before he heard her. Then he turned with his customary profound bow, and greeted her deferentially.
"Uncle Peter, I want The Prince this morning," she said, coming straight to the point, for she knew too well the old fellow's garrulousness to attempt circumlocution. He would have kept her there till noonday.
Now this was the first time Julia had ever said she would ride The Prince, and the wilfully deafened ears of Peter refused to recognize this first declaration.
"Mom—missus—mom?" he ejaculated, bending slightly from the waist and looking up at her keenly and suspiciously. "D'ye say de Prince look well dis mawnin'? 'Deed he do! He's had he breakfus' 'n' a good rub down—not quite finished, though. I's tekkin' a breathin' spell w'en you come. Hahd wuk foh an' ol' nigguh gittin' de duht 'n' stuff off'n a hoss w'en he's slep' in it. 'Scuse me, missus, 'n' I'll finish wid 'im now!"
Peter was sly and Peter was jealous. He heard plainly enough what his mistress had said, but he could not bear to think of the colt leaving his sight, even for a short time. His subsequent harangue was given simply to cause his mistress to forget her idea, or to forego its execution. He now approached the colt and began a vigorous attack upon its flank and hind legs, where there was no particle of dirt, and no hair out of place.
"Uncle Peter!" called Julia, firmly, "did you not hear me?"
"Yas'm'; I heah yo', missus!" he replied, between grunts. "I's proud you's pleased wid de way de Prince looks. Oh! he's peart, let me tell yo'!"
"Come here, Uncle Peter; come to me!"
He could not disobey the direct summons. He straightened up with a groan and a wry face, partly feigned and partly caused by a "ketch" from rheumatism, and shuffled forward.
"I said I wanted The Prince this morning," repeated Julia, quite positively, "and I meant it. I shall want him for perhaps an hour—certainly not longer. It does not matter that I have never ridden him. I have ridden real vicious horses before father sold his racers, and this colt is gentle, and we are friends besides. He knows me—see him looking at me now?—Good morning, Prince!"
She smiled and waved her hand at the intelligent face turned towards her.
"Now, Uncle Peter," she resumed, "listen to me, and pay attention to what I say. I'm going to ride down the road for a short distance this morning, and I don't want anyone to know about it, not even father, or Aunt Frances. Can I trust you, Uncle Peter, to keep this secret with me?"
"'Deed yo' kin, missus; 'deed yo' kin!"
"I thought so. Dudleys don't lie, and you are a Dudley, Uncle Peter, always remember that! When you give me your word, I trust you as I would anyone else. I want you to bridle and saddle The Prince at once—you know where my saddle is hung. Then take him through the back lot and the side meadow around to the road.Don'tlead him down the drive. It is very necessary that my father should know nothing of this. You must stay with The Prince until I come, which will be soon, immediately after breakfast. Do you understand now, and can I rely upon you?"
"'Deed I do, missus; 'deed yo' kin! I'll fotch de sad'l 'n' tek 'im right roun' to de road!"
"Be careful that no one from the house sees you; hurry, now."
Upon her return she found breakfast ready, and the Major waiting for her. He gave her a morning kiss with his old air of doting pride, and the quick look with which she surveyed him told her that he was in excellent spirits, but whether feigned or real she could not tell. When the meal was over the Major settled himself in the library with a book, and Julia's chance had come. She dared not wait a moment. Already her heart misgave her as she realized to the full all that she was about to undertake. Charged with a subdued excitement which shone in her eyes and glowed on her cheeks, she put on a hat, found her gloves, and secreting the weapon as she walked, she left the house by way of the long side porch and sought her rendezvous with Peter. He was waiting for her like a faithful Arab, with one arm over the neck of his charge. She whispered a few added words of caution to the mystified old servitor, mounted, and started slowly down the road. The distance was short, and she wanted to have herself well in hand, and decide upon the best method in which to approach this enemy to her house.
It was a bright June morning. The air was balmy and fresh and invigorating; it came to her nostrils as the very essence of life from the earth's great laboratory, and it gently lifted the curls which clung about her forehead and neck. The sun had not gathered its full power; its rays blessed while they did not burn. The dense foliage of the roadside trees rustled gently, showering down upon her an elfin song of gladness. All nature was a-thrill with the joy of living, and only this poor little human seemed sad and out of tune. The Prince, too, felt the call of the new day. His pointed ears were up and attentive to every sound; his neck was arched, and his nostrils stretched to the sweet waves of air. It was with some difficulty his rider succeeded in holding him down to a walk. He longed to run—to race with the morning, for this was his breeding through a long, long line of ancestors. To feel the keen wind in his face, to have it rushing past his ears and plucking at his mane and dashing in his eyes; to know the earth was reeling beneath his flying hoofs and that nothing could gain a place in front of him! But his rider kept a firm hold on the reins, and pursued her way in a walk. She would reach her destination soon enough. How she wished the interview was over and done, and she was now on her return trip! She believed she would have let The Prince run, then. The road took a turn a few rods in advance. She knew the place. When she had rounded that bend the house of Devil Marston would be in view. She shut her eyes as she neared it, and breathed a little prayer for strength and guidance.
As the sombre brick pile burst on her sight her face grew white, and she felt a chill of absolute terror settling over her. She told herself fiercely that this would never do—that a contained presence and visible courage she must have, or assume, as they would be invaluable allies in the success of her scheme. The thought of her old father, almost helpless, and the cruel wrong they had each sustained, brought a sudden flood of resentment, and borne on this same current was self-possession and assurance. She turned off the highway directly in front of the gloomy-looking house girt with funereal cedars, and came to a farm gate, loosely hung, and sagging. It was hard work for her to drag it open from the saddle sufficiently wide for The Prince to pass through, but she managed it in time, conscious that the exertion had brought the rich colour back to her face. A rutty, unkept road led towards the yard fence, where it swerved around the corner and went on towards the stables. But there was a small gate in the fence, which, while not intended for the use of horsemen, Julia rode through. It was a dreary place into which she had come. There was no pavement or walk of any sort going up to the front of the house. The yard was covered with some rank and worthless variety of grass, which was tangled and long. Bushes, shrubs, all run wild, and an occasional flower which had come up by chance, were dispersed about. The flowers seemed sickly and afraid to grow, as though they had made a mistake in attempting life amid such surroundings, and wished to bloom and die and be done with it as quickly as possible. The cedars were nearer the house, and created a doleful, grave-yard-like air. The sun was lost among their dark branches, and the breeze which passed through them soughed mournfully. The ground beneath the trees was bare and brown.
Julia had involuntarily reined in the colt when she entered this almost gruesome demesne. She had not imagined anything so repellant. Yet it all was a fitting environment for the master of it. It was in perfect keeping with the unholy spirit of the man who dwelt in the house beyond. Up to this moment Julia had seen no sign of life, but as she urged The Prince forward towards the shut front door gleaming dingily green between the vivid colours of the cedars, a monstrous dog appeared from somewhere and disputed her passage with a low growl and bristling hackles. It was a fierce beast, half-starved, huge, savage as a tiger. It was a boar-hound of foreign breed—Marston had a number of them, though Julia, of course, knew nothing of this. The Prince stopped as this spectre of war took its place in front of him, and Julia felt the rigour which swept his frame. But he did not attempt to bolt. He merely stood with bright eyes, watching the sinister apparition. The dog was not inclined to be aggressive; he merely appeared to be a sentinel, his duty being to stop further progress of the intruders. Julia did not know what to do. She would not retreat now. She was before the lion's den, and she would see him before she withdrew. Shehadto see him, for life and death hung in the balance. If she did not see him she was surely lost; if she did see him, there was a chance. The dog had no notion of retiring, and the situation was rapidly becoming strained. Just as she had made up her mind to call, and try and bring some one to her aid, a shrill whistle sounded somewhere in the rear. The brute before her turned its head, and its tail drooped. The whistle was repeated, louder than before, and thereupon the guardian of the way forsook his post, and retreated in a trot around the corner of the house. Julia promptly rode forward. There was some open ground between the trees, and she presently found herself in a clear space just in front of the house. Some flagstones were placed before the wooden step under the portals, and an iron knocker was imbedded in one of the panels of the massive doors. Should she dismount, and raise a summons? The very atmosphere was oppressive, in spite of the enveloping sunshine. She hesitated again; she did not know what to do. Everything was so different from all to which she had been accustomed. Here was silence, mystery, secrecy; a house without a window or door open to that glorious morning. And the only sign of life that had been evinced was a ferocious dog, and a whistle from some hidden source, which must have come from human lips. She looked about her piteously, undecided. How still everything was! There were no birds singing—but how could bird hearts break forth in song under that pall of cedar? She turned again to gaze at the heavy iron knocker, and just then a piercing animal yelp of pain or fright reached her, followed by a foul malediction in a man's rough voice. More yelps ensued, mingled with snarls and vicious oaths, then around the corner of the house they came—the dog which had stood in her path, with Devil Marston in hot pursuit. Plainly the dog had trespassed in a most unwarrantable manner, for between his strong jaws was a roast of beef, which thus far he had refused to deliver to its owner. Its pursuer was armed with a heavy cudgel, and he did not temper his blows with either mercy or judgment. In this wise they swept into view, the dog but slightly in advance of the man, who was swinging his bludgeon to an accompaniment of awful curses.
It happened that Julia was facing this spectacle, and its presentation made her weak and faint for the moment. Never had her tender ears listened to such words before as fell from the lips of this man. His swarthy face was working and twitching from the volcano-like violence of his rage, and his fangs showed even as did the beast's he was pursuing. The sudden and altogether unexpected appearance of Miss Julia Dudley before his door, mounted upon The Prince, was not sufficient to calm on the instant his superlative passion, which at times almost amounted to a fit, or frenzy. It is true he stopped short in his mad rush, but before he could bring himself to any degree of control he hurled the cudgel in his hand after the fleeing hound with all his strength, at the same moment delivering a half smothered, parting malediction.
Julia sat like a stone statue upon The Prince, which had shied violently at first, and in a way which would have unseated a less skillful rider. Her head was up, her brows slightly contracted, and her fine eyes set straight at the being who now walked towards her, his hat in his hand.
By a superhuman effort of will Marston had composed his features, and as he halted a little to one side of The Prince's head, he was smiling, if the incongruous facial expression he now assumed could be designated that way.
"Good morning, Miss Julia," he said.
The covert insolence in his voice was thinly veiled by a respectful intonation.
"Good morning, Mr. Marston."
Julia was surprised at the steady tones in which she responded to his salutation. She had feared a quiver would run through the words.
"I believe an apology is due you," resumed Marston, "before I inquire the cause of this visit. I'm glad to see you, you know."
He paused a moment to gloat openly over her face and figure. The girl felt herself grow colder before his bold gaze, but said nothing.
"That da—that dog was called to his breakfast, and took a fancy to my dinner, which was on a shelf near. Of course I tried to get it away from him, and in the chase we ran into you. But I haven't welcomed you to my home yet; shake hands with me!"
He advanced to her side and held up his hand.
For a moment a mist swam before Julia's eyes, and she hesitated. All the hateful story which her father had told her rose up in detail, and she felt that to touch this monster would blast her. But she had come to sue for a favour—really to demand justice, but it meant the same thing. She could not afford to affront him, or anger him, if she could help it. She bent and placed her gloved hand in his, silently. He held it in a firm, fierce grasp until she forcibly withdrew it. His little, pig-like eyes were flaming with a different emotion from that which had possessed them a moment ago.
"Come—get down," he said, hoarsely. "You have come to call and I want to receive you in my house. I will get a boy to hold your horse."
He looked at her with hungry cunning as he spoke, and the proud spirit of the Dudleys within her rebelled.
"I shall not dismount," she said, backing The Prince a few steps ere she was aware of what she was doing. "My business here can be told briefly, and I haven't time to stay."
She tried to choose her words carefully, for there was so much involved.
"Ah!" he snarled; "so you refuse my hospitality!"
"I do not mean it that way, believe me. But I must hurry, and we can talk as well here."
He came a few paces nearer, covering the distance she had placed between them when she unconsciously backed The Prince.
"I don't like this!" he exclaimed, half rudely, looking at her with bold deviltry in his heavy face. "We are too far apart; friends should be nearer when they talk."
He bared his protruding teeth in a horrible grin as he said this. His shrewd if debased intellect had told him from the first that nothing but the direst need would bring a Dudley to his door on any sort of mission whatsoever. And as he realized that both girl and horse were for the time in his power, a Satanic joy possessed him, and made him toy with the situation, in order to prolong it as far as possible.
"Let me insist on your being my guest as long as you stay!" he leered, trying no longer to cloak the wicked passion which seethed in his tainted soul. "I have wine—refreshments. Come into the parlour where we can talk undisturbed."
A feeling of actual physical nausea shook Julia. She grasped the pommel of her saddle and swayed the least bit, then the sickness passed, and she was erect again, though whiter than one dead. She seemed the wraith of the girl who had ridden down the road. She did not know why this man should insist so strongly on her entering his door. She knew that he had pretended to love her, but that was over now, and gone. They had not seen each other for months. He could not wish to entertain her for any worthy reason, and though she could neither comprehend nor even suspect the depths of vileness in his heart, she knew that she had best remain where she was.
"Please don't insist," she pleaded, her voice slightly tremulous in spite of her will. "I must speak quickly, and be gone. I do not feel that I have come to ask a favour, but simply to ask you to do right. Won't you please have the dividend declared at the bank, instead of passing it? You know it means very much to father and me."
Although she endeavoured to present her cause coolly, her voice was that of a suppliant. It vibrated with pent-up emotion, and had a strange effect upon the man before her. His expression changed; his hands clenched at his sides, and he seemed battling with some internal feeling. He had taken his eyes from her, too, and was looking at the ground. But as she watched him, waiting breathlessly for his answer, he lifted his face again, and she almost cried out from terror, for she was in the presence of an incarnate fiend. His eyes seemed swimming in fire, and his countenance was that of a demon. He did not move nor speak for several moments; he was literally holding himself in his tracks. He was a moral outlaw; the lawless offspring of lawless parents; begotten in basest sin and nurtured in infamy. He had never put the slightest check on any of his wishes or desires. With him desire had always meant gratification. And now, in the murky gloom of his black soul's recesses a new desire had been born; or, rather, a new flame had been given to an old desire. Even when driven from Major Dudley's home he had not forsaken the idea that some day this fair young thing should be his. Subsequently the idea had slumbered in his breast, but he had been only waiting—waiting and plotting. Now she had come within reach of his hand, alone, and he would have given his left hand to have grasped her with his right. No one but his hirelings were near, and it was no innate, dormant worth or goodness which stayed his hand. In part it was the innocence and unconscious purity of the girl herself, which wrapped her as in a garment and held an invisible but powerful shield before her. This moral atmosphere which enveloped her was so evident that even the dulled and warped sensibilities of Devil Marston, at their best but unformed and sickly fungi, recognized it, and trembled before it. Yet the lash which was driving him would in time have made him dash aside this shield, in all probability, had there not been another powerful, though absent factor. The face and form of John Glenning kept constantly recurring. Should he dare touch this girl's dress, to say nothing of forcing his beast's lips on hers, he knew that his life would pay the forfeit. He knew that John Glenning would certainly kill him. So he was torn horribly by different emotions, as he stood and wrestled silently. At length he spoke; the voice of a beast made articulate. It was croaking and harsh; the blending of a bellow and a growl.
"So—you—need money, do you?"
The words in themselves was an insult, independent of the wagging of his bull-like head, which slowly moved in mockery.
The terrible trial was telling upon Julia. Her great eyes were strained, and lines of distress were forming at the corners of her mouth. She shifted the reins to her left hand and thrust her right under the loose folds of a light wrap which she carried. When her fingers closed upon the handle of the revolver, new courage came. She would go on, though something told her that her quest was hopeless.
"Yes, we need money, but we don't want any that isn't rightfully ours. I have read in theHeraldall about the affair at the bank, and how the dividend was passed that you might make improvements and buy a new safe. Can't you do these things, and declare the dividend, too?"
"Wemightdo without these things altogether," he answered, darkly.
She grasped at the straw.
"Oh, please do! I felt that if I would come and ask you to give us what was really ours, that you would. Won't you have it done, Mr. Marston? Tell me, and I'll not detain you any longer."
Again he smiled his wolfish smile, and gazed on her in a sinister way.
"We do not get things for nothing in this world," he answered, in a cold, deliberate voice. The paroxysm of passion which had shaken him was gone now, and had left him maliciously cool and scheming. "You want me to declare this dividend. I can do it yet, for I'm the bank, you know. I kick those pups around down there like I do these dogs and niggers here at home. The question is—how badly do you want this dividend?"
A rosy flush flared up into Julia's waxen cheeks.
"It is not quite fair to flaunt our need in my face," she answered, all but imperiously. "But you know how we are situated, as does every one in Macon, and this county. Father's bank stock is his only source of income, if you will have me say it."
"You have not exactly answered my question," pursued Devil Marston. "I told you that everything worth having must be bought. What will you give me for this dividend?"
"I do not understand what you mean. It belongs to us—or our part of it does. Why will you not let us have it?"
She could not look at him; his face was repulsive beyond measure, and she kept her eyes on the delicately-veined ears of The Prince as she desperately fought her battle of words.
"I will let you have it—but, there is a price to pay. You cannot get something for nothing, from me!"
His voice rang hard and exultant on the last sentence.
"Please be plain," she urged. "Tell me what you mean, quickly."
"The dividend has its price, if you will pay!" he said, drawing a step closer. "A little price to save you and your father from starvation. Get down, come into my home with me, drink a glass of wine with me, kiss me once!—Will you pay it?"
There was the sound of rushing water in her ears, and for a moment she was blind. How dared he! To her, a Dudley! Then she knew she was looking full at him with unutterable scorn in her eyes. He saw the contempt and indignity which his words had aroused, and his face blackened.
"Just as you will!" he said, roughly. "It's nothing to me. There was a time when I would have made you mistress of this house, and had it not been for a scoundrelly, meddling doctor you might have married me! You love him now—I know! I'm not a fool, but precious little happiness you'll get from him. They ran him out of Jericho for mixing up with a married woman, and if you want to marry a rascal like that you're welcome to do it!"
He stopped, and glared at her like a baffled animal.
She could not yet find her voice. In a vague way she knew that she had been hurt, sorely wounded; that a profane foot had trodden in the holy of holies in her breast, and that a profane hand had snatched at the sacred fire which burned upon the altar there. She knew that never in her life before had she felt as she did now. Her purity had been affronted, and a friend's dear name had been attacked. She was crushed, dumb, and realizing that she had failed miserably in her mission, she dully turned The Prince's head towards the gate, and started to ride away. But on the instant Marston's hand was on the bridle near the bit, and Marston's figure loomed in her path.
"Not yet!" he gritted, venom flashing from his little eyes. "There is more to tell, and I don't think I'll have a lovely opportunity like this again soon! You refuse? You refuse my price?"
Still the girl did not answer. She could not answer, for her tongue seemed paralyzed. A rabid sort of anger was mounting again in the fiend before her. She saw its signals flare in a renewed gleam in his sodden eyes, in the dull red, gorged muscles of his thick throat. His coarse lips were twitching, as though forming words too awful for her to hear. At this moment, too, a cloud passed before the sun, and a quick lessening of light was perceptible. To Julia it almost amounted to gloom, seated as she was in the dank shade of one of the funereal cedars, and she could have cried out in pure physical terror had her voice at that moment been subservient to her will. For there before her, almost within arm's length, stood Devil Marston, like a huge spider in his loathesomeness, compelling her to remain where she was, and listen to whatever tale of malice, flavoured with a grain of truth, perhaps, which he might care to relate.
"The terms! The terms!" he said, again, thrusting his face towards her with all its projecting teeth visible. "You won't be hurt! What's a glass of wine and a kiss? Tut! The first is nothing, and I'll bet that jackanapes of a doctor gets plenty of the second! Isn'toneformeworth two hundred and fifty dollars?"
This speech broke Julia's reserve, with its cruel, brutal accusation.
"Hush!" she exclaimed, all the dormant and deadened forces of her nature awaking to full and vigorous protest. "Don't dare to say such things to me, Devil Marston! I came alone to your house this morning, because, though I knew that you were a bad man, I believed that I would be received and treated with proper respect. You have forfeited all right to any kind of consideration; you have trampled upon my finer feelings and made me suffer keenly—and you shall pay! You shall pay!"
She leaned from her saddle-bow towards him, setting her flame-tinged face with its large, distressed, undaunted eyes in opposition to his vulgar visage lit with fires from hell.
He started at the sudden vehemence of her speech, and the quick transition from almost lethargy to almost violent action.
"Ipay?—What do you mean, girl?" he cried, gripping the bridle firmer and throwing a quick glance in the direction of the highway, which was no great distance off, and visible for several rods from where they were standing.
"I mean what I say!" she repeated, undismayed. Her courage was perhaps unnatural, induced by that low speech wherein Marston had cuttingly spoken of the kisses she had given Glenning. "My father shall hear of this, and Dr. Glenning, too—he whom you have vilely slandered! I withdraw the request which I made a while ago; I don't want a dividend if it has to come throughyourinfluence andyourpower. Though it is rightly ours, I do not want it now, for it would degrade anyone who touched it afteryourword had made it possible! I scorn and detest you! I defy you, and dare you to do your worst, you pitiful thing whom God made like a man, and gave the nature of a brute instead of a soul! Now I am through. Let me go! Take your hand from my bridle-rein! Miss Dudley is ready to ride back home!"
Erect in her saddle now as a young goddess, she gazed down upon him with high-held head, disgust and anger blending charmingly on her lovely features. She did not feel herself. Never in her life before had such storms of feeling swept her. She knew she was unreal; that this side to her nature she had never seen—had never known of its existence. The flood which had carried her to that grand height where she could brave and dare a man like Devil Marston in his own yard, was receding. It was too powerful to last. It had given her a glorious strength to say what was in her heart and mind, in clear words which rang with sincerity and conviction, but now, that she was done, was sitting with her proud chin up and disdainful eyes fastened upon the object of her displeasure, she felt the ebb of tears which followed the flood of courage. She was surely and quickly coming back to her own; the normal woman in her was being reinstated. She knew that she must go, at once, or her next words would struggle through sobs. Though her face showed naught of it, her breast was filled with a fearful anxiety, as she watched the effect of her words. At first the man was stunned. He could not believe his ears. That anyone, to say nothing of a girl, should come before him and speak such things, was past his comprehension. He actually blinked at her, stupidly, as she went on, and his face turned a yellowish gray. But when she concluded his brutish rage had gained the ascendency.
"You're ready to go home—I guess you are! But I'm not ready to let you go! You defy me! You dare me! You call me ugly names! I'm not as pretty as your doctor friend who went regularly every evenin' to see that married woman back in Jericho! Ha! ha! ha! You don't like that, do you? But it's true, anyway, I—"
"Let me go—let me go!" sobbed Julia, the strain overcoming her at last, breaking down the frail fabric of her brave young courage. "You shan't say such things to me!"
She attempted to urge The Prince on, but the iron grip of Marston held him.
"Go easy, young lady! Don't hurry!" mocked the monster. "There's more to tell. I'm saving the choicest morsel of scandal for the last, then I'll fix this long-legged fellow of yours!"
Julia had purposely delayed bringing her weapon into play, but she saw now that the time was ripe for her to use it. She drew it from its place and quickly leveled it at the man.
"Unloose my horse, or I swear I'll shoot!" she said, and Marston, looking in her eyes, knew that she meant it.
He feinted, dropped the bridle, and pretended to draw aside. But the next moment he took a rapid step forward, threw up his arm, and sent the revolver flying through the air. It alighted on the thick grass, without exploding. It happened that the gaunt hound which had disputed Julia's passage at the beginning of her call, having finished the roast of beef in a further corner of the yard, was passing that moment on his way back to the kitchen porch, his hunger doubtless still unappeased. He was a brute used to sudden foray and quick brawls, and this movement of his master towards the horsewoman seemed to him a signal—a call to battle. So, as Marston deftly disarmed Julia, the dog promptly leaped at The Prince's front with a savage roar. The wonder is the poor girl kept her senses, but this attack of the dog was her salvation. The sensitive animal which she rode reared and swerved with the agility of a cat, eluding the hound's spring and colliding with Marston, who was sent sprawling upon the ground. The way to safety was clear! She touched The Prince's side with her heel, drew up her reins, and told him to go in a low voice of entreaty. But he needed no urging. Down the yard they flew, and Julia put him at the fence, for there was no time to be lost with the narrow gate. He went over the barrier with the ease and grace of a swallow, and on towards the road. The farm gate letting onto the pike she had left open, and as she dashed through it she almost ran into a buggy coming from the direction of town, with a man in it. The Prince swerved around the obstacle—he was running at last, and his rider made no attempt to restrain him—and was gone down the white limestone road like a greyhound in chase.
The top of the buggy which the man drove was down flat, for it was a summer morning, and he loved sunshine and air. He drew his horse up to a standstill, and turning in his seat looked back at the fleeing twain, now rapidly diminishing in a cloud of gray dust. The glimpse which he had caught of the two as they passed was almost as brief as that one gets of a landscape on a night of storm during a lightning flash. He thought he knew the colt—surely there was none other like it anywhere, and he was confident he knew the rider, although her face was white, terror-stricken, tear-stained. Whether she had recognized him or not he could not say. Her haunting eyes had looked straight at him for a moment, but no gleam of understanding had lighted them. Now they were gone; the distant hoof-beats had died. The man turned half way around, and looked again. This time his eyes swept the home of Devil Marston and its vicinity. As he looked his mouth grew hard, his eyes drooped at the corners, and the muscles of his cheeks ridged themselves under his skin. He understood. He slowly and deliberately got out, led his horse to the roadside and carefully hitched it, then passed through the open farm gate and strode briskly on. Two minutes later John Glenning, with folded arms, stood fronting Devil Marston between the cedars. The hound had disappeared. The two men were absolutely alone. There was no word of greeting exchanged between them. Each knew that civilities would be superfluous and out of place. They simply met as two things of primeval creation might meet, and the feelings which governed each of them in that moment were wholly savage. In every one this old strain is running: animal first, then soul, and mind, and heart. Mere being first; then civilization, with its accessories of education and refinement. Two animals met between the cedars; the mask had been flung aside. They had come face to face moved entirely by the world-old battle lust. The one naturally evil; the other made so because he knew that in some way the woman he loved had been mistreated and abused. Words were out of place and unnecessary, but a sense of right and decency crept into Glenning's seething brain, and made him speak.
"I want to apologize for striking you on the street in Macon."
The sentence was cold as ice, and formal. There was no feeling in it. The man to whom it was addressed stood with arms hanging loosely at his sides, his face sullen and crafty. He did not reply.
"You know I had to do it," went on the steel-like voice. "I regret the necessity more than I apologize for the blow. You deserved that. Let it pass."
Marston spoke.
"What in the devil do you want here? Begone, before I put the dogs on you!"
"I am here to give you a thrashing you won't forget as long as you live! You are a coward and a cur!"
The stinging words brought no added colour to Marston's face. They did not hurt him; his sensibilities were hardened, and were difficult to reach. But he cast an involuntary look of longing towards the revolver lying partly concealed in the long grass a rod or more away. The sombre eyes watching him with hawk-like intentness noticed the glance, and instantly turned in the same direction. Glenning saw.
"Don't you wish you had that in your hand?" he said. "I know you haven't one on your person, or you would have shot me before now. To relieve you of any apprehension I don't mind telling you that I am totally unarmed. How did that come there?"
He nodded abruptly in the direction of Julia's revolver.
"I don't see that I'm in a witness box!" Marston answered, viciously.
"Take comfort," retorted Glenning, evenly. "You will be if you live long enough. We are wasting time and bandying words to no purpose," he resumed briskly. "I met a young lady coming from your house in evident distress a few moments ago. She was riding hard and she was scared. Didyouscare her, and had she anything to do with that revolver?"
The words of the last sentence came hard as lead bullets against Marston's ears, and frightened him. The face of his caller had suddenly grown white and fierce. Glenning's knotted fists were writhing under his folded arms. Marston knew he had better speak, and speak the truth.
"She came to see me of her own free will. I invited her in, and she drew her pistol on me. I knocked it out of her hand to keep from getting shot."
"A likely tale, and the skeleton of truth alone, I daresay. What didshewant withyou?"
A smile of triumph lit the dark features of the hybrid.
"Somethingyoucould not give her, butIcould!—Julia Dudley came for a favour tome!"
"Keep her name out of it, damn you!"
Glenning, white hot, drew two steps nearer, though still holding himself in check.
"We can talk without the use of names. What favour did she want?"
"She came to ask me to have the bank dividend declared, or they would starve!"
"That was no favour. The money is Major Dudley's. You have stolen it from them by withholding it. She came to demand her own, and her own was denied her, no need to tell me that."
Marston thought of the price he had put upon the dividend, and, while he longed to goad and torture his enemy to the utmost, he feared to tell him of that part of their conversation.
"No, she didn't get it!" he answered, roughly.
"Look at me, Mr. Marston!"
Little as he liked the command, Marston centered his ever shifting eyes upon Glenning's. But they would not stay, despite his will.
"You've been to Jericho," went on the even voice. "You came back last night. What did you go for?"
"What in hell do you mean?" he flared out, with a bluster. "I went on business."
"Yourbusiness, ormybusiness?"
This time Marston coloured perceptibly, and shrugged his shoulders. He did not answer.
"See here!" resumed Glenning. "I know why you went to Jericho. Now listen. If you begin spreading lies about me in this community you shall suffer. Tell the truth—the whole truth—and I'll not say a word. But you don't know the whole truth, nor any part of it. You didn't go to get the truth, but all the low, indecent scandal and gossip you could scrape together. Usually that side is not as hard to get as the other. It is not my fault that we have been enemies from the night I came to Macon. I would not have you for a friend, believe me, but we might at least have been civil. You've heard a great deal of stuff while you were away that your informants wouldn't repeat to my face. And I tell you they are all lies! Did you voice any of them to Miss—to her?"
Again Marston felt the truth dragged from him. But a sardonic smile of malicious pleasure spread over his face as he answered—
"I told her a little about my trip, and how a certain friend of hers had another sweetheart back up there, but she broke away before I could tell her all—"
"Brokeaway!—Devil! Did you hold her?"
Restraint for the moment was cast aside.
Glenning's long hands grasped each of Marston's arms just below the shoulders, and so he held him motionless.
"I didn't touch her!" was the snarling answer. "I held the damned colt by the bridle until she drew on me—"
John flung him backward with an oath.
"Strip!"
He hissed out the word with sibilant wrath, and threw off his light coat. Then, trembling the least bit while fighting inwardly for calm, he began rolling back his sleeves. He ceased these preparations long enough to toss his hat upon his coat and discard tie and collar. Marston cast another hungry look at the revolver, while making no move to comply with the order he had received. Glenning came towards him.
"Are you going to fight, or must I slap your face, you dog?"
The concluding word gave Marston a happy thought, and he quickly pursed his heavy lips, and whistled shrilly. He had no mind for an encounter with the young man where the weapons employed would be fists alone. He was probably stronger, but he secretly felt that he would be punished severely should they come to blows. He had much rather that his boar-hound fight for him, so he issued the summons.
"No more of that!" said John, sternly. "Make another sound and I strike you, whether you are prepared or not. Are you coming, or shall I break a switch from one of your bushes, and lay you across my knee?"
This taunt was more than flesh and blood could bear. It pierced even Marston's seared sensibilities, and stung like something hot. He got out of his coat with one lightning-like movement, and at once assumed the offensive. This was what Glenning wished. It would have been degrading to knock down and batter about some one who made no resistance. The men presented an interesting contrast as they stood on guard. Glenning wore a white negligee shirt, and gray trousers, neatly creased. He was clean shaven and his straight black hair fell over his forehead as he leaned forward, alert and vigilant. One could see now the broad expanse of his back and his wonderful breadth of shoulders. Marston at home was not the Marston in town. He wore a sort of gray flannel shirt, carelessly buttoned, shapeless corduroy trousers and rusty shoes. His thick neck was corded and hairy, and there were dry, red veins in his cheeks caused by the excessive use of liquor. He came at his opponent carefully, in spite of his anger, and delivered his first blow so swiftly that Glenning only partially succeeded in parrying it. The big fist slid off his arm and caught him on the shoulder, turning him half way around. He responded at once with a side swing, which Marston avoided. He was remarkably quick on his feet for so heavy a man. Then they circled, warily. Suddenly Glenning let drive from the shoulder. It was an unexpected move, and caught Marston unprepared. A row of hard knuckles lodged against his chin and sent him reeling. The trunk of a cedar tree intervened, and he did not fall. His face was awful as he came on again; enough to unnerve the strongest man. But Glenning had found himself. He was calm now, and confident, Marston was raging, blind mad. He struck out wildly, trusting to brute strength. Again Glenning's long arm straightened, and for a moment the breath left the chest of his antagonist. He staggered, and dropped his guard, but Glenning did not follow up. Marston, with an inarticulate cry of rage, sought to close. He no longer attempted to fight as boxers do, but came with outstretched hands, feeling blindly for his foe. There was no mercy in the heart of the iron-faced man fronting him. A third time Glenning struck, and his fist caught Marston over the eye, crumpling him on the grass like a thing of reed. He did not move. John knelt and leaned over him. His eyes were shut, but he was breathing, spasmodically. Glenning arose.