That afternoon Judge Price walked out to Belle Plain. Solomon Mahaffy had known that this was a civility Betty Malroy could by no means escape. He had been conscious of the judge's purpose from the moment it existed in the germ state, and he had striven to divert him, but his striving had been in vain, for though the judge valued Mr. Mahaffy because of certain sterling qualities which he professed to discern beneath the hard crust that made up the external man, he was not disposed to accept him as his mentor in nice matters of taste and gentlemanly feeling. He owed it to himself personally to tender his sympathy. Miss Malroy must have heard something of the honorable part he had played; surely she could not be in ignorance of the fact that the lawless element, dreading his further activities, had threatened him. She must know, too, about that reward of five thousand dollars. Certainly her grief could not blind her to the fact that he had met the situation with a largeness of public spirit that was an impressive lesson to the entire community.'
These were all points over which he and Mahaffy had wrangled, and he felt that his friend, in seeking to keep him away from Belle Plain, was standing squarely in his light. He really could not understand Solomon or his objections. He pointed out that Norton had probably left a will—no one knew yet—probably his estate would go to his intended wife—what more likely? He understood Norton had cousins somewhere in middle Tennessee—there was the attractive possibility of extended litigation. Miss Malroy needed a strong, clear brain to guide her past those difficulties his agile fancy assembled in her path. He beamed on his friend with a wide sunny smile.
“You mean she needs a lawyer, Price?” insinuated Mahaffy.
“That slap at me, Solomon, is unworthy of you. Just name some one, will you, who has shown an interest comparable to mine? I may say I have devoted my entire energy to her affairs, and with disinterestedness. I have made myself felt. Will you mention who else these cutthroats have tried to browbeat and frighten? They know that my theories and conclusions are a menace to them! I got 'em in a panic, sir—presently some fellow will lose his nerve and light out for the tall timber—and it will be just Judge Slocum Price who's done the trick—no one else!”
“Are you looking for some one to take a pot shot at you?” inquired Mahaffy sourly.
“Your remark uncovers my fondest hope, Solomon—I'd give five years of my life just to be shot at—that would round out the episode of the letter nicely;” again the judge beamed on Mahaffy with that wide and sunny smile of his.
“Why don't you let the boy go alone, Price?” suggested Mahaffy. He lacked that sense of sublime confidence in the judge's tact and discretion of which the judge, himself, entertained never a doubt.
“I shall not obtrude myself, Solomon; I shall merely walk out to Belle Plain and leave a civil message. I know what's due Miss Malroy in her bereaved state—she has sustained no ordinary loss, and in no ordinary fashion. She has been the center of a striking and profoundly moving tragedy! I would give a good deal to know if my late client left a will—”
“You might ask her,” said Mahaffy cynically. “Nothing like going to headquarters for the news!”
“Solomon, Solomon, give me credit for common sense—go further, and give me credit for common decency! Don't let us forget that ever since we came here she has manifested a charmingly hospitable spirit where we are concerned!”
“Wouldn't charity hit nearer the mark, Price?”
“I have never so regarded it, Solomon,” said the judge mildly. “I have read a different meaning in the beef and flour and potatoes she's sent here. I expect if the truth could be known to us she is wondering in the midst of her grief why I haven't called, but she'll appreciate the considerate delicacy of a gentleman. I wish it were possible to get cut flowers in this cussed wilderness!”
The judge had been occupied with a simple but ingenious toilet. He had trimmed the frayed skirts of, his coat; then by turning his cuffs inside out and upside down a fresh surface made its first public appearance. Next his shoes had engaged his attention. They might have well discouraged a less resolute and resourceful character, but with the contents of his ink-well he artfully colored his white yarn socks where they showed though the rifts in the leather. This the judge did gaily, now humming a snatch of song, now listening civilly to Mahaffy, now replying with undisturbed cheerfulness. Last of all he clapped his dingy beaver on his head, giving it an indescribably jaunty slant, and stepped to the door.
“Well, wish me luck, Solomon, I'm off—come, Hannibal!” he said. At heart he cherished small hope of seeing Betty, advantageous as he felt an interview might prove. However, on reaching Belle Plain he and Hannibal were shown into the cool parlor by little Steve. It was more years than the judge cared to remember since he had put his foot inside such a house, but with true grandeur of soul he rose to the occasion; a sublimated dignity shone from every battered feature, while he fixed little Steve with so fierce a glance that the grin froze on his lips.
“You are to say that judge Slocum Price presents his compliments and condolences to Miss Malroy—have you got that straight, you pinch of soot?” he concluded affably. Little Steve, impressed alike by the judge's air of condescension and his easy flow of words, signified that he had. “You may also say that judge Price's ward, young Master Hazard, presents his compliments and condolences—” What more the judge might have said was interrupted by the entrance of Betty, herself.
“My dear young lady—” the judge bowed, then he advanced toward her with the solemnity of carriage and countenance he deemed suitable to the occasion, and her extended hand was engulfed between his two plump palms. He rolled his eyes heavenward. “It's the Lord's to deal with us as His own inscrutable wisdom dictates,” he murmured with pious resignation. “We are all poorer, ma'am, that he has died—just as we were richer while he lived!” The rich cadence of the judge's speech fell sonorously on the silence, and that look of horror which had never quite left Betty's eyes since they saw Charley Norton fall, rose out of their clear depths again. The judge, instantly stricken with a sense of the inadequacy of his words, doubled on his spiritual tracks. “In a round-about way, ma'am, we're bound to believe in the omnipresence of Providence—we must think it—though a body might be disposed to hold that west Tennessee had got out of the line of divine supervision recently. Let me lead you to a chair, ma'am!”
Hannibal had slipped to Betty's side and placed his hand in hers. The judge regarded the pair with great benevolence of expression. “He would come, and I hadn't the heart to forbid it. If I can be of any service to you, ma'am, either in the capacity of a friend—or professionally—I trust you will not hesitate to command me—” The judge backed toward the door.
“Did you walk out, Judge Price?” asked Betty kindly.
“Nothing more than a healthful exercise—but we will not detain you, ma'am; the pleasure of seeing you is something we had not reckoned on!” The judge's speech was thick and unctuous with good feeling. He wished that Mahaffy might have been there to note the reserve and dignity of his deportment.
“But you must let me order luncheon for you,” said Betty. At least this questionable old man was good to Hannibal.
“I couldn't think of it, ma'am—”
“You'll have a glass of wine, then,” urged Betty hospitably. For the moment she had lost sight of what was clearly the judge's besetting sin.
The judge paused abruptly. He endured a moment of agonizing irresolution.
“On the advice of my physician I dare not touch wine—gout, ma'am, and liver—but this restriction does not apply to corn whisky—in moderation, and as a tonic—either before meals, immediately after meals or at any time between meals—always keeping in mind the idea of its tonic properties—” The judge seemed to mellow and ripen. This was much better than having the dogs sicked on you! His manner toward Betty became almost fatherly. Poor young thing, so lonely and desolate in the midst of all this splendor—he surreptitiously wiped away a tear, and when little Steve presented himself and was told to bring whisky, audibly smacked his lips—a whole lot better, surely!
“I am sorry you think you must hurry away, Judge Price,” said Betty. She still retained the small brown hand Hannibal had thrust into hers.
“The eastern mail gets in to-day, ma'am, and I have reason to think my share of it will be especially heavy, for it brings the bulk of my professional correspondence.” In ten years the judge had received just one communication by mail—a bill which had followed him through four states and seven counties. “I expect my secretary—” boldly fixing Solomon Mahaffy's status, “is already dipping into it; an excellent assistant, ma'am, but literary rather than legal.”
Little Steve reappeared bearing a silver tray on which was a decanter and glass.
“Since you insist, ma'am,” the judge poured himself a drink, “my best respects—” he bowed profoundly.
“If you are quite willing, judge, I think I will keep Hannibal. Miss Bowen, who has been here—since—” her voice broke suddenly.
“I understand, ma'am,” said the judge soothingly. He gave her a glance of great concern and turned to Hannibal. “Dear lad, you'll be very quiet and obedient, and do exactly as Miss Malroy says? When shall I come for him, ma'am?”
“I'll send him to you when he is ready to go home. I am thinking of visiting my friends in North Carolina, and I should like to have him spend as much time as possible with me before I start for the East.”
It had occurred to Betty that she had done little or nothing for the child; probably this would be her last opportunity.
The state of the judge's feelings was such that with elaborate absence of mind he poured himself a second drink of whisky; and that there should be no doubt the act was one of inadvertence, said again, “My best respects, ma'am,” and bowed as before. Putting down the glass he backed toward the door.
“I trust you will not hesitate to call upon me if I can be of any use to you, ma'am—a message will bring me here without a moment's delay.” He was rather disappointed that no allusion had been made to his recent activities. He reasoned correctly that Betty was as yet in ignorance of the somewhat dangerous eminence he had achieved as the champion of law and order. However, he reflected with satisfaction that Hannibal, in remaining, would admirably serve his ends.
Betty insisted that he should be driven home, and after faintly protesting, the judge gracefully yielded the point, and a few moments later rolled away from Belle Plain behind a pair of sleek-coated bays, with a negro in livery on the box. He was conscious of a great sense of exaltation. He felt that he should paralyze Mahaffy. He even temporarily forgot the blow his hopes had sustained when Betty spoke of returning to North Carolina. This was life—broad acres and niggers—principally to trot after you toting liquor—and such liquor!—he lolled back luxuriantly with half-closed eyes.
“Twenty years in the wood if an hour!” he muttered. “I'd like to have just such a taste in my mouth when I come to die—and probably she has barrels of it!” he sighed deeply, and searched his soul for words with which adequately to describe that whisky to Mahaffy.
But why not do more than paralyze Solomon—that would be pleasant but not especially profitable. The judge came back quickly to the vexed problem of his future. He desired to make some striking display of Miss Malroy's courtesy. He knew that his credit was experiencing the pangs of an early mortality; he was not sensitive, yet for some days he had been sensible of the fact that what he called the commercial class was viewing him with open disfavor, but he must hang on in Raleigh a little longer—for him it had become the abode of hope. The judge considered the matter. At least he could let people see something of that decent respect with which Miss Malroy treated him.
They were entering Raleigh now, and he ordered the coachman to pull his horses down to a walk. He had decided to make use of the Belle Plain turnout in creating an atmosphere of confidence and trust—especially trust. To this end he spent the best part of an hour interviewing his creditors. It amounted almost to a mass-meeting of the adult male population, for he had no favorites. When he invaded virgin territory he believed in starting the largest possible number of accounts without delay. The advantage of his system, as he explained its workings to Mahaffy, was that it bred a noble spirit of emulation. He let it be known in a general way that things were looking up with him; just in what quarter he did not specify, but there he was, seated in the Belle Plain carriage and the inference was unavoidable that Miss Malroy was to recognize his activities in a substantial manner.
Mahaffy, loafing away the afternoon in the county clerk's office, heard of the judge's return. He heard that Charley Norton had left a will; that Thicket Point went to Miss Malroy; that the Norton cousins in middle Tennessee were going to put up a fight; that Judge Price had been retained as counsel by Miss Malroy; that he was authorized to begin an independent search for Charley Norton's murderer, and was to spare no expense; that Judge Price was going to pay his debts. Mahaffy grinned at this and hurried home. He could believe all but the last, that was the crowning touch of unreality.
The judge explained the situation.
“I wouldn't withhold hope from any man, Solomon; it's the cheapest thing in the world and the one thing we are most miserly about extending to our fellows. These people all feel better—and what did it cost me?—just a little decent consideration; just the knowledge of what the unavoidable associations of ideas in their own minds would do for them!”
What had seemed the corpse of credit breathed again, and the judge and Mahaffy immediately embarked upon a characteristic celebration. Early candlelight found them making a beginning; midnight came—the gray and purple of dawn—and they were still at it, back of closed doors and shuttered windows.
Hannibal had devoted himself loyally to the judge's glorification, and Betty heard all about the letter, the snuffing of the candles and the reward of five thousand dollars. It vastly increased the child's sense of importance and satisfaction when he discovered she had known nothing of these matters until he told her of them.
“Why, where would Judge Price get so much money, Hannibal?” she asked, greatly astonished.
“He won't have to get it, Miss Betty; Mr. Mahaffy says he don't reckon no one will ever tell who wrote the letter—he 'lows the man who done that will keep pretty mum—he just dassent tell!” the boy explained.
“No, I suppose not—” and Betty saw that perhaps, after all, the judge had not assumed any very great financial responsibility. “He can't be a coward, though, Hannibal!” she added, for she understood that the risk of personal violence which he ran was quite genuine. She had formed her own unsympathetic estimate of him that day at Boggs' race-track; Mahaffy in his blackest hour could have added nothing to it. Twice since then she had met him in Raleigh, which had only served to fix that first impression.
“Miss Betty, he's just like my Uncle Bob was—he ain't afraid of nothing! He totes them pistols of his—loaded—if you notice good you can see where they bulge out his coat!” Hannibal's eyes, very round and big, looked up into hers.
“Is he as poor as he seems, Hannibal?” inquired Betty.
“He never has no money, Miss Betty, but I don't reckon he's what a body would call pore.”
It might have baffled a far more mature intelligence than Hannibal's to comprehend those peculiar processes by which the judge sustained himself and his intimate fellowship with adversity—that it was his magnificence of mind which made the squalor of his daily life seem merely a passing phase—but the boy had managed to point a delicate distinction, and Betty grasped something of the hope and faith which never quite died out in Slocum Price's indomitable breast.
“But you always have enough to eat, dear?” she questioned anxiously. Hannibal promptly reassured her on this point. “You wouldn't let me think anything that was not true, Hannibal—you are quite sure you have never been hungry?”
“Never, Miss Betty; honest!”
Betty gave a sigh of relief. She had been reproaching herself for her neglect of the child; she had meant to do so much for him and had done nothing! Now it was too late for her personally to interest herself in his behalf, yet before she left for the East she would provide for him. If she had felt it was possible to trust the judge she would have made him her agent, but even in his best aspect he seemed a dubious dependence. Tom, for quite different reasons, was equally out of the question. She thought of Mr. Mahaffy.
“What kind of a man is Mr. Mahaffy, Hannibal?”
“He's an awful nice man, Miss Betty, only he never lets on; a body's got to find it out for his own self—he ain't like the judge.”
“Does he—drink, too, Hannibal?” questioned Betty.
“Oh, yes; when he can get the licker, he does.” It was evident that Hannibal was cheerfully tolerant of this weakness on the part of the austere Mahaffy. By this time Betty was ready to weep over the child, with his knowledge of shabby vice, and his fresh young faith in those old tatterdemalions.
“But, no matter what they do, they are very, very kind to you?” she continued quite tremulously.
“Yes, ma'am—why, Miss Betty, they're lovely men!”
“And do you ever hear the things spoken of you learned about at Mrs. Ferris' Sunday-school?”
“When the judge is drunk he talks a heap about 'em. It's beautiful to hear him then; you'd love it, Miss Betty,” and Hannibal smiled up sweetly into her face.
“Does he have you go to Sunday-school in Raleigh?”
The boy shook his head.
“I ain't got no clothes that's fitten to wear, nor no pennies to give, but the judge, he 'lows that as soon as he can make a raise I got to go, and he's learning me my letters—but we ain't a book. Miss Betty, I reckon it'd stump you some to guess how he's fixed it for me to learn?”
“He's drawn the letters for you, is that the way?” In spite of herself, Betty was experiencing a certain revulsion of feeling where the judge and Mahaffy were concerned. They were doubtless bad enough, but they could have been worse.
“No, ma'am; he done soaked the label off one of Mr. Pegloe's whisky bottles and pasted it on the wall just as high as my chin, so's I can see it good, and he's learning me that-a-ways! Maybe you've seen the kind of bottle I mean—Pegloe's Mississippi Pilot: Pure Corn Whisky?” But Hannibal's bright little face fell. He was quick to see that the educational system devised by the judge did not impress Betty at all favorably. She drew him into her arms.
“You shall have my books—the books I learned to read out of when I was a little girl, Hannibal!”
“I like learning from the label pretty well,” said Hannibal loyally.
“But you'll like the books better, dear, when you see them. I know just where they are, for I happened on them on a shelf in the library only the other day.”
After they had found and examined the books and Hannibal had grudgingly admitted that they might possess certain points of advantage over the label, he and Betty went out for a walk. It was now late afternoon and the sun was sinking behind the wall of the forest that rose along the Arkansas coast. Their steps had led them to the terrace where they stood looking off into the west. It was here that Betty had said good-by to Bruce Carrington—it might have been months ago, and it was only days. She thought of Charley—Charley, with his youth and hope and high courage—unwittingly enough she had led him on to his death! A sob rose in her throat.
Hannibal looked up into her face. The memory of his own loss was never very long absent from his mind, and Miss Betty had been the victim of a similarly sinister tragedy. He recalled those first awful days of loneliness through which he had lived, when there was no Uncle Bob—soft-voiced, smiling and infinitely companionable.
“Why, Hannibal, you are crying—what about, dear?” asked Betty suddenly.
“No, ma'am; I ain't crying,” said Hannibal stoutly, but his wet lashes gave the lie to his words.
“Are you homesick—do you wish to go back to the judge and Mr. Mahaffy?”
“No, ma'am—it ain't that—I was just thinking—”
“Thinking about what, dear?”
“About my Uncle Bob.” The small face was very wistful.
“Oh—and you still miss him so much, Hannibal?”
“I bet I do—I reckon anybody who knew Uncle Bob would never get over missing him; they just couldn't, Miss Betty! The judge is mighty kind, and so is Mr. Mahaffy—they're awful kind, Miss Betty, and it seems like they get kinder all the time—but with Uncle Bob, when he liked you, he just laid himself out to let you know it!”
“That does make a great difference, doesn't it?” agreed Betty sadly, and two piteous tearful eyes were bent upon him.
“Don't you reckon if Uncle Bob is alive, like the judge says, and he's ever going to find me, he had ought to be here by now?” continued Hannibal anxiously.
“But it hasn't been such a great while, Hannibal; it's only that so much has happened to you. If he was very badly hurt it may have been weeks before he could travel; and then when he could, perhaps he went back to that tavern to try to learn what had become of you. But we may be quite certain he will never abandon his search until he has made every possible effort to find you, dear! That means he will sooner or later come to west Tennessee, for there will always be the hope that you have found your way here.”
“Sometimes I get mighty tired waiting, Miss Betty,” confessed the boy. “Seems like I just couldn't wait no longer.” He sighed gently, and then his face cleared. “You reckon he'll come most any time, don't you, Miss Betty?”
“Yes, Hannibal; any day or hour!”
“Whoop!” muttered Hannibal softly under his breath. Presently he asked: “Where does that branch take you to?” He nodded toward the bayou at the foot of the terraced bluff.
“It empties into the river,” answered Betty.
Hannibal saw a small skiff beached among the cottonwoods that grew along the water's edge and his eyes lighted up instantly. He had a juvenile passion for boats.
“Why, you got a boat, ain't you, Miss Betty?” This was a charming and an important discovery.
“Would you like to go down to it?” inquired Betty.
“'Deed I would! Does she leak any, Miss Betty?”
“I don't know about that. Do boats usually leak, Hannibal?”
“Why, you ain't ever been out rowing in her, Miss Betty, have you?—and there ain't no better fun than rowing a boat!” They had started down the path.
“I used to think that, too, Hannibal; how do you suppose it is that when people grow up they forget all about the really nice things they might do?”
“What use is she if you don't go rowing in her?” persisted Hannibal.
“Oh, but it is used. Mr. Tom uses it in crossing to the other side where they are clearing land for cotton. It saves him a long walk or ride about the head of the bayou.”
“Like I should take you out in her, Miss Betty?” demanded Hannibal with palpitating anxiety.
They had entered the scattering timber when Betty paused suddenly with a startled exclamation, and Hannibal felt her fingers close convulsively about his. The sound she had heard might have been only the rustling of the wind among the branches overhead in that shadowy silence, but Betty's nerves, the placid nerves of youth and perfect health, were shattered.
“Didn't you hear something, Hannibal?” she whispered fearfully.
For answer Hannibal pointed mysteriously, and glancing in the direction he indicated, Betty saw a woman advancing along the path toward them. The look of alarm slowly died out of his eyes.
“I think it's the overseer's niece,” she told Hannibal, and they kept on toward the boat.
The girl came rapidly up the path, which closely followed the irregular line of the shore in its windings. Once she was seen to stop and glance back over her shoulder, her attitude intent and listening, then she hurried forward again. Just by the boat the three met.
“Good evening!” said Betty pleasantly.
The girl made no reply to this; she merely regarded Betty with a fixed stare. At length she broke silence abruptly.
“I got something I want to say to you—you know who I am, I reckon?” She was a girl of about Betty's own age, with a certain dark, sullen beauty and that physical attraction which Tom, in spite of his vexed mood, had taken note of earlier in the day.
“You are Bess Hicks,” said Betty.
“Make the boy go back toward the house a spell—I got something I want to say to you.” Betty hesitated. She was offended by the girl's manner, which was as rude as her speech. “I ain't going to hurt you—you needn't be afraid of me, I got something important to say—send him off, I tell you; there ain't no time to lose!” The girl stamped her foot impatiently.
Betty made a sign to Hannibal and he passed slowly back along the path. He went unwillingly, and he kept his head turned that he might see what was done, even if he were not to hear what was said.
“That will do, Hannibal—wait there—don't go any farther!” Betty called after him when he had reached a point sufficiently distant to be out of hearing of a conversation carried on in an ordinary tone. “Now, what is it? Speak quickly if you have anything to tell me!”
“I got a heap to say,” answered the girl with a scowl. Her manner was still fierce and repellent, and she gave Betty a certain jealous regard out of her black eyes which the latter was at a loss to explain. “Where's Mr. Tom?” she demanded.
“Tom? Why, about the place, I suppose—in his office, perhaps.” So it had to do with Tom.... Betty felt sudden disgust with the situation.
“No, he ain't about the place, either! He done struck out for Memphis two hours after sun-up, and what's more, he ain't coming back here to-night—” There was a moment of silence. The girl looked about apprehensively. She continued, fixing her black eyes on Betty: “You're here alone at Belle Plain—you know what happened when Mr. Tom started for Memphis last time? I reckon you-all ain't forgot that!”
Betty felt a pallor steal over her face. She rested a hand that shook on the trunk of a tree to steady herself. The girl laughed shortly.
“Don't be so scared; I reckon Belle Plain's as good as his if anything happened to you?”
By a great effort Betty gained a measure of control over herself. She took a step nearer and looked the girl steadily in the face.
“Perhaps you will stop this sort of talk, and tell me what is going to happen to me—if you know?” she said quietly.
“Why do you reckon Mr. Norton was shot? I can tell you why—it was all along of you—that was why!” The girl's furtive glance, which searched and watched the gathering shadows, came back as it always did to Betty's pale face. “You ain't no safer than he was, I tell you!” and she sucked in her breath sharply between her full red lips.
“What do you mean?” faltered Betty.
“Do you reckon you're safe here in the big house alone? Why do you reckon Mr. Tom cleared out for Memphis? It was because he couldn't be around and have anything happen to you—that was why!” and the girl sank her voice to a whisper. “You quit Belle Plain now—to-night—just as soon as you can!”
“This is absurd—you are trying to frighten me!”
“Did they stop with trying to frighten Charley Norton?” demanded Bess with harsh insistence.
Whatever the promptings that inspired this warning, they plainly had nothing to do with either liking or sympathy. Her dominating emotion seemed to be a sullen sort of resentment which lit up her glance with a dull fire; yet her feelings were so clearly and so keenly personal that Betty understood the motive that had brought her there. The explanation, she found, left her wondering just where and how her own fate was linked with that of this poor white.
“You have been waiting some time to see me?” she asked.
“Ever since along about noon.”
“You were afraid to come to the house?”
“I didn't want to be seen there.”
“And yet you knew I was alone.”
“Alone—but how do you know who's watching the place?”
“Do you think there was reason to be afraid of that?” asked Betty.
Again the girl stamped her foot with angry impatience.
“You're just wastin' time—just foolin' it away—and you ain't got none to spare!”
“You must tell me what I have to fear—I must know more or I shall stay just where I am!”
“Well, then, stay!” The girl turned away, and then as quickly turned back and faced Betty once more. “I reckon he'd kill me if he knew—I reckon I've earned that already—”
“Of whom are you speaking?”
“He'll have you away from here to-night!”
“He?... who?... and what if I refuse to go?”
“Did they ask Charley Norton whether he wanted to live or die?” came the sinister question.
A shiver passed through Betty. She was seeing it all again—Charley as he groped among the graves with the hand of death heavy upon him.
A moment later she was alone. The girl had disappeared. There was only the shifting shadows as the wind tossed the branches of the trees, and the bands of golden light that slanted along the empty path. The fear of the unknown leaped up afresh in Betty's soul, in an instant her flying feet had borne her to the boy's side.
“Come—come quick, Hannibal!” she gasped out, and seized his hand.
“What is it, Miss Betty? What's the matter?” asked Hannibal as they fled panting up the terraces.
“I don't know—only we must get away from here just as soon as we can!” Then, seeing the look of alarm on the child's face, she added more quietly, “Don't be frightened, dear, only we must go away from Belle Plain at once.” But where they were to go, she had not considered.
Reaching the house, they stole up to Betty's room. Her well-filled purse was the important thing; that, together with some necessary clothing, went into a small hand-bag.
“You must carry this, Hannibal; if any one sees us leave the house they'll think it something you are taking away,” she explained. Hannibal nodded understandingly.
“Don't you trust your niggers, Miss Betty?” he whispered as they went from the room.
“I only trust you, dear!”
“What makes you go? Was it something that woman told you? Are they coming after us, Miss Betty? Is it Captain Murrell?”
“Captain Murrell?” There was less of mystery now, but more of terror, and her hand stole up to her heart, and, white and slim, rested against the black fabric of her dress.
“Don't you be scared, Miss Betty!” said Hannibal.
They went silently from the house and again crossed the lawn to the terrace. Under the leafy arch which canopied them there was already the deep purple of twilight.
“Do you reckon it were Captain Murrell shot Mr. Norton, Miss Betty?” asked Hannibal in a shuddering whisper.
“Hush—Oh, hush, Hannibal! It is too awful to even speak of—” and, sobbing and half hysterical, she covered her face with her hands.
“But where are we going, Miss Betty?” asked the boy.
“I don't know, dear!” she had an agonizing sense of the night's approach and of her own utter helplessness.
“I'll tell you what, Miss Betty, let's go to the judge and Mr. Mahaffy!” said Hannibal.
“Judge Price?” She had not thought of him as a possible protector.
“Why, Miss Betty, ain't I told you he ain't afraid of nothing? We could walk to Raleigh easy if you don't want your niggers to hook up a team for you.”
Betty suddenly remembered the carriage which had taken the judge into town; she was sure it had not yet returned.
“We will go to the judge, Hannibal! George, who drove him into Raleigh, has not come back; if we hurry we may meet him on the road.”
Screened by the thick shadows, they passed up the path that edged the bayou; at the head of the inlet they entered a clearing, and crossing this they came to the corn-field which lay between the house and the highroad. Following one of the shock rows they hurried to the mouth of the lane.
“Hannibal, I don't want to tell the judge why I am leaving Belle Plain—about the woman, I mean,” said Betty.
“You reckon they'd kill her, don't you, Miss Betty, if they knew what she'd done?” speculated the boy. It occurred to him that an adequate explanation of their flight would require preparation, since the judge was at all times singularly alive to the slightest discrepancy of statement. They had issued from the cornfield now and were going along the road toward Raleigh. Suddenly Betty paused.
“Hark!” she whispered.
“It were nothing, Miss Betty,” said Hannibal reassuringly, and they hurried forward again. In the utter stillness through which they moved Betty heard the beating of her own heart, and the soft, and all but inaudible patter of the boy's bare feet on the warm dust of the road. Vague forms that resolved themselves into trees and bushes seemed to creep toward them out of the night's black uncertainty. Once more Betty paused.
“It were nothing, Miss Betty,” said Hannibal as before, and he returned to his consideration of the judge. He sensed something of that intellectual nimbleness which his patron's physical make-up in nowise suggested, since his face was a mask that usually left one in doubt as to just how much of what he heard succeeded in making its impression on him; but the boy knew that Slocum Price's blind side was a shelterless exposure.
“You don't think the carriage could have passed us while we were crossing the corn-field?” said Betty.
“No, I reckon we couldn't a-missed hearing it,” answered Hannibal. He had scarcely spoken when they caught the rattle of wheels and the beat of hoofs. These sounds swept nearer and nearer, and then the darkness disgorged the Belle Plain team and carriage.
“George!” cried Betty, a world of relief in her tones.
“Whoa, you!” and George reined in his horses with a jerk. “Who's dar?” he asked, bending forward on the box as he sought to pierce the darkness with his glance.
“George—”
“Oh, it you, Missy?”
“Yes, I wish you to drive me into Raleigh,” said Betty, and she and Hannibal entered the carriage.
“All right, Missy. Yo'-all ready fo' me to go along out o' here?”
“Yes—drive fast, George!” urged Betty.
“It's right dark fo' fas' drivin' Missy, with the road jes' aimin' fo' to bus' yo' springs with chuckholes!” He had turned his horses' heads in the direction of Raleigh while he was speaking. “It's scandalous black in these heah woods, Missy I 'clar' I never seen it no blacker!”
The carriage swung forward for perhaps a hundred yards, then suddenly the horses came to a dead stop.
“Go along on, dar!” cried George, and struck them with his whip, but the horses only reared and plunged.
“Hold on, nigger!” said a rough voice out of the darkness.
“What yo' doin'?” the coachman gasped. “Don' yo' know dis de Belle Plain carriage? Take yo' han's offen to dem hosses' bits!”
Two men stepped to the side of the carriage.
“Show your light, Bunker,” said the same rough voice that had spoken before. Instantly a hooded lantern was uncovered, and Hannibal uttered a cry of terror. He was looking into the face of Slosson, the tavern-keeper.
In the face of Betty's indignant protest Slosson and the man named Bunker climbed into the carriage.
“Don't you be scared, ma'am,” said the tavernkeeper, who smelt strongly of whisky. “I wouldn't lift my hand ag'in no good looking female except in kindness.”
“How dare you stop my carriage?” cried Betty, with a very genuine anger which for the moment dominated all her other emotions. She struggled to her feet, but Slosson put out a heavy hand and thrust her back.
“There now,” he urged soothingly. “Why make a fuss? We ain't going to harm you; we wouldn't for no sum of money. Drive on, Jim—drive like hell!” This last was addressed to the man who had taken George's place on the box, where a fourth member of Slosson's band had forced the coachman down into the narrow space between the seat and dashboard, and was holding a pistol to his head while he sternly enjoined silence.
With a word to the horses Jim swung about and the carriage rolled off through the night at a breakneck' pace. Betty's shaking hands drew Hannibal closer to her side as she felt the surge of her terrors rise within her. Who were these men—where could they be taking her—and for what purpose? The events of the past weeks linked themselves in tragic sequence in her mind.
What was it she had to fear? Was it Tom who had inspired Norton's murder? Was it Tom for whom these men were acting? Tom who would profit greatly by her disappearance or death.
They swept past the entrance at Belle Plain, past a break in the wall of the forest where the pale light of stars showed Betty the corn-field she and Hannibal had but lately crossed, and then on into pitchy darkness again. She clung to the desperate hope that they might meet some one on the road, when she could cry out and give the alarm. She held herself in readiness for this, but there was only the steady pounding of the big bays as Jim with voice and whip urged them forward. At last he abruptly checked them, and Bunker and Slosson sprang from their seats.
“Get down, ma'am!” said the latter.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Betty, in a voice that shook in spite of her efforts to control it.
“You must hurry, ma'am,” urged Slosson impatiently.
“I won't move until I know where you intend taking me!” said Betty, “If I am to die—”
Mr. Slosson laughed loudly and indulgently.
“You ain't. If you don't want to walk, I'm man enough fo' to tote you. We ain't far to go, and I've tackled jobs I'd a heap less heart fo' in my time,” he concluded gallantly. From the opposite side of the carriage Bunker swore nervously. He desired to know if they were to stand there talking all night. “Shut your filthy mouth, Bunker, and see you keep tight hold of that young rip-staver,” said Slosson. “He's a perfect eel—I've had dealings with him afore!”
“You tried to kill my Uncle Bob—at the tavern, you and Captain Murrell. I heard you, and I seen you drag him to the river!” cried Hannibal.
Slosson gave a start of astonishment at this.
“Why, ain't he hateful?” he exclaimed aghast. “See here, young feller, that's no kind of a way fo' you to talk to a man who has riz his ten children!”
Again Bunker swore, while Jim told Slosson to make haste. This popular clamor served to recall the tavernkeeper to a sense of duty.
“Ma'am, like I should tote you, or will you walk?” he inquired, and reaching out his hand took hold of Betty.
“I'll walk,” said the girl quickly, shrinking from the contact.
“Keep close at my heels. Bunker, you tuck along after her with the boy.”
“What about this nigger?” asked the fourth man.
“Fetch him along with us,” said Slosson. They turned from the road while he was speaking and entered a narrow path that led off through the woods, apparently in the direction of the river. A moment later Betty heard the carriage drive away. They went onward in silence for a little time, then Slosson spoke over his shoulder.
“Yes, ma'am, I've riz ten children but none of 'em was like him—I trained 'em up to the minute!” Mr. Slosson seemed to have passed completely under the spell of his domestic recollections, for he continued with just a touch of reminiscent sadness in his tone. “There was all told four Mrs. Slossons: two of 'em was South Carolinians, one was from Georgia, and the last was a widow lady out of east Tennessee. She'd buried three husbands and I figured we could start perfectly even.”
The intrinsic fairness of this start made its strong appeal. Mr. Slosson dwelt upon it with satisfaction. “She had three to her credit, I had three to mine; neither could crow none over the other.”
As they stumbled forward through the thick obscurity he continued his personal revelations, the present enterprise having roused whatever there was of sentiment slumbering in his soul. At last they came out on a wide bayou; a white mist hung above it, and on the low shore leaf and branch were dripping with the night dews. Keeping close to the water's edge Slosson led the way to a point where a skiff was drawn up on the bank.
“Step in, ma'am,” he said, when he had launched it.
“I will go no farther!” said Betty in desperation. She felt an overmastering fear, the full horror of the unknown lay hold of her, and she gave a piercing cry for help. Slosson swung about on his heel and seized her. For a moment she struggled to escape, but the man's big hands pinioned her.
“No more of that!” he warned, then he recovered himself and laughed. “You could yell till you was black in the face, ma'am, and there'd be no one to hear you.”
“Where are you taking me?” and Betty's voice faltered between the sudden sobs that choked her.
“Just across to George Hicks's.”
“For what purpose?”
“You'll know in plenty of time.” And Slosson leered at her through the darkness.
“Hannibal is to go with me?” asked Betty tremulously.
“Sure!” agreed Slosson affably. “Your nigger, too—quite a party.”
Betty stepped into the skiff. She felt her hopes quicken—she was thinking of Bess; whatever the girl's motives, she had wished her to escape. She would wish it now more than ever since the very thing she had striven to prevent had happened. Slosson seated himself and took up the oars, Bunker followed with Hannibal and they pushed off. No word was spoken until they disembarked on the opposite shore, when Slosson addressed Bunker. “I reckon I can manage that young rip-staver, you go back after Sherrod and the nigger,” he said.
He conducted his captives up the bank and they entered a clearing. Looking across this Betty saw where a cabin window framed a single square of light. They advanced toward this and presently the dark outline of the cabin itself became distinguishable. A moment later Slosson paused, a door yielded to his hand, and Betty and the boy were thrust into the room where Murrell had held his conference with Fentress and Ware. The two women were now its only occupants and the mother, gross and shapeless, turned an expressionless face on the intruders; but the daughter shrank into the shadow, her burning glance fixed on Betty.
“Here's yo' guests, old lady!” said Mr. Slosson. Mrs. Hicks rose from the three-legged stool on which she was sitting.
“Hand me the candle, Bess,” she ordered.
At one side of the room was a steep flight of stairs which gave access to the loft overhead. Mrs. Hicks, by a gesture, signified that Betty and Hannibal were to ascend these stairs; they did so and found themselves on a narrow landing inclosed by a partition of rough planks, this partition was pierced by a low door. Mrs. Hicks, who had followed close at their heels, handed the candle to Betty.
“In yonder!” she said briefly, nodding toward the door.
“Wait!” cried Betty in a whisper.
“No,” said the woman with an almost masculine surliness of tone. “I got nothing to say.” She pushed them into the attic, and, closing the door, fastened it with a stout wooden bar.
Beyond that door, which seemed to have closed on every hope, Betty held the tallow dip aloft, and by its uncertain and flickering light surveyed her prison. The briefest glance sufficed. The room contained two shakedown beds and a stool, there was a window in the gable, but a piece of heavy plank was spiked before it.
“Miss Betty, don't you be scared,” whispered Hannibal. “When the judge hears we're gone, him and Mr. Mahaffy will try to find us. They'll go right off to Belle Plain—the judge is always wanting to do that, only Mr. Mahaffy never lets him but now he won't be able to stop him.”
“Oh, Hannibal, Hannibal, what can he do there—what can any one do there?” And a dead pallor overspread the girl's face. To speak of the blind groping of her friends but served to fix the horror of their situation in her mind.
“I don't know, Miss Betty, but the judge is always thinking of things to do; seems like they was mostly things no one else would ever think of.”
Betty had placed the candle on the stool and seated herself on one of the beds. There was the murmur of voices in the room below; she wondered if her fate was under consideration and what that fate was to be. Hannibal, who had been examining the window, returned to her side.
“Miss Betty, if we could just get out of this loft we could steal their skiff and row down to the river; I reckon they got just the one boat; the only way they could get to us would be to swim out, and if they done that we could pound 'em over the head with the oars the least little thing sinks you when you're in the water.” But this murderous fancy of his failed to interest Betty.
Presently they heard Sherrod and Bunker come up from the shore with George. Slosson joined them and there was a brief discussion, then an interval of silence, and the sound of voices again as the three white men moved back across the field in the direction of the bayou. There succeeded a period of utter stillness, both in the cabin and in the clearing, a somber hush that plunged Betty yet deeper in despair. Wild thoughts assailed her, thoughts against which she struggled with all the strength of her will.
In that hour of stress Hannibal was sustained by his faith in the judge. He saw his patron's powerful and picturesque intelligence applied to solving the mystery of their disappearance from Belle Plain; it was inconceivable that this could prove otherwise than disastrous to Mr. Slosson and he endeavored to share the confidence he was feeling with Betty, but there was something so forced and unnatural in the girl's voice and manner when she discussed his conjectures that he quickly fell into an awed silence. At last, and it must have been some time after midnight, troubled slumbers claimed him. No moment of forgetfulness came to Betty. She was waiting for what—she did not know! The candle burnt lower and lower and finally went out and she was left in darkness, but again she was conscious of sounds from the room below. At first it was only a word or a sentence, then the guarded speech became a steady monotone that ran deep into the night; eventually this ceased and Betty fancied she heard sobs.
At length points of light began to show through chinks in the logs. Hannibal roused and sat up, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands.
“Wasn't you able to sleep none?” he inquired. Betty shook her head. He looked at her with an expression of troubled concern. “How soon do you reckon the judge will know?” he asked.
“Very soon now, dear.” Hannibal was greatly consoled by this opinion.
“Miss Betty, he will love to find us—”
“Hark! What was that?” for Betty had caught the distant splash of oars. Hannibal found a chink in the logs through which by dint of much squinting he secured a partial view of the bayou. “They're fetching up a keel boat to the shore, Miss Betty—it's a whooper!” he announced. Betty's heart sank, she never doubted the purpose for which that boat was brought into the bayou, or that it nearly concerned herself.
Half an hour later Mrs. Hicks appeared with their breakfast. It was in vain that Betty attempted to engage her in conversation, either she cherished some personal feeling of dislike for her prisoner, or else the situation in which she herself was placed had little to recommend it, even to her dull mind, and her dissatisfaction was expressed in her attitude toward the girl.
Betty passed the long hours of morning in dreary speculation concerning what was happening at Belle Plain. In the end she realized that the day could go by and her absence occasion no alarm; Steve might reasonably suppose George had driven her into Raleigh or to the Bowens' and that she had kept the carriage. Finally all her hope centered on Judge Price. He would expect Hannibal during the morning, perhaps when the boy did not arrive he would be tempted to go out to Belle Plain to discover the reason of his nonappearance. She wondered what theories would offer themselves to his ingenious mind, for she sensed something of that indomitable energy which in the face of rebuffs and laughter carried him into the thick of every sensation.
At noon, Mrs. Hicks, as sullen as in the morning, brought them their dinner. She had scarcely quitted the loft when a shrill whistle pierced the silence that hung above the clearing. It was twice repeated, and the two women were heard to go from the cabin. Perhaps half an hour elapsed, then a step became audible on the packed earth of the dooryard; some one entered the room below and began to ascend the narrow stairs, and Betty's fingers closed convulsively about Hannibal's. This was neither Mrs. Hicks nor her daughter, nor Slosson with his clumsy shuffle. There was a brief pause when the landing was reached, but it was only momentary; a hand lifted the bar, the door was thrown open, and its space framed the figure of a man. It was John Murrell.
Standing there he regarded Betty in silence, but a deep-seated fire glowed in his sunken eyes. The sense of possession was raging through him, his temples throbbed, a fever stirred his blood. Love, such as it was, he undoubtedly felt for her and even his giant project with all its monstrous ramifications was lost sight of for the moment. She was the inspiration for it all, the goal and reward toward which he struggled.
“Betty!” the single word fell softly from his lips. He stepped into the room, closing the door as he did so.
The girl's eyes were dilating with a mute horror, for by some swift intuitive process of the mind, which asked nothing of the logic of events, but dealt only with conclusions, Murrell stood revealed as Norton's murderer. Perhaps he read her thoughts, but he had lived in his degenerate ambitions until the common judgments or the understanding of them no longer existed for him. That Betty had loved Norton seemed inconsequential even; it was a memory to be swept away by the force of his greater passion. So he watched her smilingly, but back of the smile was the menace of unleashed impulse.
“Can't you find some word of welcome for me, Betty?” he asked at length, still softly, still with something of entreaty in his tone.
“Then it was you—not Tom—who had me brought here!” She could have thanked God had it been Tom, whose hate was not to be feared as she feared this man's love.
“Tom—no!” and Murrell laughed. “You didn't think I'd give you up? I am standing with a halter, about my neck, and all for your sake—who'd risk as much for love of you?” he seemed to expand with savage pride that this was so, and took a step toward her.
“Don't come near me!” cried Betty. Her eyes blazed, and she looked at him with' loathing.
“You'll learn to be kinder,” he exulted. “You wouldn't see me at Belle Plain; what was left for me but to have you brought here?” While Murrell was speaking, the signal that had told of his own presence on the opposite shore of the bayou was heard again. This served to arrest his attention. A look of uncertainty passed over his face, then he made an impatient gesture as if he dismissed some thought that had forced itself upon him, and turned to Betty.
“You don't ask what my purpose is where you are concerned; have you no curiosity on that score?” She endeavored to meet his glance with a glance as resolute, then her eyes sought the boy's upturned face. “I am going to send you down river, Betty. Later I shall join you in New Orleans, and when I leave the country you shall go with me—”
“Never!” gasped Betty.
“As my wife, or however you choose to call it. I'll teach you what a man's love is like,” he boasted, and extended his hand. Betty shrank from him, and his hand fell at his side. He looked at her steadily out of his deep-sunk eyes in which blazed the fires of his passion, and as he looked, her face paled and flushed by turns. “You may learn to be kind to me, Betty,” he said. “You may find it will be worth your while.” Betty made no answer, she only gathered Hannibal closer to her side. “Why not accept what I have to offer, Betty?” again he went nearer her, and again she shrank from him, but the madness of his mood was in the ascendant. He seized her and drew her to him. She struggled to free herself, but his fingers tightened about hers.
“Let me go!” she panted. He laughed his cool laugh of triumph.
“Let you go—ask me anything but that, Betty! Have you no reward for patience such as mine? A whole summer has passed since I saw you first—”
There was the noisy shuffling of feet on the stairs, and releasing Betty, Murrell swung about on his heel and faced the door. It was pushed open an inch at a time by a not too confident hand and Mr. Slosson thus guardedly presented himself to the eye of his chief, whom he beckoned from the room.
“Well?” said Murrell, when they stood together on the landing.
“Just come across to the keel boat!” and Slosson led the way down the stairs and from the house.
“Damn you, Joe; you might have waited!” observed the outlaw. Slosson gave him a hardened grin. They crossed the clearing and boarded the keel boat which rested against the bank. As they did so, the cabin in the stern gave up a shattered presence in the shape of Tom Ware. Murrell started violently. “I thought you were hanging out in Memphis, Tom?” he said, and his brow darkened as, sinister and forbidding, he stepped closer to the planter. Ware did not answer at once, but looked at Murrell out of heavy bloodshot eyes, his face pinched and ghastly. At last he said, speaking with visible effort,
“I stayed in Memphis until five o'clock this morning.”
“Damn your early hours!” roared Murrell. “What are you doing here? I suppose you've been showing that dead face of yours about the neighborhood—why didn't you stay at Belle Plain since you couldn't keep away?”
“I haven't been near Belle Plain, I came here instead. How am I going to meet people and answer questions?” His teeth were chattering. “Is it known she's missing?” he added.
“Hicks raised the alarm the first thing this morning, according to the instructions I'd given him.”
“Yes?” gasped Ware. He was dripping from every pore and the sickly color came and went on his unshaven cheeks. Murrell dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“You haven't been at Belle Plain, you say, but has any one seen you on the road this morning?”
“No one, John,” cried Ware, panting between each word. There was a moment's pause and Ware spoke again. “What are they doing at Belle Plain?” he demanded in a whisper. Murrell's lips curled.
“I understand there is talk of suicide,” he said.
“Good!” cried Ware.
“They are dragging the bayou down below the house. It looks as though you were going to reap the rewards of the excellent management you have given her estate. They have been trying to find you in Memphis, so the sooner you show yourself the better,” he concluded significantly.
“You are sure you have her safe, John, no chance of discovery? For God's sake, get her away from here as soon as you can, it's an awful risk you run!”
“She'll be sent down river to-night,” said Murrell.
“Captain,” began Slosson who up to this had taken no part in the conversation. “When are you going to cross to t'other side of the bayou?”
“Soon,” replied Murrell. Slosson laughed.
“I didn't know but you'd clean forgot the Clan's business. I want to ask another question—but first I want to say that no one thinks higher or more frequent of the ladies than just me, I'm genuinely fond of 'em and I've never lifted my hand ag'in' 'em except in kindness.” Mr. Slosson looked at Ware with an exceedingly virtuous expression of countenance. He continued. “Yo' orders are that we're to slip out of this a little afore midnight, but suppose there's a hitch—here's the lady knowing what she knows and here's the boy knowing what he knows.”
“There can be no hitch,” rasped out Murrell arrogantly.
“I never knew a speculation that couldn't go wrong; and by rights we should have got away last night.”
“Well, whose fault is it you didn't?” demanded Murrell.
“In a manner it were mine, but the ark got on a sandbank as we were fetching it in and it took us the whole damn night to get clear.”
“Well?” prompted Murrell, with a sullen frown.
“Suppose they get shut of that notion of theirs that the lady's done drowned herself, suppose they take to watching the river? Or suppose the whole damn bottom drops out of this deal? What then? Why, I'll tell you what then—the lady, good looking as she is, knows enough to make west Tennessee mighty onhealthy for some of us. I say suppose it's a flash in the pan and you have to crowd the distance in between you and this part of the world, you can't tell me you'll have any use for her then.” Slosson paused impressively. “And here's Mr. Ware feeling bad, feeling like hell,” he resumed. “Him and me don't want to be left in no trap with you gone God only knows where.”
“I'll send a man to take charge of the keel boat. I can't risk any more of your bungling, Joe.”
“That's all right, but you don't answer my question,” persisted Slosson, with admirable tenacity of purpose.
“What is your question, Joe?”
“A lot can happen between this and midnight—”
“If things go wrong with us there'll be a blaze at the head of the bayou; does that satisfy you?”
“And what then?”
Murrell hesitated.
“What about the girl?” insisted Slosson, dragging him back to the point at issue between them. “As a man I wouldn't lift my hand ag'in' no good looking woman except like I said—in kindness, but she can't be turned loose, she knows too much. What's the word, Captain—you say it!” he urged. He made a gesture of appeal to Ware.
“Look for the light; better still, look for the man I'll send.” And with this Murrell would have turned away, but Slosson detained him.
“Who'll he be?”
“Some fellow who knows the river.”
“And if it's the light?” asked the tavern-keeper in a hoarse undertone. Again he looked toward Ware, who, dry-lipped and ashen, was regarding him steadfastly. Glance met glance, for a brief instant they looked deep into each other's eyes and then the hand Slosson had rested on Murrell's shoulder dropped at his side.