"This is for the pain you caused her, and for the lies you told on me!" he muttered. He walked to the spot where he had thrown his clothing and put the various articles on. As he finished this he saw a negro in the side yard. "Come here!" he called.
The negro obeyed.
"There's your master. He's hurt, but not badly. Carry him in and pour water on his face and give him some whiskey."
Glenning wheeled, picked up the pearl-handled revolver as he passed, and went on towards the road.
During the week which followed a number of things happened. First, Dink Scribbens took a wonderful and sudden turn for the better. The fact that none of his family had become infected was a matter for marvel throughout the county, and the credit for their miraculous escape was of course given to the attending physician. Uncle Billy Hoonover would not pass the hovel guarded awfully and mutely with a tiny yellow flag tacked to one corner of it—an emblem with more power to repel than a legion of soldiers—and he could not stay away from town. Unless the lamp-post where he invariably hitched renewed acquaintance with his gray nag every morning, Uncle Billy almost felt it would walk away in indignation and disappointment. Then, too, municipal, county and national affairs needed his attention every day in front of the county clerk's office. He occupied a chair there as regularly as he did at home, and his word was final. By this I do not mean that it was always accepted, but it surely was always the last spoken. Provided he secured the last word, he felt that his opinion was the correct one. During these days Mr. Hoonover "drove through." That is to say he made a more or less direct route for town through his own and one of his neighbour's farms; a trip attended with much discomfort and some peril, for the way led over ground tilled and untilled, across unexpected gullies and into grass-hidden sinkholes.
One morning, a week after John's encounter with Marston at the latter's home, the usual gathering began to assemble in the shade before the door of the county clerk's office. Some were smoking pipes; some were chewing tobacco. The use of the weed in some form was universal. Conversation was desultory and spiritless for a time. The morning was extremely hot, and one would have thought that fact responsible for the listlessness which pervaded the group. The truth was, however, that their ringleader had not arrived.
"Uncle Billy must be sick," drawled big Joe Colver, tilting his chair onto its two rear legs and leaning his weight forward on his knees.
"More like he's fell in a ditch 'n' broke his laig!" chimed in old Tim Mellowby. Old Tim was the town drunkard, a privileged, harmless character, whom every one tolerated. He remained in a perpetual state of comfortable inebriety; was inoffensive; in former years had been a boot and shoe maker, and during that period of his life had accumulated enough money to support himself in drunken idleness the rest of his days. His favourite haunt was the spot he now sat. He loved to listen, and also to express himself from time to time. A general laugh greeted Tim's sally.
"Mr. Hoonover will arrive, never fear!" piped a third voice.
It came from against the wall, and the speaker was Colonel Whitley. He was an old, dried-up little man, with keen eyes, bushy brows, hawk nose and fuzzy gray side whiskers. He was the learned one of the group—quite a scholar indeed. He had been "abroad" in his day, too, and this fact invested him with an added dignity in the eyes of his stay-at-home townspeople. His profession had formerly been the practice of law, but he had retired several years before. Nevertheless he always came up to the courthouse yard every morning to read his paper, and occasionally to let his voice be heard.
"Possess your souls in patience," he added, "and presently you will witness the fulfillment of my prediction."
His head went down behind the paper. His hearers were accustomed to his bombastic style of speech, and admired him too much even to smile at the fulness of his rhetoric.
A figure came thumping hurriedly across the yard, a black medicine case in its hand, its vest secured by a single button at the bottom, wearing a white shirt streaked with ambier, and a derby hat much too large.
"Hullo, doc!" greeted Judge Colver, as the new-comer halted and glared around as though expecting some hostile move. "The small-pox didn't spread, did it?"
"Who said it would spread?" snapped Doctor Kale.
"It has a trick o' doin' it, I believe!" retorted the judge.
"Not if it's taken in time, and handled right. You can't kill a damned pauper!"
"You didn't try 'im!" grinned old Tim Mellowby, "or maybe you'd had better luck than the new man!"
Doctor Kale wheeled, but when he saw from whence this remark originated he turned his back in silent contempt.
"I've come from Tom Dudley's, and it's a good day with them," he observed, abruptly, his harsh crust melting before some powerful inner force.
"I presume one of them is ill, to require the presence of a physician," piped the voice from the wall again. "Then how can you say it is a good day with them?"
For a wonder Doctor Kale did not retort. He heard Colonel Whitley plainly, and his ears detected the note of irony in the question, but his asperity seemed suddenly to have melted; to have merged with and become engulfed in the warm feeling of joy which surged in his heart.
"You know they've been in bad lines," he said, looking on the ground, a rather pathetic figure in his ill-fitting, haphazard agglomeration of garments, none harmonizing with its neighbour. "They'd come almost to a crust, gentlemen, and such of you as are business men know upon what they depend. That was cut off something over a week ago. I was passing this morning, and was called in hurriedly. This is good news of one of our best citizens, therefore I give it to you. Major had had an attack with his heart, brought on by excitement caused by the morning's mail. I straightened him out, then Julia told me all about it. Most of you will remember Arthur Dudley, Major's brother. He's been away for a score of years, and they lost him, totally. Thought him dead. This morning Tom got a letter from a lawyer in St. Louis, with a check in it for two thousand dollars. Major's brother was on his way back here. He took sick in St. Louis, sent for this lawyer, died, and the money came on."
"Whose money?—What money?" exclaimed Uncle Billy Hoonover, hastening up at that moment in time to catch the last words.
Doctor Kale promptly growled something about an engagement, and departed with the same haste which marked his approach.
The paper by the wall was lowered once more, revealing a hawk nose, bushy brows and sharp eyes.
"I told you, gentlemen, Mr. Hoonover would arrive!" the thin voice of Colonel Whitley declared. "Good morning, Mr. Hoonover!"
"What's that sour old coon been tellin' you?" demanded Uncle Billy, bearing down upon old Tim Mellowby, who had inadvertently occupied his chair, "Git up! Don't you know that's my seat?"
He made a half threatening movement with his staff, but old Tim slid off his perch good-naturedly and sought the ground instead, no more chairs being available.
Judge Colver thereupon essayed, in his longwinded, heavy way, to impart to the new arrival the story they had just heard. Uncle Billy listened with becoming patience for one of his excitable temperament.
"Well, 'pon my soul!" he ejaculated, when the recital was done. "Things happen nowadays as queer as Jonah an' the whale! Arthur—an' who'd 'a' thought?—two thousand dollars! He's a stiff old codger, but nobody c'n say anything ag'in 'im! He's got a right to live by hisself an' not neighbour any."
"Is Dink up yit?" asked a very sober looking, lank individual, who up to this moment had remained silent. He was the jailer. The question, simple as it was, proved an unlucky one, for the ire of Uncle Billy arose at once. He began to thump the earth with his staff and comb his whiskers with his fingers.
"Ain't I late this mornin'?" he demanded, instead of making direct reply to the question. "Oughtn't I 'a' been here a half-n-hour ago?"
He glared from one to the other as though daring them to refute it. Each person present maintained a discreet silence, though one or two nodded acquiescence.
"Late! Late to town!" he stormed. "And what for? That pesky Lizy Ann Scribbens had the owdacity to come to myfrontdoor this very mornin'—a beggin'. Myfrontdoor! An' her just been cooped up with that diseased rat of a husban', Dink, an' small-pox microbes a-crawlin' all over her! Didn't I pack her off? I swear, gentlemen, I got my shotgun before she would leave! Paupers oughter live in the poorhouse an' not purten' to be decent. Dink won't admit he's a pauper, but he lives by stealin', what's worse. That's why I'm late, an' if I don't ketch it I don't know why!"
The paper rustled against the wall.
"I should think, Mr. Hoonover, that you should apprehend no danger of contagion, as you had no personal contact with your caller. Of course that is a layman's view only, but I would not give it another thought."
A pistol shot, startlingly near and distinct, punctuated the carefully uttered speech of Colonel Whitley. The group leaped up as one man—save the one who had last spoken. Colonel Whitley was in a comfortable position, and his paper was only half read. The shot sounded from Main street, and Judge Colver, as fearless as he was big, started in a lumbering trot across the yard to ascertain the cause of the disturbance. But almost immediately three men appeared around the corner of the courthouse. One was a deputy sheriff, another was a blacksmith, and between them, struggling violently to free himself, was a low, poorly dressed, unkempt person.
"What's up? What's Hank done?" queried the judge.
"Shot Dick Goodloe!" answered the deputy, quickly, he and the smith hurrying their man forward as rapidly as possible. On the other side of the yard was a little gate, and it was for this they were heading, it being the nearest approach to the jail. "Keep back the crowd, Joe, till we get Hank in!" called the deputy, and they pushed on.
The crowd as yet, however, was entirely harmless, and was centered about some indistinguishable object in the middle of the street. The live assassin was far less interesting than the fallen officer, for Dick Goodloe was the town marshal; an honest, sober, efficient fellow whom everyone admired for his adherence to duty. Not three minutes had passed since the shot split the warm, still air. Before, the town had seemed only half alive; a few people on the street, a few men in the store doors, a few loitering negroes. Now a seething mass of humanity of all ages was congregated in front of the post-office, almost from curb to curb, and those who had first reached the marshal were so pushed upon and hampered that they could do nothing.
John was in his office when the unmistakable sound came spitefully through his window, and caused him to seize his hat and run down stairs. The mishap had occurred at the other end of the square, and when he reached the scene it was to find his way blocked by a human wall.
"Get out of my way!" he called, in a loud, clear voice, and begun pushing his body in, using his hands, elbows and knees irrespective of who they touched. "Stand back! You'll smother him! Back! Back!" he commanded, and the stern voice carried weight. They made room for him, and directly he was kneeling by the prostrate form. A brief examination showed him it was bad enough. A ball through the man's right side, with blood spouting from the wound.
"Where does he live?" he asked, quickly, turning his head and looking up half savagely. "How far?"
"Half mile, I reck'n, anyhow," answered a bystander, with his hands in his pockets.
"Lift his feet; I'll take his head and shoulders," said Glenning, to a determined looking man in front of him. "Into the drug store yonder. It's quick work now, or he's gone!"
They came up with Goodloe's weight between them. The crowd was apathetic with curiosity.
"Back!—damn you!" gritted John Glenning, his patience leaving him at the asinine stupidity of the class with which he was surrounded. The lower element of Macon, which formed the inner line of that congested caldron of people, had begun to press forward again to get a glimpse of the senseless form which many of them had seen daily all their lives. They gave, half in fear; a lane was opened, and Dick Goodloe was carried across the street into the drug store.
"Lock your door!" ordered Glenning, then he was coolly removing clothing and calling for this and that, and battling with all the skill that was in him for the life of this stranger whom a half-drunken, altogether mean ruffian had tried to kill. The front of the drug store was darkened by the thronging crowd which pressed against the windows and door—trying to see! The better class of citizens began to assemble, but these were content to wait; they wanted to be on hand when the doctor's verdict was given out. Squads of men had already formed up and down the street to talk it over. Business was suspended for the time, and an atmosphere of gloom began to settle over Main street. Very soon it became known that Goodloe had only a thread of a chance for his life. The bullet had been found and taken out, but the wound was in a vital part. The chances were against the marshal. These things Glenning told quietly and willingly to such as inquired after his patient as he left the drug store, giving instructions that the man be carried to his home as soon as possible.
The being whose wanton hand had stricken down the officer was a totally worthless character; shiftless, depraved, wicked. He had that morning, while under the influence of liquor, provoked an altercation with a colored labourer in the street. He began using vile language; ladies were passing. Goodloe warned him to stop, and take himself off. Then the miscreant had shot him. That was all. And now this thing which masqueraded as a human had been given the protection of the law, had been sheltered in the jail from the just wrath of his fellowmen. There were low murmurings running about the streets of the town all that day, and men came and went, went and came from the humble cottage which was Dick Goodloe's home, getting news of the sick man and disseminating it to the scores who inquired of his condition. The reports were not good. And as the afternoon waned word came that the marshal was delirious. Some apprehensive friend had sent Doctor Kale to wait upon the marshal, with instructions to stay in the house. The old fellow stormed and swore that he wouldn't take any man's patient from him, that professional etiquette forbade it, and damned if he'd go! Glenning persuaded him to change his mind, urging him to go and do all he could. John was out of town most of the day. His practice had increased three patients that week, but those who had sought his services lived rather far in the country, and it required some time for him to make his rounds. It was dark before he returned to Macon. He did not go to supper, but ate at a restaurant. Then he bathed, changed his linen, and started afoot for the Dudleys.
It had taken him exactly seven days to get his own consent to call here. During that time he had not seen Julia, even at a distance. He wanted to see her, more than he had ever wanted to see anyone in his life, but he did not know how she would receive him now. What had Marston told her? To be sure he had warned her against Marston in time, but a woman's heart is ever an unsolved riddle, and the story she had heard may have stung, and blighted, and seared. He was at last determined to know. He had remained in ignorance as long as he could. Better to hear from her own lips that she cared no more to see him, than to hide from her like a coward, and by his silence and absence confess his guilt. One thing gladdened him as he strode along in the starlight. That morning a letter had come from Will Porter, stating that he had carried out his part of the plan, and sent Major Dudley the money.
Glenning's accustomed ease had entirely deserted him as he knocked at the open front door. He was painfully harassed, and uncertain of himself. He scarcely knew what he would say, or do. He heard a step, heavy, flapping. Aunt Frances appeared at the rear of the long, shadowy hall, and came waddling towards him.
"Ebenin', Marse Glen'n'" She greeted him a little stiffly.
"Where's your mistress, Aunt Frances? Tell her I am come, if you please, and would like to see her for a few moments."
He came in and placed his hat upon the hall rack, but the old coloured woman made no move to do his bidding.
"What's the matter?" he queried. "Isn't Miss Dudley in?"
"She am wid de Majuh, who's sick. She can't see nobody."
"Did she tell you that?"
"Yas'r."
"Did she say that you were to tell me that if I should come?"
Before Aunt Frances' thick lips could form the affirmative reply which was on her tongue, a soft voice descended from the upper hall.
"I will be there in a moment, Doctor Glenning. Please be seated."
Aunt Frances turned her turbanned head and rolled her eyes in the direction from whence the voice came, then with a snort of disgust retreated, mouthing as she went in an undertone.
John took a chair near the door which commanded the full sweep of stairway, and thus he watched Julia descend a few moments later; very sedately and with the hint of haughtiness in her air. He arose to take her hand, and he could not help contrasting this meeting with their first. Her hand in his tonight was almost lifeless, and there was a rebellious look in her dark eyes as she raised them briefly to his, he fancied accusingly.
"I told you not to believe him!" was the mute cry in John's heart, where little devils were beginning to cut and slash, but he smiled at her as he clasped her hand warmly, and asked of her health.
"I am well, thank you."
How cold she was! She remained standing, although there was another chair a short distance away. She did not look at him. She knew that she was hurting him, but she could not help it. She had wanted him so much the past week, and he had not come. And she had had nothing to do but think. Marston's awful words never left her mind, and the more she dwelt upon them the more clearly she became convinced that the love of her life was centered upon John Glenning. Shewould notbelieve that which she had heard, but he had told her he had sinned—back there in Jericho! But he had also said that he had fought through and had come out clean! She had sobbed half of one night through in her distress, and had waited day by day for him to come. At last, on the very eve of the day he did come, she had given orders that she would not see him. But the sound of his voice had melted her resolve. She stood before him now, her heart hardened in that strange way which all lovers have, and which must forever remain inexplicable, seemingly as unresponsive as a being of marble.
"Miss Dudley!—Miss Julia!" pleaded John, purposely throwing a note of tenderness in his voice, "what is wrong? Can you not tell me? I should be so glad to do—anything for you!"
A tremor shot over her. How strong and good his voice was!
"Father is unwell, that is all," she answered, in the same expressionless voice.
"For how long? Is it—anything to cause you worry?"
"No."
Colder than ever was the monosyllable, and Julia felt herself growing wickeder and wickeder, and she knew that directly she would be bad enough not to respond in any wise to whatever he might say.
But John had had some experience in this game of love. So he promptly did the very best thing possible; he withdrew. He deliberately picked up his hat and walked to the door, where he stopped and turned.
"I suspect I had better go, Miss Dudley," he announced, in a most formal voice.
"Very well—if you wish," she added, with the adroitness of her sex.
"I have reason to believe that I am an unwelcome guest this evening," replied Glenning. "Be pleased to tell Major Dudley that I inquired after his health, and know that I am always at your service."
He bowed low, and without offering his hand in farewell—she making no sign to give him hers—he went out.
Julia stood where he had so ceremoniously left her, amazement and anger uniting on her face. Then tears began to race down her checks, and she flew to the old sofa in the library to cry it out in the dark. She had not counted on this. He was cruel; he cared nothing for her, as he had led her to believe he did. When she went upstairs in response to her father's ring, she felt that she had never been so totally miserable in her life before.
When Glenning reached the highway he did not go towards town, but turned in the opposite direction. He had a wild craving for solitude. He wanted to be away from everyone, to be alone in the night with his thoughts. These were not pleasant. His reception by Julia had been more severe than he had even anticipated. He did not believe that her conduct towards him reflected her true feelings, but how was he to know! She had been an iceberg that night; she had assumed a role of which he had not deemed her capable. That low-browed man in the lonely house was responsible. Would he win after all? Had his poisoned lies really done their work, and robbed him of the one perfect thing which he had grown to love with a fierce intensity? He stopped short, and was tempted to go back, and demand an explanation. Should he permit himself to be discouraged thus easily; should he lose her for no other reason than that she had been cold and proud to him? He could not go back tonight. Her heart was hardened against him, of that he was sure. He would let a few days pass and try again, and if she sent him away that would be the end. He resumed his swift walking, on and on, up hill and down, unconscious of any fatigue. He met no one. When he finally came to a halt on a small bridge he realized that his surroundings were unfamiliar, and that he was several miles from town. He was in no hurry to return. He filled his pipe and fell to smoking, watching the starlight dimpling on the ripples of the tiny stream which flowed under the bridge. In some moods this would have soothed him, but tonight it served as an irritant. He was at war with himself, and the gentle harmonies of Nature fretted by their very peace. He would have welcomed a storm. He would have been glad had the rain come driving its tiny fists in his face; had the vivid lightning staggered athwart the sky; had thunderbolts shivered the earth about him; had the demons of storm torn at the writhing trees. These things would have brought relief. He was keyed for strife, and the musical water, the calm starlight and the soft warm breeze maddened him. He pocketed his pipe with a gesture of annoyance and swung about in his tracks. A long walk lay before him, and he was glad. But action failed to bring relief. As he passed the Dudley home his breast was surging with unconquerable feelings. He felt that he was capable in that hour of leading a forlorn hope in battle. It was near midnight when he reached the edge of town. Presently he overtook a pedestrian, but he passed him without a sidelong glance. Further on he passed another. At a bisecting street he saw a group, and as he went by them he noticed that they wore masks. His mind took a revolution and came back to the topic of the day. What did these sinister preparations mean in the dead of night? Had Goodloe died? Were these his avengers? Mob law was no new thing in Kentucky. Were these men massing to wreak a summary and swift vengeance upon the marshal's slayer? A sudden idea struck Glenning, and with it a species of wild joy. He turned up his coat collar, drew his hat over his eyes, and hurried on. He passed other men, all masked, but no one spoke to him or tried to intercept him. Directly he broke into a run, and in a few moments was at the jail, and thundering on the panels of the door with his fist. The jailer must have been up, for he answered the summons at once, fully dressed. Evidently he expected trouble, for he was pale with fright, which he made no effort to hide, and he was trembling.
"Quick!" said Glenning. "They're coming! Arm yourself!"
The man stood shaking in the doorway, but did not answer. John grasped him by the shoulder, and spoke again.
"Don't you hear? They're coming for your prisoner to hang him! Protect him! Get your pistol and guard the jail!"
"Who?—What?" stammered the terrified man.
"The mob! I've seen them gathering! You've no time to lose!"
"I'll give 'em the keys if they ask me for 'em!" exclaimed the jailer. "They'd shoot me if I didn't!"
"You're sworn to duty!" expostulated John. "Don't let them murder this fellow. Has Goodloe died?"
"I don't know—but they can have the keys!"
He drew them from his pocket and jangled them in his hand, a pitiful object.
"Listen!" whispered Glenning. "They're coming. Hear their feet? Give me your keys! Bring me your pistols—quick!"
He took the bunch of heavy keys from the unresisting fingers, and the jailer hastened indoors. He was back in a moment with a brace of revolvers which he held out eagerly.
"Here they are!" he managed to say. "Keep 'em off, doc, if you can!"
"Go hide in the cellar, if you have one!" returned John, contemptuously, and walked to the iron-barred door set in a stone wall, which gave entrance to the main passage of the jail.
In front of this door was a small, elevated platform, not over six feet square. Above the door a lamp burned in an iron sconce set in the masonry. This was placed there for convenience in housing prisoners at all hours. John looked at the lamp a moment in doubt, then walked to it and turned the wick higher, so that the low flame sprang up and illuminated the platform upon which he stood, as well as the ground in front for several yards. As he faced about a reckless, devil-may-care smile was on his lips. At one side lay a goods-box, some three feet tall. John stooped and dragged it to the platform, and stood it on end in front of him. His purpose was not to form a shield, for the frail pine of which it was made could not have withstood a bullet, and it came scarcely to his waist, leaving exposed all vital parts. Glenning quietly dropped the keys in the long grass at the edge of the platform, took off his hat and placed it to one side, then lay his two revolvers upon the top of the box, gently rested his hand upon the butt of each, and waited. The revolvers were of forty-eight calibre, and brightly nickeled. They caught the gleam from the lamp, and shone suggestively. The jailer had disappeared. John had heard him locking and barricading his door. In all probability he had deserted the place by some rear exit.
The faint sound of many moving feet which had been audible a few minutes before had grown into a pronounced tread. As John stood and listened to this portentous advance, his heart did not quicken a beat. Indeed, he had grown calmer. The fever of unrest which had been tearing at him was departed now. Here was that danger for which he had vaguely hoped—here, before his face. Something like a hundred men came to a halt before the jail door, and at a respectful distance from the platform where a tall, bareheaded man stood, almost in a careless attitude. The mob was masked; there was not a face visible.
"Out with the keys, Bill!" jeered a man in the rear; "we mean business!"
The speaker had mistaken John for the jailer.
"Bill—hell!" growled another, nearer the front. "That's the new doc, but whut the damn fool's doin' here I don't know!"
Glenning had not said a word, nor had he shifted his position. But his most searching scrutiny had failed to reveal the presence of a single weapon among the besiegers.
"On! On!" cried some one in the rear. "Ain't there enough of us to 'tend to that feller?"
They began pushing, and the mob surged closer. Those nearest the platform were within a dozen feet of the solitary watcher now, but there was no menace in their attitude. Glenning had been sharply viewing thepersonnelof this mass of men, and from apparel, bearing, and general appearance he judged most of them to be of the rougher element. The three or four in front, who were evidently the leaders, may have been gentlemen. It was to these Glenning now spoke.
"Good evening," he said, pleasantly, "Perhaps I know you and perhaps I don't, for you have seen fit to hide your faces. You have come after Hank."
His accents were deliberate, and he appeared as much at ease as if he were chatting with friends in his own home. His last sentence was not a question, but a declaration.
"Yes, we've come after Hank 'n' we're goin' to git 'im!" came a rough voice from one side.
A leader turned.
"Keep still, will you?" Then to Glenning. "May I ask by what authority you take your place there with two loaded pistols? Are you a sworn deputy, or officer of any sort?"
"I am not, as you well know, and I have no authority, other than a strong feeling for fair play. May I, in turn, ask by what authority you come at dead of night to defy the laws of your State, and seek to place a crime upon your soul?"
"We have the law of might, and that's enough. Stand aside now, or take the consequences!"
The man was deeply in earnest.
"Had it not struck you that you were talking to the wrong man?" asked Glenning. "Do you want to enter this place? Then the jailer is the man you want to see. What's the use of battering these doors down and arousing the town when youmightget the keys from him, andmaybeget in quietly? You need some one to lead you, men. What good is it to stand dickering with me? Rouse the jailer! He's the man you want to deal with!"
Before the words had left his mouth three or four shadowy forms had detached themselves from the group and run to the front door of the jailer's residence, which connected with the prison proper, only a wall intervening. They thumped, and pounded, and called, forgetting caution in their untrained zeal. They gained no response, and, fearing to force an entrance there, returned to their friends, baffled.
"Knock 'im down! Git 'im out o' the way!" The cries came again from the rear.
"You've told Bill we were coming," said the man who had formerly spoken, "and he's run off, or hidden. We can't waste time. Stand down! We are armed, and you will suffer if you resist!"
"Wouldn't you rather have the keys?" asked John, simply, "than to run the risk of bringing the citizens who love order about your ears? You can't force that door without dynamite."
"How can we get the keys when we can't get Bill?" demanded the spokesman, led on to conversation in spite of his haste by the apparently ingenuous frankness of the man before him.
"Bill gave them to me," answered John, naturally, "not ten minutes ago."
"Then you have them? Pass them over, please, at once, or we shall be compelled to take them from you by force."
"I haven't them now."
"You're fooling with us!" retorted the man, angrily. "For the last time, get out of the way!"
"I'm not fooling you! I had the keys in my hand, but I have lost them. They are not on my person."
"To hell wid you 'n' de keys bofe!" exclaimed a burly form standing well back in the shadows, and with that it made a rush. The figure was to one side; there was no one else in line. Swiftly John raised the revolver in his right hand, and fired low. His wish was only to cripple, and he succeeded. The man dropped with a howl of pain and fright, and his mask fell off, revealing the face of a brutal looking negro. He sat up and nursed his shattered knee, and mouthed curses.
"Shame on you, men of Macon!" cried Glenning, standing erect and pale under the flickering light of the iron sconce. "Do you bring such a thing asthatwith you to hang a white man, however low?"
"Nobody told 'im to come!" called a voice. "He hooked on!"
"Listen to me a minute, men!" resumed Glenning, speaking very earnestly, "Most of you don't realize what you want to do tonight. You've come out to commit murder. Do you know that—murder! Every man among you would be guilty of that crime did you break into this jail and drag out the fellow you are after and string him to a limb. What good would it do? I know what the Bible says—'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth' and 'Whosoever sheddeth man's blood by man shall his blood be shed.' But let the law do it, men. If you do this thing you will be as lawless and as guilty as that cringing thing back there in its cell. You would deserve his fate! Let us not behave as barbarians. Don't make the records of our State blacker than they are. I'm not here to fight. I know you can overcome me. Accident alone apprised me of what was going forward tonight, and I've come here to try and show you where you're wrong. Don't let tomorrow's papers tell the news to the civilized world that down in Kentucky a mob trespassed the law and hung a prisoner by night! It's been done too often already. We're good people, but our blood runs hot, and we're hasty. We act first, and think after, which is wrong. You haven't thought this thing over. Somebody started it and you fell in with the plan. Go home now, and go to bed, and in the morning you'll thank God that your consciences are clear!"
For a moment there was a tense silence, broken only by the low groans of the suffering negro.
"He shot Dick Goodloe, and he's got to die! Dick was my friend!"
It was the ringleader speaking, dogged and unpersuaded.
John leaned forward suddenly, and looked at the man.
"Is the marshal dead?" he asked.
"He wasn't dead half an hour ago, but he was mighty low," came a voice from the darkness.
"There!" exclaimed John, triumphantly, standing erect. "You have no sort of right to take this man now! You shall not hang him! I'll make a compact with you, gentlemen—fellow citizens! Send at once to the home of Dick Goodloe. If he is dead, I'll find you the keys, and step aside. If he lives, you are to go home and leave this jail unmolested. Do you agree?"
Various voices expressed assent to the plan, and even the ringleader nodded acquiescence, without speaking.
A messenger was accordingly dispatched at once, a youth with nimble legs, who started on a run. During the period of waiting the men were quiet, though some conversed in low tones. No one paid any attention to the wounded negro, who attempted to drag himself away, but found the effort so painful that he gave it up. In a short time the messenger returned with his news. Goodloe was sleeping, and Doctor Kale said that his chances for recovery were better. Instantly the crowd melted as silently as they had come, and soon Glenning found himself alone before the iron-barred door, while there upon the grass before him the negro moaned ceaselessly. There was no resentment in John's heart towards the object his bullet had stricken down. Now he merely saw something in distress which needed his help. He lifted the lamp from its socket and went towards the negro, who tried to shrink away at his approach.
"Be still!" ordered Glenning, and placing the lamp on the ground, he began an examination.
The hurt was not serious. The knee-cap was shattered, but the tough bone had deflected the bullet.
"Where do you live?" asked John, brusquely.
The negro told him, stuttering with fright.
"You belong in there!" returned the doctor, sternly, waving his hand towards the dark mass of stone behind him. "Don't you ever get tangled up in anything like this again. Now you can't walk a step, and won't for some time to come."
He took his handkerchief and bound it about the wounded limb.
"I'll have a wagon here to take you home in a few minutes," he continued, "and I'll come in the morning and dress that knee."
Then, without waiting to hear the profuse thanks and humble apologies which followed, he replaced the lamp, secured the keys and the revolvers, and bent his steps in the direction of Main street. He stopped at the livery stable and gave instructions for removing the negro, then went to his office, tired, victorious, but unsatisfied.
What did it all amount to, he asked himself, wearily, when the love in his soul received no answering affection. Of what account were good deeds, if his own life was empty. His recent thrilling experience faded from his mind, and in its stead the sweetly alluring face of Julia came up before him. She was always with him now; waking, sleeping, reading, or during his professional calls. She had crept into his heart completely, and her coming had been wonderfully charming—unlike that other, which had thrilled him with a painful joy! The other was gone now. He felt that the awful hold had been shaken off at last—if only Julia had not treated him as she did that evening! Such things tend to throw a man back, but his hardly won battle had been too dear an experience for him to waver now. He would be strong, though the future were empty. He was facing the glass door giving onto the landing at the head of the stairway, sitting dejectedly by a small table whereon a lamp was burning. He had thrown off his coat and hat, for the atmosphere indoors was almost stifling. He did not think of seeking rest, for, though tired, he was not sleepy. It seemed to him that his affection for the Major's daughter had grown immeasurably since darkness had fallen. His thoughts had dwelt constantly upon her, and in his heart he had called her many tender names, and had imagined his lips upon her hair, and forehead, and cheeks, and mouth. He dropped his chin to his breast and closed his eyes, his forehead showing deep furrows beneath the straight black locks of overfalling hair. "Julia! Julia!" he said in his mind; "don't treat me this way! I have served you faithfully from the moment my eyes first saw you, and I have loved you almost as long. Believe me, little girl, and let me know that you care for me, that I may speak all that is in my heart. Julia! Julia!" Again and again the single word throbbed through his mind, as though an imperishable record was in his heart, and every beat thereof sent out the message on the current of his blood.What was that!He stopped breathing, but did not open his eyes. He felt that she was near him! All in a moment he knew that the cry of his heart had been answered. He heard steps, light steps, barely audible through the closed door. They came swiftly—tip-tip-tip-tip-tip-tip—up the stair—then silence.
He lifted his head and opened his eyes.
"Good God!" he cried, springing to his feet and overturning the chair in which he sat. Then grasping the small table with both hands he leaned across it and peered at the door, his face graying with each second that passed. She stood there, looking at him, such terror in her eyes that it made him tremble, absolutely fearless though he was. She wore a dark dress, and a dark veil was wound about her head, leaving the white oval of her face, with its terror-haunted eyes. The next moment she had entered the room and shut the door behind her, and was coming towards him like a sweet wraith. Yet he could say nothing. He had yearned for her and called her in his soul, and she was before him now! There were new lines upon his troubled face, for he could not understand. What could it mean? It was past midnight; between one and two o'clock, he knew. She was alone. These were his apartments. He slept in the one where they now stood. She stopped within arm's length, pale and scared, her large eyes burning with the burden of the secret she carried. She spoke first, hurriedly and low. The sound of her voice brought John to his senses.
"Has he come? Has he come?" she asked, in a half whisper, while the interlaced fingers over her breast writhed from the stress of her emotion.
"Dear Miss Julia!" responded Glenning, taking her by the arm, "pray be seated—but no, youmustnot stay here a moment! I—what is it? What is wrong?"
"Has he been here? Oh, tell me! Has anything happened?"
Glenning got into his coat as he answered.
"I have just come in. I went into the country after leaving you. Who is it? Marston again?"
A sob, half hysterical, struggled from the girl's throat.
"Yes—yes! He will come! He said he would! He's determined to kill you! Oh! I couldn't stand it!"
She put her hands over her eyes, and shivered.
"Who is with you, Miss Julia? You must not remain here another moment. You know walls have ears and eyes, even at this hour of the night. Who came with you?"
"No one; who could come with me? But you! You must not stay here tonight. Perhaps he came and found you were out. He will return, Promise me!"
Before he could answer they heard a sound which each knew; the pounding hoofs of a horse ridden at full speed.
"It is he!" gasped Julia, her face colourless as marble. "It is too late!"
The hard-ridden horse stopped below with a crash and a rattle of small stones.
"Courage!" whispered John, leaning towards the girl. "Trust me; all will be well!"
Turning the lamp low, he quickly bore it into the front office and placed it upon his desk there in a far corner of the room. In an instant he was by her side again and had her hand in his, and even in the peril of that moment he felt her clinging to him, and his heart exulted. The apartment was now in almost total darkness.
"Come!" he whispered, and opening the stair door wide he led her out into the passage, and down it for a dozen feet. Here not a ray of light came, but he placed her behind him, holding her hand all the while in a close grasp. There was a heavy step below—a stumble—a muttered curse.
"He has nerved himself with whiskey!" was the low message Glenning sent over his shoulder, "Be perfectly quiet; there is nothing to fear."
Slowly a heavy form ascended the stair, feeling its way along the wall, and halting now and then. A head and shoulders were dimly outlined, then the figure of Devil Marston stood in the open doorway. He waited a moment to steady himself, then entered. Glenning leaned forward to listen. The invader made no efforts to soften his movements, and presently John knew he had entered the front office. Then he placed his arm around the slight form by his side and gently drew her forward. Almost carrying her, they glided down the stair like shadows, then John took her arm in his, and they hurried along the deserted streets. Not a word was spoken until they had almost reached the Dudley home.
"Why did you do this?" asked John, an almost overpowering desire to clasp her in his arms assailing him as he felt her leaning heavily upon him, and thought of the significance of it all.
"There was no one else," she murmured, and sighed as she became conscious of the nearness of home.
"Tell me about it," he said, and he knew that she drew closer to him in the starlight.
"It was awful!" she replied. "I thought it would kill me. It was near ten o'clock. Father was asleep, and I slipped out into the yard to be alone, and enjoy the night. I had strolled down the avenue to the gate, and was standing there when he passed, going towards his home. I wore a white dress, and he saw me. He pulled up his horse, and without warning told me that he was going to square accounts with you that night, and get you out of his way. Then he laughed and rode on. I thought he was crazy. I went back to the house and tried to forget it, but I could not sleep. I knew he was capable of anything. There was no one to send—Peter would not have done. So I came."
They had entered the avenue. The segment of a late moon was pushing its way through some ragged clouds above the eastern horizon.
"Whydid you come?" repeated John.
They had reached the portico before she answered.
"To save you from him," she said, standing upon the step, so that her face was almost on a level with his own.
"But why?—why?What motive caused you to jeopardize your good name, to place yourself in a position which would compromise you forever were it known. Was it friendship alone?"
"I cannot tell you!"
"You can—you must!"
His face was almost fierce in the wan light, and his eyes were glowing.
"Not now; not yet."
There was a note of sadness in her voice, and her eyes fell.
Glenning took her hand, and came closer to her.
"Little girl, Imustknow!"
She looked up, and her brave, truthful eyes met his squarely.
"There is yet something in the way," she said, smiling as through pain, "before you may—"
"What is it?" he broke in, eagerly. "Speak!"
"Jericho!"
Then she was gone, and he was alone with the memory of the past.
In the year of grace in which this story moved, the Macon fair began the tenth day of July. All things were now leading up to it, for July had come, and the days, while really long, passed quickly.
Glenning had a fearful task before him. Only once since that memorable night when so many things had happened—when he had been almost scorned by the girl he loved; when he had held a mob at bay and saved a worthless scoundrel's life; when he had received a young lady caller in his office at two o'clock in the morning; when he had walked home with her to be ruthlessly wakened from his blissful love-dream—only once since that night had he been able to get himself to that point of moral courage which would enable him to make his confession, and plead his cause unhampered and with a conscience at rest. And in that hour when his soul was trembling on the verge of a full disclosure of all that had passed during that hateful, bitter-sweet time in Jericho, an interruption had come at the inopportune moment, and his chance went, for when they were together again alone that very evening he knew that it was impossible for him to speak. He knew, too, that possession and a full reciprocity of affection would never be his until he had lain bare that hidden portion of his life. He wanted to tell it; he wanted her to know. It was not a desire for concealment which held his tongue. That night when they stood in the wan moonlight by the portico steps, he had forgotten the untold secret. He knew only that she was before him, very close to him; that he had held her hand, had, for a few moments, pressed her young body to his as they went down the steps at his office; knew that she had filled him and thrilled him with a rare happiness, and that life without her would be commonplace, sunless and dreary. Another moment his consuming love would have been pouring from his lips in fervent words of fire, when he heard that name which he had come to hate—"Jericho!"
In the days which followed he fought with himself again, and some there are who will know what this means, and others there are who will not. But of all battles fought, surely this is the most terrible, when a man fights himself. It was not the old struggle with which he had contended night upon night after his arrival in Macon. That had been horrible, for the devil and an angel had locked in his heart then, and their efforts had torn him pitiably. But his angel had won in the end. The red-gold hair and the eyes of wine came no more to make a picture of living temptation above his pillow. They were banished. Now the same devil had come again, and the same angel, and it was all to do over again. This time the devil told him to keep his mouth shut, or tell only a part of the truth, since he had already been fool enough to say that something had occurred back in Jericho. The angel bade him lay the whole story bare; this was the only honourable course. John was aware that the outcome of this fight must be decided by his attitude. The combatant to which he lent his aid would overcome the other. And while he knew perfectly well what he should do, the devil pulled steadily the other way, whispering all the time that to speak the truth would mean total loss, and that a partial falsehood, at least, would be excusable, considering all that was at stake.
The new doctor's leisure hours were getting less frequent now. His remarkable success in treating the Scribbenses had all at once lifted him on a wave of popularity. Then, too, the story of how he had whipped Devil Marston in fair fight had gone abroad some way, and this, coupled to his defense of the jail, had thrown him in the full glare of the lime-light, and had also raised him on a sort of pedestal for the good people of Macon. They had never had anyone in their quiet community who could "do things" before. They began to hold him in a kind of awe, and to honour him in every way they could. Some of the most substantial recognition came from the wealthy population, who sent for him when illness required the presence of a physician. Glenning began to realize that his position was secure and his future assured.
One day Dillard joined him on the street, and accompanied him to his office. He was worried, as usual. He preceded his opening remark by shaking his head solemnly.
"It's no use, Glenning; it's no use."
Delivering this characteristic speech in a despondent tone, he walked to the window, and looked out.
"What's no use?" came the sharp, quick question, charged with irrepressible vim and a trace of nervousness.
"He won't do it! He won't do it!" was the still doleful reply.
"Stop your riddles and talk sense!" snapped John.
Dillard turned at this.
"I told you we'd catch Marston in some crooked work, but I've changed my mind. He's a sly fox. He's scented something. I've watched him all right, and he's been straight as a shingle."
"I don't see that it matters now," replied John, coolly, busy at his desk.
"Why?"
"We don't want to ruin him just for the fun of it, do we? It was to help the Dudleys we planned his downfall. That necessity is removed now. Of course he should be punished for holding that dividend back, but that alone hardly merits the penitentiary, especially since our little plan about the insurance worked. They're easy now, but we must see that no more tricks like that are played at the bank. Marston's behaving very well now. At least he has quit annoying our friends."
"You're a devilish funny fellow!" commented Dillard.
"And I want him to be on hand at the races," continued John. "He has entered the pick of his stables. Two of them—the best he has—go against The Prince. The colt will win. I want Marston to see him win. I want him to see a Dudley horse walk away from the fastest thing in a Marston stable!"
He swung around in his chair with flashing eyes.
"You're pretty confident, aren't you?"
"No more than I have cause to be."
"Do you know the private record of that big black, Imperial Don?"
"No, and I don't care to. I don't care if it's two minutes flat! I tell you, Tom Dillard, there's nothing on four legs that can outrun The Prince! It is uncanny! Have you ever seen him go with a loosened rein? It takes your breath away to watch him! Peter is going to work him out this afternoon at the track. Miss Dudley and I are going. When you come back you will understand what I mean when I say this colt was born of the wind and the lightning!"
Dillard flushed at the mention of Julia's name and looked embarrassed. John wondered. Had the poor fellow cast his die, and lost? His own uncertain position brought a warm feeling of sympathy to his heart, but he could say nothing personal.
"I don't suspect I can come," answered Dillard, in a changed voice, and John no longer doubted it was all over with his friend. "But I hope you're right. It would give me a lot of pleasure to see the Dudleys win over Marston."
"There are plenty of people around here who will enjoy that pleasure," muttered Glenning, turning to his writing materials.
"I'll be on hand at the race, anyway," said Dillard, walking to the door, "and I'll keep on watching Marston."
John's engagement with Julia was at five in the afternoon. The days were extremely hot, and it had not been thought wise to allow the colt his exercise until the sun had declined somewhat. The Prince was green. He was young. Conditions which older and hardened horses might not feel would likely affect him seriously. He had been sheltered and pampered since earliest colthood. Really he had not been given a chance to prove what was in him. The run this afternoon was a part of the process of hardening. The race wherein his name made one was to be a mighty game for blood and brawn. It was no place for a weakling.
Old Peter, sly and wise with his many years, years which had been given almost entirely to learning lore about horses, and acquainting himself with their moods and disposition—Old Peter knew all this, and he was making ready. With all his enthusiasm and confidence, he knew there was scant hope of his beloved colt winning in three straight heats. The race might be drawn out to four or five, or even six or eight, and then the horse with the greatest endurance would be the horse to win. But Peter knew what he knew. He knew that The Prince's sire, and his grandsire, had been noted for their staying qualities, and though the colt was slender of barrel and limb, yet hidden somewhere within that satin-smooth skin was power to go indefinitely.
Glenning presented himself at Julia's door promptly. She received him cordially, but with a sort of maidenly reserve which he had noticed ever since that night when she had almost asked him to lift the veil which hid his past. She was not quite as open and free as upon former occasions. Her appearance was charming, as usual. She disdained ornaments, a small cluster of some delicate flowers or a single blossom which had mayhap struck her fancy, being the only attempt she ever made to adorn herself beyond the delightfully simple costumes, which were always graceful and airy. Today she came to John swinging by its ribbons her hat—a boy's broad-brimmed straw—and wearing a gingham dress, belted at the waist and becomingly ruffled.
The man's heart surged as his eyes beheld her.
"Oh, let's walk!" she exclaimed, as she caught sight of a horse and buggy on the driveway.
"Certainly, if you wish. But the roads are dusty; even driving is unpleasant."
He tried to speak naturally, but invisible fingers had him by the throat, and his words were strained.
She flashed a quick glance at him.
"That's one reason why I proposed walking—because of the dusty roads. We'll go through, you know. Back through the garden, over a sparsely wooded upland, and down to the track. You did not know we were so near, did you?"
"No; but that will be fine. Is the Major in the library? I should like to pay my respects, if nothing more than to greet him."
"Yes; walk in. He's reading, and seems much improved. He'll be glad to see you."
Major Dudley looked up from his book as they appeared for a moment in the doorway, side by side. He smiled, and essayed to rise. Then John was at his side, gently pressing him back into his chair.
"Sit still, I beg you!" he said, taking the thin, soft hand of the old aristocrat. "I've only a moment, for Miss Dudley has promised to go with me to the track, and we mustn't delay. I'm glad to see you looking so well, Major."
"My health seems excellent, suh! But I cannot undergo any exertion. My haht is gettin' a little tahed, it seems, but it's been workin' long enough to deserve a rest. Won't you take a chair, suh?"
"Another time, thank you. The Prince is in fine trim, I believe?"
"Great colt, suh! Peter reports his condition puhfect."
"You have no apprehension in regard to the race?"
The old gentleman's eyes shot fire under their gray brows, and his body became more erect.
"I'm as satisfied he'll win as I am the sun will rise tuhmorrow!"
"Good! I share your belief to the full. Let me say good-bye now. The sun will not last much over an hour."
A minute later Julia and John were passing through the garden, side by side.
"Of course you read in the paper about Uncle Arthur's death?" she said.
John flushed guiltily, and he gave her a covert look. Her face was a little shadowed, and very sweet.
"Yes," he answered, seeking vainly in his mind for an excuse to change the subject.
"It was all very queer," she resumed, puckering her brow and shaking her head slowly. "The letter from the lawyer was so formal, and was not explicit. We have feared there was some mistake, as we have not heard from Uncle Arthur for so many years. Father wrote to the lawyer asking for further details, but has heard nothing from him."
"It was queer," admitted Glenning, feeling the weight of his duplicity, while his conscience writhed as though a white hot iron had touched it.
"It saddened us so much to think that he was coming back to us, and did not live to get home. Wasn't it dreadful?"
"Indeed it was."
John drew a long breath, and fidgeted inwardly. They had reached the stone fence bounding the garden, and he seized his chance.
"Let me help you over!" he cried, leaping to the flat top of the fence and extending his hand.
She took it, and allowed herself to be drawn up. Then he descended and swung her to the ground with her hands in his. A gently sloping, slightly wooded hill stretched up before them, and as they began the leisurely ascent she spoke again.
"You know that local news comes to us rather slowly, and we have just learned of what you did to Mr. Marston—that day."
Her voice was low, and she did not look at him.
John's face darkened, but he did not answer on the moment.
"I felt that I should speak to you," went on Julia; "it was because of me you did it. You were very brave."
Her face was aflame now.
"Yes," he replied. "The cur had mistreated you in some way, and I could not stand it!"
Here was his chance to go ahead and tell her all, for there was no possibility of interruption. But he did not speak. Why, he could not say. They walked on in silence. Soon they were going down a rain-washed hill-side where it was necessary he should assist her. He offered her his hand without speaking, and she took it dumbly. So they reached the level again, and went towards the fair ground, now only a short distance off. They halted in front of the grandstand. Several horses were on the track, but their eyes were quickly drawn to the lithe, graceful figure of The Prince. He had just come from the track stables, and was walking down the home stretch with a withered, monkey-like figure perched upon his back. Uncle Peter saw the twain, and guided the colt up to the low fence enclosing the track.
"Well, Uncle Peter, are we too late?" asked Glenning.
The old fellow removed his tattered hat, and bowed.
"No, suh. I had jes' rid 'im out de stall. I gwi' limber 'im up treckly."
"How is he running?" queried Julia, anxiously.
"Lak a skeered dawg, young missus!"
"What horses are those over yonder?"
"Couple o' plugs dat Deb'l Marston sont out hyar!" he replied, contemptuously. "I'll go by dem lak dey's hitched to a pos'!"
"Are you sleeping with this horse every night, as I suggested you should?" asked John.
"Yes, suh! Him 'n' me, we bunks tuhgedder, 'n' he has de bes' bed, too!"
"He will bear close watching, and as the time draws nearer for the race you must be doubly careful."
"Dat I will, suh—doctuh. Yo' may 'pen' on me. Now 'bout dis heah hoss I'm a-settin' straddle uv." He fairly choked with pride and emotion as he moved his bony hand up the richly maned neck caressingly. "Dis hoss am de none-sich hoss, whut means dar ain't anudder'n lak 'im nowhahs. He runs lak a pig'n fly, goin' home. 'N' he's had de bes' o' kyar! Fo't-night, come tuhmorrer, I's been out hyar, rain ur shine, 'n' I rub dis hoss twel he shine lak a new stove. I feed 'im de right numbah yeahs o' cawn; de right size bunch o' hay. Den I gits on 'im 'n' rides 'im roun' dis track twel he drips lather lak soap-suds. A man frum town stood right dar whah you is dis minute de udder day, 'n' he tol' me dat he couldn't see 'im w'en he passed—he wuz dat fas'. Den I rub 'im dry 'n' put on de blanket, 'n' mek he bed, 'n' lock de do' 'n' we bofe go 'sleep. 'N' dat w'at I gwi' do twel de day come w'en he win de race! 'N' he gwi'win, simply 'kase he can't lose!"
He stopped for breath, and the knotty hand which rested on the colt's neck trembled. His recital had moved him, for it was truly a matter of life and death to him.
John took out his watch.
"If you will pardon the suggestion, Miss Julia, I will say that we had better let Uncle Peter have The Prince go. It will be dark soon."
"Certainly. Ride him around the track, Uncle Peter. Let us see what there is in him!"
"So please yo', young missus, hit bein' de bes' way, I'll staht 'im out roun' de track, 'n' let 'im lope easy-lak de fus' time roun'. Den, w'en he git soop'le up de fus' time roun', I gwi'run 'im! Yo' watch, young missus—I say I gwi'run 'im!"
His wrinkled face irradiated with a great joy, Uncle Peter gathered up the reins and clenched the slender body with his knees. Gracefully and slowly The Prince swung around the oval enclosure, revealing such marvelous freedom from exertion, such spontaneity of action, that the faces of the two spectators standing in the shadow of the grandstand expressed almost amazement. John shifted his position a little nearer to Julia—he wanted so much to take her hand—and they watched in silence. The small figure on The Prince's back was humped over after the approved attitude of a jockey, and was rising and falling with each long undulation as though part of the animal he rode. The twain by the fence kept silent. Back on the grandstand was a small group of men, also watching The Prince. Julia's heart swelled with pride as her own brave colt came down the stretch towards them, gradually increasing his speed. He flashed past them with the lithe movements of one of the feline tribe, and as his nose was set to the next half mile he began to let himself out. His rider did not carry a whip. A slow slackening of the tightly-held reins was all that was necessary for quicker action. The Prince was born to run; to be held back was galling and unnatural. Rapidly and more rapidly his feet rose and fell, his movements as regular as the mechanism of a clock. Faster and faster he went, each prodigious leap increasing his momentum. When he swung into the home stretch the second time he was coming beautifully, and with a degree of swiftness which dumfounded both the girl and the man. Like an autumn leaf torn from a tree and whirled away on a cyclone, The Prince went by his group of friends.
"Splendid!" muttered John Glenning, intense pleasure showing on his face.
The girl turned to him with eyes which almost hurt.
"Can Marston's entriespossiblybeat him?" she implored, impetuously raising her hand to his arm, but refraining from laying it there.
"Nothing that runs on four feet can beat him!" declared John, enthusiastically. "And I, like you, have seen horses run ever since I was big enough to know what a horse was. Ah! he is a noble animal—and how gracefully he runs! No wonder you love him, and I congratulate you on possessing him!"
Her lips parted for a quick reply, but she stopped and gazed down the track instead, where The Prince and his rider had at last come to a halt. She had started to say what was in her heart, to tell him that he had saved the colt for her twice, and that she would never forget it. Then that awful barrier had thrust itself before her eyes; that strange barrier of his terrible silence. She could not be free with him; she could not be as she was in the first days when they had met. Then she could say all she wished to say, but that was before she had awakened; before new thoughts and feelings and vague, unguessed desires had blossomed in her soul, at times almost drugging her with their subtle perfume. It was so different now. The world had changed. She had burst the chrysalis of girlhood, and her woman's nature was surging up in her, dominant, primordial, searching, calling, demanding its own! It gave her pain. She knew that with that hidden past cleared away, and the love words on his lips, she would have come to his arms with a sigh of content, and found rest, and peace, and joy. How he had proven himself! He was a man; gentle, strong, modest, brave. He was the incarnated hero of her girl dreams, standing this moment by her side—and yet how far away he was! Why would he not come closer! Surely he knew she would forgive and offer him the sweet haven of her arms, the solace of her lips and the caresses of her hands! Surely he loved her, for he was not deceitful, and that night, that awful, blissful night he had taken her to him and shielded her and led her home, and had plead with her for some tenderness. She could not give it then, though her heart was aching with love. She could not give it now, unless he would unseal his lips, and lay bare the hidden years. It was the test, and she knew it. She acknowledged it with inward fear, and her soul quaked. She could do nothing but wait. Hers was the bitter part; the hard portion. To wait—wait—and daily place a restraining hand upon her love; to crush it down into submission hour after hour as it rose up and demanded its own. How long? How long? Already it seemed ages, and his presence had come to bring suffering.
Twilight was stealing over the earth. A gentle breeze came up from the south, laden with the scents of late summer. Peter was bringing The Prince back for an opinion of the colt's performance.
"You have done well with him, Peter," said Julia. "I shall tell father how nicely you ride him, and of his remarkable speed. He will be pleased. Good-bye. Take good care of him."
Glenning felt that he should add a word, but somehow it wouldn't come. Julia's voice had sounded unfamiliar to his ears. He had been keenly conscious of the swift change in her after the horse had passed. He had seen her start to speak, then close her lips, and he had wondered what the unuttered words could have been. Then he grew troubled as he stood silently by her side, watching her averted face. A shadow had fallen upon it, blotting out the bright expression of joy. He saw it change as a sun-kissed landscape might when a cloud veils the sun. Her sweet mouth had relaxed into a pathetic little droop; the rich undercolour had receded from her cheeks; her eyes had shaped themselves to a look of weary sadness. Even her rounded, pliant figure seemed to lose part of its grace, and to sag of its own weight. He saw the breeze lifting the little curls upon her neck and ruffling the waving hair behind her ears. Then suddenly that which had been slumbering in him woke. It woke with a thrust like a keen knife-blade, sending a sharp quiver of pain throughout his body. Up, up it fought its way, ruthlessly tearing a path for its progress, and a voice spoke in his soul. It was his conscience which he had numbed, and smothered, and choked, free at last, and with a merciless goad in its hand. He saw how wrong he had been. He saw that, physically brave as he knew himself to be, morally he had been a coward! He had let her suffer—her, whom he told himself he loved! He had weakly remained negative, drifting with the days, when a positive course was the only one consistent with honour. He had shielded his own feelings, and sacrificed hers. He had dwelt in guilty security, and had stretched her, sinless, upon the altar! How sordid, and cruel, and selfish he had been! How he would have condemned this policy in anyone else!
Slowly they walked homeward through the magic afterglow. The light faded, and grew dimmer and dimmer, and the stars came out. Neither said a word. From the wooded upland the country about looked phantom-like, unreal. Far off a dog barked. Nearer at hand, in the branches of one of the oak trees about them, a screech-owl stirred, and babbled its harsh call. Away in the hollow where the race track lay a light gleamed at the stables. The twigs cracked under their feet, and the dry leaves rustled as they passed among them. It grew darker. Julia caught the toe of her boot on something, and lurched forward. John grasped her by the arm, and quickly righted her. How good it was to feel his strong fingers drawing her away from harm! Then he took her hand without speaking, and thus they went on.
Later they stood at the portico steps.
"I have been a coward!" he said, abruptly, "and there is nothing I have shunned more all my life. I have been unfair to you, and if it is not too late I want to set myself right. Perhaps it is weakness to tell you that I have tried—but I have. The strength is mine now, and it will not desert me. Will you see me tomorrow night, and hear my story?"
The "yes" which came from her lips was faint indeed, but he heard, and pressed her hand in farewell.