VIOLA
GWYN
BY George Barr McCutcheon
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE--THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER
I SHELTER FOR THE NIGHT
II THE STRANGE YOUNG WOMAN
III SOMETHING ABOUT CLOTHES, AND MEN, AND CATS
IV VIOLA GWYN
V REFLECTIONS AND AN ENCOUNTER
VI BARRY LAPELLE
VII THE END OF THE LONG ROAD
VIII RACHEL CARTER
IX BROTHER AND SISTER
X MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
XI A ROADSIDE MEETING
XII ISAAC STAIN APPEARS BY NIGHT
XIII THE GRACIOUS ENEMY
XIV A MAN FROM DOWN THE RIVER
XV THE LANDING OF THE "PAUL REVERE"
XVI CONCERNING TEMPESTS AND INDIANS
XVII REVELATIONS
XVIII RACHEL DELIVERS A MESSAGE
XIX LAPELLE SHOWS HIS TEETH
XX THE BLOW
XXI THE AFFAIR AT HAWK'S CABIN
XXII THE PRISONERS
XXIII CHALLENGE AND RETORT
XXIV IN AN UPSTAIRS ROOM
XXV MINDA CARTER
XXVI THE FLIGHT OF MARTIN HAWK
XXVII THE TRIAL OF MOLL HAWK
XXVIII THE TRYSTING PLACE OF THOUGHTS
XXIX THE ENDING
PROLOGUE
THE BEGINNING
Kenneth Gwynne was five years old when his father ran away with
Rachel Carter, a widow. This was in the spring of 1812, and in
the fall his mother died. His grandparents brought him up to hate
Rachel Carter, an evil woman.
She was his mother's friend and she had slain her with the viper's
tooth. From the day that his questioning intelligence seized upon
the truth that had been so carefully withheld from him by his
broken-hearted mother and those who spoke behind the hand when
he was near,--from that day he hated Rachel Carter with all his
hot and outraged heart. He came to think of her as the embodiment
of all that was evil,--for those were the days when there was
no middle-ground for sin and women were either white or scarlet.
He rejoiced in the belief that in good time Rachel Carter would
come to roast in the everlasting fires of hell, grovelling and
wailing at the feet of Satan, the while his lovely mother looked
down upon her in pity,--even then he wondered if such a thing
were possible,--from her seat beside God in His Heaven. He had
no doubts about this. Hell and heaven were real to him, and all
sinners went below. On the other hand, his father would be permitted
to repent and would instantly go to heaven. It was inconceivable
that his big, strong, well-beloved father should go to the bad
place. But Mrs. Carter would! Nothing could save her! God would
not pay any attention to her if she tried to repent; He would
know it was only "make-believe" if she got down on her
knees and prayed for forgiveness. He was convinced that Rachel
Carter could not fool God. Besides, would not his mother be there
to remind Him in case He could not exactly remember what Rachel
Carter had done? And were there not dozens of good, honest people
in the village who would probably be in Heaven by that time and
ready to stand before the throne and bear witness that she was
a bad woman?
No, Rachel Carter could never get into Heaven. He was glad. No
matter if the Scriptures did say all that about the sinner who
repents, he did not believe that God would let her in. He supported
this belief by the profoundly childish contention that if God
let EVERYBODY in, then there would be no use having a hell at
all. What was the use of being good all your life if the bad people
could get into Heaven at the last minute by telling God they were
sorry and never would do anything bad again as long as they lived?
And was not God the wisest Being in all the world? He knew EVERYTHING!
He knew all about Rachel Carter. She would go to the bad place
and stay there forever, even after the "resurrection"
and the end of the world by fire in 1883, a calamity to which
he looked forward with grave concern and no little trepidation
at the thoughtful age of six.
At first they told him his father had gone off as a soldier to
fight against the Indians and the British. He knew that a war
was going on. Men with guns were drilling in the pasture up beyond
his grandfather's house, and there was talk of Indian "massacrees,"
and Simon Girty's warriors, and British red-coats, and the awful
things that happened to little boys who disobeyed their elders
and went swimming, or berrying, or told even the teeniest kind
of fibs. He overheard his grandfather and the neighbours discussing
a battle on Lake Erie, and rejoiced with them over the report
of a great victory for "our side." Vaguely he had grasped
the news of a horrible battle on the Tippecanoe River, far away
in the wilderness to the north and west, in which millions of
Indians were slain, and he wondered how many of them his father
had killed with his rifle,--a weapon so big and long that he came
less than half way up the barrel when he stood beside it.
His father was a great shot. Everybody said so. He could kill
wild turkeys a million miles away as easy as rolling off a log,
and deer, and catamounts, and squirrels, and herons, and everything.
So his father must have killed heaps of Indians and red-coats
and renegades.
He put this daily question to his mother: "How many do you
s'pose Pa has killed by this time, Ma?"
And then, in the fall, his mother went away and left him. They
did not tell him she had gone to the war. He would not have believed
them if they had, for she was too sick to go. She had been in
bed for a long, long time; the doctor came to see her every day,
and finally the preacher. He hated both of them, especially the
latter, who prayed so loudly and so vehemently that his mother
must have been terribly disturbed. Why should every one caution
him to be quiet and not make a noise because it disturbed mother,
and yet say nothing when that old preacher went right into her
room and yelled same as he always did in church? He was very bitter
about it, and longed for his father to come home with his rifle
and shoot everybody, including his grandfather who had "switched"
him severely and unjustly because he threw stones at Parson Hook's
saddle horse while the good man was offering up petitions from
the sick room.
He went to the "burying," and was more impressed by
the fact that nearly all of the men who rode or drove to the graveyard
down in the "hollow" carried rifles and pistols than
he was by the strange solemnity of the occasion, for, while he
realized in a vague, mistrustful way that his mother was to be
put under the ground, his trust clung resolutely to God's promise,
accepted in its most literal sense, that the dead shall rise again
and that "ye shall be born again." That was what the
preacher said,--and he had cried a little when the streaming-eyed
clergyman took him on his knee and whispered that all was well
with his dear mother and that he would meet her one day in that
beautiful land beyond the River.
He was very lonely after that. His "granny" tucked him
in his big feather bed every night, and listened to his little
prayer, but she was not the same as mother. She did not kiss him
in the same way, nor did her hand feel like mother's when she
smoothed his rumpled hair or buttoned his flannel nightgown about
his neck or closed his eyes playfully with her fingers before
she went away with the candle. Yet he adored her. She was sweet
and gentle, she told such wonderful fairy tales to him, and she
always smiled at him. He wondered a great deal. Why was it that
she did not FEEL the same as mother? He was deeply puzzled. Was
it because her hair was grey?
His grandfather lived in the biggest house in town. It had an
"upstairs,"--a real "upstairs,"--not just
an attic. And his grandfather was a very important person. Everybody
called him "Squire"; sometimes they said "your
honour"; most people touched their hats to him. When his
father went off to the war, he and his mother came to live at
"grandpa's house." The cabin in which he was born was
at the other end of the street, fully half-a-mile away, out beyond
the grist mill. It had but three rooms and no "upstairs"
at all except the place under the roof where they kept the dried
apples, and the walnuts and hickory nuts, some old saddle-bags
and boxes, and his discarded cradle. You had to climb up a ladder
and through a square hole in the ceiling to get into this place,
and you would have to be very careful not to stand up straight
or you would bump your head,--unless you were exactly in the middle,
where the ridge-pole was.
He remembered that it was a very long walk to "grandpa's
house"; he used to get very tired and his father would lift
him up and place him on his shoulder; from this lofty, even perilous,
height he could look down upon the top of his mother's bonnet,--a
most astonishing view and one that filled him with glee.
His father was the biggest man in all the world, there could be
no doubt about that. Why, he was bigger even than grandpa, or
Doctor Flint, or the parson, or Mr. Carter, who lived in the cabin
next door and was Minda's father. For the matter of that, he was,
himself, a great deal bigger than Minda, who was only two years
old and could not say anywhere near as many words as he could
say--and did not know her ABC's, or the Golden Rule, or who George
Washington was.
And his father was ever so much taller than his mother. He was
tall enough to be her father or her grandfather; why, she did
not come up to his shoulder when she walked beside him. He was
a million times bigger than she was. He was bigger than anybody
else in all the world.
The little border town in Kentucky, despite its population of
less than a thousand, was the biggest city in the world. There
was no doubt about that either in Kenneth's loyal little mind.
It was bigger than Philadelphia--(he called it Fil-LEF-ily),--where
his mother used to live when she was a little girl, or Massashooshoo,
where Minda's father and mother comed from.
He was secretly distressed by the superior physical proportions
of his "Auntie" Rachel. There was no denying the fact
that she was a great deal taller than his mother. He had an abiding
faith, however, that some day his mother would grow up and be
lots taller than Minda's mother. He challenged his toddling playmate
to deny that his mother would be as big as hers some day, a lofty
taunt that left Minda quite unmoved.
Nevertheless, he was very fond of "Auntie" Rachel. She
was good to him. She gave him cakes and crullers and spread maple
sugar on many a surreptitious piece of bread and butter, and she
had a jolly way of laughing, and she never told him to wash his
hands or face, no matter how dirty they were. In that one respect,
at least, she was much nicer than his mother. He liked Mr. Carter,
too. In fact, he liked everybody except old Boose, the tin pedlar,
who took little boys out into the woods and left them for the
wolves to eat if they were not very, very good.
He was four when they brought Mr. Carter home in a wagon one day.
Some men carried him into the house, and Aunt Rachel cried, and
his mother went over and stayed a long, long time with her, and
his father got on his horse and rode off as fast as he could go
for Doctor Flint, and he was not allowed to go outside the house
all day,--or old Boose would get him.
Then, one day, he saw "Auntie" Rachel all dressed in
black, and he was frightened. He ran away crying. She looked so
tall and scary,---like the witches Biddy Shay whispered about
when his grandma was not around,--the witches and hags that flew
up to the sky on broomsticks and never came out except at night.
His father did the "chores" for '"Auntie"
Rachel for a long time, because Mr. Carter was not there to attend
to them.
There came a day when the buds were fresh on the twigs, and the
grass was very green, and the birds that had been gone for a long
time were singing again in the trees, and it was not raining.
So he went down the road to play in Minda's yard. He called to
her, but she did not appear. No one appeared. The house was silent.
"Auntie" Rachel was not there. Even the dogs were gone,
and Mr. Carter's horses and his wagon. He could not understand.
Only yesterday he had played in the barn with Minda.
Then his grandma came hurrying through the trees from his own
home, where she had been with grandpa and Uncle Fred and Uncle
Dan since breakfast time. She took him up in her arms and told
him that Minda was gone. He had never seen his grandma look so
stern and angry. Biddy Shay had been there all morning too, and
several of the neighbours. He wondered if it could be the Sabbath,
and yet that did not seem possible, because it was only two days
since he went to Sunday school, and yesterday his mother had done
the washing. She always washed on Monday and ironed on Tuesday.
This must be Tuesday, but maybe he was wrong about that. She was
not ironing, so it could not be Tuesday. He was very much bewildered.
His mother was in the bedroom with grandpa and Aunt Hettie, and
he was not allowed to go in to see her. Uncle Fred and Uncle Dan
were very solemn and scowling so terribly that he was afraid to
go near them.
He remembered that his mother had cried while she was cooking
breakfast, and sat down a great many times to rest her head on
her arms. She had cried a good deal lately, because of the headache,
she always said. And right after breakfast she had put on her
bonnet and shawl, telling him to stay in the house till she came
back from grandpa's. Then she had gone away, leaving him all alone
until Biddy Shay came, all out of breath, and began to clear the
table and wash the dishes, all the while talking to herself in
a way that he was sure God would not like, and probably would
send her to the bad place for it when she died.
After a while all of the men went out to the barn-lot, where their
horses were tethered. Uncle Fred and Uncle Dan had their rifles.
He stood at the kitchen window and watched them with wide, excited
eyes. Were they going off to kill Indians, or bears, or cattymunks?
They all talked at once, especially his uncles,--and they swore,
too. Then his grandpa stood in front of them and spoke very loudly,
pointing his finger at them. He heard him say, over and over again:
"Let them go, I say! I tell you, let them go!"
He wondered why his father was not there, if there was any fighting
to be done. His father was a great fighter. He was the bestest
shot in all the world. He could kill an Injin a million miles
away, or a squirrel, or a groundhog. So he asked Biddy Shay.
"Ast me no questions and I'll tell ye no lies," was
all the answer he got from Biddy.
The next day he went up to grandpa's with his mother to stay,
and Uncle Fred told him that his pa had gone off to the war. He
believed this, for were not the rifle, the powder horn and the
shot flask missing from the pegs over the fireplace, and was not
Bob, the very fastest horse in all the world, gone from the barn?
He was vastly thrilled. His father would shoot millions and millions
of Injins, and they would have a house full of scalps and tommyhawks
and bows and arrers.
But he was troubled about Minda. Uncle Fred, driven to corner
by persistent inquiry, finally confessed that Minda also had gone
to the war, and at last report had killed several extremely ferocious
redskins. Despite this very notable achievement, Kenneth was troubled.
In the first place, Minda was a baby, and always screamed when
she heard a gun go off; in the second place, she always fell down
when she tried to run and squalled like everything if he did not
wait for her; in the third place, Injins always beat little girls'
heads off against a tree if they caught 'em.
Moreover, Uncle Dan, upon being consulted, declared that a good-sized
Injin could swaller Minda in one gulp if he happened to be 'specially
hungry,--or in a hurry. Uncle Dan also appeared to be very much
surprised when he heard that she had gone off to the war. He said
that Uncle Fred ought to be ashamed of himself; and the next time
he asked Uncle Fred about Minda he was considerably relieved to
hear that his little playmate had given up fighting altogether
and was living quite peaceably in a house made of a pumpkin over
yonder where the sun went down at night.
It was not until sometime after his mother went away,--after the
long-to-be-remembered "fooneral," with its hymns, and
weeping, and praying,--that he heard the grown-ups talking about
the war being over. The redcoats were thrashed and there was much
boasting and bragging among the men of the settlement. Strange
men appeared on the street, and other men slapped their backs
and shook hands with them and shouted loudly and happily at them.
In time, he came to understand that these were the citizens who
had gone off to fight in the war and were now home again, all
safe and sound. He began to watch for his father. He would know
him a million miles off, he was so big, and he had the biggest
rifle in the world.
"Do you s'pose Pa will know how to find me, grandma?"
he would inquire. "'Cause, you see, I don't live where I
used to."
And his grandmother, beset with this and similar questions from
one day's end to the other, would become very busy over what she
was doing at the time and tell him not to pester her. He did not
like to ask his grandfather. He was so stern,--even when he was
sitting all alone on the porch and was not busy at all.
Then one day he saw his grandparents talking together on the porch.
Aunt Hettie was with them, but she was not talking. She was just
looking at him as he played down by the watering trough. He distinctly
heard his grandma say:
"I think he ought to be told, Richard. It's a sin to let
him go on thinking---" The rest of the sentence was lost
to him when she suddenly lowered her voice. They were all looking
at him.
Presently his grandfather called to him, and beckoned with his
finger. He marched up to the porch with his little bow and arrow.
Grandma turned to go into the house, and Aunt Hettie hurried away.
"Don't be afraid, Granny," he sang out. "I won't
shoot you. 'Sides, I've only got one arrer, Aunt Hettie."
His grandfather took him on his knee, and then and there told
him the truth about his father. He spoke very slowly and did not
say any of those great big words that he always used when he was
with grown-up people, or even with the darkies.
"Now, pay strict attention, Kenneth. You must understand
everything I say to you. Do you hear? Your father is never coming
home. We told you he had gone to the war. We thought it was best
to let you think so. It is time for you to know the truth. You
are always asking questions about him. After this, when you want
to know about your father, you must come to me. I will tell you.
Do not bother your grandma. You make her unhappy when you ask
questions. You see, your Ma was once her little girl and mine.
She used to be as little as you are. Your Pa was her husband.
You know what a husband is, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," said Kenneth, wide-eyed. "It's a boy's
father."
"You are nearly six years old. Quite a man, my lad."
He paused to look searchingly into the child's face, his bushy
eyebrows meeting in a frown.
"The devil of it is," he burst out, "you are the
living image of your father. You are going to grow up to look
like him." He groaned audibly, spat viciously over his shoulder,
and went on in a strange, hard voice. "Do you know what it
is to steal? It means taking something that belongs to somebody
else."
"Yes, sir. 'Thou shalt not steal.' It's in the Bible."
"Well, you know that Indians and gipsies steal little boys,
don't you? It is the very worst kind of stealing, because it breaks
the boy's mother's heart. It sometimes kills them. Now, suppose
that somebody stole a husband. A husband is a boy's father, as
you say. Your father was a husband. He was your dear mother's
husband. You loved your mother very, very much, didn't you? Don't
cry, lad,--there, there, now! Be a little man. Now, listen. Somebody
stole your mother's husband. She loved him better than anything
in the world. She loved him, I guess, even better than she loved
you, Kenneth. She just couldn't live without him. Do you see?
That is why she died and went away. She is in Heaven now. Now,
let me hear you say this after me: My mother died because somebody
stole her husband away from her."
"'My mother died because somebody stoled her husband away
from her,'" repeated the boy, slowly.
"You will never forget that, will you?"
"No,--sir."
"Say this: My mother's heart was broken and so she died."
"'My mother's heart was broken and she--and so she died.'"
"You will never forget that either, will you, Kenneth?"
"No, sir."
"Now, I am going to tell you who stole your mother's husband
away from her. You know who your mother's husband was, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. My Pa."
"One night,--the night before you came up here to live--your
Auntie Rachel,--that is what you called her, isn't it? Well, she
was not your real aunt. She was your neighbour,--just as Mr. Collins
over there is my neighbour,--and she was your mother's friend.
Well, that night she stole your Pa from your Ma, and took him
away with her,--far, far away, and she never let him come back
again. She took him away in the night, away from your mother and
you forever and forever. She---" "But Pa was bigger'n
she was," interrupted Kenneth, frowning. "Why didn't
he kill her and get away?"
The old Squire was silent for a moment. "It is not fair for
me to put all the blame on Rachel Carter. Your father was willing
to go. He did not kill Rachel Carter. Together he and Rachel Carter
killed your mother. But Rachel Carter was more guilty than he
was. She was a woman and she stole what belonged in the sight
of God to another woman. She was a bad woman. If she had been
a good woman she would not have stolen your father away from your
mother. So now you know that your Pa did not go to the war. He
went away with Rachel Carter and left your mother to die of a
broken heart. He went off into the wilderness with that bad, evil
woman. Your mother was unhappy. She died. She is under the ground
up in the graveyard, all alone. Rachel Carter put her there, Kenneth.
I cannot ask you to hate your father. It would not be right. He
is your father in spite of everything. You know what the Good
Book says? 'Honour thy father and--' how does the rest of it go,
my lad?"
"'Honour thy father and thy mother that thou days may be
long upon thou earth,'" murmured Kenneth, bravely.
"When you are a little older you will realize that your father
did not honour his father and mother, and then you may understand
more than you do now. But you may hate Rachel Carter. You MUST
hate her. She killed your mother. She stole your father. She made
an orphan of you. She destroyed the home where you used to live.
As you grow older I will try to tell you how she did all these
things. You would not understand now. There is one of the Ten
Commandments that you do not understand,--I mean one in particular.
It is enough for you to know the meaning of the one that says
'Thou shalt not steal.' You must not be unhappy over what I have
told you. Everything will be all right with you. You will be safe
here with granny and me. But you must no longer believe that your
father went to the war like other men in the village. If he were
MY son, I would---"
"Don't say it, Richard," cried Kenneth's grandma, from
the doorway behind them. "Don't ever say that to him."
CHAPTER I
SHELTER FOR THE NIGHT
Night was falling as two horsemen drew rein in front of a cabin
at the edge of a clearing in the far-reaching sombre forest. Their
approach across the stump-strewn tract had been heralded by the
barking of dogs,--two bristling beasts that came out upon the
muddy, deep-rutted road to greet them with furious inhospitality.
A man stood partially revealed in the doorway. His left arm and
shoulder were screened from view by the jamb, his head was bent
forward as he peered intently through narrowed eyes at the strangers
in the road.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he called out.
"Friends. How far is it to the tavern at Clark's Point?"
"Clark's Point is three miles back," replied the settler.
"I guess you must have passed it without seein' it,"
he added drily. "If it happened to be rainin' when you come
through you'd have missed seein' it fer the raindrops. Where you
bound fer?"
"Lafayette. I guess we're off the right road. We took the
left turn four or five miles back."
"You'd ought to have kept straight on. Come 'ere, Shep! You,
Pete! Down with ye!"
The two dogs, still bristling, slunk off in the direction of the
squat log barn. A woman appeared behind the man and stared out
over his shoulder. From the tall stone chimney at the back of
the cabin rose the blue smoke of the kitchen fire, to be whirled
away on the wind that was guiding the storm out of the rumbling
north. There was a dull, wavering glow in the room behind her.
At one of the two small windows gleamed a candle-light.
"What's takin' you to Clark's Point? There ain't no tavern
there. There ain't nothin' there but a hitch-post and a waterin'-trough.
Oh, yes, I forgot. Right behind the hitch-post is Jake Stone's
store and a couple of ash-hoppers and a town-hall, but you wouldn't
notice 'em if you happened to be on the wrong side of the post.
Mebby it's Middleton you're lookin' fer."
"I am looking for a place to put up for the night, friend.
We met a man back yonder, half an hour ago, who said the nearest
tavern was at Clark's Point."
"What fer sort of lookin' man was he?"
"Tall fellow with red whiskers, riding a grey horse."
"That was Jake Stone hisself. Beats all how that feller tries
to advertise his town. He says it beats Crawfordsville and Lafayette
all to smash, an' it's only three or four months old. Which way
was he goin'?"
"I suppose you'd call it south. I've lost my bearings, you
see."
"That's it. He was on his way down to Attica to get drunk.
They say Attica's goin' to be the biggest town on the Wabash.
Did I ask you what your name was, stranger?"
"My name is Gwynne. I left Crawfordsville this morning, hoping
to reach Lafayette before night. But the road is so heavy we couldn't---"
"Been rainin' steady for nearly two weeks," interrupted
the settler. "Hub-deep everywhere. It's a good twenty-five
or thirty mile from Crawfordsville to Lafayette. Looks like more
rain, too. I think she'll be on us in about two minutes. I guess
mebby we c'n find a place fer you to sleep to-night, and we c'n
give you somethin' fer man an' beast. If you'll jest ride around
here to the barn, we'll put the hosses up an' feed 'em, and--Eliza,
set out a couple more plates, an' double the rations all around."
His left arm and hand came into view. "Set this here gun
back in the corner, Eliza. I guess I ain't goin' to need it. Gimme
my hat, too, will ye?"
As the woman drew back from the door, a third figure came up behind
the man and took her place. The horseman down at the roadside,
fifty feet away, made out the figure of a woman. She touched the
man's arm and he turned as he was in the act of stepping down
from the door-log. She spoke to him in a low voice that failed
to reach the ears of the travellers.
The man shook his head slowly, and then called out:
"I didn't jist ketch your name, mister. The wind's makin'
such a noise I--Say it again, will ye?"
"My name is Kenneth Gwynne. Get it?" shouted the horseman.
"And this is my servant, Zachariah."
The man in the door bent his head, without taking his eyes from
the horseman, while the woman murmured something in his ear, something
that caused him to straighten up suddenly.
"Where do you come from?" he inquired, after a moment's
hesitation.
"My home is in Kentucky. I live at---"
"Kentucky, eh? Well, that's a good place to come from. I
guess you're all right, stranger." He turned to speak to
his companion. A few words passed between them, and then she drew
back into the room. The woman called Eliza came up with the man's
hat and a lighted lantern. She closed the door after him as he
stepped out into the yard.
"'Round this way," he called out, making off toward
the corner of the cabin. "Don't mind the dogs. They won't
bite, long as I'm here."
The wind was wailing through the stripped trees behind the house,--a
sombre, limitless wall of trees that seemed to close in with smothering
relentlessness about the lonely cabin and its raw field of stumps.
The angry, low-lying clouds and the hastening dusk of an early
April day had by this time cast the gloom of semi-darkness over
the scene. Spasmodic bursts of lightning laid thin dull, unearthly
flares upon the desolate land, and the rumble of apple-carts filled
the ear with promise of disaster. The chickens had gone to roost;
several cows, confined in a pen surrounded by the customary stockade
of poles driven deep into the earth and lashed together with the
bark of the sturdy elm, were huddled in front of a rude shed;
a number of squealing, grunting pigs nosed the cracks in the rail
fence that formed still another pen; three or four pompous turkey
gobblers strutted unhurriedly about the barnlot, while some of
their less theatrical hens perched stiffly, watchfully on the
sides of a clumsy wagon-bed over against the barn. Martins and
chimney-swallows darted above the cabin and out-buildings, swirling
in mad circles, dipping and careening with incredible swiftness.
The gaunt settler conducted the unexpected guests to the barn,
where, after they had dismounted, he assisted in the removal of
the well-filled saddle-bags and rolls from the backs of their
jaded horses.
"Water?" he inquired briefly.
"No, suh," replied Zachariah, blinking as the other
held the lantern up the better to look into his face. Zachariah
was a young negro,--as black as night, with gleaming white teeth
which he revealed in a broad and friendly grin. "Had all
dey could drink, Marster, back yander at de crick."
"You couldn't have forded the Wea this time last week,"
said the host, addressing Gwynne. "She's gone down considerable
the last four-five days. Out of the banks last week an' runnin'
all over creation."
"Still pretty high," remarked the other. "Came
near to sweeping Zack's mare downstream but--well, she made it
and Zack has turned black again."
The settler raised his lantern again at the stable door and looked
dubiously at the negro.
"You're from Kentucky, Mr. Gwynne," he said, frowning.
"I got to tell you right here an' now that if this here boy
is a slave, you can't stop here,--an' what's more, you can't stay
in this county. We settled the slavery question in this state
quite a spell back, an' we make it purty hot for people who try
to smuggle niggers across the border. I got to ask you plain an'
straight; is this boy a slave?"
"He is not," replied Gwynne. "He is a free man.
If he elects to leave my service to-morrow, he is at liberty to
go. My grandfather freed all of his slaves shortly before he died,
and that was when Zachariah here was not more than fifteen years
of age. He is as free as I am,--or you, sir. He is my servant,
not my slave. I know the laws of this state, and I intend to abide
by them. I expect to make my home here in Indiana,--in Lafayette,
as a matter of fact. This boy's name is Zachariah Button. Ten
years ago he was a slave. He has with him, sir, the proper credentials
to support my statement,--and his, if he chooses to make one.
On at least a dozen occasions, first in Ohio and then in Indiana,
I have been obliged to convince official and unofficial inquirers
that my--"
"That's all right, Mr. Gwynne," cried the settler heartily.
"I take your word for it. If you say he's not a slave, why,
he ain't, so that's the end of it. And it ain't necessary for
Zachariah to swear to it, neither. We can't offer you much in
the way of entertainment, Mr. Gwynne, but what we've got you're
welcome to. I came to this country from Ohio seven years ago,
an' I learned a whole lot about hospitality durin' the journey.
I learned how to treat a stranger in a strange land fer one thing,
an' I learned that even a hoss-thief ain't an ongrateful cuss
if you give him a night's lodgin' and a meal or two."
"I shall be greatly indebted to you, sir. The time will surely
come when I may repay you,--not in money, but in friendship. Pray
do not let us discommode you or your household. I will be satisfied
to sleep on the floor or in the barn, and as for Zachariah, he--"
"The barn is for the hosses to sleep in," interrupted
the host, "and the floor is for the cat. 'Tain't my idee
of fairness to allow human bein's to squat on proppety that rightfully
belongs to hosses an' cats,--so I guess you'll have to sleep in
a bed, Mr. Gwynne." He spoke with a drawl. "Zachariah
c'n spread his blankets on the kitchen floor an' make out somehow.
Now, if you'll jist step over to the well yander, you'll find
a wash pan. Eliza,--I mean Mrs. Striker,--will give you a towel
when you're ready. Jest sing out to her. Here, you, Zachariah,
carry this plunder over an' put it in the kitchen. Mrs. Striker
will show you. Be careful of them rifles of your'n. They go off
mighty sudden if you stub your toe. You'll find a comb and lookin'
glass in the settin' room, Mr. Gwynne. You'll probably want to
put a few extry touches on yourself when I tell you there's an
all-fired purty girl spendin' the night with us. Go along, now.
I'll put the feed down fer your hosses an' be with you in less'n
no time."
"You are very kind, Mr.--Did you say Striker?"
"Phineas Striker, sir,--Phin fer short."
"I am prepared and amply able to pay for lodging and food,
Mr. Striker, so do not hesitate to--"
"Save your breath, stranger. I'm as deef as a post. The storm's
goin' to bust in two shakes of a dead lamb's tail, so you'd better
be a leetle spry if you want to git inside afore she comes."
With that he entered the barn door, leading the horses. Gwynne
and his servant hurried through the darkness toward the light
in the kitchen window. The former rapped politely on the door.
It was opened by Mrs. Striker, a tall, comely woman well under
thirty, who favoured the good-looking stranger with a direct and
smileless stare. He removed his tall, sorry-looking beaver.
"Madam, your husband has instructed my servant to leave our
belongings in your kitchen. I fear they are not overly clean,
what with mud and rain, devil-needles and burrs. Your kitchen
is as clean as a pin. Shall I instruct him to return with them
to the barn and--"
"Bring them in," she said, melting in spite of herself
as she looked down from the doorstep into his dark, smiling eyes.
His strong, tanned face was beardless, his teeth were white, his
abundant brown hair tousled and boyishly awry,--and there were
mud splashes on his cheek and chin. He was tall and straight and
his figure was shapely, despite the thick blue cape that hung
from his shoulders. "I guess they ain't any dirtier than
Phin Striker's boots are this time o' the year. Put them over
here, boy, 'longside o' that cupboard. Supper'll be ready in ten
or fifteen minutes, Mr. Gwynne."
His smile broadened. He sniffed gratefully. A far more exacting
woman than Eliza Striker would have forgiven this lack of dignity
on his part.
"You will find me ready for it, Mrs. Striker. The smell of
side-meat goes straight to my heart, and nothing in all this world
could be more wonderful than the coffee you are making."
"Go 'long with you!" she cried, vastly pleased, and
turned to her sizzling skillets.
Zachariah deposited the saddle-bags and rolls in the corner and
then returned to the door where he received the long blue cape,
gloves and the towering beaver from his master's hands. He also
received instructions which sent him back to open a bulging saddle-bag
and remove therefrom a pair of soft, almost satiny calf-skin boots.
As he hurried past Mrs. Striker, he held them up for her inspection,
grinning from ear to ear. She gazed in astonishment at the white
and silver ornamented tops, such as were affected by only the
most fastidious dandies of the day and were so rarely seen in
this raw, new land that the beholder could scarce believe her
eyes.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed, and then went to the
sitting-room to whisper excitedly to the solitary occupant, who,
it so chanced, was at the moment busily and hastily employed in
rearranging her brown, wind-blown hair before the round-topped
little looking-glass over the fireplace.
"I thought you said you wasn't goin' to see him," observed
Mrs. Striker, after imparting her information. "If you ain't,
what are you fixin' yourself up fer?"
"I have changed my mind, Eliza," said the young lady,
loftily. "In the first place, I am hungry, and in the second
place it would not be right for me to put you to any further trouble
about supper. I shall have supper with the rest of you and not
in the bedroom, after all. How does my hair look?"
"You've got the purtiest hair in all the--"
"How does it look?"
"It would look fine if you NEVER combed it. If I had hair
like your'n, I'd be the proudest woman in--"
"Don't be silly. It's terrible, most of the time."
"Well, it's spick an' span now, if that's what you want to
know," grumbled Eliza, and vanished, fingering her straight,
straw-coloured hair somewhat resentfully.
Meanwhile, Kenneth Gwynne, having divested himself of his dark
blue "swallow-tail," was washing his face and hands
at the well. The settler approached with the lantern.
"She's comin'," he shouted above the howling wind. "I
guess you'd better dry yourself in the kitchen. Hear her whizzin'
through the trees? Gosh all hemlock! She's goin' to be a snorter,
stranger. Hurry inside!"
They bolted for the door and dashed into the kitchen just as the
deluge came. Phineas Striker, leaning his weight against the door,
closed it and dropped the bolt.
"Whew! She's a reg'lar harricane, that's what she is. Mighty
suddent, too. Been holdin' back fer ten minutes,--an' now she
lets loose with all she's got. Gosh! Jest listen to her!"
The hiss of the torrent on the clapboard roof was deafening, the
little window panes were streaming; a dark, glistening shadow
crept out from the bottom of the door and began to spread; the
howling wind shook the very walls of the staunch cabin, while
all about them roared the ear-splitting cannonade, the crash of
splintered skies, the crackling of musketry, the rending and tearing
of all the garments that clothe the universe.
Eliza Striker, hardy frontierswoman though she was, put her fingers
to her ears and shrank away from the stove,--for she had been
taught that all metal "drew lightning." Her husband
busied himself stemming the stream of water that seeped beneath
the door with empty grain or coffee bags, snatched from the top
of a cupboard where they were stored, evidently for the very purpose
to which they were now being put.
Gwynne stood coatless in the centre of the kitchen, rolling down
his white shirt-sleeves. Behind him cringed Zachariah, holding
his master's boots and coat in his shaking hands, his eyes rolling
with terror, his lips mumbling an unheard appeal for mercy.
The sitting-room door opened suddenly and the other guest of the
house glided into the kitchen. Her eyes were crinkled up as if
with an almost unendurable pain, her fingers were pressed to her
temples, her red lips were parted.
"Goodness!" she gasped, with a hysterical laugh, not
born of mirth, nor of courage, but of the sheerest dismay.
"Don't be skeered," cried Phineas, looking at her over
his shoulder. "She'll soon be over. Long as the roof stays
on, we're all right,--an' I guess she'll stay."
Kenneth Gwynne bowed very low to the newcomer. The dim candle-light
afforded him a most unsatisfactory glimpse of her features. He
took in at a glance, however, her tall, trim figure, the burnished
crown of hair, and the surprisingly modish frock she wore. He
had seen no other like it since leaving the older, more advanced
towns along the Ohio,--not even in the thriving settlements of
Wayne and Madison Counties or in the boastful village of Crawfordsville.
He was startled. In all his journeyings through the land he had
seen no one arrayed like this. It was with difficulty that he
overcame a quite natural impulse to stare at her as if she were
some fantastic curiosity.
The contrast between this surprising creature and the gingham
aproned Eliza was unbelievable. There was but one explanation:
She was the mistress of the house, Eliza the servant. And yet,
even so, how strangely out-of-place, out-of-keeping she was here
in the wilderness.
In some confusion he strode over to lend a hand to Phineas Striker.
The rustle of silk behind him and the quick clatter of heels,
evidenced the fact that the girl had crossed swiftly to Eliza's
side.
Later on he had the opportunity to take in all the details of
her costume, and he did so with a practised, sophisticated eye.
It was, after all, of a fashion two years old, evidence of the
slowness with which the modes reached these outposts of civilization.
Here was a perfect fitting blue frock of the then popular changeable
gros de zane, the skirt very wide, set on the body in large plaits,
one in front, one on each side and two behind. The sleeves also
were wide from shoulder to elbow, where they were tightly fitted
to the lower arm. The ruffles around the neck, which was open
and rather low, and about the wrists were of plain bobinet quilling.
Her slippers were black, with cross-straps. He had seen such frocks
as this, he was reminded, in fashionable Richmond and New York
only a year or so before, but nowhere in the west. Add a Dunstable
straw bonnet with its strings of satin and the frilled pelerine,
and this strange young woman might have just stepped from her
carriage in the most fashionable avenue in the land.
Zachariah, lacking his master's good manners, gazed in open-mouthed
wonder at the lady, forgetting for the moment his fear of the
tempest's wrath. Only the most hair-raising crash of thunder broke
the spell, causing him to close his eyes and resume his supplication.
"Now's your chance to get at the lookin' glass, Mr. Gwynne,"
said Striker. "Right there in the sittin'-room. Go ahead;
I'll manage this."
Muttering a word of thanks, the young man turned to leave the
room. He shot a glance at his fellow guest. Her back was toward
him, she had her hands to her ears, and something told him that
her eyes were tightly closed. A particularly loud crash caused
her to draw her pretty shoulders up as if to receive the death-dealing
bolt of lightning. He heard her murmur again:
"Goodness--gracious!"
Eliza suddenly put an arm about her waist and drew the slender,
shivering figure close. As the girl buried her face upon the older
woman's shoulder, the latter cried out:
"Land sakes, child, you'll never get over bein' a baby, will
ye?"
To which Phineas Striker added in a great voice: "Nor you,
neither, Eliza. Ef we didn't have company here you'd be crawlin'
under the table or something. She ain't afraid of wild cats or
rattlesnakes or Injins or even spiders," he went on, addressing
Gwynne, "but she's skeered to death of lightnin'. An' as
fer that young lady there, she wouldn't be afeared to walk from
here to Lafayette all alone on the darkest night,--an' look at
her now! Skeered out of her boots by a triflin' little thunderstorm.
Why, I wouldn't give two--"
"My goodness, Phin Striker," broke in his wife, a new
note of alarm in her voice, "I do hope them chickens an'
turkeys have got sense enough to get under something in this downpour.
If they ain't, the whole kit an' boodle of 'em will be drownded,
sure as--"
"I never yet see a hen that liked water," interrupted
Phineas. "Er a turkey either. Don't you worry about 'em.
You better worry about that side-meat you're fryin'. Ef my nose
is what it ort to be, I'd say that piece o' meat was bein' burnt
to death,--an' that's a lot wuss than bein' drownded. They say
drowndin' is the easiest death--"
"You men clear out o' this kitchen," snapped Eliza.
"Out with ye! You too, Phin Striker. I'll call ye when the
table's set. Now, you go an' set over there in the corner, away
from the window, deary, where the lightnin' can't git at you,
an'--You'll find a comb on the mantel-piece, Mr. Gwynne, an' Phineas
will git you a boot-jack out o' the bedroom if that darkey is
too weak to pull your boots off for you. Don't any of you go trampin'
all over the room with your muddy boots. I've got work enough
to do without scrubbin' floors after a pack of--My land! I do
believe it's scorched. An' the corn-bread must be--"
Phineas, after a doubtful look at the stopped-up door-crack, led
the way into the sitting-room. Zachariah came last with his master's
boots and coat. He was mumbling with suppressed fervour:
"Oh, Lord, jes' lemme hab one mo' chaince,--jes' one mo'
chaince. Good Lord! I been a wicked, ornery nigger,--only jes'
gimme jes' one mo' chaince. I been a wicked,--Yassuh, Marster
Kenneth, I got your boots. Yassuh. Right heah, suh. Oh, Lordy-Lordy!
Yassuh, yassuh!"
Seated in a big wooden rocker before the fireplace, Gwynne stretched
out his long legs one after the other; Zachariah tugged at the
heavy, mud-caked riding-boots, grunting mightily over a task that
gave him sufficient excuse for interjecting sundry irrelevant
appeals for mercy and an occasional reference to his own unworthiness
as a nigger.
The tempest continued with unabated violence. The big, raw-boned
Striker, pulling nervously at his beard, stood near a window which
looked out upon the barn and sheds, plainly revealed in the blinding,
almost uninterrupted flashes of lightning. Such sentences as these
fell from his lips as he turned his face from the bleaching flares
before they ended in mighty crashes: "That struck powerful
nigh,"--or "I seen that one runnin' along the ground
like a ball of fire," or "There goes somethin' near,"
or "That was a tree jest back o' the barn, you'll see in
the mornin'."
"Dere won't never be any mo'nin'," gulped the unhappy
Zachariah, bending lower to his task, which now had to do with
the boot-straps at the bottoms of his master's trouser-legs. Getting
to his feet, he proceeded, with a well-trained dexterity that
even his terror failed to divert, to draw on the immaculate calf-skin
boots with the gorgeous tops. Then he pulled the trouser-legs
down over the boots, obscuring their upper glory; after which
he smoothed out the wrinkles and fastened the instep straps. Whereupon,
Kenneth arose, stamped severely on the hearth several times to
settle his feet in the snug-fitting boots, and turned to the looking-glass.
He was wielding the comb with extreme care and precision when
his host turned from the window and approached.
"Seems to me you're goin' to a heap o' trouble, friend,"
he remarked, surveying the tall, graceful figure with a rather
disdainful eye. "We don't dress up much in these parts, 'cept
on Sunday."
"Please do not consider me vain," said the young man,
flushing. He smarted under the implied rebuke,--in fact, he was
uncomfortably aware of ridicule. "My riding-boots were filthy.
I--I--Yes, I know," he broke in upon himself as Phineas extended
one of his own muddy boots for inspection. "I know, but,
you see, I am the unbidden guest of yourself and Mrs. Striker.
The least I can do in return for your hospitality is to make myself
presentable--"
"You'll have to excuse my grinnin', Mr. Gwynne," interrupted
the other. "I didn't mean any offence. It's jest that we
ain't used to good clothes an' servants to pull our boots off
an' on, an'--butternut pants an' so on. We're 'way out here on
the edge of the wilderness where bluejeans is as good as broadcloth
or doe-skin, an' a chaw of tobacco is as good as the state seal
fer bindin' a bargain. Lord bless ye, I don't keer how much you
dress up. I guess I might as well tell ye the only men up at Lafayette
who wear as good clothes as you do are a couple of gamblers that
work up an' down the river, an' Barry Lapelle. I reckon you've
heerd of Barry Lapelle. He's known from one end of the state to
the other, an' over in Ohio an' Kentucky too."
"I have never heard of him."
Striker looked surprised. He glanced at the closed sitting-room
door before continuing.
"Well, he owns a couple steamboats that come up the river.
Got 'em when his father died a couple o' years ago. His home used
to be in Terry Hut, but he's been livin' at Bob Johnson's tavern
for a matter of six months now, workin' up trade fer his boats,
I understand. He's as wild as a hawk an'--but you'll run across
him if you're goin' to live in Lafayette."
"By the way, what is the population of Lafayette?"
Phineas studied the board ceiling thoughtfully for a moment or
two. "Well, 'cordin' to people who live in Attica she's got
about five hundred. People who live in Crawfordsville give her
seven hundred. Down at Covington an' Williamsport they say she's
got about four hundred an' twelve. When you git to Lafayette Bob
Johnson an' the rest of 'em will tell you she's over two thousand
an' growin' so fast they cain't keep track of her. There's so
much lyin' goin' on about Lafayette that it's impossible to tell
jest how big she is. Countin' in the dogs, I guess she must have
a population of between six hundred and fifty an' three thousand.
You see, everybody up there's got a dog, an' some of 'em two er
three. One feller I know has got seven. But, on the whole, I guess
you'll like the place. It's the head of navigation at high water,
an' if they ever build the Wabash an' Erie Canal they're talkin'
about she'll be a regular seaport, like New York er Boston. 'Pears
to me the worst is over, don't you reckon so?"
Kenneth, having adjusted his stock and white roll-over collar
to suit his most exacting eye, slipped his arms into the coat
Zachariah was holding for him, settled the shoulders with a shrug
or two and a pull at the flaring lapels, smoothed his yellow brocaded
waist-coat carefully, and then, spreading his long, shapely legs
and at the same time the tails of his coat, took a commanding
position with his back to the blazing logs.
"Are you referring to my toilet, Mr. Striker?" he inquired
amiably.
"I was talkin' about the storm," explained Phineas hastily.
"Take the boots out to the kitchen, Zachariah. Eliza'll git
into your wool if she ketches you leavin' 'em in here. Yes, sir,
she's certainly lettin' up. Goin' down the river hell-bent. They'll
be gettin' her at Attica 'fore long. Are you plannin' to work
the farm yourself, Mr. Gwynne, or are you goin' to sell er rent
on shares?"
Gwynne looked at him in surprise. "You appear to know who
I am, after all, Mr. Striker."
Striker grinned. "I guess everybody in this neck o' the woods
has heerd about you. Dan Bugher,--he's the county recorder,--an'
Rube Kelsey, John Bishop, Larry Stockton, an' a lot more of the
folks up in town, have been lookin' down the Crawfordsville road
fer you ever since your father died last August. You 'pear to
be a very important cuss fer one who ain't never set foot in Indianny
before."
"I see," said the other reflectively. "Were you
acquainted with my father, Mr. Striker?"
"Much so as anybody could be. He wasn't much of a hand fer
makin' friends. Stuck purty close to the farm, an' made it about
the best piece o' propetty in the whole valley. I was jest wonderin'
whether you was plannin' to live on the farm er up in town."
"Well, you see, I am a lawyer by profession. I know little
or nothing about farming. My plans are not actually made, however.
A great deal depends on how I find things. Judge Wylie wishes
me to enter into partnership with him, and Providence M. Curry
says there is a splendid chance for me in his office at Crawfordsville.
I shall do nothing until I have gone thoroughly into the matter.
You know the farm, Mr. Striker?"
"Yes. It's not far from here,--five or six mile, I'd say,
to the north an' east. Takes in some of the finest land on the
Wea Plain,--mostly clear, some fine timber, plenty of water, an'
about the best stocked farm anywheres around. Your father was
one of the first to edge up this way ten er twelve year ago, an'
he got the pick o' the new land. He came from some'eres down the
river, 'bout Vincennes er Montezuma er some such place. I reckon
you know that he left another passel of land over this way, close
to the Wabash, an' some propetty up in Lafayette an' some more
down in Crawfordsville."
"I have been so informed," said his guest, rather shortly.
"I bought this sixty acre piece offen him two year ago. All
timber when I took hold of it, 'cept seventeen acres out thataway,"
jerking his thumb, "along the Middleton road." He hesitated
a moment. "You see, I worked for your father fer a considerable
time, as a hand. That's how he came to sell to me. I got married
an' wanted a place of my own. He said he'd sooner sell to me than
let some other feller cheat the eye-teeth outen me, me bein' a
good deal of fool when it comes to business an' all. Yep, I'd
saved up a few dollars, so I sez what's the sense of me workin'
my gizzard out fer somebody else an' all that, when land's so
cheap an' life so doggoned short. 'Course, there's a small mortgage
on the place, but I c'n take keer of that, I reckon."
"Ahem! The mortgage, I fancy, is held by--er--the other heirs
to his property." "You're right. His widder holds it,
but she ain't the kind to press me. She's purty comfortable, what
with this land along the edge o' the plain out here an' a whole
section up in the Grand Prairie neighbourhood, besides half a
dozen buildin' lots in town an' a two story house to live in up
there. To say nothin' of--"
"Come to supper," called out Mrs. Striker from the doorway.
"That's somethin' I'm always ready fer," announced Mr.
Striker. "Winter an' summer, spring an' fall. Step right
ahead, Mr.--"
"Just a moment, if you please," said the young man,
laying his hand on the settler's arm. "You will do me a great
favour if you refrain from discussing these matters in the presence
of your other guest to-night. My father, as you doubtless know,
meant very little in my life. I prefer not to discuss him in the
presence of strangers,--especially curious-minded young women."
Phineas looked at him narrowly for an instant, a queer expression
lurking in his eyes.
"Jest as you say, Mr. Gwynne. Not a word in front of strangers.
I don't know as you know it, but up to the time your father's
will was perduced there wasn't a soul in these parts as knowed
such a feller as you wuz on earth. He never spoke of a son, er
havin' been married before, er bein' a widower, er anything like--"
"I am thoroughly convinced of that, Mr. Striker," said
Kenneth, a trifle austerely, and passed on ahead of his host into
the kitchen.
"Bring in them two candlesticks, Phin," ordered Mrs.
Striker. "We got to be able to see what each other looks
like, an' goodness knows we cain't with this taller dip I got
out here to cook by. 'Tain't often we have people right out o'
the fashion-plates to supper, so let's have all the light we kin."
CHAPTER II
THE STRANGE YOUNG WOMAN
The tempest by now had subsided to a distant, rumbling murmur,
although the rain still beat against the window-panes in fitful
gusts, the while it gently played the long roll on the clapboards
a scant two feet above the tallest head. Far-off flashes of lightning
cast ghastly reminders athwart the windows, fighting the yellow
candle glow with a sickly, livid glare.
Kenneth's fellow-guest was standing near the stove, her back toward
him as he entered the kitchen. The slant of the "ceiling"
brought the crown of her head to within a foot or so of the round,
peeled beams that supported the shed-like roof, giving her the
appearance of abnormal height. As a matter of fact, she was not
as tall as the gaunt Eliza, who, like her husband and the six-foot
guest, was obliged to lower her head when passing through the
kitchen door to the yard.
The table was set for four, in the middle of the little kitchen;
rude hand-made stools, without backs, were in place. A figured
red cloth covered the board, its fringe of green hanging down
over the edges. The plates, saucers and coffee-cups were thick
and clumsy and gaudily decorated with indescribable flowers and
vines done entirely in green--a "set," no doubt, selected
with great satisfaction in advance of the Striker nuptials. There
were black-handled case-knives, huge four-tined forks, and pewter
spoons. A blackened coffee-pot, a brass tea-kettle and a couple
of shallow skillets stood on the square sheet-iron stove. "Come
in and set down, Mr. Gwynne," said Mrs. Striker, pointing
to a stool. With the other hand she deftly "flopped"
an odorous corn-cake in one of the skillets. There was a far from
unpleasant odor of grease.
"I can't help thanking my lucky stars, Mrs. Striker, that
I got here ahead of that storm," said he, moving over to
his appointed place, where he remained standing. "We were
just in time, too. Ten minutes later and we would have been in
the thick of it. And here we are, safe and sound and dry as toast,
in the presence of a most inviting feast. I cannot tell you how
much I appreciate your kindness."
"Oh, it's--it's nothing," said she, diffidently. Then
to Striker: "Put 'em here on the table, you big lummix. Set
down, everybody."
The young lady sat opposite Gwynne. She lowered her head immediately
as Phineas began to offer up his established form of grace. The
unhappy host got himself into a dire state of confusion when he
attempted to vary the habitual prayer by tacking on a few words
appertaining to the recent hurricane and God's goodness in preserving
them all from destruction as well as the hope that no serious
damage had been done to other live-stock and fowls, or to the
life and property of his neighbours,--amen!
To which Zachariah, seated on a roll of blankets in the corner,
appended a heartfelt amen, and then sank back to watch his betters
eat, much as a hungry dog feasts upon anticipation. He knew that
he was to have what was left over, and he offered up a silent
prayer of his own while wistfully speculating on the prospects.
The two colonial candlesticks stood in the centre of the table,
a foot or two apart. When Gwynne lifted his head after "grace,"
he looked directly between them at his vis-a-vis. For a few seconds
he stared as if spell-bound. Then, realizing his rudeness and
conscious of an unmistakable resentment in her eyes, he felt the
blood rush to his face, and quickly turned to stammer something
to his host,--he knew not what it was.
Never had he looked upon a face so beautiful, never had he seen
any one so lovely as this strange young woman who shared with
him the hospitality of the humble board. He had gazed for a moment
full into her deep, violet eyes,--eyes in which there was no smile
but rather a cool intentness not far removed from unfriendliness,--and
in that moment he forgot himself, his manners and his composure.
The soft light fell upon warm, smooth cheeks; a broad, white brow;
red, sensitive lips and a perfect mouth; a round firm chin; a
delicate nose,--and the faint shadows of imperishable dimples
that even her unsmiling expression failed to disturb.
Not even in his dreams had he conjured up a face so bewilderingly
beautiful.
Her hair, which was puffed and waved over her ears, took on the
shade of brown spun silk on which the light played in changing
tones of bronze. It was worn high on her head, banded a la grecque,
with a small knot on the crown from which depended a number of
ringlets ornamented with bowknots. Her ears were completely hidden
by the soft mass that came down over them in shapely knobs. She
wore no earrings,--for which he was acutely grateful, although
they were the fashion of the day and cumbersomely hideous,--and
her shapely throat was barren of ornament. He judged her to be
not more than twenty-two or -three. A second furtive glance caught
her looking down at her plate. He marvelled at the long, dark
eyelashes.
Who was she? What was she doing here in the humble cot of the
Strikers? Certainly she was out of place here. She was a tender,
radiant flower set down amongst gross, unlovely weeds. That she
was a person of consequence, to whom the Strikers paid a rude
sort of deference, softened by the familiarity of long association
but in no way suggestive of relationship, he was in no manner
of doubt.
He was not slow to remark their failure to present him to her.
The omission may have been due to ignorance or uncertainty on
their part, but that was not the construction he put upon it.
Striker was the free-and-easy type who would have made these strangers
known to each other in some bluff, awkward manner,--probably by
their Christian names; he would never have overlooked this little
formality, no matter how clumsily he may have gone about performing
it. It was perfectly plain to Gwynne that it was not an oversight.
It was deliberate.
His slight feeling of embarrassment, and perhaps annoyance, evidently
was not shared by the young lady; so far as she was concerned
the situation was by no means strained. She was as calm and serene
and impervious as a princess royal.
She joined in the conversation, addressed herself to him without
constraint, smiled amiably (and adorably) upon the busy Eliza
and her jovial spouse, and even laughed aloud over the latter's
account of Zachariah and the silver-top boots. Gwynne remarked
that it was a soft, musical laugh, singularly free from the shrill,
boisterous qualities so characteristic of the backwoods-woman.
She possessed the poise of refinement. He had seen her counterpart,--barring
her radiant beauty,--many a time during his years in the cultured
east: in Richmond, in Philadelphia, and in New York, where he
had attended college.
He was subtly aware of the lively but carefully guarded interest
she was taking in him. He felt rather than knew that she was studying
him closely, if furtively, when his face was turned toward the
talkative host. Twice he caught her in the act of averting her
gaze when he suddenly glanced in her direction, and once he surprised
her in a very intense scrutiny,--which, he was gratified to observe,
gave way to a swift flush of confusion and the hasty lowering
of her eyes. No doubt, he surmised with some satisfaction, she
was as vastly puzzled as himself, for he must have appeared equally
out-of-place in these surroundings. His thoughts went delightedly
to the old, well-beloved story of Cinderella. Was this a Cinderella
in the flesh,--and in the morning would he find her in rags and
tatters, slaving in the kitchen?
He noticed her hands. They were long and slim and, while browned
by exposure to wind and sun, bore no evidence of the grinding
toil to which the women and girls of the frontier were subjected.
And they were strong, competent hands, at that.
The food was coarse, substantial, plentiful. (Even Zachariah could
see that it was plentiful.) Solid food for sturdy people. There
were potatoes fried in grease, wide strips of side meat, apple
butter, corn-cakes piping hot, boiled turnips, coffee and dried
apple pie. The smoky odor of frying grease arose from the skillets
and, with the grateful smell of coffee, permeated the tight little
kitchen. It was a savoury that consoled rather than offended the
appetite of these hardy eaters.
Striker ate largely with his knife, and smacked his lips resoundingly;
swigged coffee from his saucer through an overlapping moustache
and afterwards hissingly strained the aforesaid obstruction with
his nether lip; talked and laughed with his mouth full,--but all
with such magnificent zest that his guests overlooked the shocking
exhibition. Indeed, the girl seemed quite accustomed to Mr. Striker's
table-habits, a circumstance which created in Kenneth's questing
mind the conviction that she was not new to these parts, despite
the garments and airs of the fastidious East.
They were vastly interested in the account of his journey through
the wilderness.
"Nowadays," said Striker, "most people come up
the river, 'cept them as hail from Ohio. You must ha' come by
way of Wayne an' Madison Counties."
"I did," said his guest. "We found it fairly comfortable
travelling through Wayne County. The roads are decent enough and
the settlers are numerous. It was after we left Madison County
that we encountered hardships. We travelled for a while with a
party of emigrants who were heading for the settlement at Strawtown.
There were three families of them, including a dozen children.
Our progress was slow, as they travelled by wagon. Rumours that
the Indians were threatening to go on the warpath caused me to
stay close by this slow-moving caravan for many miles, not only
for my own safety but for the help I might be able to render them
in case of an attack. At Strawtown we learned that the Indians
were peaceable and that there was no truth in the stories. So
Zachariah and I crossed the White River at that point and struck
off alone. We followed the wilderness road,--the old Indian trace,
you know,--and we travelled nearly thirty miles without seeing
a house. At Brown's Wonder we met a party of men who had been
out in this country looking things over. They were so full of
enthusiasm about the prairies around here,--the Wea, the Wild
Cat and Shawnee prairies,--that I was quite thrilled over the
prospect ahead, and no longer regretted the journey which had
been so full of privations and hardships and which I had been
so loath to undertake in the beginning. Have you been at Thorntown
recently?"
"Nope. Not sence I came through there some years ago. It
was purty well deserted in those days. Nothin' there but Injin
wigwams an' they was mostly run to seed. At that time, Crawfordsville
was the only town to speak of between Terry Hut an' Fort Wayne,
'way up above here."
"Well, there are signs of a white settlement there now. Some
of the old French settlers are still there and other whites are
coming in. I had heard a great deal about the big Indian village
at Thorntown, and was vastly disappointed in what I found. I am
quite romantic, Miss--ahem!--quite romantic by nature, having
read and listened to tales of thrilling adventures among the redskins,
as we call them down my way, until I could scarce contain myself.
I have always longed for the chance to rescue a beautiful white
captive from the clutches of the cruel redskins. My valour--"
"And I suppose you always dreamed of marrying her as they
always do in stories?" said she, smiling.
"Invariably," said he. "Alas, if I had rescued
all the fair maidens my dreams have placed in jeopardy, I should
by this time have as many wives as Solomon. Only, I must say in
defence of my ambitions, I should not have had as great a variety.
Strange as it may seem, I remained through all my adventures singularly
constant to a certain idealistic captive. She looked, I may say,
precisely alike in each and every case. Poor old Solomon could
not say as much for his thousand wives. Mine, if I had them, would
be so much alike in face and form that I could not tell one from
the other,--and, now that I am older and wiser,--though not as
wise as Solomon,--I am thankful that not one of these daring rescues
was ever consummated, for I should be very much distressed now
if I found myself married to even the most beautiful of the ladies
my feeble imagination conceived."
This subtle touch of gallantry was over the heads of Mr. and Mrs.
Striker. As for the girl, she looked momentarily startled, and
then as the dimples deepened, a faint flush rose to her cheeks.
An instant later, the colour faded, and into her lovely eyes came
a cold, unfriendly light. Realizing that he had offended her with
this gay compliment,--although he had never before experienced
rebuff in like circumstances,--he hastened to resume his narrative.
"We finally came to Sugar River and followed the road along
the southern bank. You may know some of the settlers we found
along the river. Wisehart and Kinworthy and Dewey? They were among
the first to come to this part of the country, I am informed.
Fine, brave men, all of them. In Crawfordsville I stopped at the
tavern conducted by Major Ristine. While there I consulted with
Mr. Elston and Mr. Wilson and others about the advisability of
selling my land up here and my building lots in Lafayette. They
earnestly advised me not to sell. In their opinion Lafayette is
the most promising town on the Wabash, while the farming land
in this section is not equalled anywhere else in the world. Of
course, I realize that they are financially interested in the
town of Lafayette, owning quite a lot of property there, so perhaps
I should not be guided solely by their enthusiasm."
"They are the men who bought most of Sam Sargeant's lots
some years back," said Striker, "when there wasn't much
of anything in the way of a town,--them and Jonathan Powers, I
think it was. They paid somethin' like a hundred an' fifty dollars
for more'n half of the lots he owned, an' then they started right
in to crow about the place. I was workin' down at Crawfordsville
at the time. They had plenty of chance to talk, 'cause that town
was full of emigrants, land-grabbers, travellers an' setch like.
That was before the new county was laid out, you see. Up to that
time all the land north of Montgomery County was what was called
Wabash County. It run up as fer as Lake Michigan, with the jedges
an' courts an' land offices fer the whole district all located
in Crawfordsville. Maybe you don't know it, but Tippecanoe County
is only about six years old. She was organized by the legislature
in 1826. To show you how smart Elston and them other fellers was,
they donated a lot of their property up in Lafayette to the county
on condition that the commissioners located the county seat there.
That's how she come to be the county seat, spite of the claims
of Americus up on the east bank of the Wabash.
"Maybe you've heard of Bill Digby. He's the feller that started
the town o' Lafayette. Well, a couple o' days after he laid out
the town o' Lafayette,--named after a Frenchman you've most likely
heerd about,--he up an' sold the whole place to Sam Sargeant fer
a couple o' hundred dollars, they say. He kept enough ground fer
a ferry landin' an' a twenty-acre piece up above the town fer
specolatin' purposes, I understand. He afterwards sold this twenty-acre
piece to Sam fer sixty dollars, an' thought he done mighty well.
When I first come to the Wea, Lafayette didn't have more'n half
a dozen cabins. I went through her once on my way up to the tradin'
house at Longlois, couple a mile above. You wouldn't believe a
town could grow as fast as Lafayette has in the last couple o'
years. If she keeps on she'll be as big as all get-out, an' Crawfordsville
won't be nowhere. Tim Horran laid out Fairfield two-three years
back, over east o' here. Been a heap o' new towns laid out this
summer, all around here. But I guess they won't amount to much.
Josiah Halstead and Henry Ristine have jest laid out the town
o' Columbia, down near the Montgomery line. Over on Lauramie Crick
is a town called Cleveland, an' near that is Monroe, jest laid
out by a feller named Major. There's another town called Concord
over east o' Columbia. There may be more of 'em, but I ain't heerd
of 'em yet. They come up like mushrooms, an' 'fore you know it,
why, there they are.
"This land o' yours, Mr. Gwynne, lays 'tween here an' this
new settlement o' Columbia, an' I c'n tell you that it ain't to
be beat anywheres in the country. I'd say it is the best land
your fa--er--ahem!" The speaker was seized with a violent
and obviously unnecessary spell of coughing. "Somethin' must
ha' gone the wrong way," he explained, lamely. "Feller
ort to have more sense'n to try to swaller when he's talkin'."
"Comes of eatin' like a pig," remarked his wife, glaring
at him as she poured coffee into Gwynne's empty cup. "Mr.
Gwynne'll think you don't know any better. He never eats like
this on Sunday," she explained to their male guest.
"I got a week-day style of eatin' an' one strickly held back
fer Sunday," said Phineas. "Same as clothes er havin'
my boots greased."
Kenneth was watching the face of the girl opposite. She was looking
down at her plate. He observed a little frown on her brow. When
she raised her eyes to meet his, he saw that they were sullen,
almost unpleasantly so. She did not turn away instantly, but continued
to regard him with a rather disconcerting intensity. Suddenly
she smiled. The cloud vanished from her brow, her eyes sparkled.
He was bewildered. There was no mistaking the unfriendliness that
had lurked in her eyes the instant before. But in heaven's name,
what reason had she for disliking him?
"If you believe all that Phineas says, you will think you
have come to Paradise," she said. At no time had she uttered
his name, in addressing him, although it was frequently used by
the Strikers. She seemed to be deliberately avoiding it.
"It is a present comfort, at least, to believe him,"
he returned. "I hope I may not see the day when I shall have
to take him to task for misleading me in so vital a matter."
"I hope not," said she, quietly.
As he turned to Striker, he caught that worthy gazing at him with
a fixed, inquisitive stare. He began to feel annoyed and uncomfortable.
It was not the first time he had surprised a similar scrutiny
on the part of one or the other of the Strikers. Phineas, on being
detected, looked away abruptly and mumbled something about "God's
country."
The young man decided it was time to speak. "By the way you
all look at me, Mr. Striker, I am led to suspect that you do not
believe I am all I represent myself to be. If you have any doubts,
pray do not hesitate to express them."
Striker was boisterously reassuring. "I don't doubt you fer
a second, Mr. Gwynne. As I said before, the whole county has been
expectin' you to turn up. We heerd a few days back that you was
in Crawfordsville. If me an' Eliza seem to act queer it's because
we knowed your father an'--an', well, I can't help noticin' how
much you look like him. When he was your age he must have looked
enough like you to be your twin brother. We don't mean no disrespect,
an' I hope you'll overlook our nateral curiosity."
Kenneth was relieved. The furtive looks were explained.
"I am glad to hear that you do not look upon me as an outlaw
or--"
"Lord bless you," cried Striker, "there ain't nobody
as would take you fer an outlaw. You ain't cut out fer a renegade.
We know 'em the minute we lay eyes on 'em. Same as we know a Pottawatomy
Injin from a Shawnee, er a jack-knife from a Bowie. No, there
ain't no doubt in my mind about you bein' your father's son--an'
heir, as the sayin' goes. If you turn out to be a scalawag, I'll
never trust my eyes ag'in."
The young man laughed. "In any case, you are very good to
have taken me in for the night, and I shall not forget your trust
or your hospitality. Wolves go about in sheep's clothing, you
see, and the smartest of men are sometimes fooled." He turned
abruptly to the girl. "Did you know my father, too?"
She started violently and for the moment was speechless, a curious
expression in her eyes.
"Yes," she said, at last, looking straight at him: "Yes,
I knew your father very well."
"Then, you must have lived in these parts longer than I have
suspected," said he. "I should have said you were a
newcomer."
Mrs. Striker made a great clatter of pans and skillets at the
stove. The girl waited until this kindly noise subsided.
"I have lived in this neighbourhood since I was eight years
old," she said, quietly.
Striker hastened to add: "Somethin' like ten or 'leven years,--'leven,
I reckon, ain't it?"
"Eleven years," she replied.
Gwynne was secretly astonished and rather skeptical. He would
have taken oath that she was twenty-two or -three years old, and
not nineteen as computation made her.
"She ain't lived here all the time," volunteered Eliza,
somewhat defensively. "She was to school in St. Louis fer
two or three years an'--"
The young lady interrupted the speaker coldly. "Please, Eliza!"
Eliza, looking considerably crestfallen, accepted the rebuke meekly.
"I jest thought he'd be interested," she murmured.
"She came up the Wabash when she was nothin' but a striplin',"
began Striker, not profiting by his wife's experience. He might
have gone on at considerable length if he had not met the reproving,
violet eye. He changed the subject hastily. "As I was sayin',
we've had a powerful lot o' rain lately. Why, by gosh, last week
you could have went fishin' in our pertato patch up yander an'
got a mess o' sunfish in less'n no time. I never knowed the Wabash
to be on setch a rampage. An' as fer the Wild Cat Crick and Tippecanoe
River, why, they tell me there ain't been anything like--How's
that?"
"Is Wabash an Indian name?" repeated Kenneth.
"That's what they say. Named after a tribe that used to hunt
an' fish up an' down her, they say."
"There was once a tribe of Indians in this part of the country,"
broke in the girl, with sudden zest, "known as the Ouabachi.
We know very little about them nowadays, however. They were absorbed
by other and stronger tribes far back in the days of the French
occupation, I suppose. French trappers and voyageurs are known
to have traversed and explored the wilderness below here at least
one hundred and fifty years ago. There is an old French fort quite
near here,--Ouiatanon."
"She knows purty nigh everything," said Phineas, proudly.
"Well, I guess we're about as full as it's safe to be, so
now's your chance, Zachariah."
He pushed back his stool noisily and arose. Taking up the two
candlesticks, he led the way to the sitting-room, stopping at
the door for a word of instruction to the negro. "You c'n
put your blankets down here on the kitchen floor when you're ready
to go to bed. Mrs. Striker will kick you in the mornin' if you
ain't awake when she comes out to start breakfast."
"Yassuh, yassuh," grinned the hungry darkey. "Missus
won't need fo' to kick more'n once, suh,--'cause Ise gwine to
be hungry all over ag'in 'long about breakfus time,--yas-SUH!"
"Zachariah will wash the dishes and--" began Kenneth,
addressing Mrs. Striker, who was already preparing to cleanse
and dry her pots and pans. She interrupted him.
"He won't do nothin' of the kind. I don't let nobody wash
my dishes but myself. Set down here, Zachariah, an' help yourself.
When you're done, you c'n go out an' carry me in a couple of buckets
o' water from the well,--an, that's all you CAN do."
"I guess I'll go out an' take a look around the barn an'
pens," said Phineas, depositing the candles on the mantelpiece.
"See if everything's still there after the storm. No, Mr.
Gwynne,--you set down. No need o' you goin' out there an' gettin'
them boots o' your'n all muddy."
He took up the lantern and lighted the tallow wick from one of
the candles. Then he fished a corncob pipe from his coattail pocket
and stuffed it full of tobacco from a small buckskin bag hanging
at the end of the mantel.
"He'p yourself to tobaccer if you keer to smoke. There's
a couple o' fresh pipes up there,--jest made 'em yesterday,--an'
it ain't ag'inst the law to smoke in the house on rainy nights.
Used to be a time when we was first married that I had to go out
an' git wet to the skin jest because she wouldn't 'low no tobaccer
smoke in the house. Many's the time I've sot on the doorstep here
enjoyin' a smoke with the rain comin' down so hard it'd wash the
tobaccer right out o' the pipe, an' twice er maybe it was three
times it biled over an'--What's that you say?"
"I did not say anything, Phineas," said the girl, shaking
her head mournfully. "I am wondering, though, where you will
go when you die."
"Where I c'n smoke 'thout runnin' the risk o' takin' cold,
more'n likely," replied Phineas, winking at the young man.
Then he went out into the windy night, closing the door behind
him.
CHAPTER III
SOMETHING ABOUT CLOTHES, AND MEN, AND CATS
Smiling over the settler's whimsical humour, Gwynne turned to
his companion, anticipating a responsive smile. Instead he was
rewarded by an expression of acute dismay in her dark eyes. He
recalled seeing just such a look in the eyes of a cornered deer.
She met his gaze for a fleeting instant and then, turning away,
walked rapidly over to the little window, where she peered out
into the darkness. He waited a few moments for her to recover
the composure so inexplicably lost, and then spoke,--not without
a trace of coldness in his voice.
"Pray have this chair." He drew the rocking-chair up
to the fireplace, setting it down rather sharply upon the strip
of rag carpet that fronted the wide rock-made hearth. "You
need not be afraid to be left alone with me. I am a most inoffensive
person."
He saw her figure straighten. Then she faced him, her chin raised,
a flash of indignation in her eyes.
"I am not afraid of you," she said haughtily. "Why
should you presume to make such a remark to me?"
"I beg your pardon," he said, bowing. "I am sorry
if I have offended you. No doubt, in my stupidity, I have been
misled by your manner. Now, will you sit down--and be friendly?"
His smile was so engaging, his humility so genuine, that her manner
underwent a swift and agreeable change. She advanced slowly to
the fireplace, a shy, abashed smile playing about her lips.
"May I not stand up for a little while?" she pleaded,
with mock submissiveness. "I do so want to grow tall."
"To that I can offer no objection," he returned; "although
in my humble opinion you would do yourself a very grave injustice
if you added so much as the eighth of an inch to your present
height."
"I feel quite small beside you, sir," she said, taking
her stand at the opposite end of the hearth, from which position
she looked up into his admiring eyes.
"I am an overgrown, awkward lummix," he said airily.
"The boys called me 'beanpole' at college."
"You are not an awkward lummix, as you call yourself,--though
what a lummix is I have not the slightest notion. Mayhap if you
stood long enough you might grow shorter. They say men do,--as
they become older." She ran a cool, amused eye over his long,
well-proportioned figure, taking in the butter-nut coloured trousers,
the foppish waistcoat, the high-collared blue coat, and the handsome
brown-thatched head that topped the whole creation. He was almost
a head taller than she, and yet she was well above medium height.
"How old are you?" she asked, abruptly. Again she was
serious, unsmiling.
"Twenty-five," he replied, looking down into her dark,
inquiring eyes with something like eagerness in his own. He was
saying over and over again to himself that never had he seen any
one so lovely as she. "I am six years older than you. Somehow,
I feel that I am younger. Rather odd, is it not?"
"Six years," she mused, looking into the fire. The glow
of the blazing logs cast changing, throbbing shadows across her
face, now soft and dusky, like velvet, under the warm caress of
the firelight. "Sometimes I feel much older than nineteen,"
she went on, shaking her head as if puzzled. "I remember
that I was supposed to be very large for my age when I was a little
girl. Everybody commented on my size. I used to be ashamed of
my great, gawky self. But," she continued, shrugging her
pretty shoulders, "that was ages ago."
He drew a step nearer and leaned an elbow on the mantel.
"You say you knew my father," he said, haltingly. "What
was he like?"
She raised her eyes quickly and for an instant studied his face
curiously, as if searching for something that baffled her understanding.
"He was very tall," she said in a low voice. "As
tall as you are."
"I have only a dim recollection of him," he said. "You
see, I made my home with my grandparents after I was five years
old." He did not offer any further information. "As
a tiny lad I remember wishing that I might grow up to be as big
as my father. Did you know him well?"
If she heard, she gave no sign as she turned away again. This
time she walked over to the cabin door, which she opened wide,
letting in a rush of chill, damp air. He felt his choler rise.
It was a deliberate, intentional act on her part. She desired
to terminate the conversation and took this rude, insolent means
of doing so. Never had he been so flagrantly insulted,--and for
what reason? He had been courteous, deferential, friendly. What
right had she,--this insufferable peacock,--to consider herself
his superior? Hot words rushed to his lips, but he checked them.
He contented himself with an angry contemplation of her slender,
graceful figure as she poised in the open doorway, holding the
latch in one hand while the other was pressed against her bare
throat for protection against the cold night air. Her ringlets,
flouted by the wind, threshed merrily about the crown of her head.
He noted the thick coil of hair that capped the shapely white
neck. Despite his rancour and the glowering gaze he bent upon
her, he was still lamentably conscious of her perfections. He
had it in his heart to go over and shake her soundly. It would
be a relief to see her break down and whimper. It would teach
her not to be rude to gentlemen!
The two dogs came racing up to the threshold. She half-knelt and
stroked their heads.
"No, no!" she cried out to them. "You cannot come
in! Back with you, Shep! Pete! That's a good dog!"
Then she arose and quickly closed the door.
"The wind is veering to the south," she said calmly,
as she advanced to the fireplace. She was shivering. "That
means fair weather and warmer. We may even see the sun to-morrow."
She held out her hands to the blaze.
"Won't you have this chair now?" he said stiffly, formally.
She was looking down into the fire, but he saw the dimple deepen
in her cheek and an almost imperceptible twitching at the corner
of her mouth. Confound her, was she laughing at him? Was he a
source of amusement to her?
She turned her head and glanced up at him over her shoulder. He
caught a strained, appealing gleam in her eyes.
"Please forgive me if I was rude," she said, quite humbly.
He melted a little. He no longer desired to shake her. "I
feared I had in some way offended you," he said.
She shook her head and was silent for a moment or two, staring
thoughtfully at the flames. A faint sigh escaped her, and then
she faced him resolutely, frankly.
"You have succeeded fairly well in concealing your astonishment
at seeing me here in this hut, dressed as I am," she said,
somewhat hurriedly. "You have been greatly puzzled. I am
about to confess something to you. You will see me again,--often
perhaps,--if you remain long in this country. It is my wish that
you should not know who I am to-night. You will gain nothing by
asking questions, either of me or of the Strikers. You will know
in the near future, so let that be sufficient. At first I--"
"You have my promise not to disregard your wishes in this
or any other matter," he said, bowing gravely. "I shall
ask no questions."
"Ah, but you have been asking questions all to yourself ever
since you came into this cabin and saw me--in all this finery--and
you will continue to ask them," she declared positively.
"I do not blame you. I can at least account for my incomprehensible
costume. That much you shall have, if no more. This frock is a
new one. It has just come up the river from St. Louis. I have
never had it on until to-day. Another one, equally as startling,
lies in that bedroom over there, and beside it on the bed is the
dress I came here in this afternoon. It is a plain black dress,
and there is a veil and a hideous black bonnet to go with it."
She paused, a bright little gleam of mingled excitement and defiance
in her eyes.
"You--you have lost--I mean, you are in mourning for some
one?" he exclaimed. The thought rushed into his mind: Was
she a widow? This radiantly beautiful girl a widow?
"For my father," she stated succinctly. "He died
almost a year ago. I was in school at St. Louis when it happened.
I had not seen him for two years. My mother sent for me to come
home. Since that time I have worn nothing but black,--plain, horrible
black. Do not misjudge me. I am not vain, nor am I as heartless
as you may be thinking. I had and still have the greatest respect
for my father. He was a good man, a fine man. But in all the years
of my life he never spoke a loving word to me, he never caressed
me, he never kissed me. He was kindness itself, but--he never
looked at me with love in his eyes. I don't suppose you can understand.
I was the flesh of his flesh, and yet he never looked at me with
love in his eyes.
"As I grew older I began to think that he hated me. That
is a terrible thing to say,--and you must think it vile of me
to say it to you, a stranger. But I have said it, and I would
not take it back. I have seen in his eyes,--they were brooding,
thoughtful eyes,--I have seen in them at times a look--Oh, I cannot
tell you what it seemed like to me. I can only say that it had
something like despair in it,--sadness, unhappiness,--and I could
not help feeling that I was the cause of it. When I was a tiny
girl he never carried me in his arms. My mother always did that.
When I was thirteen years old he hired me out as a servant in
a farmer's family and I worked there until I was fourteen. It
was not in this neighbourhood. I worked for my board and keep,
a thing I could not understand and bitterly resented because he
was prosperous. Then my mother fell ill. She was a strong woman,
but she broke down in health. He came and got me and took me home.
I was a big girl for my age,--as big as I am now,--and strong.
I did all the work about the house until my mother was well again.
He never gave me a word of appreciation or one of encouragement.
"He was never unkind, he never found fault with me, he never
in all his life scolded or switched me when I was bad. Then, one
day,--it was three years ago,--he told me to get ready to go down
to St. Louis to school. He put me in charge of a trader and his
wife who were going down the river by perogue. He gave them money
to buy suitable clothes for me,--a large sum of money, it must
have been,--and he provided me with some for my own personal use.
All arrangements had been made in advance, without my knowing
anything about it.
"I stayed there until I was called home by his death. I expected
to return to school, but my mother refused to let me go back.
She said my place was with her. That was last fall. She is still
in the deepest mourning, and I believe will never dress otherwise.
I have said all there is to say about my father. I did not love
him, I was not grieved when he passed away. It was almost as if
a stranger had died."
She paused. He took occasion to remark, sympathetically: "He
must have been a strange man."
"He was," she said. "I hope I have made you understand
what kind of a man he was, and what kind of a father he was to
me. Now, I am coming to the point. This finery you see me in now
was purchased without my mother's knowledge or consent,--with
money of my own. The box was delivered to Phineas Striker day
before yesterday up in Lafayette. I came here to spend the night,
in order that I might try them on. I live in town, with my mother.
She left the farm after my father's death. She adored him. She
could not bear to live out there on the lonely--but, that is of
no interest to you. A few weeks ago I asked her if I might not
take off the black. She refused at first, but finally consented.
I have her promise that I may put on colours sometime this spring.
So I wrote to the woman who used to make my dresses in St. Louis,--my
father was not stingy with me, so I always had pretty frocks,--and
now they have come. My mother does not know about them. She will
be shocked when I tell her I have them, but she will not be angry.
She loves me. Is your curiosity satisfied? It will have to be,
for this is all I care to divulge at present."
He smiled down into her earnest eyes. "My curiosity is appeased,"
he said. "I should not have slept tonight if you had not
explained this tantalizing mystery. Therefore, I thank you. May
I have your permission to say that you are very lovely in your
new frock and that you are marvellously becoming to it?"
"As you have already said it, I must decline to give you
the permission," she replied, naively.
He thought her adorable in this mood. "As a lawyer,"
he said, "I make a practice of never withdrawing a statement,
unless I am convinced by incontrovertible evidence that I was
wrong in the first place,--and you will have great difficulty
in producing the proof."
"Wait till you see me in my black dress and bonnet,--and
mittens," she challenged.
He bowed gallantly. "Only the addition of the veil,--it would
have to be a very thick one,--I am sure,--could make me doubt
my own eyes. They are witnesses whose testimony it will be very
hard to shake."
Her manner underwent another transformation, as swift as it was
unexpected. A troubled, harassed expression came into her eyes,
driving out the sparkle that had filled them during that all too
brief exchange. The smile died on her lips, which remained drawn
and slightly parted as if frozen; she seemed for the moment to
have stopped breathing. He was acutely alive to the old searching,
penetrating look,--only now there was an added note of uneasiness.
In another moment all this had vanished, and she was smiling again,--not
warmly, frankly as before, but with a strange wistfulness that
left him more deeply perplexed than ever.
"I wonder,--" she began, and then shook her head without
completing the sentence. After a moment she went on: "Phineas
is a long time. I hope all is well."
They heard the kitchen door open and close and Striker's voice
loudly proclaiming the staunchness of his outbuildings, a speech
cut short by Eliza's exasperation.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Phin Striker, not
to come in this here kitchen without wipin' your feet? Might as
well be the barn, fer as you're concerned. Go out an' scrape that
mud offen your boots."
Deep mumbling and then the opening and shutting of the door again.
"Sometimes, I fear, poor Phineas finds matrimony very trying,"
said the girl, her eyes twinkling.
Eliza appeared in the doorway. She was rolling down her sleeves.
"How are you two gettin' along?" she inquired, looking
from one to the other keenly. "I thought Phin was in here
amusin' you the whole time with lies about him an' Dan'l Boone.
He used to hunt with old Dan'l when he was a boy, an' if ever'thing
happened to them two fellers that he sez happened, why, Phin'd
have to be nearly two hundred years old by now an' there wouldn't
be a live animal or Indian between here an' the Gulf of Mexico."
She seemed a little uneasy. "I hope you two made out all
right."
The girl spoke quickly, before her companion could reply. "We
have had a most agreeable chat, Eliza. Are you through in the
kitchen? If you are, would you mind coming into the bedroom with
me? I want you to see the other dress on me, and besides I have
a good many things I wish to talk over with you. Good night,"
she said to Gwynne. "No doubt we shall meet again."
He was dumbfounded. "Am I not to see you in the new dress?"
he cried, visibly disappointed. "Surely you are not going
to deny me the joy of beholding you in--"
She interrupted him almost cavalierly. "Pray save up some
of your compliments against the day when you behold me in my sombre
black, for I shall need them then. Again, good night."
"Good night," he returned, bowing stiffly and in high
dudgeon.
Eliza, in hurrying past, had snatched one of the candlesticks
from the mantel, and now stood holding the bedroom door open for
the queenly young personage. A moment later the door closed behind
them.
Gwynne was still scowling at the inoffensive door when Striker
came blustering into the room.
"Where are the women?" he demanded, stopping short.
A jerk of the thumb was his answer.
"Gone to bed?" with something like an accusing gleam
in his eye as his gaze returned to the young man.
"I believe so," replied Gwynne carelessly, as he sat
down in the despised rocker and stretched his long legs out to
the fire. "I fancy we are safe to smoke now, Striker. We
have the parlor all to ourselves. The ladies have deserted us."
Striker took the tobacco pouch from the peg on the mantel and
handed it to his guest.
"Fill up," he said shortly, and then walked over to
the bedroom door. He rapped timorously on one of the thick boards.
"Want me fer anything?" he inquired softly, as his wife
opened the door an inch or two.
"No. Go to bed when you're ready an' don't ferget to smother
that fire."
"Good night, Phineas," called out another voice merrily.
"Good night," responded Striker, with a dubious shake
of his head. He returned to the fireplace.
"Women are funny things," said he, dragging up another
chair. "'Specially about boots. I go out 'long about sun-up
an' work like a dog all day, an' then when I come in to supper
what happens? First thing my wife does is to look at my boots.
Then she tells me to go out an' scrape the mud off'm 'em. Then
she looks up at my face to see if it's me. Sometimes I get so
doggoned mad I wish it wasn't me, so's I could turn out to be
the preacher er somebody like that an' learn her to be keerful
who she's talkin' to. Supposin' I do track a little mud into her
kitchen? It's OUR mud, ain't it? 'Tain't as if it was somebody
else's land I'm bringin' into her kitchen. Between us we own every
danged bit of land from here to the Middleton dirt-road an' it
ain't my fault if it happens to be mud once in awhile. You'd think,
the way she acts, I'd been out stealin' somebody else's mud just
for the sake of bringin' it into her kitchen.
"An' what makes me madder'n anything else is the way she
scolds them pore dogs when they come in with a little mud. As
if a dog understood he had to scrape his feet off an' wash his
paws an' everything 'fore he c'n step inside his master's cabin.
Now you take cats, they're as smart as all get out. They're jist
like women. Allus thinkin' about their pussonal appearance. Ever
notice a cat walk across a muddy strip o' ground? Why, you'd think
they was walkin' on a red hot stove, the way they step. I've seen
a cat go fifty rods out of her way to get around a mud-puddle.
I recollect seein' ole Maje,--he's our principal tom-cat,--seein'
him creepin' along a rail fence nearly half a mile from the house
so's he wouldn't have to cross a stretch o' wet ground jist outside
the kitchen door. Now, a dog would have splashed right through
it an' took the consequences. But ole Maje--NO, SIR! He goes miles
out'n his way an' then when he gits home he sets down on the doorstep
an' licks his feet fer half an hour er so before he begins to
meow so's Eliza'll open the door an' let him in.
"Ever' so often I got to tie a litter of kittens up in a
meal-bag an' take 'em over to the river an' drownd 'em, an' I
want to tell you it's a pleasure to do it. You never in all your
life heerd of anybody puttin' a litter of pups in a bag an' throwin'
'em in the river, did ye? No, sirree! Dogs is like men. They grow
up to be useful citizens, mud er no mud. Why, if I had a dog what
sat down on the doorstep an' licked his paws ever' time he got
mud on 'em I'd take him out an' shoot him, 'cause I'd know he
wasn't no kind of a dog at all. Now, Eliza's tryin' to make me
act like a cat, an' me hatin' cats wuss'n pison. There's setch
a thing as bein' too danged clean, don't you think so? Sort o'
takes the self-respect away from a man. Makes you feel as if you'd
ort to have petticoats on in place o' pants. How do you like that
terbaccer?"
Throughout the foregoing dissertation, Gwynne had sat with his
moody gaze fixed upon the flaring logs, which Striker had kicked
into renewed life with the heel of one of his ponderous boots,
disdaining the stout charred poker that leaned against the chimney
wall. He was pulling dreamily at the corncob pipe; the fragrant
blue smoke, drifting toward the open fireplace, was suddenly caught
by the draft and drawn stringily into the hot cavern where it
was lost in the hickory volume that swept up the chimney.
He had taken in but a portion of his host's remarks; his thoughts
were not of dogs and cats but of the perplexing girl who eagerly
gave him her confidence in one moment and shrank into the iciest
reticence the next. Her unreserved revelations concerning her
own father, uttered with all the frankness of an intimate, and
the childish ingenuousness with which she accounted for her raiment,
followed so closely, so abruptly by the most insolent display
of bad manners he had ever known, gave him ample excuse for reflection,
and if he failed to obtain the full benefit of Striker's discourse
it was because he had no power to command his addled thoughts.
As a matter of fact, he was debating within himself the advisability
of asking his host a few direct and pointed questions. A fine
regard for Striker's position deterred him,--and to this regard
was added the conviction that his host would probably tell him
to mind his own business and not go prying into the affairs of
others. He came out of his reverie in good time to avoid injury
to his host's feelings.
"It is admirable," he assured him promptly. "Do
you cure it yourself or does it come up the river from Kentucky?"
"Comes from Kentucky. We don't have much luck tryin' to raise
terbaccer in these parts."
Whereupon Mr. Striker went into a long and intelligent lecture
upon the products of the soil in that section of Indiana; what
to avoid and what to cultivate; how to buy and how to sell; the
traders one could trust and those who could not be trusted out
of sight; the short corn crop of the year before and the way he
lost half a dozen as fine shoats as you'd see in a lifetime on
account of wild hogs coming out of the woods and enticin' 'em
off. He interrupted himself at one stage in order to get up and
close the door to the kitchen. Zachariah was snoring lustily.
"Whenever you feel like goin' to bed, jist say so,"
he said at last, as his guest drew his huge old silver watch from
his pocket and glanced at it.
"I have been doing a little surmising, Mr. Striker,"
said the other. "You have only this sitting-room and one
bedroom. The ladies are occupying the latter. My servant has gone
to bed in the kitchen. I am wondering where you and I are to dispose
ourselves."
"I could see you was doin' some figgerin', friend. Well,
fer that matter, so was I. 'Tain't often she comes to spend the
night here, an' when she does me an' Eliza give her our room an'
bed an' we pull an extry straw tick out here in the room an' make
the best of it. Now, as I figger it out, Eliza is usin' that straw
tick herself, 'cause she certainly wouldn't ever dream of gettin'
into bed with--with--er--her. Not but what she's clean an' all
that,--I mean Eliza,--but you see, she used to be a hired girl
once upon a time, an'--an'--well, that sort of makes a--"
"My fellow-guest confided to me a little while ago that she
too had been a hired girl, Mr. Striker, so I don't see--"
"Did she tell you that?" demanded Phineas sharply.
"She did," replied Gwynne, enjoying his host's consternation.
"Well, I'll be tee-totally danged," exploded the settler.
He got up suddenly and turning his back to his guest, knocked
the burnt tobacco from his pipe against the stone arch of the
fireplace. "I guess I better rake the ashes over these here
coals," said he, "'cause if I don't an' the cabin took
fire an' burnt us all alive Eliza'd never git done jawin' me about
it." Presently he stood off and critically surveyed his work.
"I guess that'll fix her so's she won't spit any sparks out
here an' set fire to the carpet. As I was sayin', I reckon I'll
have to make up a bed here in front of the fireplace fer myself,
an' let you go up to the attic. We got a--"
"I was afraid of this, Mr. Striker. You are putting yourselves
out terribly on my account. I can't allow it, sir. It is too much
to ask--"
"Now, don't you worry about us. You ain't puttin' us out
at all. One night last winter,--the coldest night we had,--Eliza
an' me slep' on the kitchen floor with nary a blanket er quilt,
an' I had to git up every half hour to put wood on the fire so's
we wouldn't freeze to death, all because Joe Wadley an' his wife
an' her father an' mother an' his sister with her three children
dropped in sort of unexpected on account of havin' their two wagons
git stuck in a snow drift a mile er so from here. No, sirree,
don't you worry. There's a spare tick up in the attic what we
use fer strangers when they happen along, an' Zachariah has put
your blankets right here by the door,--an' your pistols, too,
I see,--so whenever you're ready, I'll lead the way up the ladder
an' show you where you're to roost. There's a little winder at
one end, so's you c'n have all the air you want,--an', my stars,
there's a lot of it to-night, ain't there? Jist listen to her
whistle. Sounds like winter. She's changed, though, an' I wouldn't
be surprised if we'd find the moon is shinin'."
CHAPTER IV
VIOLA GWYN
They stepped outside the cabin, into the fresh, brisk gale that
was blowing. A gibbous moon hung in the eastern star-specked sky.
Scurrying moonlit clouds off in the west sped northward on the
sweep of the inconstant wind, which had shifted within the hour.
A light shone dimly through the square little window of the bedroom.
Kenneth's imagination penetrated to sacred precincts beyond the
solid logs: he pictured her in the other frock, moving gracefully
before the fascinated eyes of the settler's wife, proud as a peacock
and yet as gay as the lark.
"Women like to talk," observed Striker, with a sidelong
glance at the lighted window. He led the way to the opposite end
of the cabin and pointed off into the night. "Lafayette's
off in yan direction. There's a big stretch of open prairie in
between, once you git out'n these woods, an' further on there's
more timber. The town's down in a sort of valley, shaped somethin'
like a saucer, with hills on all sides an' the river cuttin' straight
through the middle. Considerable buildin' goin' on this spring.
There's talk of the Baptists an' the Methodists puttin' up new
churches an' havin' regular preachers instead of the circuit riders.
But you'll see all this fer yourself when you git there. Plenty
of licker to be had at Sol Hamer's grocery,--mostly Mononga-Durkee
whisky,--in case you git the Wabash shakes or suddenly feel homesick."
"I drink very little," said Kenneth.
"Well, you'll soon git over that," prophesied his host.
"Everybody does. A spell of aguer like we have along the
river every fall an' winter an' spring will make you mighty thankful
fer Sol Hamer's medicine, an' by the time summer comes you'll
be able to stand more'n you ever thought you could stand. What
worries me is how the women manage to git along without it. You
see big strong men goin' around shakin' their teeth out an' docterin'
day an' night at Sol's, but I'll be doggoned if you ever see a
woman takin' it. Seems as if they'd ruther shake theirselves to
death than tetch a drop o' whisky."
"You would not have them otherwise, would you?"
"Why, if I ever caught my wife takin' a swaller o' whisky,
I'd--well, by gosh, I don't know what I would do. First place,
I'd think the world was comin' to an end, and second place, I
guess I'd be glad it was. No, sirree, I don't want to see whisky
goin' down a woman's gullet. But that don't explain how they come
to git along without it when they've got the aguer. They won't
even take it when a rattlesnake bites 'em. Sooner die. An' in
spite of all that, they bring he-children into the world that
can't git over a skeeter bite unless they drink a pint or two
of whisky. Well, I guess we better go to roost, Mr. Gwynne. Must
be nine o'clock. Everything's all right out at the barn an' the
chicken coops. Wolves an' foxes an' weasels visit us sometimes
at night, but I got things fixed so's they go away hungry. In
the day time, Eliza's got an ole musket o' mine standin' in the
kitchen to skeer the hawks away, an' I got a rifle in the settin'
room fer whatever varmint comes along at night,--includin' hoss-thieves
an' setch-like."
"Horse-thieves?"
"Yep. Why, only last month a set of hoss-thieves from down
the river went through the Wea plains an' stole sixteen yearlin'
colts, drove 'em down to the river, loaded 'em on a flat-boat
an' got away without losin' a hair. Done it on a Sunday night,
too."
It was a few minutes past nine when Kenneth followed his host
up the ladder and through the trap-door into the stuffy attic.
He carried his rough riding-boots, which Zachariah had cleaned
and greased with a piece of bacon-rind.
"I'll leave the ladder here," said Striker, depositing
the candlestick on the floor. "So's I c'n stick my head in
here in the mornin' an' rouse you up. There's your straw-tick
over yander, an' I'll fotch your blankets up in a minute or two.
I reckon you'll have to crawl on your hands an' knees; this attic
wasn't built fer full-size men."
"I will be all right," his guest assured him. "Beggars
cannot be choosers. A place to lay my head, a roof to keep the
rain off, and a generous host--what more can the wayfarer ask?"
The clapboard roof was a scant three feet above the dusty floor
of the attic. Stooping, the young man made his way to the bed-tick
near the little window. He did not sniff with scorn at his humble
surroundings. He had travelled long and far and he had slept in
worse places than this. He was drawing off his boots when Striker
again stuck his head and shoulders through the opening and laid
his roll of blankets on the floor.
"Eliza jist stuck her head out to tell me to shut this trap-door,
so's my snorin' won't keep you awake. I fergot all about my snorin'.
Like as not if I left this door open the whole danged roof would
be lifted right off'm the cabin 'fore I'd been asleep five minutes.
Well, good night. I'll call you in the mornin' bright an' early."
The trap-door was slowly lowered into place as the shaggy head
and broad shoulders of the settler disappeared. The young man
heard the scraping of the ladder as it was being removed to a
place against the wall.
He pried open the tight little window, letting a draft of fresh
air rush into the stifling attic. Then he sat on the edge of the
tick for a few minutes, ruminating, his gaze fixed thoughtfully
on the sputtering, imperilled candle. Finally he shook his head,
sighed, and began to unstrap his roll of blankets. He had decided
to remove only his coat and waistcoat. The sharp, staccato barking
of a fox up in the woods fell upon his ears. He paused to listen.
Then came the faraway, unmistakable howl of a wolf, the solemn,
familiar hoot of the wilderness owl and the raucous call of the
great night heron. But there was no sound from the farmyard. He
said his prayers--he never forgot to say the prayer his mother
had taught him--blew out the candle, pulled the blankets up to
his chin, and was soon fast asleep.
He did not know what time it was when he was aroused by the barking
of Striker's dogs, loud, furious barking and ugly growls, signifying
the presence in the immediate neighbourhood of the house of some
intruder, man or beast. Shaking off the sleep that held him, he
crept to the window and looked out. The moon was gone and the
stars had almost faded from the inky black dome. He guessed the
hour with the acute instinct of one to whom the vagaries of night
have become familiar through long understanding. It would now
be about three o'clock in the morning, with the creeping dawn
an hour and a half away.
Suddenly his gaze fell upon a light moving among the trees some
distance from the cabin. It appeared and disappeared, like a jack
o' lantern, but always it moved southward, obscured every few
feet by an intervening trunk or a clump of brush. As he watched
the bobbing light, he heard some one stirring in the room below.
Then the cabin door creaked on its rusty hinges and almost immediately
a jumble of subdued hoarse voices came up to him. He felt for
his pistols and realized with something of a shock that he had
left them in the kitchen with Zachariah. For the first time in
his travels he had neglected to place them beside his bed.
The dogs, admonished by a sharp word or two, ceased their barking.
This reassured him, for they would obey no one except Phineas
Striker. Whoever was at the cabin door, there was no longer any
question in his mind as to the peaceful nature of the visit. He
crept over to the trap-door and cautiously attempted to lift it
an inch or so, the better to hear what was going on, but try as
he would he could not budge the covering. The murmur of voices
went on for a few minutes longer, and then he heard the soft,
light pad of feet on the floor below; sibilant, penetrating whispers;
a suppressed feminine ejaculation followed by the low laugh of
a man, a laugh that might well have been described as a chuckle.
For a long time he lay there listening to the confused sound of
whispers, the stealthy shuffling of feet, the quiet opening and
closing of a door, and then there was silence.
Several minutes passed. He stole back to the window. The light
in the forest had vanished. Just as he was on the point of crawling
into bed again, another sound struck his ear: the unmistakable
rattle of wagon wheels on their axles, the straining of harness,
the rasp of tug chains,--quite near at hand. The clack-clack of
the hubs gradually diminished as the heavy vehicle made its slow,
tortuous way off through the ruts and mire of the road. Presently
the front door of the cabin squealed on its hinges, the latch
snapped and the bolt fell carefully into place.
He could not go to sleep again. His brain was awake and active,
filled with unanswered questions, beset by endless speculation.
The first faint sign of dawn, creeping through the window, found
him watching eagerly, impatiently for its appearance. The presence
of a wagon, even at that black hour of the night, while perhaps
unusual, was readily to be accounted for in more ways than one,
none of them possessing a sinister significance. A neighbouring
farmer making an early start for town stopping to carry out some
friendly commission for Phineas Striker; a settler calling for
assistance in the case of illness at his home; hunters on their
way to the marshes for wild ducks and geese; or even guardians
of the law in search of malefactors. But the mysterious light
in the woods,--that was something not so easily to be explained.
The square little aperture was clearly defined against the greying
sky before he distinguished signs of activity in the room below.
Striker was up and moving about. He could hear him stacking logs
in the fireplace, and presently there came up to him the welcome
crackle of kindling-wood ablaze. A door opened and a gruff voice
spoke. The settler was routing Zachariah out of his slumbers.
Far off in some unknown, remote land a rooster crowed,--the day's
champion, the first of all to greet the rising sun. Almost instantly,
a cock in Striker's barnyard awoke in confusion and dismay, and
sent up a hurried, raucous cock-a-doodle-doo,--too late by half
a minute to claim the honours of the day, but still a valiant
challenger. Then other chanticleers, big and little, sounded their
clarion call,--and the day was born.
Kenneth, despite his longing for this very hour to come, now perversely
wished to sleep. A belated but beatific drowsiness seized him.
He was only half-conscious of the noise that attended the lifting
of the trap-door.
"Wake up! Time to git up," a distant voice was calling,
and he suddenly opened his eyes very wide and found himself staring
at a shaggy, unkempt head sticking up out of the floor, rendered
grim and terrifying by the fitful play of a ruddy light from the
depths below. For a second he was bewildered.
"That you, Striker?" he mumbled.
"Yep,--it's me. Time to git up. Five o'clock. Breakfass'll
soon be ready. You c'n wash up out at the well. Sleep well?"
"Passably. I was awakened some time in the night by your
visitors."
He was sitting up on the edge of the tick, drawing on his boots.
Striker was silent for a moment.
"Thought maybe you'd be disturbed, spite of all we could
do to be as quiet as possible. People from a farm 'tother side
of the plains."
The head disappeared, and in a very few minutes Gwynne, carrying
his coat and waistcoat, descended the ladder into the presence
of a roaring fire. He shot a glance at the closed bedroom door,
and then hastily made his way out of the cabin and around to the
well. Eliza was preparing breakfast. In the grey half-light he
made out Striker and Zachariah moving about the barnlot. A rough
but clean towel hung across the board wall of the well, while
a fresh bucket of water stood on the shelf inside, its chain hanging
limply from the towering end of the "h'isting pole."
As he completed his ablutions, the darkey boy approached.
"Good morning, Zachariah," he spluttered, over the edge
of the towel. "Did you sleep well?"
"No, suh, Marse Kenneth, Ah slep' powerful porely. Ah don't
reckon Ah had mah eyes close' more'n fifteen seconds all night
long, suh."
His master peered at him. Zachariah's eyes were not yet thoroughly
open.
"You mean you did not have them open more than fifteen seconds,
you rascal. Why, you were asleep and snoring by nine o'clock."
"Yas, suh, yas, suh,--but Ah done got 'em wide open ag'in
'side o' no time. Ah jes' couldn't holp worryin', Marse Kenneth,
'bout you all. Ah sez to mahself, ef Marse Kenneth he ain' got
no fitten place to lay his weary haid--"
"Oh, then you were not kept awake by noises or--by the by,
did you hear any noises?"
"Noises? No, SUH! Dis yere cabin hit was like a grave. Thass
what kep' me awake, mos' likely. Ah reckon Ah is used to noises.
Ah jes' couldn't go to sleep widdout 'em, Marse Kenneth. Wuzzen't
even a cricket er a--"
His master's hearty laugh caused him to cut his speech short.
A wary glance out of the corner of his eye satisfied him that
it was now time to change the subject.
"Done fed de hosses, suh, an' mos' ready to packen up fo'
de juhney, suh. Yas, SUH! Ev'thing all hunky-dory jes' soon as
Marse Kenneth done had his breakfuss. YAS, suh! Yas, SUH!"
They ate breakfast by candle-light, Striker and Eliza and Kenneth.
There was no sign of the beautiful and exasperating girl. Phineas
was strangely glum and preoccupied, his wife too busy with her
flap-jacks to take even the slightest interest in the desultory
conversation.
"A little too early for my fellow-guest to be up and about,
I see," ventured Kenneth at last, taking the bull by the
horns. His curiosity had to be satisfied.
Striker did not look up from his plate. "She's gone. She
ain't here."
"Gone?"
"Yep. Left jist a little while 'fore sun-up."
"Her ma sent for her," volunteered Eliza.
"Sent fer her to come in a hurry," added Striker, trying
to be casual.
"Then it was she who went away in the wagon last night,"
said the young man, a note of disappointment in his voice.
"Airly this mornin'," corrected his host. "Jist
half an hour or so 'fore sun-up."
"I trust her mother is not ill."
"No tellin'," was Striker's non-committal response.
It was quite apparent to Kenneth that they did not wish to discuss
the matter. He waited a few moments before remarking:
"I saw a light moving through the woods above here,--a lantern,
I took it to be,--just after I was awakened by the barking of
the dogs. I thought at first it was that which set the dogs off
on a rampage."
Striker was looking at him intently under his bushy eyebrows,
his knife poised halfway to his lips. While he could not see Eliza,
who was at the stove behind him, he was struck by the fact that
there was a brief, significant suspension of activity on her part;
the scrape of the "turnover" in the frying-pan ceased
abruptly.
"A lantern up in the woods?" said Striker slowly, looking
past Gwynne at Eliza.
"A light. It may not have been a lantern."
"Which way was it movin'?"
"In that direction," indicating the south.
The turning of the flap-jacks in the pan was resumed. Striker
relaxed a little.
"Hunters, I reckon, goin' down stream for wild duck and geese
this mornin'. There's a heap o' ducks an' geese passin' over--"
"See here, Phineas," broke in his wife suddenly, "what's
the sense of sayin' that? You know it wasn't duck hunters. Nobody's
out shooting ducks with the river as high as it is down this way,
an' Mr. Gwynne knows it, if he's got half as much sense as I think
he has."
"When I heard people out in front of the cabin shortly afterward,
I naturally concluded that the lantern belonged to them,"
remarked the young man.
"Well, it didn't," said Striker, laying down his knife.
"I guess it won't hurt you to know now somethin' that will
be of considerable interest to you later on. I ain't betrayin'
nobody's secret, 'cause I said I was goin' to tell you the whole
story."
"Don't you think you'd better let it come from somebody else,
Phin?" interposed his wife nervously.
"No, I don't, Eliza. 'Cause why? 'Cause I think he'd ort
to know. Maybe he'll be able to put a stop to her foolishness.
We didn't know until long after you went to bed that her real
reason fer comin' here yesterday was to run off an' get married
to Barry Lapelle. She didn't tell you no lies about her clothes
an' all that, 'cause her ma had put her foot down on her takin'
off black. They had it all planned out beforehand, her an' this
Lapelle. He was to come fer her some time before daybreak with
a couple of hosses an' they was to be off before the sun was up
on their way to Attica where they was to be married, an' then
go on down the river to his home in Terry Hut. Me an' Eliza set
up all night in that bedroom, tryin' to coax her out of it. I
don't like this Lapelle feller. He's a handsome cuss, but he's
as wild as all get out,--drinks, gambles, an' all setch. Well,
to make a long story short, that was prob'ly him up yander on
the ole Injin trace, with his hosses, waitin' fer the time to
come when they could be off. Her ma must have found out about
their plans, 'cause she come here herself with two of her hired
men an' old Cap'n Scott, a friend of the fam'ly, an' took her
daughter right out from under Barry's nose. It was them you heared
down here last night. I will say this fer the girl, she kinder
made up her mind 'long about midnight that it was a foolish thing
to do, runnin' off like this with Barry, an' like as not when
the time come she'd have backed out."
"She's a mighty headstrong girl," said Eliza. "Sot
in her ways an' sp'iled a good deal by goin' to school down to
St. Louis." "Her mother don't want her to marry Lapelle.
She's dead sot ag'inst it. It's a mighty funny way fer the girl
to act, when she's so fond of her mother. I can't understand it
in her. All the more reason fer her to stick to her mother when
it's a fact that the old woman ain't got what you'd call a friend
in the whole deestrict. She's a queer sort of woman,--close an'
stingy as all get out, an' as hard as a hickory log. Never been
seen at a church meetin'. She makes her daughter go whenever there's
a meetin', but as fer herself,--no, sirree. 'Course, I understand
why she's so sot ag'inst Barry. She's purty well off an' the girl
will be rich some day."
"Shucks!" exclaimed Eliza. "Barry Lapelle's after
her 'cause she's the purtiest girl him or anybody else has ever
seen. He ain't the only man that's in love with her. They ALL
are,--clear from Lafayette to Terry Hut, an' maybe beyond. Don't
you tell me it's her money he's after, Phin Striker. He's after
HER. He's got plenty of money himself, so they say, so why--"
"I ain't so sure about that," broke in her husband.
"There's a lot of talk about him gamblin' away most everything
his father left him. Lost one of his boats last winter in a poker
game up at Lafayette, an' had to borrer money on some land he's
got down the river to git it back. The packet Paul Revere it was.
Used to run on the Mississippi. I guess she kinder lost her head
over him," he went on musingly. "He's an awful feller
with women, so good-lookin' an' all, an' so different from the
farm boys aroun' here. Allus got good clothes on, an' they say
he has fit a couple of duels down the river. Somehow that allus
appeals to young girls. But I can't understand it in her. She's
setch a level-headed girl,--but, then, I guess they're all alike
when a good-lookin' man comes along. Look at Eliza here. The minute
she sot eyes on me she--" "I didn't marry you, Phin
Striker, because you was purty, let me tell you that," exclaimed
Eliza, witheringly.
Gwynne, who had been listening to all this with a queer sinking
of the heart, interrupted what promised to develop into an acrimonious
wrangle over pre-connubial impressions. He was decidedly upset
by the revelations; a vague dream, barely begun, came to a sharp
and disagreeable end.
"She actually had planned to run away with this man Lapelle?"
he exclaimed, frowning. "It was all arranged?"
"So I take it," said Striker. "She brought some
of her personal trinkets with her, but Eliza never suspected anything
queer about that."
"The fellow must be an arrant scoundrel," declared the
young man angrily. "No gentleman would subject an innocent
girl to such--"
"All's well that ends well, as the feller says," interrupted
Striker, arising from the table. "At least fer the present.
She seemed sort of willin' to go home with her ma, so I guess
her heart ain't everlastingly busted. I thought it was best to
tell you all this, Mr. Gwynne, 'cause I got a sneakin' idee you're
goin' to see a lot of that girl, an' maybe you'll turn out to
be a source of help in time o' trouble to her."
"I fail to understand just what you mean, Striker. She is
an absolute stranger to me."
"Well, we'll see what we shall see," said Striker, cryptically.
He opened the kitchen door and called to Zachariah to hurry in
and get his breakfast.
Half an hour later Kenneth and his servant mounted their horses
in the barnyard and prepared to depart. The sun was shining and
there was a taste and tang of spring in the breeze that flouted
the faces of the horsemen.
"Follow this road back to the crossin' an' turn to your left,"
directed Striker, "an' 'fore you know it you'll be in Lay-flat,
as they call it down in Crawfordsville. Remember, you're allus
most welcome here. I reckon we'll see somethin' of each other
as time goes on. It ain't difficult fer honest men to be friends
as well as neighbours in this part of the world. I'm glad you
happened my way last night."
He walked alongside Gwynne's stirrup as they moved down toward
the road.
"Some day," said the young man, "I should like
to have a long talk with you about my father. You knew him well
and I--by the way, your love-lorn friend knew him also."
The other was silent for half a dozen paces, looking straight
ahead.
"Yes," said he, with curious deliberation. "She
was sayin' as how she told you a lot about him last night,--what
sort of a man he was, an' all that."
"She told me nothing that--"
"Jist a minute, Mr. Gwynne," said Striker, laying his
hand on the rider's knee. Kenneth drew rein. "I guess maybe
you didn't know who she was talkin' about at the time, but it
was your father she was describin'. We all three knowed somethin'
that you didn't know, an' it's only fair fer me to tell you the
truth, now that she's out of the way. That girl was Viola Gwyn,
an' she's your half-sister."
CHAPTER V
REFLECTIONS AND AN ENCOUNTER
The sun was barely above the eastward wall of trees when Kenneth
and his man rode away from the home of Phineas Striker. Their
progress was slow and arduous, for the black mud was well up to
the fetlocks of the horses in this new road across the boggy clearing.
He rode ahead, as was the custom, followed a short distance behind
by his servant on the strong, well-laden pack-horse.
The master was in a thoughtful, troubled mood. He paid little
attention to the glories of the fresh spring day. What he had
just heard from the lips of the settler disturbed him greatly.
That beautiful girl his half-sister! The child of his own father
and the hated Rachel Carter! Rachel Carter, the woman he had been
brought up to despise, the harlot who had stolen his father away,
the scarlet wanton at whose door the death of his mother was laid!
That evil woman, Rachel Carter!
Could she, this foulest of thieves, be the mother of so lovely,
so sensitive, so perfect a creature as Viola Gwyn?
As he rode frowningly along, oblivious to the low chant of the
darkey and the song of the first spring warblers, he revisualized
the woman he had known in his earliest childhood. Strangely enough,
the face of Rachel Carter had always remained more firmly, more
indelibly impressed upon his memory than that of his own mother.
This queer, unusual circumstance may be easily, reasonably accounted
for: his grandfather's dogged, almost daily lessons in hate. He
was not allowed to forget Rachel Carter,--not for one instant.
Always she was kept before him by that bitter, vindictive old
man who was his mother's father,--even up to the day that he lay
on his deathbed. Small wonder, then, that his own mother's face
had faded from his memory while that of Rachel Carter remained
clear and vivid, as he had known it now for twenty years. The
passing years might perforce bring about changes in the face and
figure of Rachel Carter, but they could not, even in the smallest
detail, alter the picture his mind's eye had carried so long and
faithfully. He could think of her only as she was when he last
saw her, twenty years ago: tall and straight, with laughing eyes
and white teeth, and the colour of tan-bark in her cheeks.
Then there had been little Minda,--tiny Minda who existed vaguely
as a name, nothing more. He had a dim recollection of hearing
his elders say that the babe with the yellow curls had been drowned
when a boat turned over far away in the big brown river. Some
one had come to his grandfather's house with the news. He recalled
hearing the talk about the accident, and his grandfather lifting
his fist toward the sky and actually blaming God for something!
He never forgot that. His grandfather had blamed God!
He had thought of asking Striker about his father's widow, after
hearing the truth about Viola, but a stubborn pride prevented.
It had been on his tongue to inquire when and where Robert Gwynne
and Rachel Carter were married,--he did not doubt that they had
been legally married,--but he realized in time that in all probability
the settler, as well as every one else in the community, was totally
uninformed as to the past life of Robert and Rachel Gwynne. Besides,
the query would reveal an ignorance on his part that he was loath
to expose to speculation.
Striker had explained the somewhat distasteful scrutiny to which
he had been subjected the night before. All three of them, knowing
him to be Viola's blood relation, were studying his features with
interest, seeking for a trace of family resemblance, not alone
to his father but to the girl herself. This had set him thinking.
There was not, so far as he could determine, the slightest likeness
between him and his beautiful half-sister; there was absolutely
nothing to indicate that their sire was one and the same man.
Pondering, he now understood what Striker meant in declaring that
he ought to know the truth about the frustrated elopement. Even
though the honest settler was aware of the strained relations
existing between the widow and her husband's son by a former wife,--(the
deceased in his will had declared in so many words that he owed
more than mere reparation to the neglected but unforgotten son
born to him and his beloved but long dead wife, Laura Gwynne),--even
though Striker knew all this, it was evident that he looked upon
this son as the natural protector of the wilful girl, notwithstanding
the feud between step-mother and step-son.
And Kenneth, as he rode away, felt a new weight of responsibility
as unwelcome to him as it was certain to be to Viola; for, when
all was said and done, she was her mother's daughter and as such
doubtless looked upon him through the mother's eyes, seeing a
common enemy. Still, she was his half-sister, and whether he liked
it or not he was morally bound to stand between her and disaster,--and
if Striker was right, marriage with the wild Lapelle spelled disaster
of the worst kind. He had only to recall, however, the unaccountable
look of hostility with which she had favoured him more than once
during the evening to realize that he was not likely to be called
upon for either advice or protection.
He mused aloud, with the shrug of a philosopher: "Heigh-ho!
I fear me I shall have small say as to the conduct of this newly
found relation. The only tie that bound us is gone. She is not
only the child of my father, whom she feared and perhaps hated,
but of mine enemy, whom she loves,--so the case is clear. There
is a wall between us, and I shall not attempt to surmount it.
What a demnition mess it has turned out to be. I came prepared
to find only the creature I have scorned and despised, and I discover
that I have a sister so beautiful that, not knowing her at all,
my eyes are dazzled and my heart goes to thumping like any silly
school boy's. Aye, 'tis a very sorry pass. Were it not so demned
upsetting, it would be amusing. Fate never played a wilder prank.
What, ho, Zachariah! Where are we now? Whose farm is that upon
the ridge?"
Zachariah, urging his horse forward, consulted his memory. Striker
had mentioned the farms they were to pass en route, and the features
by which they were to be identified. Far away on a rise in the
sweep of prairie-land stood a lonely cabin, with a clump of trees
behind it.
"Well, Marse Kenneth, ef hit ain' de Sherry place hit shorely
am de Sheridan place, an' ef hit ain't nuther one o' dem hit mus'
belong to Marse Dimmit er---"
"It is neither of these, you rascal. We are to the north
of them, if I remember our directions rightly. Mr. Hollingsworth
and the Kisers live hereabouts, according to Phineas Striker.
A house with a clump of trees,--it is Mr. Huff's farm. Soon we
will come to the Martin and Talbot places, and then the land that
is mine, Zachariah. It lies for the most part on this side of
the Crawfordsville road."
"Is yo' gwine to stop dere, Marse Kenneth?"
"No. I shall ride out from town some day soon to look the
place over," said his master with a pardonable lordliness
of mien, becoming to a landed gentleman. "Our affairs at
present lie in the town, for there is much to be settled before
I take charge. Striker tells me the man who is farming the place
is an able, honest fellow. I shall not disturb him. From what
he says, my property is more desirable in every way than the land
that fell to my father's widow. Her farm lies off to our left,
it seems, and reaches almost to the bottomlands of the river.
We, Zachariah, are out here in the fertile prairie land. Our west
line extends along the full length of her property. So, you see,
the only thing that separates the two farms is an imaginary line
no wider than your little finger, drawn by a surveyor and established
by law. You will observe, my faithful fellow,--assuming that you
are a faithful fellow,--that as we draw farther away from the
woods along the river, the road becomes firmer, the soil less
soggy, the--If you will cast your worthless eye about you, instead
of at these mud-puddles, you will also observe the vast fields
of stubble, the immense stretches of corn stalks and the signs
of spring ploughing on all sides. Truly 'tis a wonderful country.
See yon pasture, Zachariah, with the cows and calves,--a good
score of them. And have you, by the way, noticed what a glorious
day it is? This is life!"
"Yas, suh, Marse Kenneth, Ah done notice dat, an' Ah done
notice somefin ailse. Ah done notice dem buzzards flyin' low over
yan way. Dat means death, Marse Kenneth. Somefin sho' am daid
over yan way."
"You are a melancholy croaker, Zachariah. You see naught
but the buzzards, when all about you are the newly come birds
of spring, the bluebird, the robin, and the thrush. Soon the meadow
lark will be in the fields, and the young quail and the prairie-hen."
"Yas, suh," agreed Zachariah, brightening, "an'
de yaller-hammer an' de blue-jay an' de--an' de rattlesnake,"
he concluded, with a roving, uneasy look along the roadside.
"Do not forget the saucy parroquets we saw yesterday as we
came through the forest. You went so far in your excitement over
those little green and golden birds, with their scarlet heads,
that you declared they reminded you of the Garden of Eden. Look
about you, Zachariah. Here is the Garden of Eden, right at your
feet. Do you see those plum trees over yonder? Well, sir, old
Adam and Eve used to sit under those very trees during the middle
of the day, resting themselves in the shade. And right over there
behind that big rock is where the serpent had his nest. He gave
Eve a plum instead of an apple, because Eve was especially fond
of plums and did not care at all for apples. She--"
"'Scuse me, Marse Kenneth, but dem is hawthorn trees,"
said Zachariah, grinning.
"So they are, so they are. Now that I come to think of it,
it was the red-haw that Eve fancied more than any other fruit
in the garden."
"Yas, suh,--an' ole Adam he was powerful fond ob snappin'-turtles
fo' breakfas'," said Zachariah, pointing to a tortoise creeping
slowly along the ditch. "An' lil Cain an' Abel,--my lan',
how dem chillum used to gobble up de mud pies ole Mammy Eve used
to make right out ob dish yere road we's ridin' on."
And so, in this sportive mood, master and man, warmed by the golden
sun and cheered by the spring wind of an April morn, traversed
this new-found realm of Cerus, forded the turbulent, swollen creek
that later on ran through the heart of the Gwynne acres, and came
at length to the main road leading into the town.
They passed log cabins and here and there pretentious frame houses
standing back from the road in the shelter of oak and locust groves.
Their passing was watched by curious women and children in dooryards
and porches, while from the fields men waved greeting and farewell
with the single sweep of a hat. On every barn door the pelts of
foxes and raccoons were stretched and nailed.
Presently they drew near to a lane reaching off to the west, and
apparently ending in a wooded knoll, a quarter of a mile away.
"There," said Kenneth, with a wave of his hand, "is
where I shall some day erect a mansion, Zachariah, that will be
the wonder and the envy of all the people in the country. For
unless I am mistaken, that is the grove of oaks that Striker mentioned.
Behold, Zachariah,--all that is mine. Four hundred acres of as
fine farm-land as there is in all the world, and timber unparalleled.
Yes, I am right. There is the house that Striker described, the
place where my father lived he first came to the Wea. Egad, 'tis
not a regal palace, is it, Zachariah? The most imposing thing
about it is the chimney."
They were gazing at a cabin that squatted meekly over against
the wall of oaks. Its roof was barely visible above the surrounding
stockade, while the barn and styes and sheds were hidden entirely
beyond the slope. It was, in truth, the most primitive and insignificant
house they had seen that day.
"He was one of the first to build in this virgin waste,"
mused the young man aloud. "Rough and parlous were the days
when he came to this land, Zachariah. There was no town of Lafayette,
no neighbours save the rude, uncultured trappers. Now see how
the times have changed. And, mark my guess, Zachariah, there will
be still greater changes before we are laid away. There will be
cities and--Ha! Look, Zachariah,--to the right of the grove. It
is all as Striker said. There is the other house,--two miles or
more to the westward. That is HER house. It is new, scarce two
years old, built of lumber instead of logs, and quite spacious.
There are, he tells me, two stories, containing four rooms, with
a kitchen off the back, a smoke-house and a granary besides the
barn,--yes, I see them all, just as he said we should see them
after we rounded the grove."
He drew rein and gazed at the distant house, set on a ridge and
backed by the seemingly endless forest that stretched off to the
north and south. His face clouded, his jaw was set, and his eyes
were hard.
"Yes, that would be Rachel Carter's house," he continued,
harshly. "Her land and my land lying side by side, with only
a fence between. Her grain and my grain growing out of the same
soil. What an unholy trick for fate to play. Perhaps she is over
there, even now. She and Viola. It is not likely that they would
have started for town at an earlier hour than this. And to think
of the damnable situation I shall find in town. She will be my
neighbour,--just as she was twenty years ago. We shall live within
speaking distance of each other, we shall see each other perhaps
a dozen times a day, and yet we may neither speak nor see. Egad,
I wonder what I'll do if she even attempts to address me! Heigh-ho!
'Tis the mischief of Satan himself. Come, Zachariah,--you lazy
rascal! As if you had not slept soundly all night long, you must
now fall asleep sitting bolt upright in the saddle."
And so on they rode again, at times breaking into a smart canter
where the road was solid, but for the most part proceeding with
irksome slowness through the evil slough. Ahead lay the dense
wood they were to traverse before coming to the town. Soon the
broad, open prairie would be behind them, they would be plunged
into the depths of a forest primeval, wending their way through
five miles of solitude to the rim of the vale in which the town
was situated. But the forest had no terrors for them. They were
accustomed to the long silences, the sombre shades, the seemingly
endless stretches of wildwood wherein no mortal dwelt. They had
come from afar and they were young, and hardy, and fearless. Beyond
that wide wall of trees lay journey's end; a new life awaited
them on the other side of the barrier forest.
Suddenly Zachariah called his master's attention to a horseman
who rode swiftly, even recklessly across the fields to their left
and well ahead of them. They watched the rider with interest,
struck by the furious pace he was holding, regardless of consequences
either to himself or his steed.
"Mus' be somebody pow'ful sick, Marse Kenneth, fo' dat man
to be ridin' so fas'," remarked Zachariah.
"Going for a doctor, I sup--Begad, he must have come from
Rachel Carter's farm! There is no other house in sight over in
that direction. I wonder if--" He did not complete the sentence,
but frowned anxiously as he looked over his shoulder at the distant
house.
Judging by the manner and the direction in which he was galloping,
the rider would reach the main road a quarter of a mile ahead
of them, about at the point where it entered the wood. Kenneth
now made out an unfenced wagon-road through the field, evidently
a short-cut from Rachel Carter's farm to the highway. He permitted
himself a faint, sardonic smile. This, then, was to be her means
of reaching the highway rather than to use the lane that ran past
his house and no doubt crossed a section of his farm.
Sure enough the horseman turned into the road some distance ahead
of them and rode straight for the forest. Then, for the first
time, Gwynne observed a second rider, motionless at the roadside,
and in the shadow of the towering, leafless trees that marked
the portal through which they must enter the forest. The flying
horseman slowed down as he neared this solitary figure, coming
to a standstill when he reached his side. A moment later, both
riders were cantering toward the wood, apparently in excited,
earnest conversation. A few rods farther on, both turned to look
over their shoulders at the slow-moving travellers. Then they
stopped, wheeled about, and stood still, awaiting their approach.
Kenneth experienced a poignant thrill of apprehension What was
he to expect: a friendly or a sanguinary encounter? He slipped
his right hand into the saddle pocket and drew forth a pistol
which he shoved hastily inside his waistcoat, covering the stock
with the folds of his cape.
"Keep a little way behind me," he said to his servant,
a trace of excitement in his voice.
"Yas, suh," said Zachariah, with more alacrity than
valour, the whites of his eyes betraying something more than a
readiness to obey this conservative order. It was a foregone conclusion
that Zachariah would turn tail and flee the instant there was
a sign of danger. "Slave hunters, Marse Kenneth, dat's what
dey is," he announced with conviction. "Ah c'n smell
'em five miles away. Yas, suh,--dey's gwine a' make trouble fo'
you, Marse Kenneth, sho' as you is--" But by this time he
had dropped so far behind that his opinions were valueless.
When not more than fifty yards separated the two parties, one
of the men, with a word and an imperative jerk of the head to
his companion, advanced slowly to meet Kenneth. This man was the
one who had waited for the other at the edge of the wood.
Gwynne beheld a tall, strongly built young man who rode his horse
with the matchless grace of an Indian. Although his companion
was roughly dressed and wore a coon-skin cap, this man was unmistakably
a dandy. His high beaver hat observed a jaunty, rakish tilt; his
brass-buttoned coat was the colour of wine and of the latest fashion,
while his snug fitting pantaloons were the shade of the mouse.
He wore no cumbersome cape, but fashioned about his neck and shoulders
was a broad, sloping collar of mink. There were silver spurs on
his stout riding boots, and the wide cuffs of his gauntlets were
embroidered in silver.
He was a handsome fellow of the type described as dashing. Dark
gleaming eyes peered out beneath thick black eyebrows which met
in an unbroken line above his nose. Set in a face of unusual pallor,
they were no doubt rendered superlatively brilliant by contrast.
His skin was singularly white above the bluish, freshly shaven
cheeks and chin. His hair was black and long and curling. The
thin lips, set and unsmiling, were nevertheless drawn up slightly
at one corner of the mouth in what appeared to be a permanent
stamp of superiority and disdain,--or even contempt. Altogether,
a most striking face, thought Gwynne,--and the man himself a person
of importance. The very manner in which he jerked his head to
his companion was proof enough of that.
"Good morning," said this lordly gentleman, bringing
his horse to a standstill and raising his "gad" to the
brim of his hat in a graceful salute.
Gwynne drew rein alongside. He had observed in a swift glance
that the stranger was apparently unarmed, except for the short,
leather gad.
"Good morning," he returned. "I am on the right
road to Lafayette, I take it." "You are," said
the other. "From Crawfordsville way?"
"Yes. I left that place yesterday. I come from afar, however.
This is a strange country to me."
"It is strange to most of us. Unless I am mistaken, sir,
you are Mr. Kenneth Gwynne."
The other smiled. "My approach appears to be fairly well
heralded. Were I a vain person I should feel highly complimented."
"Then you ARE Kenneth Gwynne?" said the stranger, rather
curtly.
"Yes. That is my name."
"Permit me to make myself known to you. My name is Lapelle,--Barry
Lapelle. While mine no doubt is unfamiliar to you, yours is well
known to me. In fact, it is known to every one in these parts.
You have long been expected. You will find the town anxiously
awaiting your appearance." He smiled slightly. "If you
could arrange to arrive after nightfall, I am sure you would find
bonfires and perhaps a torchlight procession in your honour. As
it is, I rather suspect our enterprising citizen, Mr. William
Smith, will fire a salute when you appear in view."
"A salute?" exclaimed Kenneth blankly.
"A joyful habit of his, but rather neglected of late. It
used to be his custom, I hear, to put a charge of powder in a
stump and set it off whenever a steamboat drew up to the landing.
That was his way of letting the farmers for miles around know
that a fresh supply of goods had arrived and they were to hurry
in and do the necessary trading at the store. He almost blew himself
and his store to Hallelujah a year or two ago, and so he isn't
quite so enterprising as he was. I am on my way to town, Mr. Gwynne,
so if you do not mind, I shall give myself the pleasure of riding
along with you for a short distance. I shall have to leave you
soon, however, as I am due in the town by ten o'clock. You are
too heavily laden, I see, to travel at top speed,--and that is
the way I am obliged to ride, curse the luck. When I have set
you straight at the branch of the roads a little way ahead, I
shall use the spurs,--and see you later on."
"You are very kind. I will be pleased to have you jog along
with me."
CHAPTER VI
BARRY LAPELLE
So this was Barry Lapelle. This was the wild rake who might yet
become his brother-in-law, and whose sprightly enterprise had
been frustrated by a woman who had, herself, stolen away in the
dark of a far-off night.
As they rode slowly along, side by side, into the thick of the
forest, Kenneth found himself studying the lover's face. He looked
for the signs of the reckless dissipated life he was supposed
to have led,--and found them not. Lapelle's eyes were bright and
clear, his skin unblemished, his hand steady, his infrequent smile
distinctly engaging. The slight, disdainful twist never left the
corner of his mouth, however. It lurked there as a constant reminder
to all the world that he, Barry Lapelle, was a devil of a fellow
and was proud of it. While he was affable, there was no disguising
the fact that he was also condescending. Unquestionably he was
arrogant, domineering, even pompous at times, absolutely sure
of himself.
He spoke with a slight drawl, in a mellow, agreeable voice, and
with meticulous regard for the King's English,--an educated youth
who had enjoyed advantages and associations uncommon to young
men of the frontier. His untanned face testified to a life of
ease and comfort, spent in sheltered places and not in the staining
open, where sun and wind laid bronze upon the skin. A lordly fellow,
decided Kenneth, and forthwith took a keen dislike for him. Nevertheless,
it was not difficult to account for Viola's interest in him; nor,
to a certain extent, the folly which led her to undertake the
exploit of the night before. Barry Lapelle would have his way
with women.
"You come from Kentucky, Mr. Gwynne," Lapelle was saying.
"I am from Louisiana. My father came up to St. Louis a few
years ago after establishing a line of steamboats between Terre
Haute and the gulf. Two of our company's boats come as far north
as Lafayette, so I spend considerable of my time there at this
season of the year. You will find, sir, a number of Kentucky and
Virginia people in this part of the state. Splendid stock, some
of them. I understand you have spent several years in the East,
at college and in pursuit of your study of the law."
"Principally in New York and Philadelphia," responded
the other, subduing a smile. "My fame seems to have preceded
me, Mr. Lapelle. Even in remote parts of the country I find my
arrival anticipated. The farmer with whom I spent the night was
thoroughly familiar with my affairs."
"You are an object of interest to every one in this section,"
said Lapelle, indifferently. "Where did you spend the night?"
"At the farm of a man named Striker,--Phineas Striker."
Lapelle started. His body appeared to stiffen in the saddle.
"Phineas Striker?" he exclaimed, with a swift, searching
look into the speaker's eyes. Suddenly a flush mantled his cheek.
"You were at Phineas Striker's last night?"
"Yes. We had lost our way and came to his place just before
the storm," said Kenneth, watching his companion narrowly.
Lapelle's face was a study. Doubt, indecision, even dismay, were
expressed in swift succession.
"Then you must have met,--but no, it isn't likely,"
he said, in some confusion.
Kenneth hesitated a moment, enjoying the other's discomfiture.
Then he said: "I met no one there except my sister, who also
happened to be spending the night with the Strikers."
The colour faded from Lapelle's face, leaving it a sickly white.
"Were you in any way responsible for--well, for her departure,
Mr. Gwynne?" he demanded, his eyes flaming with swift, sudden
anger.
"I was not aware of her departure until I arose this morning,
Mr. Lapelle. Striker informed me that she went away before sunrise."
For a moment Lapelle glared at him suspiciously, and then gave
vent to a short, contemptuous laugh.
"A thousand apologies," he said, shrugging his shoulders.
"I might have known you would not be consulted."
"I never laid eyes on my half-sister until last night,"
said Kenneth, determined to hold his temper. "It is not likely
that she would have asked the advice of a total stranger, is it?
Especially in so simple a matter as going home when she felt like
it."
Lapelle shrugged his shoulders again. "I quite forgot that
you are a lawyer, Mr. Gwynne," he said, drily. "Is it
your purpose to hang out your shingle in the town of Lafayette?"
"My plans are indefinite."
"You could do worse, I assure you. The town is bound to grow.
It will be an important town in a very few years." And so
the subject uppermost in the minds of both was summarily dismissed.
They came at last to the point where a road branched off to the
right. The stillness was intense. There was no sign of either
human or animal life in the depths of this wide, primeval forest.
"Follow this road," said Lapelle, pointing straight
ahead. "It will take you into the town. You will find the
bridge over Durkee's Run somewhat shaky after the rain, but it
is safe. I must leave you here. I shall no doubt see you at Johnson's
Inn, in case you intend to stop there. Good morning, sir."
He lifted his hat and, touching the spirited mare with the gad,
rode swiftly away. A few hundred feet ahead he overtook his mud-spattered
friend and the two of them were soon lost to sight among the trees.
Kenneth fell into profound cogitation. Evidently Lapelle had waited
at the edge of the forest for a report of some description from
the farmhouse belonging to Rachel Carter. In all probability Viola
was still at the farm with her mother, and either she had sent
a message to her lover or had received one from him. Or, it was
possible, Lapelle had despatched his man to the farmhouse to ascertain
whether the girl was there, or had been hurried on into the town
by her mother. In any case, the disgruntled lover was not content
to acknowledge himself thwarted or even discouraged by the miscarriage
of his plans of the night just ended. Kenneth found himself wondering
if the incomprehensible Viola would prove herself to be equally
determined. If so, they would triumph over opposition and be married,
whether or no. He was conscious of an astounding, almost unbelievable
desire to stand with Rachel Carter in her hour of trouble.
His thoughts went back, as they had done more than once that morning,
to Viola's artful account of his own father. He had felt sorry
for her during and after the recital and now, with the truth revealed
to him, he was even more concerned than before,--for he saw unhappiness
ahead of her if she married this fellow Lapelle. He went even
farther back and recalled his own caustic opinions of certain
young rakes he had known in the East, wherein he had invariably
asseverated that if he "had a sister he would sooner see
her dead than married to that rascal." Well,--here he was
with a sister,--and what was he to do about it?
Zachariah, observing the dark frown upon his master's face, and
receiving no answer to a thrice repeated question, fell silent
except for the almost inaudible hymn with which he invited consolation.
From afar in the thick wood now came the occasional report of
a gun, proof that hunters were abroad. Many times Kenneth was
roused from his reverie by the boom and whiz of pheasants, or
the ring of a woodman's axe, or the lively scurrying of ground
squirrels across his path. They forded three creeks before emerging
upon a boggy, open space, covered with a mass of flattened, wind-broken
reeds and swamp grass, in the centre of which lay a wide, still
bayou partially fringed by willows with the first sickly signs
of spring upon them in the shape of timid mole-ear leaves. Beyond
the bridge over the canal-like stream which fed the bayou was
a ridge of hills along whose base the road wound with tortuous
indecision.
The first log cabin they had seen since entering the wood nestled
among the scrub oaks of the hill hard by. The front wall of the
hut was literally covered with the pegged-up skins of foxes, raccoons
and what were described to Kenneth as the hides of "linxes,"
but which, in reality, were from the catamount. A tall, bewhiskered
man, smoking a corncob pipe, leaned upon the rail fence, regarding
the strangers with lazy interest.
Kenneth drew rein and inquired how far it was to Lafayette.
"'Bout two mile an' a half," replied the man. "My
name is Stain, Isaac Stain. I reckon you must be Mister Kenneth
Gwynne. I heerd you'd be along this way some time this mornin'."
"I suppose Mr. Lapelle informed you that I was coming along
behind," said Kenneth, smiling.
"'Twuzn't Barry Lapelle as told me. I hain't seen him to-day."
"Didn't he pass here within the hour?"
"Nope," was the laconic response.
"I met him back along the road. He was coming this way."
"Must 'a' changed his mind."
"He probably took another road."
"There hain't no other road. I reckon he turned off into
the wood an' 'lowed you to pass," said Mr. Stain slowly.
"But he was in great haste to reach town. He may have passed
when you were not--"
"He didn't pass this place unless he was astraddle of an
eagle er somethin' like that," declared the other, grinning.
"An' even then he'd have to be flyin' purty doggone high
ef I couldn't see him. Nope. I guess he took to the woods, Mr.
Gwynne, for one reason er 'nother,--an' it must ha' been a mighty
good reason, 'cause from what I know about Barry Lapelle he allus
knows which way he's goin' to leap long before he leaps. He's
sorter like a painter in that way."
Kenneth, knowing that he meant panther when he said painter, was
properly impressed.
"It is very strange," he said, frowning. It was suddenly
revealed to him that if Lapelle had tricked him it was because
the messenger had brought word from Viola, at the farmhouse, and
that the baffled lovers might even now be laying fresh plans to
outwit the girl's mother. This fear was instantly dissipated by
the next remark of Isaac Stain.
"Nope. It wuzn't him that told me about you, pardner. It
wuz Violy Gwyn. She went by here with her ma, jes' as I wuz startin'
off to look at my traps,--'long about seven o'clock, I reckon,--headed
for town. She sez to me, sez she: 'Ike, there'll be a young man
an' a darkey boy come ridin' this way some time this forenoon
an' I want you to give him a message for me.' 'With pleasure,'
sez I; 'anything you ask,' sez I. 'Well,' sez she, 'it's this.
Fust you ask him ef his name is Kenneth Gwynne, an 'ef he sez
it is, then you look an' see ef he is a tall feller an' very good-lookin',
without a beard, an' wearin' a blue cape, an' when you see that
he answers that description, why, you tell him to come an' see
me as soon as he gits to town. Tell him it's very important.'
'All right,' sez I, 'I'll tell him.'"
"Where was her mother all this time?"
"Settin' right there in the buggy beside her, holdin' the
reins. Where else would she be?"
"Did she say anything about my coming to see her daughter?"
"Nope. She never said anythin' 'cept 'Good mornin', Ike,'
an' I sez 'Good mornin', Mrs. Gwyn.' She don't talk much, she
don't. You see, she's in mournin' fer her husband. I guess he
wuz your pa, wuzn't he?"
"Yes," said Kenneth briefly. "Was there anything
else?"
"Nothin' to amount to anything. Violy sez, 'When did you
get the linx skins, Ike?' an' I sez, 'Last Friday, Miss Violy,'
an' she sez, 'Ain't they beautiful?' an' I sez--"
"She wants me to come to her house?" broke in Kenneth,
his brow darkening.
"I reckon so."
"Well, I thank you, Mr. Stain. You are very kind to have
waited so long for me to arrive. I--"
"Oh, I'd do a whole lot more'n that fer her," said the
hunter quickly. "You see, I've knowed her ever since she
wuz knee-high to a duck. She wuzn't more'n five or six when I
brung her an' her folks up the Wabash in my perogue, all the way
from Vincennes, an' it wuz me that took her down to St. Louis
when she went off to school--her an' some friends of her pa's.
Skinny, gangling sort of a young 'un she wuz, but let me tell
you, as purty as a picter. I allus said she'd be the purtiest
woman in all creation when she got her growth an' filled out,
an', by hokey, I wuz right. Yes, sir, I used to run a boat on
the river down below, but I give it up quite awhile ago an' come
up here to live like a gentleman." He waved his hand proudly
over his acre and a half estate. "I wuz talkin' to Bill Digby
not long ago an' he sez this is a wonderful location for a town,
right here at the fork of two o' the best fishin' cricks in the
state. An' Bill he'd ort to know, 'cause he's laid out more towns
than anybody I know of. The only trouble with Bill is that as
soon as he lays 'em out somebody comes along an' offers him a
hundred dollars er so fer 'em, er a team of hosses, er a good
coon dog, an' he up an' sells. Now, with me, I--Got to be movin'
along, have you? Well, good-bye, an' be a little keerful when
you come to Durkee's Run bridge. It's kinder wobbly."
They were fording a creek some distance beyond Stain's cabin when
Kenneth broke the silence that had followed the conversation with
the hunter by exploding violently:
"Under no circumstances,--and that's all there is to it."
Zachariah, ever ready to seize an opportunity to raise his voice,
either in expostulation or agreement, took this as a generous
opening. He exclaimed with commendable feeling:
"Yas, suh! Undeh no suckemstances! No, suh!"
"It is not even to be thought of," declared his master,
frowning heavily.
"No, suh! We can't even think about it, Marse Kenneth,"
said Zachariah, a trifle less decisively.
"So that is the end of it,--absolutely the end."
"Dat's what Ah say,--yas, suh, dat's what Ah say all along,
suh!"
His master suddenly turned upon him. "I cannot go to that
woman's house. It is unthinkable, Zachariah."
Zachariah began to see light. "Yo' all got to be mighty car'ful
'bout dese yere strange women, Marse Kenneth. Don' you forget
what done happen in 'at ole Garden of Eden. Dis yere old Eve,
she--"
"Still I am greatly relieved to know that she is in town
and not out on the farm. It is a relief, isn't it, Zachariah?"
"Yas, suh,--hit sho'ly am."
They progressed slowly up a long hill and came to an extensive
clearing, over which perhaps half a dozen farmhouses were scattered.
Beyond this open space they entered a narrow strip of wood and,
upon emerging, had their first glimpse of the Wabash River.
Stopping at the brow of the hill, they looked long and curiously
over the valley into which they were about to descend. The panorama
was magnificent. To the left flowed the swollen, turgid river,
high among the willows and sycamores that guarded the low-lying
bank. Far to the north it could be seen, a clayish, ugly monster,
crawling down through the heart of the bowl-like depression. Mile
after mile of sparsely wooded country lay revealed to the gaze
of the travellers, sunken between densely covered ridges, one
on either side of the river. Half a mile beyond where they stood
feathery blue plumes of smoke rose out of the tree tops and, dispersing,
floated away on the breeze,--and there lay the town of Lafayette,
completely hidden from view.
The road wound down the hill and across a clumsily constructed
bridge spanning the Run and thence along the flat shelf that rimmed
the bottom-land, through a maze of wild plum and hazel brush squatting,
as it were, at the feet of the towering forest giants that covered
the hills.
Presently the travellers came upon widely separated cabins and
gardens, and then, after passing through a lofty grove, found
themselves entering the town itself. Signs of life and enterprise
greeted them from all sides. Here, there and everywhere houses
were in process of erection,--log-cabins, frame structures, and
even an occasional brick dwelling-place. Turning into what appeared
to be a well-travelled road,--(he afterwards found it to be Wabash
Street), Kenneth came in the course of a few minutes to the centre
of the town. Here was the little brick courthouse and the jail,
standing in the middle of a square which still contained the stumps
of many of the trees that originally had flourished there. At
the southwest corner of the square was the tavern, a long story
and a half log house,--and it was a welcome sight to Gwynne and
his servant, both of whom were ravenously hungry by this time.
The former observed, with considerable satisfaction, that there
were quite a number of substantial looking buildings about the
square, mostly stores, all of them with hitching-racks along the
edge of the dirt sidewalks. As far as the eye could reach, in
every direction, the muddy streets were lined with trees.
Half a dozen men were standing in front of the tavern when the
newcomers rode up. Kenneth dismounted and threw the reins to his
servant. Landlord Johnson hurried out to greet him.
CHAPTER VII
THE END OF THE LONG ROAD
"We've been expecting you, Mr. Gwynne," he said in his
most genial manner. "Step right in. Dinner'll soon be ready,
and I reckon you must be hungry. Take the hosses around to the
stable, nigger, and put 'em up. I allowed you'd be delayed some
by the bad roads, but I guess you must have got a late start this
mornin' from Phin Striker's. Mrs.--er--ahem! I mean your step-mother
sent word that you were on the way and to have accommodations
ready for you. Say, I'd like to make you acquainted with--"
"My step-mother sent word to you?" demanded Kenneth,
incredulously.
"She did. What would you expect her to do, long as she knew
you were headed this way? I admit she isn't specially given to
worryin' about other people's comforts, but, when you get right
down to it, I guess she considers you a sort of connection of
hers, spite of everything, and so she lays herself out a little.
But I want to tell you one thing, Mr. Gwynne, you're not going
to find her particularly cordial, as the sayin' is. She's about
as stand-offish and unneighbourly as a Kickapoo Indian. But, as
I was sayin', I'd like to make you acquainted with some of our
leadin' citizens. This is Daniel Bugher, the recorder, and Doctor
Davis, Matt Scudder, Tom Benbridge and John McCormick. It was
moved and seconded, soon as you heaved in sight, that we repair
at once to Sol Hamer's grocery for a little--"
"Excuse me," broke in Kenneth, laughing; "I have
heard of that grocery, and I think it would be wise for me to
become a little better acquainted with my surroundings before
I begin trading there."
The landlord rubbed his chin and the other gentlemen laughed uproariously.
"Well," said the former, "I can see one thing mighty
plain. You're going to be popular with my wife and all the other
women in town. They'll point to you and say to practically nine-tenths
of the married men in Lafayette: 'There's a man that don't drink,
and goodness knows HE isn't a preacher!'"
"I am hardly what you would call a teetotaler, gentlemen,"
said Gwynne, still smiling.
"Wait till you get down with a spell of the Wabash shakes,"
said Mr. McCormick. "That'll make a new man of him, won't
it, Doc?"
"Depends somewhat on his constitution and the way he was
brought up," said the doctor, with a professional frown which
slowly relaxed into an unprofessional smile.
"I was brought up by my grandmother," explained Kenneth,
vastly amused.
"That settles it," groaned Mr. Johnson. "You're
not long for this world. Before we go in I wish you'd take a look
at the new courthouse. We're mighty proud of that building. There
isn't a finer courthouse in the state of Indiana,--or maybe I'd
better say there won't be if it's ever finished." "I
noticed it as I came by," said the newcomer, dismissing the
structure with a glance. "If you will conduct me to my room,
Mr. Johnson, I--"
"Just a second," broke in the landlord, his gaze fixed
on a horseman who had turned into the street some distance below.
"Here comes Barry Lapelle,--down there by that clump of sugar
trees. He's the most elegant fellow we've got in town, and you'll
want to know him. Makes Lafayette his headquarters most of the--"
"I have met Mr. Lapelle," interrupted Kenneth. "This
morning, out in the country."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Johnson. The citizens
exchanged a general look of surprise.
"Thought you said he went down the river on yesterday's boat,"
said Scudder.
"That's just what he did," said Johnson, puzzled. "Packed
some of his things and said he'd be gone a week or so. He must
have got off at Attica,--but, no, he couldn't have got here this
soon by road. By glory, I hope the boat didn't strike a snag or
a rock, or run ashore somewhere. Looks kind of serious, boys."
"Couldn't he have landed almost anywhere in a skiff?"
inquired Gwynne, his eyes on the approaching horseman.
"Certainly he could,--but why? He had business down at Covington,
he said."
"He told me this morning he had very important business here.
That is why he could not ride in with me," said Kenneth,
affecting indifference. "By the way, is he riding his own
horse?"
"Yes," said Benbridge. "That's his mare Fancy,--thoroughbred
filly by King Philip out of Shawnee Belle. He sent her down to
Joe Fell's to stud yesterday and--Say, that accounts for him being
on her now. You made a good guess, Mr. Gwynne. He must have landed
at La Grange, rowed across the river, and hoofed it up to Fell's
farm. But what do you suppose made him change his mind so suddenly?"
"He'll probably tell you to go to thunder if you ask him,"
said the landlord.
"I'm not going to ask him anything," retorted Benbridge.
"He's working tooth and nail against the Wabash and Erie
Canal that's projected to run from Lake Erie to the mouth of the
Tippecanoe, Mr. Gwynne," said one of the citizens. "But
it's coming through in spite of him and all the rest of the river
hogs."
"I see," said the young man, a grim smile playing about
his lips.
He knew that the mare Fancy had been in waiting for her master
when he clambered ashore on the river bank opposite La Grange,
and he also suspected that the little steamboat had remained tied
up at the landing all night long and well into the morning, expecting
two passengers who failed to come aboard. He could not suppress
a chuckle of satisfaction.
Lapelle rode up at this instant and, throwing the bridle rein
to a boy who had come running up from the stable, dismounted quickly.
He came straight to Gwynne, smiling cordially.
"I see you beat me in. After we parted I decided to cut through
the woods to have a look at Jack Moxley's keel boat, stuck in
the mud on this side of the river. You'd think the blame fool
would have sense enough to keep well out in mid stream at a time
like this. Happy to have you here with us, and I hope you will
like us well enough to stay."
"Thank you. I shall like you all better after I have had
something to eat," said Kenneth.
"And drink," added Lapelle. It was then that Kenneth
noticed that his eyes were slightly blurred and his voice a trifle
thick. He had been drinking.
"What turned you back, Barry?" inquired McCormick. "Thought
you were to be gone a week or--"
"Changed my mind," said Lapelle curtly, and then, apparently
on second thought, added: "I got off the boat at La Grange
and crossed over to spend the night at Martin Hawk's, the man
you saw with me this morning, Mr. Gwynne. He is a hunter down
Middleton way. I fish and hunt with him a good deal. Well, I reckon
I'd better go in and get out of these muddy boots and pants."
Without another word, he strode up the steps, across the porch
and into the tavern, his head high, his gait noticeably unsteady.
"Martin Hawk!" growled the landlord. "The orneriest
cuss this side of hell. Plain no-good scalawag. Barry'll find
it out some day, and then maybe he'll wish he had paid some attention
to what I've been tellin' him." "Wouldn't surprise me
a bit if Mart knows a whole lot more about what became of some
mighty good yearlin' colts that used to belong to honest men down
on the Wea," said one of the group, darkly.
"I wouldn't trust Mart Hawk as far as I could throw a thousand
pound rock," observed Mr. Johnson, compressing his lips.
"Well, come on in, Mr. Gwynne, and slick up a bit. The dinner
bell will be ringin' in a few minutes, and I want you to meet
the cook before you risk eatin' any of her victuals. My wife's
the cook, so you needn't look scared. Governor Noble almost died
of over-feedin' the last time he was here,--but that wasn't her
fault. And my daughters, big and little, seem anxious to get acquainted
with the celebrated Kenneth Gwynne. People have been talkin' so
much about you for the last six months that nearly everybody calls
you by your first name, and Jim Crouch's wife is so taken with
it that she has made up her mind to call her baby Kenneth,--that
is, providing nature does the right thing. Next week some time,
ain't it, Doc?"
"That's what most everybody in town says, Bob," replied
the doctor solemnly, "so I guess it must be true."
"We begin counting the inhabitants of the town as far as
a month ahead sometimes," explained Mr. McCormick drily.
"I don't know as we've been out of the way more than a day
or a day-and-a-half on any baby that's been born here in the last
two years. Hope to see you in my store down there, Mr. Gwynne--any
time you're passing that way. You can't miss it. It's just across
the street from that white frame building with the green stripes
running criss-cross on the front door,--Joe Hanna's store."
"Robert Gwyn's son is always welcome at my store and my home,"
said another cordially. "We didn't know till last fall that
he had a son, and--well, I hope you don't mind my saying we couldn't
believe it at first."
"You spell the name different from the way he spelled it,"
answered Bugher, the recorder. "I noticed it in your letters,
and it struck me as queer."
"My father appears to have reverted to the original way of
spelling the name," said Kenneth, from the upper step. "My
forebears were Welsh, you see. The manner of spelling it was changed
when they came to America, over a hundred years ago."
His bedroom was in the small wing off the dining-room. Its one
window looked out upon the courthouse, the view being somewhat
restricted by the presence of a pair of low-branched oak trees
in the side-yard, almost within arm's length of the wall,--they
were so close, in fact, that their limbs stretched out over the
rough shingle roof, producing in the wind an everlasting sound
of scratching and scraping. There was a huge four-poster feather
bed of mountainous proportions, leaving the occupant scant space
in which to move about the room.
"Last people to occupy this room," said Mr. Johnson,
standing in the doorway, "were George Ripley and Edna Cole,
three weeks ago last night. They came in from the Grand Prairie
and only stayed the one night. Had to get back to the farm next
day on account of it bein' wash-day. I guess I forgot to say they
were on their weddin'-trip. Generally speaking, it takes about
three years for people to get over callin' a girl by her maiden
name,--so you needn't think there was anything wrong about George
and Edna stayin' here. I wish you could have been here to drive
out to the infare at her pa's house two nights after the weddin'.
It was the biggest ever held on that side of the river,--and as
for the shiveree,--my Lord, it WAS something to talk about. Tin
cans, cowbells, shot-guns, tenor-drums,--but I'm keeping you,
Mr. Gwynne. You'll find water in that jug over there, and a towel
by the lookin' glass. Come out when you're ready."
When Kenneth returned to the dining-room, he found Johnson waiting
there with his wife and two of his comely daughters. They were
presented to the new guest with due informality, and then the
landlord went out upon the front porch to ring the dinner-bell.
"I guess you won't be stayin' here long, Mr. Gwynne,"
said Mrs. Johnson. "Your mother,--I should say, your step-mother,--has
got your house all ready for you to move right in. Job Turner
moved out last week, and she took some of the furniture and things
over so's you could be sort of at home right away." Observing
his start, and the sudden tightening of his lips, she went on
complacently: "'Twasn't much trouble for her. Your house
isn't more than fifty yards from hers,--just across lots, you
might say. She--"
Kenneth, forgetting himself in his agitation, interrupted her
with the startling question:
"Where does Rachel Carter live?"
"Rachel who?"
He collected his wits, stammering:
"I believe that was her name before she--before she married
my father."
"Oh, I see. Her name is Rachel, of course. Well, her house
is up Columbia street,--that's the one on the other side of the
square,--almost to the hill where Isaac Edwards has his brickyard,
just this side of the swamp."
After dinner, which was eaten at a long table in company with
eight or ten "customers," to whom he was introduced
by the genial host, he repaired to the office of Recorder Bugher.
"Everything's in good shape," announced Bugher. "There
ain't a claim against the property, now that Mrs. Gwyn has given
up her idea of contesting the will. The property is in your name
now, Mr. Gwynne,--and that reminds me that your father, in his
will, spells your name with a double n and an e, while he spells
hers with only one n. He took into consideration the fact that
you spelled your name in the new-fangled way, as you say he used
to spell it in Kentucky. And that also accounts for his signing
the will 'Robert Gwyn, formerly known as Robert Gwynne.' It's
legal, all right, properly witnessed and attested by two reliable
men of this county."
"I have seen a copy of the will."
"Another queer thing about it is that he bequeathed certain
property to you as 'my son, Kenneth Gwynne,'--while he fails to
mention his daughter Viola at all, except to say that he bequeaths
so-and-so to 'Rachel Gwyn, to give, bequeath and devise as she
sees fit.' Of course, Viola, by law, is entitled to a share of
the estate and it should have been so designated. Judge Wylie
says she can contest the will if she so desires, on the ground
that she is entitled to as much as you, Mr. Gwynne. But she has
decided to let it stand as it is, and I guess she's sensible.
All that her mother now has will go to her when said Rachel dies,
and as it will be a full half of the estate instead of what might
have been only a third, I guess she's had pretty good advice from
some one."
"The fact that my half-sister was not mentioned in the will
naturally led me to conclude that no such person existed. I did
not know till this morning, Mr. Bugher, that I had a half-sister."
"Well," began the recorder, pursing his lips, "for
that matter she didn't know she had a half-brother till the will
was read, so she was almost as ignorant as you."
"It's all very strange,--exceedingly strange."
"When did your own mother die, if it's a fair question?"
"In the year 1812. My father was away when she died."
"Off to the war, I suppose."
"Yes," said the young man steadily. "Off to the
war," he lied, still staring out of the window. "I was
left with my grandparents when he went off to make his fortune
in this new country. It was not until I was fairly well grown
that we heard that he was married to a woman named Rachel Carter."
"Well, I guess it's something you don't like to talk about,"
said Mr. Bugher, and turned his attention to the records they
were consulting.
Later the young man called at the office of Mr. Cornell, the lawyer
who had charge of his affairs. He had come to Lafayette prepared
to denounce Rachel Carter, to drive her in shame and disgrace
from the town, if necessary. Now he found himself confronted by
a condition that distressed and perplexed him; his bitter resolve
was rudely shaken and he was in a dire state of uncertainty. He
was faced by a most unexpected and staggering situation.
To denounce Rachel Carter would be to deliberately strike a cruel,
devastating blow at the happiness and peace of an innocent person,--Viola
Gwyn, his own half-sister. A word from him, and that lovely girl,
serene in her beliefs, would be crushed for life. The whole scheme
of life had been changed for him in the twinkling of an eye, as
it were. He could not wreak vengeance upon Rachel Carter without
destroying Viola Gwyn,--and the mere thought of that caused him
to turn cold with repugnance. How could he publish Rachel Carter's
infamy to the world with that innocent girl standing beside her
to receive and sustain the worst of the shock? Impossible! Viola
must be spared,--and so with her, Rachel Carter!
Then there was the strange message he had received from Viola,
through the hunter, Stain. What was back of the earnest request
for him to come and see her at her mother's house? Was she in
trouble? Was she in need of his help? Was she depending upon him,
her blood relation, for counsel in an hour of duress? He was sadly
beset by conflicting emotions.
In the course of his interview with the lawyer, from whom he had
decided to withhold much that he had meant to divulge, he took
occasion to inquire into the present attitude of Rachel Carter,--or
Gwyn, as he reluctantly spoke of her,--toward him, an open and
admitted antagonist.
"Well," said Cornell, shaking his head, "I don't
believe you will catch her asking any favours of you. She has
laid down her arms, so to speak, but that doesn't mean she intends
to be friendly. As a matter of fact, she simply accepts the situation,--with
very bad grace, of course,--but she'll never be able to alter
her nature or her feelings. She considers herself cheated, and
that's all there is to it. I doubt very much whether she will
even speak to you, Mr. Gwynne. She is a strange woman, and a hard
one to understand. She fought desperately against your coming
here at all. One of her propositions was that she should be allowed
to buy your share of the estate, if such a transaction could be
arranged, you will remember. You declined to consider it. This
was after she withdrew her proposed contest of the will. Then
she got certain Crawfordsville men interested in the purchase
of your land, and they made you a bona fide offer,--I think they
offered more than the property is worth, by the way. I think,
back of everything, she could not bear the thought of you, the
son of a former wife, living next door to her. Jealousy, I suppose,--but
not unnatural, after all, in a second wife, is it? They're usually
pretty cantankerous when it comes to the first wife's children.
As regards her present attitude, I think she'll let you alone
if you let her alone."
"My sister has asked me to come up to the house to see her
this afternoon," said Kenneth.
The lawyer looked surprised. "Is that so? Well," with
a puzzled frown, "I don't quite understand how she came to
do that. I was under the impression that she felt about as bitterly
toward you as her mother does. In fact, she has said some rather
nasty things about you. Boasted to more than one of her friends
that she would slap your face if you ever tried to speak to her."
Kenneth smiled, a reminiscent light in his eyes. "She has
done so, figuratively speaking, Mr. Cornell. I am confident she
hates me,--but if that's the case, why should she leave word for
me to come and see her?"
"Experience has taught me that women have a very definite
object in view when they let on as if they had changed their minds,"
was the judicial opinion of Mr. Cornell. "Maybe they don't
realize it, but they are as wily as the devil when they think,
and you think, and everybody else thinks, they're behaving like
an angel. It's not for me to say whether you should go to see
her or not, but I believe I would if I were in your place. Maybe
she has made up her mind to be friendly, on the surface at least,
and as you are bound to meet each other at people's houses, parties,
and all such, perhaps it would be better to bury the hatchet.
I think you will be quite safe in going up there to-day, so far
as Mrs. Gwyn is concerned. She will not appear on the scene, I
am confident. You will not come in contact with her. You say that
she has put some of her furniture at your disposal, but she doubtless
did so on the advice of her lawyer. You must not forget that your
father, in his will, left half of his personal effects to you.
She is just smart enough to select in advance the part that she
is willing for you to have, feeling that you will not be captious
about it."
"I have no desire to exact anything of--"
"Quite so, quite so," broke in the lawyer. "But
she could not be expected to know that. She is a long-headed woman,
Mr. Gwynne. I suspect she is considerably worried about Viola.
Your half-sister is being rather assiduously courted by a young
man named Lapelle. Mrs. Gwyn does not approve of him. She is strait-laced
and--er--puritanical."
"Puritanical, eh?" said Kenneth, with a short laugh
that Mr. Cornell totally misinterpreted.
"Barry isn't exactly what you would call sanctimonious,"
admitted the lawyer, with a dry smile. "The worst of it is,
I'm afraid Viola is in love with him."
His client was silent for a moment, reflecting. Then he arose
abruptly and announced:
"I agree with you, Mr. Cornell. I will go up to see her this
afternoon. I bear her no grudge,--and after all, she is my sister.
Good day, sir. I shall give myself the pleasure of calling in
to see you to-morrow."
CHAPTER VIII
RACHEL CARTER
Kenneth strolled about the town for awhile before returning to
the tavern to shave, change his boots, and "smarten"
himself up a bit in preparation for the ceremonious call he had
dreaded to make. On all sides he encountered the friendliest interest
and civility from the townspeople. The news of his arrival had
spread over the place with incredible swiftness. Scores of absolute
strangers turned to him and tendered to him the welcome to be
found in a broad and friendly smile.
Shortly after three o'clock he set forth upon his new adventure.
Assailed by a strange and unaccustomed timidity,--he would have
called it bashfulness had Viola been other than his sister--he
approached the young lady's home by the longest and most round-about
way, a course which caused him to make the complete circuit of
the three-acre pond situated a short distance above the public
square--a shallow body of water dignified during the wet season
of the year by the high-sounding title of "Lake Stansbury,"
but spoken of scornfully as the "slough" after the summer's
sun had reduced its surface to a few scattered wallows, foul and
green with scum. It was now full of water and presented quite
an imposing appearance to the new citizen as he skirted its brush-covered
banks; in his ignorance he was counting the probability of one
day building a handsome home on the edge of this tiny lake.
A man working in a garden pointed out to him Mrs. Gwyn's house
half-hidden among the trees at the foot of a small slope.
"That other house, a couple of hundred foot further on,--you
can just see it from here,--well, that belonged to Robert Gwyn.
I understand his long-lost son is comin' to live in it one of
these days. They say this boy when he was a baby was stolen by
the Injins and never heard of ag'in until a few months ago. Lived
with the Injins right up to the time he was found and couldn't
speak a word of English. I have heard that he--what are ye laughin'
at, mister?"
"I was laughing at the thought of how surprised you are going
to be some day, my friend. Thank you. The house with the green
window blinds, you say?"
He proceeded first to the house that was to be his home. It was
a good stone's throw from the pretentious two-story frame structure
in which Rachel Carter and her daughter lived, but nearer the
centre of the town when approached by a more direct route than
he had followed. This smaller house, an insignificant, weather-beaten
story and a half frame, snuggling among the underbrush, was where
his father had lived when he first came to Lafayette. Later on
he had erected the larger house and moved into it with his family,
renting the older place to a man named Turner.
It was faced by a crudely constructed picket fence, once white
but now mottled with scales of dirty sun-blistered paint, and
inside the fence rank weeds, burdocks and wild grass flourished
without hindrance. He strode up the narrow path to the low front
door. Finding it unlocked, he opened it and stepped into the low,
roughly plastered sitting-room. The window blinds were open, permitting
light and air to enter, and while the room was comparatively bare,
there was ample evidence that it had been made ready for occupancy
by a hand which, though niggardly, was well trained in the art
of making a little go a long way. The bedroom and the kitchen
were in order. There were rag carpets on the floors, and the place
was immaculately clean. A narrow, enclosed stairway ran from the
end of the sitting-room to the attic, where he discovered a bed
for his servant. Out at the back was the stable and a wagonshed.
These he did not inspect. A high rail fence stretched between
the two yards.
As he walked up the path to the front door of the new house, he
was wondering how Viola Gwyn would look in her garb of black,--the
hated black she had cast aside for one night only. He was oppressed
by a dull, cold fear, assuaged to some extent by the thrill of
excitement which attended the adventure. What was he to do or
say if the door was opened by Rachel Carter? His jaw was set,
the palms of his hands were moist, and there was a strange, tight
feeling about his chest, as if his lungs were full and could not
be emptied. After a moment's hesitation, he rapped firmly on the
door with his bare knuckles.
The door was opened by a young coloured woman who wore a blue
sunbonnet and carried a red shawl over her arm.
"Is Miss Viola at home?" he inquired.
"Is dis Mistah Gwynne, suh?"
"Yes."
"Come right in, suh, an' set down."
He entered a small box of a hallway, opening upon a steep set
of stairs.
"Right in heah, suh," said the girl, throwing open a
door at his left.
As he walked into this room, he heard the servant shuffling up
the staircase. He deposited his hat and gloves on a small marble-top
table in the centre of the room and then sent a swift look of
investigation about him. Logs were smouldering in the deep, wide
fireplace at the far end of the room, giving out little spurts
of flame occasionally from their charred, ash-grey skeletons.
The floor was covered with a bright, new rag carpet, and there
was a horse-hair sofa in the corner, and two or three stiff, round-backed
little chairs, the seats also covered with black horse-hair. A
thick, gilt-decorated Holy Bible lay in the centre of the marble-top
table, shamed now by contact with the crown of his unsaintly hat.
On the mantel stood a large, flat mahogany clock with floral decorations
and a broad, white face with vivid black numerals and long black
hands. The walls were covered with a gaudy but expensive paper,
in which huge, indescribable red flowers mingled regularly with
glaring green leaves. Two "mottoes," worked in red and
blue worsted and framed with narrow cross-pieces of oak, hung
suspended in the corners beside the fireplace. One of them read
"God Bless Our Home," the other a sombre line done in
black: "Faith, Hope and Charity."
Three black oval oak frames, laden with stiff leaves that glistened
under a coat of varnish, contained faded, unlovely portraits,--one
of a bewhiskered man wearing a tall beaver hat and a stiff black
stock: another of a sloping-shouldered woman with a bonnet, from
which a face, vague and indistinct, sought vainly to emerge. The
third contained a mass of dry, brown leaves, some wisps of straw,
and a few colourless pressed blossoms. On a table in front of
one of the two windows stood a spindling Dutch lamp of white and
delft blue, with a long, narrow chimney. There were two candlesticks
on the mantel.
All these features of the room he took in while he stood beside
the centre table, awaiting the entrance of Viola Gwyn. He heard
a door open softly and close upstairs, and then some one descending
the steps; a few words spoken in the subdued voice of a woman
and the less gentle response of the darky servant, who mumbled
"Yas'm," and an instant later went out by the front
door. Through the window he saw her go down the walk, the red
shawl drawn tightly about her shoulders.
He smiled. The clever Viola getting rid of the servant so that
she could be alone with him, he thought, as he turned toward the
door.
A tall woman in black appeared in the doorway, paused there for
a second or two, and then advanced slowly into the room. He felt
the blood rush to his head, almost blinding him. His hand went
out for the support of the table, his body stiffened and suddenly
turned cold. The smile with which he intended to greet Viola froze
on his lips.
"God Al--" started to ooze from his stiff lips, but
the words broke off sharply as the woman stopped a few steps away
and regarded him steadily, silently, unsmilingly. He stood there
like a statue staring into the dark, brilliant eyes, sunken deep
under the straight black eyebrows. Even in the uncertain light
from the curtained windows he could see that her face was absolutely
colourless,--the pallor of death seemed to have been laid upon
it. Swiftly she lifted a hand to her throat, her eyes closed for
a second and then flew wide open again, now filled with an expression
of utter bewilderment.
"Is it--is it you, Robert? Is it really you, or am I--"
she murmured, scarcely above a whisper. Once more she closed her
eyes, tightly; as if to shut out the vision of a ghost,--an unreal
thing that would not be there when she looked again.
The sound of her voice released him from the brief spell of stupefaction.
"I know you. I remember you. You are Rachel Carter,"
he said hoarsely.
She was staring at him as if fascinated. Her lips moved, but no
sound issued from them.
He hesitated for an instant and then turned to pick up his hat
and gloves. "I came to see your daughter, madame,--as well
you know. Permit me to take my departure."
"You are so like your--" she began with an effort, her
voice deep and low with emotion. "So like him I--I was frightened.
I thought he had--" She broke off abruptly, lowered her head
in an attempt to hide from him the trembling lips and chin, and
to regain, if possible, the composure that had been so desperately
shaken. "Wait!" she cried, stridently. "Wait! Do
not go away. Give me time to--to--"
"There is no need for us to prolong--" he began in a
harsh voice.
"I will not keep you long," she interrupted, every trace
of emotion vanishing like a shadow that has passed. She was facing
him now, her head erect, her voice steady. Her dark, cavernous
eyes were upon him; he experienced an odd, indescribable sensation,--as
of shrinking,--and without being fully aware of what he was doing,
replaced his hat upon the table, an act which signified involuntary
surrender on his part.
"Where is Viola?" he demanded sternly. "She left
word for me to come here. Where is she?"
"She is not here," said the woman.
He started. "You don't mean she has--has gone away with--"
"No. She has gone over to spend the afternoon with Effie
Wardlow. I will be frank with you. This is not the time for misunderstanding.
She asked Isaac Stain to give you that message at my request,--or
command, if you want the truth. I sent her away because what I
have to say to you must be said in private. There is no one in
the house besides ourselves. Will you do me the favour to be seated?
Very well; we will stand."
She turned away to close the hall door. Then she walked to one
of the windows and, drawing the curtain aside, swept the yard
and adjacent roadway with a long, searching look.
The strong light fell full upon her face; its warmth seemed suddenly
to paint the glow of life upon her pallid skin. He gazed at her
intently. Out of the past there came to him with startling vividness
the face of the Rachel Carter he had known. Despite the fact that
she was now an old woman,--he knew that she must be at least forty-six
or -seven,--she was still remarkably handsome. She was very tall,
deep-chested, and as straight as an arrow. Her smoothly brushed
hair was as black as the raven's wing. Time and the toil of long,
hard hours had brought deep furrows to her cheeks, like lines
chiselled in a face of marble, but they had not broken the magnificent
body of the Rachel Carter who used to toss him joyously into the
air with her strong young arms and sure hands. But there was left
no sign of the broad, rollicking smile that always attended those
gay rompings. Her lips were firm-set, straight and unyielding,--a
hard mouth flanked by what seemed to be absolutely immovable lines.
Her chin was square; her nose firm and noticeably "hawk-like"
in shape; her eyes clear, brilliant and keenly penetrating.
She faced him, standing with her back to the light.
"Sooner or later we would have had to meet," she said.
"It is best for both of us to have it over with at the very
start."
"I suppose you are right," said he stiffly. "You
know how I feel toward you, Rachel Carter. There is nothing either
of us can say that will make the situation easier or harder, for
that matter."
"Yes,--I understand," said she calmly. "You hate
me. You have been brought up to hate me. I do not question the
verdict of those who condemned me, but you may as well understand
at once that I do not regret what I did twenty years ago. I have
not repented. I shall never repent. We need not discuss that side
of the question any farther. You know my history, Kenneth Gwynne.
You are the only person in this part of the world who does know
it. When the controversy first came up over the settlement of
your father's estate, I feared that you would reveal the story
of my--"
He held up his hand, interrupting her. "Permit me to observe,
Rachel Carter, that for many months after being notified of my
father's death and the fact that he had left me a portion of his
estate, I was without positive proof as to the identity of the
woman mentioned in the correspondence as his widow. It was not
until a copy of the will was forwarded to me that I was sure.
By that time I had made up my mind to keep my own counsel. I can
say to you now, Rachel Carter, that I do not intend to rake up
that ugly story. I do not make war on helpless women."
Her lips writhed slightly, and her eyes narrowed as if with pain.
It was but a fleeting exposition of vulnerability, however, for
in another instant she had recovered.
"You could not have struck harder than that if you had been
warring against a strong man," she said gently.
A hot flush stained his cheek. "It is the way I feel, nevertheless,
Rachel Carter," he said deliberately.
"You can think of me only as Rachel Carter," she said.
"My name is Rachel Gwyn. Still it doesn't matter. I am past
the point where I can be hurt. You may tell the story if it suits
your purpose. I shall deny nothing. It may even give you some
satisfaction to see me wrap my soiled robes about me and steal
away, leaving the field to you. I can sell my lands to-morrow
and disappear. It will matter little whether I am forgotten or
not. The world is large and I am not without fortitude. I wanted
you to come here to-day, to see me alone, to hear what I have
to say,--not about myself,--but about another. I am a woman of
quick decisions. When I learned early this morning that you would
be in Lafayette to-day, I made up my mind to take a certain step,--and
I have not changed it."
"If you are referring to your daughter--to my half-sister,
if you will--I have only to remind you that my mind is already
made up. You need have no fear that I shall do or say anything
to hurt that innocent girl. I am assuming, of course, that she
knows nothing of--well, of what happened back there in Kentucky."
"She knows nothing," said the woman, in a voice strangely
low and tense. "If she ever knew, she has forgotten."
"Forgotten?" he cried. "Good God, how could she
have forgotten a thing so--"
She moved a step nearer, her burning eyes fixed on his.
"You remember Rachel Carter well enough. Have you no recollection
of the little girl you used to play with? Minda? The babe who
could scarcely toddle when you--"
"Of course I remember her," he cried impatiently. "I
remember everything. You took her away with you and--why did you
not leave her behind as my father left me? Why could you not have
been as fair to your child as he was to his?"
She was silent for a moment, pondering her answer. "I do
not suppose it has ever occurred to you that I might have loved
my child too deeply to abandon her," she said, a strange
softness in her voice.
"My father loved me," he cried out, "and yet he
left me behind."
"He loved you,--yes,--but he would not take you. He left
you with some one who also loved you. Don't ever forget that,
Kenneth Gwynne. I would not go without Minda. No more would your
mother have gone without you. Stop! I did not mean to offend.
So you DO remember little Minda?"
"Yes, I remember her. But she is dead. Why do you mention
her--"
"Minda is not dead," said she slowly.
"Not--why, she was drowned in the--"
"No. Minda is alive. You saw her last night,--at Phineas
Striker's house."
He started violently. "The girl I saw last night was--Minda?"
he cried. "Why, Striker told me she was--"
"I know,--I know," she interrupted impatiently. "Striker
told you what he believed to be true. He told you she was Robert
Gwyn's daughter and your half-sister. But I tell you now that
she is Minda Carter. There is not a drop of Gwyn blood in her
body."
"Then, she is not my half-sister?" he exclaimed, utterly
dazed, but aware of the exquisite sensation of relief that was
taking hold of him.
"She is no blood relation of yours."
"But she is,--yes, now I understand,--she is my step-sister,"
he said, with a swift fall of spirits.
"I suppose that is what you might call her," said Rachel
Gwyn, indifferently. "I have not given it much thought."
"Does she know that she is not my father's daughter?"
"No. She believes herself to be his own flesh and blood,--his
own daughter," said she with the deliberateness of one weighing
her words, that they might fall with full force upon her listener.
"Why are you telling me all this?" he demanded abruptly.
"What is your object? If she does not know the truth, why
should I? Good God, woman, you--you do not expect ME to tell her,
do you? Was that your purpose in getting me here? You want me
to tell her that--"
"No!" she cried out sharply. "I do not want you
or any one else to do that. Listen to me. I sha'n't beat about
the bush,--I will not waste words. So far as Viola and the world
are concerned, she is Robert Gwyn's daughter. That is clear to
you, is it not? She was less than two years old when we came away,--too
young to remember anything. We were in the wilderness for two
or three years, and she saw but one or two small children, so
that it was a very simple matter to deceive her about her age.
She is nearly twenty-two now, although she believes she is but
nineteen. She does not remember any other father than Robert Gwyn.
She has no recollection of her own father, nor does she remember
you. She--"
"Last night she described her father to me," he interrupted.
"Her supposed father, I mean. She made it quite plain that
he did not love her as a father should love his own child."
"It was not that," she said. "He was afraid of
her,--mortally afraid of her. He lived in dread of the day when
she would learn the truth and turn upon him. He always meant to
tell her himself, and yet he could not find the courage. Toward
the end he could not bear to have her near him. It would not be
honest in me to say that he loved her. I do not believe he would
have loved a child if one had come to him and me,--no child of
mine could take the place you had in his heart." She spoke
with calm bitterness. "You say she told you about him last
night. I am not surprised that she should have spoken of him as
she did. It was not possible for her to love him as a father.
Nature took good care of that. There was a barrier between them.
She was not his child. The tie of blood was lacking. Nature cannot
be deceived. She has never told me what her true feelings toward
him were, but I have sensed them. I could understand. I think
she is and always has been bewildered. It is possible that away
back in her brain there is something too tiny to ever become a
thought, and yet it binds her to a man she does not even remember.
But we are wasting time. You are wondering why I have told you
the truth about Viola. The secret was safe, so why should I reveal
it to you,--my enemy,--isn't that what you are thinking?"
"Yes. I don't quite grasp your motive in telling me, especially
as I am still to look upon Viola as my half-sister. I have already
stated that under no circumstances will I hurt her by raking up
that old, infamous story. I find myself in a most difficult position.
She believes herself to be my sister while I know that she is
not. It must strike even you, Rachel Carter, as the ghastliest
joke that fate ever played on a man,--or a woman, either."
"I have told you the truth, because I am as certain as I
am that I stand here now that you would have found it all out
some day,--some day soon, perhaps. In the first place your father
did not mention her in his will. That alone is enough to cause
you to wonder. You are not the only one who is puzzled by his
failure to provide for her as well as for you. Before long you
would have begun to doubt, then to speculate, and finally you
would have made it your business to find out why she was ignored.
In time you could have unearthed the truth. The truth will always
out, as the saying goes. I preferred to tell it to you at once.
You understand I cannot exact any promises from you. You will
do as you see fit in the matter. There is one thing that you must
realize, however. Viola has not robbed you of anything--not even
a father's love. She does not profit by his death. He did not
leave her a farthing, not even a spadeful of land. I am entitled
to my share by law. The law would have given it to me if he had
left no will. I am safe. That is clear to you, of course. I earned
my share,--I worked as hard as he did to build up a fortune. When
I die my lands and my money will go to my daughter. You need not
hope to have any part of them. I do not ask you to keep silent
on my account. I only ask you to spare her. If I have sinned,--and
in the sight of man, I suppose I have,--I alone should be punished.
But she has not sinned. I have thought it all out carefully. I
have lain awake till all hours of the night, debating what was
the best thing to do. To tell you or not to tell you, that was
the question I had to settle. This morning I decided and this
is the result. You know everything. There is no need for you to
speculate. There is nothing for you to unravel. You know who Viola
is, you know why she was left out of your father's will. The point
is this, when all is said,--she must never know. She must always,--do
you hear me?--she must always look upon you as her brother. She
must never know the truth about me. I put her happiness, her pride,
her faith, in your hands, Kenneth Gwynne."
He had listened with rigid attention, marvelling at the calm,
dispassionate, unflinching manner in which she stated her case
and Viola's,--indeed, she had stated his own case for him. Apparently
she had not even speculated on the outcome of her revelations;
she was sure of her ground before she took the first step.
"There is no other course open to me," he said, taking
up his hat. He was very pale. "There is nothing more to say,--now
or hereafter. We have had, I trust, our last conversation. I hate
you. I could wish you all the unhappiness that life can give,
but I am not such a beast as to tell your daughter what kind of
a woman you are. So there's the end. Good-day, Rachel Carter."
He turned away, his hand was on the door-latch, before she spoke
again.
"There is something more," she said, without moving
from the spot where she had stood throughout the recital. The
same calm, cold voice,--the same compelling manner. "It was
my pleading, back in those other days, that finally persuaded
Robert Gwyn to let me bring Minda up as his daughter. He was bitterly
opposed to it at first. He never quite reconciled himself to the
deception. He did not consider it being honest with her. He was
as firm as a rock on one point, however. He would bring her up
as his daughter, but he would not give her his name. It was after
he agreed to my plan that he changed the spelling of his own name.
She was not to have his name,--the name he had given his own child.
That was his real reason for changing his name, and not, as you
may suspect, to avoid being traced to this strange land."
"A belated attempt to be fair to me, I suppose," he
said, ironically.
"As you like," she said, without resentment. "In
the beginning, as I have told you, he believed it to be his duty
to tell her the truth about herself. He was sincere in that. But
he did not have the heart to tell her after years had passed.
Now let me tell you what he did a few weeks before he passed away,--and
you will know what a strange man he was. He came home one day
and said to me: 'I have put Viola's case in the hands of Providence.
You may call it luck or chance if you like, but I call it Providence.
I cannot go to her face to face and tell her the truth by word
of mouth, but I have told her the whole story in writing.' I was
shocked, and cried out to know if he had written to her in St.
Louis. He smiled and shook his head. 'No, I have not done that.
I have written it all out and I have hidden the paper in a place
where she is not likely to ever find it,--where I am sure she
will never look. I will not even tell you where it is hidden,--for
I do not trust you,--no, not even you. You would seek it out and
destroy it.' How well he knew me! Then he went on to say, and
I shall never forget the solemn way in which he spoke: 'I leave
it all with Providence. It is out of my hands. If she ever comes
across the paper it will be a miracle,--and miracles are not the
work of man. So it will be God Himself who reveals the truth to
her.' Now you can see, Kenneth, that the secret is not entirely
in our keeping. There is always the chance that she may stumble
upon that paper. I live in great dread. My hope now is that you
will find it some day and destroy it. I have searched in every
place that I can think of. I confess to that. It is hidden on
land that some day will belong to Viola,--that much he confided
to me. It is not on the land belonging to you,--nor in your house
over there."
"You are right," he said, deeply impressed. "There
is always the chance that it will come to light. There is no telling
how many times a day she may be within arm's length of that paper,--perhaps
within inches of it. It is uncanny."
He cast a swift, searching look about the room, as if in the hope
that his eyes might unexpectedly alight upon the secret hiding
place.
"He could not have hidden it in this house without my knowing
it," she said, divining his thought.
He was silent for a moment, frowning reflectively. "Are you
sure that no one else knows that she is not his daughter?"
"I am sure of it," she replied with decision.
"And there is nothing more you have to tell me?"
"Nothing. You may go now."
Without another word he left her. He was not surprised by her
failure to mention the early morning episode at Striker's cabin.
His concluding question had opened the way; it was clear that
she had no intention of discussing with him the personal affairs
of her daughter. Nevertheless he was decidedly irritated. What
right had she to ask him to accept Viola as a sister unless she
was also willing to grant him the privileges and interests of
a brother? Certainly if Viola was to be his sister he ought to
have something to say about the way she conducted herself,--for
the honour of the family if for no other reason.
As he walked rapidly away from the house in the direction of Main
Street, he experienced a sudden sense of exaltation. Viola was
not his sister! As suddenly came the reaction, and with it stark
realization. Viola could never be anything to him except a sister.
CHAPTER IX
BROTHER AND SISTER
As he turned into Main Street he espied the figure of a woman
coming toward him from the direction of the public Square. She
was perhaps a hundred yards farther down the street and was picking
her way gingerly, mincingly, along the narrow path at the roadside.
His mind was so fully occupied with thoughts of a most disturbing
character that he paid no attention to her, except to note that
she was dressed in black and that in holding her voluminous skirt
well off the ground to avoid the mud-puddles, she revealed the
bottom of a white, beruffled petticoat.
His meditations were interrupted and his interest suddenly aroused
when he observed that she had stopped stock-still in the path.
After a moment, she turned and walked rapidly, with scant regard
for the puddles, in the direction from which she had come. Fifteen
or twenty paces down the road, she came to what was undoubtedly
a path or "short cut" through the wood. Into this she
turned hastily and was lost to view among the trees and hazel-brush.
He had recognized her,--or rather he had divined who she was.
He quickened his pace, bent upon overtaking her. Then, with the
thrill of the hunter, he abruptly whirled and retraced his steps.
With the backwoodsman's cunning he hastened over the ground he
had already traversed, chuckling in anticipation of her surprise
when she found him waiting for her at the other end of the "short
cut."
He had noticed a path opening into the woods at a point almost
opposite his own house, and naturally assumed that it was the
one she was now pursuing in order to avoid an encounter with him.
His long legs carried him speedily to the outlet and there he
posted himself. He could hear her coming through the brush, although
her figure was still obscured by the tangle of wildwood; the snapping
of dead twigs under her feet; the scuffling of last year's leaves
on the path, now wet and plastered with mud and the slime of winter;
the swish of branches as she thrust them aside.
She emerged, breathless, into a little open spot, not twenty feet
away, and stopped to listen, looking back through the trees and
underbrush to see if she was being followed. Her skirts were drawn
up almost to the knees and pinched closely about her grey-stockinged
legs. He gallantly turned away and pretended to be studying the
house across the road. Presently he felt his ears burning; he
turned to meet the onslaught of her scornful, convicting eyes.
She had not moved. Her hands, having released the petticoat, were
clenched at her sides. Her cheeks were crimson, and her dark eyes,
peering out from the shade of the close-fitting hood of her black
bonnet, smouldered with wrath,--and, if he could have read them
better, a very decided trace of maidenly dismay.
"Ah, there you are," he cried, lifting his hat. "I
was wondering whether you would come out at this--"
"Can't you see I am trying to avoid you?" she demanded
with extreme frigidity.
"I rather fancied you were," said he easily. "So
I hurried back here to head you off. I trust you will not turn
around and run the other way, now that I have almost trapped you.
Because if you do, I shall catch up with you in ten jumps."
"I wish you would go away," she cried. "I don't
want to see you,--or talk to you."
"Then why did you leave word for me to come to your house
to see you?" he challenged. "I suspect you know by this
time," she replied, significantly.
He hesitated, regarding her with some uneasiness. "What do
you mean?" he fenced.
"Well, you surely know that it was my mother who wanted to
see you, and not I," she said, almost insolently. "Are
you going to keep me standing here in the mud and slush all day?"
"No, indeed," he said. "Please come out."
"Not until you go away."
"Why don't you want to talk to me? What have I done?"
"You know very well what you have done," she cried,
hotly. "In the first place, I don't like you. You have made
it very unpleasant for my mother,--who certainly has never done
you any harm. In the second place, I resent your interference
in my affairs. Wait! Do not interrupt me, please. Maybe you have
not exactly interfered as yet, but you are determined to do so,--for
the honour of the family, I suppose." She spoke scathingly.
"I defy you,--and mother, too. I am not a child to be--"
"I must interrupt you," he exclaimed. "I haven't
the slightest idea what you are talking about."
"Don't lie," she cried, stamping her foot. "Give
me credit for a little intelligence. Don't you suppose I know
what mother wanted to see you about? There! I can see the guilty
look in your eyes. You two have been putting your heads together,
in spite of all the ill-will you bear each other, and there is
no use in denying it. I am a naughty little girl and my big brother
has been called in to put a stop to my foolishness. If you--What
are you laughing at, Mr. Gwynne?" she broke off to demand
furiously.
"I am laughing at you," he replied, succinctly. "You
ARE like a little girl in a tantrum,--all over nothing at all.
Little girls in tantrums are always amusing, but not always naughty.
Permit me to assure you that your mother and I have not discussed
your interesting affair with Mr. Lapelle. We talked of business
mat--"
"Then," she cried, "how do you happen to know anything
about Mr. Lapelle and me? Aha! You're not as clever as you think
you are. That slipped out, didn't it? Now I know you were discussing
my affairs and nothing else. Well, what is the verdict? What are
you going to do to me? Lock me in my room, or tie me hand and
foot, or--Please stay where you are. It is not necessary to come
any nearer, Mr. Gwynne."
He continued his advance through the thicket, undeterred by the
ominous light in her eyes. She stood her ground.
"I think we had better talk the matter over quietly,--Viola,"
he said, affecting sternness. "We can't stand here shouting
at each other. It is possible we may never have another chance
to converse freely. As a matter of fact, I do not intend to thrust
myself upon you or your mother. That is understood, I hope. We
have nothing in common and I daresay we can go our own ways without
seriously inconveniencing one another. I want you to know, however,
that I went to that house over there this afternoon because I
thought you wanted to consult with me about something. I was prepared
to help you, or to advise you, or to do anything you wanted me
to do. You were not there. I felt at first that you had played
me a rather shabby trick. Your mother,--my step-mother,--got me
there under false pretences, solely for the purpose of straightening
out a certain matter in connection with the--well, the future.
She doubtless realized that I would not have come on her invitation,
so she used you as a decoy. In any event, I am now glad that I
saw her and talked matters over. It does not mean that we shall
ever be friendly, but we at least understand each other. For your
information I will state that your mother did not refer to the
affair at Striker's, nor did I. I know all about it, however.
I know that you went out there to meet Lapelle. You planned to
run away with him and get married. I may add that it is a matter
in which I have not the slightest interest. If you want to marry
him, all well and good. Do so. I shall not offer any objection
as a brother or as a counsellor. If you were to ask for my honest
opinion, however, I should--"
"I am not asking for it," she cried, cuttingly.
"--I should advise you to get married in a more or less regular
sort of way in your mother's home."
"Thank you for the advice," she said, curtly. "I
shall get married when and where I please,--and to whom I please,
Mr. Gwynne."
"In view of the fact that I am your brother, Viola, I would
suggest that you call me Kenneth."
"I have no desire to claim you as a brother, or to recognize
you as one," said she.
He smiled. "With all my heart I deplore the evil fate that
makes you a sister of mine."
She was startled. "That--that doesn't sound very--pretty,"
she said, a trifle dashed.
"The God's truth, nevertheless. At any rate, so long as you
have to be my sister, I rejoice in the fact that you are an extremely
pretty one. It is a great relief. You might have turned out to
be a scarecrow. I don't mind confessing that last night I said
to myself, 'There is the most beautiful girl in all the world,'
and I can't begin to tell you how shocked I was this morning when
Striker informed me that you were my half-sister. He knocked a
romantic dream into a cocked hat,--and--But even so, sister or
no sister, Viola, you still remain beyond compare the loveliest
girl I have ever seen."
There was something in his eyes that caused her own to waver,--something
that by no account could be described as brotherly. She looked
away, suddenly timid and confused. It was something she had seen
in Barry Lapelle's eyes, and in the eyes of other ardent men.
She was flustered and a little distressed.
"I--I--if you mean that," she said, nervously, "I
suppose I--ought to feel flattered."
"Of course, I mean it,--but you need not feel flattered.
Truth is no form of flattery."
She had recovered herself. "Who told you about Barry Lapelle
and me?" she demanded.
"You mean about last night's adventure?" he countered,
a trifle maliciously.
She coloured. "I suppose some one has--Oh, well, it doesn't
matter. I sha'n't ask you to betray the sneak who--"
"Tut, tut, my dear Viola! You must not--"
"Don't call me your dear Viola!"
"Well, then, my dear sister,--surely you cannot expect me
to address you as Miss Gwyn?" in mild surprise.
"Just plain Viola, if you must have a name for me."
"That's better," said he, approvingly.
"Whoever told you was a sneak," she said, wrathfully.
She turned her face away, but not quickly enough to prevent his
seeing her chin quiver slightly.
"At any rate, it was not your mother," he said. "I
have Striker's permission to expose what you call his treachery.
He thought it was his duty to tell me under the circumstances.
And while I am about it, I may as well say that I think you conspired
to take a pretty mean advantage of those good and faithful friends.
You deceived them in a most outrageous manner. It wasn't very
thoughtful or generous of you, Viola. You might have got them
into very serious trouble with your mother,--who, I understand,
holds the mortgage on their little farm and could make it extremely
unpleasant for them if she felt so inclined."
She was staring at him in wide-eyed astonishment, her red lips
slightly parted. She could not believe her ears. Why, he was actually
scolding her! She was being reprimanded! He was calmly, deliberately
reproving her, as if she were a mischievous child! Amazement deprived
her momentarily of the power of speech.
"To be sure," he went on reflectively, "I can appreciate
the extremities to which you were driven. The course of true love
was not running very smoothly. No doubt your mother was behaving
abominably. Mothers frequently do behave that way. This young
man of yours may be,--and I devoutly hope he is,--a very worthy
fellow, one to whom your mother ought to be proud and happy to
see you married. In view of her stand in the matter, I will go
so far as to say that you were probably doing the right thing
in running away from home to be married. I think I mentioned to
you last night that I am of a very romantic nature. Lord bless
you, I have lain awake many a night envying the dauntless gentlemen
of feudal days who bore their sweethearts away in gallant fashion
pursued by ferocious fathers and a score or more of blood-thirsty
henchmen. Ah, that was the way for me! With my lady fair seated
in front of me upon the speeding palfrey, my body between her
and the bullets and lances and bludgeons of countless pursuers!
Zounds! Odds blood! Gadzooks! and so forth! Not any of this stealing
away in the night for me! Ah, me! How different we are in these
prosaic days! But, even so, if I were you, the next time I undertake
to run away with the valiant Mr. Lapelle I should see to it that
he does his part in the good old-fashioned way. And I should not
drag such loyal, honest folk as Striker and his wife into the
business and then ride merrily off, leaving them to pay the Piper."
His heart smote him as he saw her eyes fill with tears. He did
not mistake them for tears of shame or contrition,--far from it,
he knew they were born of speechless anger. He had hurt her sorely,
even deliberately, and he was overcome by a sudden charge of compassion--and
regret. He wanted to comfort her, he wanted to say something,--anything,--to
take away the sting of chastisement.
He was not surprised when she swept by him, her head high, her
cheeks white with anger, her stormy eyes denying him even so much
as a look of scorn. He stood aside, allowing her to pass, and
remained motionless, gazing after her until she turned in at her
own gate and was lost to view. He shook his head dubiously and
sighed.
"Little Minda," he mused, under his breath. "You
were my playmate once upon a time,--and now! Now what are you?
A rascal's sweetheart, if all they say is true. Gad, how beautiful
you are!" He was walking slowly through the path, his head
bent, his eyes clouded with trouble. "And how you are hating
me at this moment. What a devil's mess it all is!"
His eye fell upon something white lying at the edge of the path
a few feet ahead. It was a neatly folded sheet of note paper.
He stood looking down at it for a moment. She must have dropped
it as she came through. It was clean and unsoiled. A message,
perhaps, from Barry Lapelle, smuggled to her through the connivance
of a friendly go-between,--the girl she had gone to visit, what
was her name? He stooped to pick it up, but before his fingers
touched it he straightened up and deliberately moved it with the
toe of his boot to a less exposed place among the bushes, where
he would have failed to see it in passing. Then he strode resolutely
away without so much as a glance over his shoulder, and, coming
to the open road, stepped briskly off in the direction of the
public Square. His conscience would have rejoiced had he betrayed
it by secreting himself among the bushes for a matter of five
minutes,--quaint paradox, indeed!--for he would have seen her
steal warily, anxiously into the thicket in search of the lost
missive,--and he would have been further exalted by the little
cry of relief that fell from her lips as she snatched it up and
sped incontinently homeward, as if pursued by all the eyes in
Christendom.
As a matter of fact, it was not a letter from Barry to Viola.
It was the other way round. She had written him a long letter
absolving herself from blame in the contretemps of the night before,
at the same time confessing that she was absolutely in the dark
as to how her mother had found out about their plans. Suffice
to say, she HAD found out early in the evening and, to employ
her own words, "You know the result." Then she went
on to say that, all things considered, she was now quite sure
she could never, never consent to make another attempt.
"I am positive," she wrote, ingenuously, "that
mother will relent in time, and then we can be married without
going to so much trouble about it." Farther on she admitted
that, "Mother is very firm about it now, but when she realizes
that I am absolutely determined to marry you, I am sure she will
give in and all will be well." At the end she said: "For
the present, Barry dear, I think you had better not come to the
house. She feels very bitter toward you after last night. We can
see each other at Effie's and other places. After all, she has
had a great sorrow and she is so very unhappy that I ought not
to hurt her in any way if I can help it. I love you, but I also
love her. Please be kind and reasonable, dear, and do not think
I am losing heart. I am just as determined as ever. Nothing can
change me. You believe that, don't you, Barry dear? I know how
impulsive you are and how set in your ways. Sometimes you really
frighten me but I know it is because you love me so much. You
must not do anything rash. It would spoil everything. I do wish
you would stay away from that awful place down by the river. Mother
would feel differently toward you, I know, if you were not there
so much. She knows the men play cards there for money and drink
and swear. I believe you will keep your promise never to touch
a drop of whiskey after we are married, but when I told her that
she only laughed at me. By this time you must know that my brother
has come to Lafayette. He arrived this morning. He knows nothing
about what happened last night but I am afraid mother will tell
him when she sees him to-day. It would not surprise me if they
bury the hatchet and join hands and try to make a good little
girl out of me. I think he is quite a prim young man. He spent
the night at Striker's and I saw him there. I must say he is good-looking.
He is so good-looking that nobody would ever suspect that he is
related to me." She signed herself, "Your loving and
devoted and loyal Viola."
She had been unable to get the letter to him that day, and for
a very good reason. Her messenger, Effie Wardlow's young brother,
reached the tavern just in time to see Barry emerge, quite tipsy
and in a vile temper, arguing loudly with Jack Trentman and Syd
Budd, the town's most notorious gamblers.
The three men went off toward the ferry. The lad very sensibly
decided this was no time to deliver a love letter to Mr. Lapelle,
so forthwith returned it to the sender, who, after listening bleakly
to a somewhat harrowing description of her lover's unsteady legs
and the direction in which they carried him, departed for home
fully convinced that something dreadful was going to happen to
Barry and that she would be to blame for it.
Halfway home she decided that her mother was equally if not more
to blame than she, and, upon catching sight of her lordly, self-satisfied
brother, acquitted herself of ALL responsibility and charged everything
to her meddling relatives. Her encounter with the exasperating
Kenneth, however, served to throw a new and most unwelcome light
upon the situation. It WAS a shabby trick to play upon the Strikers.
She had not thought of it before. And how she hated him for making
her think of it!
The first thing she did upon returning to the house with the recovered
letter was to proceed to the kitchen, where, after reading it
over again, she consigned it to the flames. She was very glad
it had not been delivered to Barry. The part of it referring to
the "place down by the river" would have to be treated
with a great deal more firmness and decision. That was something
she would have to speak very plainly about.
By this time she had reached the conclusion that Barry was to
blame for THAT, and that nothing more terrible could happen to
him than a severe headache,--an ailment to which he was accustomed
and which he treated very lightly in excusing himself when she
took him to task for his jolly lapses. "All red-blooded fellows
take a little too much once in a while," he had said, more
than once.
CHAPTER X
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
Rachel Gwyn was seated at the parlor window when Viola entered
the house. She was there ten or fifteen minutes later when her
daughter came downstairs.
"May I have a word with you, mother?" said the girl,
from the doorway, after waiting a moment for her mother to take
some notice of her presence.
She spoke in a very stiff and formal manner, for there had been
no attempt on the part of either to make peace since the trying
experiences of early morning. Viola had sulked all day, while
her mother preserved a stony silence that remained unbroken up
to the time she expressed a desire to be alone with Kenneth when
he called.
Apparently Mrs. Gwyn did not hear Viola's question. The girl advanced
a few steps into the room and stopped again to regard the motionless,
unresponsive figure at the window. Mrs. Gwyn's elbow was on the
sill, her chin resting in the hand. Apparently she was deaf to
all sound inside the room.
A wave of pity swept over Viola. All in an instant her rancour
took flight and in its place came a longing to steal over and
throw her arms about those bent shoulders and whisper words of
remorse. Desolation hung over that silent, thinking figure. Viola's
heart swelled with renewed anger toward Kenneth Gwynne.
What had he said or done to wound this stony, indomitable mother
of hers?
The room was cold. The fire had died down; only the huge backlog
showed splotches of red against the charred black; in front of
it were the faintly smoking ashes of a once sprightly blaze. She
shivered, and then, moved by a sudden impulse, strode softly over
and took down from its peg beside the fireplace the huge turkey
wing used in blowing the embers to life. She was vigorously fanning
the backlog when a sound from behind indicated that her mother
had risen from the chair. She smiled as she glanced over her shoulder.
Her mother was standing with one of her hands pressed tightly
to her eyes. Her lips were moving.
"He is Robert--Robert himself," she was murmuring. "As
like as two peas. I was afraid he might be--would be--" The
words trailed off into a mumble, for she had lowered her hand
and was staring in dull surprise at Viola.
"What is it, mother?" cried the girl, alarmed by the
other's expression. "What were you saying?"
After a moment her mother said, quite calmly: "Oh, it's you,
is it? When did you get home?"
"A few minutes ago. How cold it is! The fire is almost out.
Shall I get some kindling and start it up?"
"Yes. I don't know how I came to let it go down."
When Viola returned from the kitchen with the fagots and a bunch
of shavings, the older woman was standing in front of the fireplace
staring moodily down at the ashes. She moved to one side while
her daughter laid the kindling and placed three or four sticks
of firewood upon the heap. Not a word was spoken until after Viola
had fanned a tiny flame out of the embers and lighted the shavings
with a spill.
"I met my brother out there in the grove," said she,
rising and brushing the wood dust from her hands.
"Yes?"
"I thought maybe you and he had been discussing Barry Lapelle
and me and what happened last night, so I started to give him
a piece of my mind," said Viola, crimsoning.
A faint smile played about the corners of Mrs. Gwyn's lips. "I
can well imagine his astonishment," she said, drily.
"He knew all about it, even if he did not get it from you,
mother," said the girl, darkly. "Phin Striker told him
everything."
"Everybody in town will know about it before the week is
out," said the mother, a touch of bitterness in her voice.
"I would have given all I possess if it could have been kept
from Kenneth Gwynne. Salt in an open sore, that's what it is,
Viola. It smarts, oh, how it smarts."
Viola, ignorant of the true cause of her mother's pain, snapped
her fingers disdainfully.
"That's how much I care for his opinion, one way or the other.
I wouldn't let him worry me if I were you, mother. Let him think
what he pleases. It's nothing to us. I guess we can get along
very well without his good opinion or his good will or anything
else. And I will not allow him to interfere in my affairs. I told
him so in plain words out there awhile ago. He comes here and
the very first thing he does is to--"
"He will think what he pleases, my child," broke in
her mother; "so do not flatter yourself that he will be affected
by your opinion of him. We will not discuss him, if you please.
We have come to an understanding on certain matters, and that
is all that is necessary to tell you about our interview. He will
go his own way and we will go ours. There need be no conflict
between us."
Viola frowned dubiously. "It is all very well for you to
take that attitude, mother. But I am not in the same position.
He is my half-brother. It is going to be very awkward. He is nothing
to you,--and people will understand if you ignore him,--but it--it
isn't quite the same with me. Can't you see?"
"Certainly," admitted Mrs. Gwyn without hesitation.
"You and he have a perfect right to be friendly. It would
not be right for me to stand between you if you decide to--"
"But I do not want to be friendly with him," cried the
girl, adding, with a toss of her head,--"and I guess he realizes
it by this time. But people know that we had the same father.
They will think it strange if--if we have nothing to do with each
other. Oh, it's terribly upsetting, isn't it?"
"What did he say to you out there?"
"He was abominable! Officious, sarcastic, insolent,--"
"In plain words, he gave you a good talking to," interrupted
Mrs. Gwyn, rather grimly.
"He said some things I can never forgive."
"About you and Barry?"
"Well,--not so much about me and Barry as about the way I--Oh,
you needn't smile, mother. He isn't going to make any fuss about
Barry. He told me in plain words that he did not care whether
I married him or not,--or ran away with him, for that matter.
You will not get much support from him, let me tell you. And now
I have something I want to say to you. We may as well have it
out now as any other time. I am going to marry Barry Lapelle."
There was a ring of defiance in her voice.
Rachel Gwyn looked at her steadily for a moment before responding
to this out-and-out challenge.
"I think it would be only fair of you," she began, levelly,
"to tell Mr. Lapelle just what he may expect in case he marries
you. Tell him for me that you will never receive a penny or an
inch of land when I die. I shall cut you off completely. Tell
him that. It may make some difference in his calculations."
Viola flared. "You have no right to insinuate that he wants
to marry me for your money or your lands. He wants me for myself,--he
wants me because he loves me."
"I grant you that," said Mrs. Gwyn, nodding her head
slowly, "He would be a fool not to want you--now. You are
young and you are very pretty. But after he has been married a
few years and you have become an old song to him, he will feel
differently about money and lands. I know Mr. Lapelle and his
stripe. He wants you now for yourself, but when you are thirty
years old he will want you for something entirely different. At
any rate, you should make it plain to him that he will get nothing
but you,--absolutely nothing but you. Men of his kind do not love
long. They love violently--but not long. Idle, improvident men,
such as he is, are able to crowd a whole lot of love into a very
short space of time. That is because they have nothing much else
to do. They run through with love as they run through with money,--quickly.
The man who wastes money will also waste love. And when he has
wasted all his love, Barry Lapelle will still want money to waste.
Be good enough to make him understand that he will never have
a dollar of my money to waste,--never, my child, even though his
wife were starving to death."
Viola stared at her mother incredulously, her face paling. "You
mean--you mean you would let me starve,--your own daughter? I--why,
mother, I can't believe you would be so--"
"I mean it," said Rachel Gwyn, compressing her lips.
"Then," cried Viola, hotly, "you are the most unnatural,
cruel mother that ever--"
"Stop! You will not find me a cruel and inhuman mother when
you come creeping back to my door after Barry Lapelle has cast
you off. I am only asking you to tell him what he may expect from
me. And I am trying hard to convince you of what you may expect
from him. There's the end of it. I have nothing more to say."
"But I have something more to say," cried the girl.
"I shall tell him all you have said, and I shall marry him
in spite of everything. I am not afraid of starving. I don't want
a penny of father's money. He did not choose to give it to me;
he gave half of all he possessed to his son by another woman,
he ignored me, he cut me off as if I were a--"
"Be careful, my child," warned Rachel Gwyn, her eyes
narrowing. "I cannot permit you to question his acts or his
motives. He did what he thought was best,--and we--I mean you
and I--must abide by his decision."
"I am not questioning your husband's act," said Viola,
stubbornly. "I am questioning my FATHER'S act."
Mrs. Gwyn started. For a second or two her eyes wavered and then
fell. One corner of her mouth worked curiously. Then, without
a word, she turned away from the girl and left the room.
Viola, greatly offended, heard her ascend the stairs and close
a door; then her slow, heavy tread on the boards above. Suddenly
the girl's anger melted. The tears rushed to her eyes.
"Oh, what a beast I was to hurt her like that," she
murmured, forgetting the harsh, unfeeling words that had aroused
her ire, thinking only of the wonder and pain that had lurked
in her mother's eyes,--the wonder and pain of a whipped dog. "The
only person in all the world who has ever really loved me,--poor,
poor old mother." She stared through her tears at the flames,
a little pucker of uncertainty clouding her brow. "I am sure
Barry never, never can love me as she does, or be as kind and
good to me," she mused. "I wonder--I wonder if what
she says is true about men. I wish he had not gone to drinking
to-day. But I suppose the poor boy really couldn't help it. He
hates so to be disappointed."
Later on, at supper, she abruptly asked:
"Mother, how old is Kenneth?"
They had spoken not more than a dozen words to each other since
sitting down to table, which was set, as usual, in the kitchen.
Both were thoughtful;--one of them was contrite.
Rachel Gwyn, started out of a profound reverie, gave her daughter
a sharp, inquiring look before answering.
"I do not know. Twenty-five or six, I suppose."
"Did you know his mother?"
"Yes," after a perceptible pause.
"How long after she died were you and father married?"
"Your father had been a widower nearly two years when we
were married," said Rachel, steadily.
"Why doesn't Kenneth spell his name as we do?"
"Gwyn is the way it was spelled a great many years ago, and
it is the correct way, according to your father. It was his father,
I believe, who added the last two letters,--I do not know why,
unless it was supposed to be more elegant."
"It seems strange that he should spell it one way and his
own son another," ventured the girl, unsatisfied.
"Kenneth was brought up to spell it in the new-fangled way,
I guess," was Rachel Gwyn's reply. "You need not ask
me questions about the family, Viola. Your father never spoke
of them. I am afraid he was not on good terms with them. He was
a strange man. He kept things to himself. I do not recollect ever
hearing him mention his first wife or his son or any other member
of his family in,--well, in twenty years or more."
"I should think you would have been a little bit curious.
I know I should."
"I knew all that was necessary for me to know," said
Rachel, somewhat brusquely.
"Can't you tell me something more about father's people?"
persisted the girl.
"I only know that they lived in Baltimore. They never came
west. Your father was about twenty years old when he left home
and came to Kentucky. That is all I know, so do not ask any more
questions."
"He never acted like a backwoodsman," said Viola. "He
did not talk like one or--"
"He was an educated man. He came of a good family."
"And you are different from the women we used to see down
the river. Goodness, I was proud of you and father. There isn't
a woman in this town who--"
"I was born in Salem, Massachusetts, and lived there till
I was nearly twenty," interrupted Mrs. Gwyn, calmly. "I
taught school for two years after my father died. My mother did
not long survive him. After her death I came west with my brother
and his wife and a dozen other men and women. We lived in a settlement
on the Ohio River for several years. My brother was killed by
the Indians. His widow took their two small children and went
back to Salem to live. I have never heard from her. We did not
like each other. I was glad to have her go."
"Where did you first meet father?"
She regretted the question the instant the words were out of her
mouth. The look of pain,--almost of pleading,--in her mother's
eyes caused her to reproach herself.
"Forgive me, mother," she cried. "I did not stop
to think. I know how it hurts you to talk about him, and I should
have--"
"Be good enough to remember in the future," said Rachel
Gwyn, sternly, her eyes now cold and forbidding. She arose and
stalked to the kitchen window, where she stood for a long time
looking out into the gathering darkness.
"Clear the table, Hattie," said Viola, presently. "We
are through."
Then she walked over to her mother and timidly laid an arm across
her shoulder.
"I am sorry, mother," she said.
To this Mrs. Gwyn did not reply. She merely observed: "We
have had very little sleep in the last six and thirty hours. Come
to bed, child."
As was her custom, Rachel Gwyn herself saw to the locking and
bolting of the doors and window shutters at the front of the house.
To-night Viola, instead of Hattie, followed the tall black figure
from door to window, carrying the lighted candle. They stood together,
side by side, in the open front door for a few moments, peering
at the fence of trees across the road.
Off in the distance some one was whistling a doleful tune. The
spring wind blowing in their faces was fresh and moist, a soft
wind laden with the smell of earth. A clumsy hound came slouching
around the corner of the little porch and, wagging his tail, stopped
below them; the light shone down into his big, glistening eyes.
Viola spoke to him softly. He wagged his tail more briskly.
Rachel had turned her head and was looking toward the house that
was to be Kenneth's home. Its outlines could be made out among
the trees to the right, squat and lonely in a setting less black
than itself.
"Before long there will be lights in the windows again,"
she was saying, more to herself than to Viola. "A haunted
house. Haunted by a living, mortal ghost. Eh?" she cried
out, sharply, turning to Viola.
"I did not speak, mother."
A look of awe came to Rachel's eyes.
"I was sure I heard--" she began, and then, after a
short pause, laughed throatily. "I guess it was the wind.
Come in. I want to lock the door."
Viola was a long time in going to sleep. It seemed to her as she
lay there, staring wide awake, that everything in the world was
unsettled and topsy-turvy. Nothing could ever be right again.
What with the fiasco of the night just gone, the appearance of
the mysterious brother, the counterbalancing of resolve and remorse
within her troubled self, the report of Barry's lapse from rectitude,
her mother's astounding sophistry, her tired brain was in such
a whirl as never was.
There was a new pain in her breast that was not of thwarted desires
nor of rancour toward this smug, insolent brother who had come
upon the scene. It hurt her to think that up to this night she
had known so little, ay, almost nothing, about her own mother's
life. For the first time, she heard of Salem, of her mother's
people and her occupation, of the journey westward, of the uncle
who was killed by the Indians and the wife who turned back; of
unknown cousins to whom she was also unknown. There was pain in
the discovery that her mother was almost a stranger to her.
CHAPTER XI
A ROADSIDE MEETING
Kenneth remained at the tavern for a month. He did not go near
the house of his step-mother. He saw her once walking along the
main street, and followed her with his eyes until she disappeared
into a store. A friendly citizen took occasion to inform him that
it was the "fust time" he had seen her on the street
in a coon's age.
"She ain't like most women," he vouchsafed. "Never
comes down town unless she's got some reason to. Most of 'em never
stay to home unless they've got a derned good reason to, setch
as sickness, or the washin' and ironin', or it's rainin' pitchforks.
She's a mighty queer woman, Rachel Gwyn is. How air you an' her
makin' out these days, Kenneth?"
"Oh, fair to middlin'," replied the young man, dropping
into the vernacular.
"I didn't know but what ye'd patched things up sorter,"
said the citizen, invitingly.
"There is nothing to patch up," said Kenneth.
"Well, I guess it ain't any of my business, anyhow,"
remarked the other, cheerfully.
The business of taking over the property, signing the necessary
papers, renewing an agreement with the man who farmed his land
on the Wea, taking account of all live-stock and other chattels,
occupied his time for the better part of a fortnight. He spent
two days and a night at the little farmhouse, listening with ever
increasing satisfaction to the enthusiastic prophecies of the
farmer, a stout individual named Jones whose faith in the new
land was surpassed only by his ability to till it. Even out here
on his own farm Kenneth was unable to escape the unwelcome influence
of Rachel Carter. Mr. Jones magnanimously admitted that she was
responsible for all of the latest conveniences about the place
and characterized her as a "woman with a head on her shoulders,
you bet."
He confessed: "Why, dodgast it, she stopped by here a couple
o' weeks ago an' jest naturally raised hell with me because my
wife's goin' to have another baby. She sez, sorter sharp-like,
'The only way to make a farm pay is to stock it with somethin'
besides children.' That made me a leetle mad, so I up an' sez
back to her: 'I wouldn't swap my seven children fer all the hogs
an' cattle in the state o' Indianny.' So she sez, kind o' grinnin',
'Well, I'll bet your wife would jump at the chance to trade your
NEXT seven children, sight onseen, fer a new pair o' shoes er
that bonnet she's been wantin' ever sence she got married.' That
sorter mixed me up. I couldn't make out jest what she was drivin'
at. Must ha' been nine o'clock that night when it come to me all
of a sudden. So I woke Sue up an' told her what Rachel Gwyn said
to me, an', by gosh, Sue saw through it quicker'n a flash. 'You
bet I would,' sez she. 'I'd swap the next HUNDRED.' Then she kinder
groaned an' said, 'I guess maybe I'd better make it the next ninety-nine.'
Well, sir, that sot me to thinkin', an' the more I thought, the
more I realized what a lot o' common sense that mother-in-law
o' your'n has got. She--"
"You mean my step-mother, Jones."
"They say it amounts to the same thing in most families,"
said the ready Mr. Jones, and continued to expatiate upon the
remarkable qualities of Rachel Gwyn.
Kenneth found it difficult to think of the woman as Rachel Gwyn.
To him, she was unalterably Rachel Carter. Time and again he caught
himself up barely in time to avoid using the unknown name in the
presence of others. The possibility that he might some day inadvertently
blurt it out in conversation with Viola caused him a great deal
of uneasiness and concern. He realized that he would have to be
on his guard all of the time.
There seemed to be no immediate prospect of such a calamity, however.
Since the memorable encounter in the thicket he had not had an
opportunity to speak to the girl. For reasons of her own she purposely
avoided him, there could be no doubt about that. On more than
one occasion she deliberately had crossed a street to escape meeting
him face to face, and there was the one especially irritating
instance when, finding herself hard put, she had been obliged
to turn squarely in her tracks and hurry back in the direction
from which she came. This would have been laughable to Kenneth
but for the distressing fact that it was even more laughable to
others. Several men and women, witnessing the manoeuvre, had sniggered
gleefully,--one of the men going so far as to slap his leg and
roar: "Well, by gosh, did you ever see anything like that?"
His ejaculation, like that of a town-crier, being audible for
a hundred feet or more, had one gratifying result. It caused Viola
to turn and transfix the offender with a stare so haughty that
he abruptly diverted his attention to the upper north-east corner
of the court-house, where, fortunately for him, a pair of pigeons
had just alighted and were engaged in the interesting pastime
of bowing to each other.
A week or so after his return from the farm Kenneth saw her riding
off on horseback with two other young women and a youth named
Hayes. She passed within ten feet of him but did not deign to
notice him, although her companions bowed somewhat eagerly. This
was an occasion when he felt justified in swearing softly under
his breath--and also to make a resolve--to write her a very polite
and formal letter in which he would ask her pardon for presuming
to suggest, as a brother, that she was making a perfect fool of
herself, and that people were laughing "fit to kill"
over her actions. It goes without saying that he thought better
of it and never wrote the letter.
She was a graceful and accomplished horsewoman. He watched her
out of the corner of his eye as she cantered down the street,
sitting the spirited sorrel mare with all the ease and confidence
of a practised rider. Her habit was of very dark blue, with huge
puffed sleeves and a high lace collar. She wore a top-hat of black,
a long blue veil trailing down her back. He heartily agreed with
the laconic bystander who remarked that she was "purtier
than most pictures."
Later on, urged by a spirit of restlessness, he ordered Zachariah
to saddle his horse and bring him around to the front of the tavern,
where he mounted and set out for a ride up the Wild Cat road.
Two or three miles above town he met Hayes and the two young women
returning. The look of consternation that passed among them did
not escape him. He smiled a trifle maliciously as he rode on,
for now he knew what had become of the missing member of the party.
Half a mile farther on he came upon Viola and Barry Lapelle, riding
slowly side by side through the narrow lane. He drew off to one
side to allow them to pass, doffing his beaver ceremoniously.
Lapelle's friendly greeting did not surprise him, for the two
had seen a great deal of each other, and at no time had there
been anything in the lover's manner to indicate that Viola had
confided to him the story of the meeting in the thicket. But he
was profoundly astonished when the girl favoured him with a warm,
gay smile and cried out a cheery "How do you do, Kenneth!"
More than that, she drew rein and added to his amazement by shaking
her finger reproachfully at him, saying:
"Where on earth have you been keeping yourself? I have not
laid eyes on you for more than a week."
Utterly confounded by this unexpected attack, Kenneth stammered:
"Why, I--er--I have been very busy." Not laid eyes on
him, indeed! What was her game? "Now that I come to think
of it," he went on, recovering himself, "it is fully
a week since I've seen you. Don't you ever come down town, Viola?"
"Every day," she said, coolly. "We just happen
never to see each other, that's all. I am glad to have had this
little glimpse of you, Kenneth, even though it is away out here
in the woods."
There was no mistaking the underlying significance of these words.
They contained the thinly veiled implication that he had followed
for the purpose of spying upon her.
"Better turn around and ride back with us, Kenny," said
Barry, politely but not graciously.
"I am on my way up to the Wild Cat to see a man on business,"
said Kenneth, lamely.
"Kenny?" repeated Viola, puckering her brow.
"Where have I heard that name before? I seem to remember--oh,
as if it were a thousand years ago. Do they call you Kenny for
short?"
"It grew up with me," he replied. "Ever since I
can remember, my folks--"
He broke off in the middle of the sentence, confronted by a disconcerting
thought. Could it be possible that somewhere in Viola's brain,--or
rather in Minda's baby brain,--that familiar name had stamped
itself? Why not? If it had been impressed upon his own baby brain,
why not in a less degree upon hers? He made a pretence of stooping
far over to adjust a corner of his saddle blanket. Straightening
up, he went on:
"Any name is better than what the boys used to call me at
school. I was known by the elegant name of Piggy, due to an appetite
over which I seemed to have no control. Well, I must be getting
along. Good day to you."
He lifted his hat and rode off. He had gone not more than twenty
rods when he heard a masculine shout from behind: turning, he
discovered that the couple were still standing where he had left
them. Lapelle called out:
"Your sister wants to have a word with you."
She rode swiftly up to where he was waiting.
"I just want to let you know that I intend to tell mother
about meeting Barry out here to-day," she said, unsmilingly.
"I shall not tell her that we planned it in advance, however.
We did plan it, so if you want to run and tell her yourself, you
may do so. It will make no--"
"Is that all you wanted to say to me, Viola?" he interrupted.
For a moment she faced him rebelliously, hot words on her lips.
Then a surprising change came over her. Her eyes quailed under
the justifiable scorn in his. She hung her head.
"No," she said, miserably. "I thought it was all,
but it isn't. I want to say that I am sorry I said what I did."
He watched the scarlet flood sweep over her cheeks and then as
swiftly fade. It was abject surrender, and yet he had no thrill
of triumph.
"It's--it's all right, Viola," he stammered, awkwardly.
"Don't think anything more about it. We will consider it
unsaid."
"No, we'll not," she said, looking up. "We will
just let it stand as another black mark against me. I am getting
a lot of them lately. But I AM sorry, Kenneth. Will you try to
forget it?"
He shook his head. "Never! Forgetting the bitter would mean
that I would also have to give up the sweet," said he, gallantly.
"And you have given me something very sweet to remember."
She received this with a wondering, hesitating little smile.
"I never dreamed that brothers could say such nice things
to their sisters," she said, and he was aware of a deep,
questioning look in her eyes. "They usually say them to other
men's sisters."
"Ah, but no other fellow happens to have you as a sister,"
he returned, fatuously. She laughed aloud at this, perhaps a little
uncertainly.
"Bless me!" he exclaimed. "It sounds good to hear
you laugh like that,--such a jolly, friendly sort of laugh."
"I must be going now," she said, biting her lip. "Good-bye,--Kenny."
A faint frown clouded her brow after she had uttered the name.
"I must ask mother if she remembers hearing father speak
of you as Kenny."
"Say, Viola," came an impatient shout from Barry Lapelle,
"are you going to take all day?"
It was plain to be seen that the young man was out of temper.
There was a sharp, domineering note of command in his voice. Viola
straightened up in her saddle and sent a surprised, resentful
look at the speaker. Kenneth could not repress a chuckle.
"Better hurry along," he said, grimly, "or he'll
take your head off. Lord, we are going to have a storm. I see
a thundercloud gathering just below the rim of Barry's hat. If
you--"
"Please keep your precious wit to yourself," she flamed,
but with all her show of righteous indignation she could not hide
from him the chagrin and mortification that lurked in her tell-tale
eyes.
She rode off in high dudgeon, and he was left to curse his ill-timed
jest. What a blundering fool he had been! Her first, timid little
advance,--and he had met it with boorish, clownish wit! A scurvy
jest, indeed! She was justified in despising him.
If Viola had turned her proud head a few moments later, she would
have beheld an amazing spectacle: her supposedly smug and impeccable
brother riding away at break-neck speed down the soggy lane, regardless
of overhanging branches and flying mud, fleeing in wrath from
the scene of his discontent.
Dusk was falling when he rode slowly into the town again. He had
reached a decision during that lonely ride. He would not remain
in Lafayette. He foresaw misery and unhappiness for himself if
he stayed there,--for, be it here declared, he was in love with
Viola Gwyn. No, worse than that, he was in love with Minda Carter,--and
therein lay all the bitterness that filled his soul. He could
never have her. Even though she cast off the ardent Lapelle, still
he could not have her for his own. The bars were up, and it was
now beyond his power to lower them. And so, with this resolve
firmly fixed in his mind, he gave himself up to a strange sort
of despair.
After supper at the tavern, he set out for a solitary stroll about
the town before going to bed. He took stock of himself. No later
than that morning he had come to a decision to open an office
and engage in the practice of Law in Lafayette. He had made many
friends during his brief stay in the place, and from all sides
he had been encouraged to "hang out his shingle" and
"grow up with the town." He liked the people, he had
faith in the town, he possessed all the confidence and courage
of youth. The local members of the bar, including the judge and
justices, seriously urged him to establish himself there--there
was room for him,--the town needed such men as he,--indeed, one
of the leading lawyers had offered to take him into partnership,
an opportunity not to be despised, in view of this man's state-wide
reputation as a lawyer and orator, and who was already being spoken
of for high honours in the councils of state and nation.
All this was very gratifying to the young stranger. He was flattered
by the unmistakable sincerity of these new friends. And he was
in a position to weather the customary paucity of clients for
an indefinite period, a condition resulting to but few young men
starting out for themselves in the practice of law. He was comfortably
well-off in the matter of worldly goods, not only through his
recently acquired possessions, but as the result of a substantial
legacy that had come to him on the death of his grandmother. He
had received his mother's full share of the Blythe estate, a no
inconsiderable fortune in lands and money.
And now everything was changed. He would have to give up his plan
to settle in Lafayette, and so, as he strolled gloomily about
the illy-lighted town, he was casting about for the next best
place to locate. The incomprehensible and incredible had come
to pass. He had fallen in love with Viola Gwyn at first sight,
that stormy night at Striker's. The discovery that she was his
own half-sister had, of course, deluded his senses--temporarily,
but now he realized that the strange, primitive instincts of man
had not been deceived and would not be denied.
His blood had known the truth from the instant he first laid eyes
upon the lovely stranger. Since that first night there had been
revelations. First of all, Viola was the flesh and blood of an
evil woman, and that woman his mortal foe. Notwithstanding her
own innocence and purity, it was inconceivable that he should
ever think of taking her to himself as wife. Secondly, he was
charged with a double secret that must forever stand between him
and her: the truth about her mother and the truth about herself.
There was but one thing left for him to do,--go away. He loved
her. He would grow to love her a thousand-fold more if he remained
near her, if he saw her day by day. These past few days had brought
despair and jealousy to him, but what would the future bring?
Misery! No, he would have to go. He would wind up his affairs
at once and put longing and temptation as far behind him as possible.
There was the town of Louisville. From all reports it was a prosperous,
growing town, advantageously situated on the River Ohio. Crawfordsville
was too near. He would have to go farther, much farther away than
that,--perhaps back to the old home town.
"What cruel foul luck!" he groaned, aloud.
His wanderings had carried him through dark, winding cow-paths
and lanes to within a stone's throw of Jack Trentman's shanty,
standing alone like the pariah it was, on the steep bank of the
river near the ferry. Back in a clump of sugar trees it seemed
to hide, as if shrinking from the accusing eye of every good and
honest man. Kenneth had stopped at the edge of the little grove
and was gazing fiercely at the two lighted windows of the "shanty."
He was thinking of Barry Lapelle as he muttered the words, thinking
of the foul luck that seemed almost certain to deliver Viola into
his soiled and lawless hands. The fierceness of his gaze was due
to the knowledge that Lapelle was now inside Trentman's notorious
shanty and perhaps gambling.
This evening, as on two or three earlier occasions, he had been
urged by Barry to come down to the shanty and try his luck at
poker. He had steadfastly declined these invitations. Trentman's
place was known far and wide as a haven into which "cleaned
out" river gamblers sailed in the hope of recovering at least
enough of their fortunes to enable them to return to more productive
fields down the reaches of the big river. These whilom, undaunted
rascals, like birds of passage, stayed but a short time in the
new town of Lafayette. They came up the river with sadly depleted
purses, confident of "easy pickings" among the vainglorious
amateurs, and be it said in behalf of their astuteness, they seldom
if ever boarded the south-bound boats as poor as when they came.
In due time they invariably returned again to what they called
among themselves "the happy hunting-ground." The stories
of big "winnings" and big "losings" were rife
among the people of the town. More than one adventurous citizen
or farmer had been "wiped out," with no possible chance
of ever recovering from his losses. It was common talk that Barry
Lapelle was "fresh fish" for these birds of prey. He
possessed the gambling instinct but lacked the gambler's wiles.
He was reckless where they were cool. They "stripped"
him far oftener than he won from them, but it was these infrequent
winnings that encouraged him. He believed that some day he would
make a big "killing"; the thought of that was ever before
him, beckoning him on like the dancing will-o'-the-wisp. He took
no note of the fact that these bland gentlemen could pocket their
losings as well as their winnings. It was part of their trade
to suffer loss. They had everything to gain and nothing to lose,
so they throve on uncertainty.
Not so with Barry, or others of his kind. They could only afford
to win. It was no uncommon experience for the skilled river gambler
to be penniless; it was all in the day's work. It did not hurt
him to lose, for the morrow was ahead. But it was different with
his victims. The morrow was not and never could be the same; when
they were "cleaned out" it meant desolation. They went
down under the weight and never came up, while the real gambler,
in similar case, scraped his sparse resources together and blithely
began all over again,--a smiling loser and a smiling winner. Full
purse or empty, he was always the same. Rich to-day, poor to-morrow,--all
the same to him. Philosopher, rascal, soldier, knave,--but never
the craven,--and you have the Mississippi gambler.
Barry, after coming in from his ride with Viola, had "tipped
the jug" rather liberally. He kept a demi-john of whiskey
in his room at the tavern, and to its contents all the "afflicted"
were welcome. It could not be said of him that he was the principal
consumer, for, except under unusual circumstances, he was a fairly
abstemious man. As he himself declared, he drank sparingly except
when his "soul was tried." The fact that he had taken
several copious draughts of the fiery Mononga-Durkee immediately
upon his return was an indication that his soul was tried, and
what so reasonable as to assume that it had been tried by Viola.
In a different frame of mine, Kenneth might have accepted this
as a most gratifying augury. But, being without hope himself,
he took no comfort in Barry's gloom. What would he not give to
be in the roisterer's boots instead of his own?
The spoken lament had barely passed his lips when the wheel of
fate took a new and unexpected turn, bringing his dolorous meditations
to a sudden halt and subsequently upsetting all his plans.
He thought he was alone in the gloom until he was startled by
the sound of a man's voice almost at his elbow.
"Evenin', Mr. Gwynne."
CHAPTER XII
ISAAC STAIN APPEARS BY NIGHT
Whirling, he made out the lank shadow of a man leaning against
a tree close by.
"Good evening," he muttered in some confusion, conscious
of a sense of guilt in being caught in the act of spying.
"I've been follerin' you fer quite a ways," observed
the unknown. "Guess you don't remember me. My name is Stain,
Isaac Stain."
"I remember you quite well," said Kenneth, stiffly.
"May I inquire why you have been following me, Mr. Stain?"
"Well, I jest didn't know of anybody else I could come to
about a certain matter. It has to do with that feller, Lapelle,
up yander in Trentman's place. Fust, I went up to Mrs. Gwyn's
house, but it was all dark, an' nobody to home 'cept that dog
o' her'n. He knowed me er else he'd have jumped me. I guess we'd
better mosey away from this place. A good many trees have ears,
you know."
They walked off together in the direction of town. Stain was silent
until they had put a hundred paces or more between them and the
grove.
"Seems that Violy is right smart taken with this Lapelle
feller," he observed. "Well, I thought I'd oughter tell
her ma what I heerd about him to-day. Course, everybody's heerd
queer things about him, but this beats anything I've come acrosst
yet. Martin Hawk's daughter, Moll, come hoofin' it up to my cabin
this mornin' an' told me the derndest story you've ever heerd.
She came to me, she sez, on account of me bein' an old friend
of Rachel's, an' she claims to be a decent, honest girl in spite
of what her dodgasted father is. Everybody believes Mart is a
hoss thief an' sheep-stealer an' all that, but he hain't ever
been caught at it. He's purty thick with Barry Lapelle. Moll Hawk
sez her dad'll kill her if he ever finds out she come to me with
this story. Seems that Barry an' Violy are calculatin' on gettin'
married an' the old woman objects. Some time this past week, Violy
told Barry she wouldn't marry him anywheres 'cept in her own mother's
house. Well, from what Moll sez, Barry has got other idees about
it."
He paused to bite off a fresh chew of tobacco.
"Go on, Stain. What did the girl tell you?"
"'Pears that Barry ain't willin' to take chances on gettin'
married jest that way, an' besides he's sort of got used to havin'
anything he wants without waitin' very long fer it. Now, I don't
know whuther Violy's a party to the scheme or not,--maybe she
is an' maybe she ain't. But from what Moll Hawk sez there's a
scheme on foot to get the best of Rachel Gwyn by grabbin' Violy
some night an' rushin' her to a hidin' place down the river where
Barry figgers he c'n persuade her to marry him an' live happy
ever afterwards, as the sayin' is. Seems that Barry figgers that
you, bein' a sort o' brother to her, will put your foot down on
them gettin' married, so he's goin' to get her away from here
before it's too late. Moll sez it's all fixed up, 'cept the time
fer doin' it. Martin Hawk an' a half dozen fellers from some'eres
down the river is to do the job. All she knows is it's to be in
the dark o' the moon, an' that's not fer off. Moll sez she believes
Violy knows about the plan an' sort of agrees to--"
"I don't believe it, Stain," broke in Kenneth. "She
would not lend herself to a low-down trick like that."
Stain shook his head. "They say she's terrible in love with
Barry, an' gosh only knows what a woman'll stoop to in order to
git the man she's set her heart on. Why, I could tell you somethin'
about a woman that was after me some years back,--a widder down
below Vincennes,--her husband used to run a flatboat,--an', by
cracky, Mr. Gwynne, you wouldn't believe the things she done.
Chased me clean down to Saint Louis an' back ag'in, an' then trailed
me nearly fifty miles through the woods to an Injin village on
the White River. I don't know what I'd have done if it hadn't
been fer an Injin I'd befriended a little while back. He shot
her in the leg an' she was laid up fer nearly six weeks, givin'
me that much of a start. That was four years ago an' to this day
I never go to sleep at night without fust lookin' under the bed.
Some day I'll tell you all about that woman, but not now. I'm
jest tellin' this to show you what a woman'll do when she once
makes up her mind, an' maybe Violy ain't any different from the
rest of 'em."
"Nevertheless, Viola is not that kind," asserted Kenneth,
stubbornly. "She may be in love with Lapelle, but if she
has made up her mind to be married at her mother's house, that's
the end of it. See here, Stain, I've been thinking while you were
talking. If there is really anything in this story, I doubt the
wisdom of going to Mrs. Gwyn with it, and certainly it would be
a bad plan to speak to Viola. We've got to handle this matter
ourselves. I want to catch Barry Lapelle red-handed. That is the
surest way to convince Viola that he is an unworthy scoundrel.
It is my duty to protect my--my sister--and I shall find a way
to do so, whether she likes it or not. You know, perhaps, that
we are not on the friendliest of terms."
"Yep, I know," said Stain. "You might as well know
that I am on their side, Mr. Gwynne. Whatever the trouble is between
you an' them two women, I am for them an' ag'in you. That's understood,
ain't it?"
"It is," replied Kenneth, impressed by the hunter's
frankness. "But all the more reason why in a case like this
you and I should work hand in hand. I am glad you came to me with
the Hawk girl's story. Hawk and his crew will find me waiting
for them when they come. They will not find their job a simple
one."
"I guess you'll need a little help, Mr. Gwynne," said
Stain, drily. "What are you goin' to do? Call in a lot o'
these dodgasted canary birds to fight the hawks? If you do, you'll
get licked. What you want is a man er two that knows how to shoot
an' is in the habit o' huntin' varmints. You c'n count on me,
Mr. Gwynne, if you need me. If you feel that you don't need me,
jest say so, an' I'll go it alone. I don't like Martin Hawk; we
got a grudge to settle, him an' me. So make your choice. You an'
me will work in cahoots with each other, or we'll go at it single-hand."
"We will work together, Stain," said Kenneth, promptly.
"You know your man, you know the lay of the land, and you
are smarter than I am when it comes to handling an affair of this
kind. I will be guided by you. Shake hands."
The two men shook hands. Then the lawyer in Gwynne spoke.
"You should see this Hawk girl again and keep in touch with
their plans. We must not let them catch us napping."
"She's comin' to see me in a day er so. Mart Hawk went down
to Attica to-day, him an' a feller named Suggs who's been soberin'
up at Mart's fer the past few days. The chances are he's gone
down there on this very business."
"Will you keep in touch with me?"
"Yes, sir. If you ain't got anything to do to-morrow, you
might ride out to my place, where we c'n talk a little more free-like."
"A good idea, Stain. You are sure nothing is likely to happen
to-night?"
"Not till the dark o' the moon, she sez."
"By the way, why is she turning against her father like this?"
"Well, you remember what I was jest sayin' about women,--how
sot they are in their ways concarnin' a man? Well, Moll is after
Barry Lapelle,--no question about that. She's an uncommon good-lookin'
girl, I might say, an' I guess Barry ain't blind. Course, she's
an unedicated girl an' purty poor trash,--you couldn't expect
much else of a daughter of Martin Hawk, I guess,--but that don't
seem to make much difference when it comes to fallin' in love.
You don't need to have much book learnin' fer that. I could tell
ye about a girl I used to know,--but we'll save it fer some other
time."
"I see," mused Kenneth, reflectively. "She wants
Lapelle for herself. But doesn't she realize that if they attempt
this outrage her own father stands a pretty good chance of being
shot?"
"Lord love ye, that don't worry her none," explained
the hunter. "She don't keer much what happens to him. Why,
up to this day he licks the daylights out o' her, big as she is.
You c'n hear her yell fer half a mile. That's how she comes to
be a friend o' mine, I happened to be huntin' down nigh Mart's
place last fall an' heerd her screamin',--you could hear the blows
landin' on her back, too,--so I jest stepped sort o' spry to'ards
his cabin an' ketched him layin' it on with a wilier branch as
thick as your thumb, an' her a screechin' like a wild-cat in a
trap. Well, what happened inside the next minute made a friend
o' her fer life,--an' an enemy o' him. You'd have thought any
dootiful an' loyal offspring would o' tried to pull me off'n him,
but all she done was to stand back an' egg me on, 'specially when
I took to tannin' him with the same stick he'd been usin' on her.
Seems like Mart's never felt very friendly to'ards me sence that
day."
"I shouldn't think he would."
"When I got kind o' wore out with wollopin' him, I sot down
to rest on the edge o' the waterin' trough, an' she comes over
to me an' sez she wished I'd stay an' help her bury the old man.
She said if I'd wait there she'd go an' get a couple o' spades
out'n the barn,--well, to make a long story short, soon as Mart
begin to realize he was dead an' wasn't goin' to have a regular
funeral, with mourners an' all that, he sot up an' begin to whine
all over ag'in. So I up an' told him if I ever heerd of him lickin'
his gal ag'in, I'd come down an' take off what little hide there
was left on him. He said he'd never lick her ag'in as long as
he lived. So I sez to Moll, sez I, 'If you ever got anything to
complain of about this here white-livered weasel, you jest come
straight to me, an' I'll make him sorry he didn't get into hell
sooner.' Well, sir, after that he never licked her without fust
tyin' somethin' over her mouth so's she couldn't yell, an' it
wasn't till this afternoon that I found out he'd been at it all
along, same as ever, 'cept when Barry Lapelle was there. Seems
that Barry stopped him from lickin' her once, an' that made Moll
foller him around like a dog tryin' to lick his hand. No, sir,
she won't be heartbroke if somebody puts a rifle ball between
Mart's eyes an' loses it some'eres back inside his skull. She'd
do it herself if she wasn't so doggoned sure somebody else is
goin' to do it, sooner or later."
"You say there was no one at home up at Mrs. Gwyn's?"
observed Kenneth, apprehensively. "That's queer. Where do
you suppose they are?"
"That's what I'm wonderin' about. Mrs. Gwyn never goes nowhere,
'cept out to the farm, an' I'm purty sure she didn't--Say, do
you hear somebody comin' up the road behind us?"
He laid a hand on Kenneth's arm and they both stopped to listen.
"I hear no one," said the young man.
"Well, you ain't got a hunter's ears," said the other.
"Some one's follerin' us,--a good ways back. I've got so's
I c'n hear an acorn drop forty mile away."
They drew off into the shadows at the roadside and waited. Twenty
yards or more ahead gleamed the lights in the windows of the nearest
store. A few seconds elapsed, and then Kenneth's ears caught the
sound of footsteps in the soft dirt road, and presently the subdued
murmur of voices.
"Women," observed Stain, laconically, lowering his voice.
"Let 'em pass. If we show ourselves now, they'll think we're
highwaymen or something, an' begin screechin' fer dear life."
Two vague, almost indistinguishable figures took shape in the
darkness down the road and rapidly drew nearer. They passed within
ten feet of the two men,--black voiceless shadows. Stain's hand
still gripped his companion's arm. The women had almost reached
the patches of light cast upon the road from the store windows,
before the hunter spoke.
"Recognize 'em?" he whispered.
"No."
"Well, I guess I know now why there wasn't nobody to home
up yander. That was Violy an' her ma."
Kenneth started. "You--you don't mean it!"
"Yep. An' if you was to ask me what they air doin' down here
by the river I'd tell you. Mrs. Gwyn jest simply took Violy down
there to Trentman's shanty an' SHOWED her Barry Lapelle playin'
cards."
"Impossible! I would have seen them."
"Not from where you stood. The winders on the river side
air open, an' you c'n see into the house. On the side facin' this
way, Jack's got curtains hangin'. Well, Mrs. Gwyn took Violy 'round
on t'other side where she could look inside. Maybe you didn't
hear what they was sayin' when we fust beared 'em talkin'. Well,
I did. I heared Violy say, plain as day, 'I don't keer what you
say, mother, he swore to me he never plays except fer fun.' An'
Rachel Gwyn, she sez, 'There ain't no setch thing as playin' fer
fun in that place, so don't talk foolish.' That's all I heared
'em say,--an' they ain't spoke a word sence."
"Come along, Stain," said Kenneth, starting forward.
"We must follow along behind, to see that they reach home
safely."
The hunter gave vent to a deprecating grunt. "They won't
thank us if they happen to turn around an' ketch us at it. 'Sides,
I got to be startin' to'ards home. That ole hoss o' mine ain't
used to bein' out nights. Like as not, he's sound asleep this
minute, standin' over yander in front o' Curt Cole's blacksmith
shop, an' whenever that hoss makes up his mind he's asleep there
ain't nothin' that'll convince him he ain't. There they go, turnin'
off Main street, so's they won't run across any curious-minded
saints. Guess maybe we'd better trail along behind, after all."
Fifteen minutes later the two men, standing back among the trees,
saw lights appear in the windows of Mrs. Gwyn's house. Then they
turned and wended their way toward the public square. They had
spoken but few words to each other while engaged in the stealthy
enterprise, and then only in whispers. No one may know what was
in the mind of the hunter, but in Kenneth's there was a readjustment
of plans. A certain determined enthusiasm had taken the place
of his previous depression. The excitement of possible conflict,
the thrill of adventure had wrought a complete change in him.
His romantic soul was aflame.
"See here, Stain," he began, when they were down the
slope; "I've been thinking this matter over and I have come
to the conclusion that the best thing for me to do is to go straight
to Lapelle and tell him I am aware of his--"
"Say, you're supposed to be a lawyer, ain't you?" drawled
his companion, sarcastically.
"Yes, I am," retorted Kenneth.
"Well, all I got to say is you'd make a better wood-chopper.
Barry'd jest tell you to go to hell, an' that'd be the end of
it as fer as you're concarned. Course, he'd give up the plan,
but he'd make it his business to find out how you got wind of
it. Next thing we'd know, Moll Hawk would have her throat slit
er somethin',--an' I reckon that wouldn't be jest what most people
would call fair, Mr. Gwynne. I guess we'd better let things slide
along as they air an' ketch Mart an' his crowd in the act. You
don't reckon that Barry is goin' to take a active part in this
here kidnappin' job, do you? Not much! He won't be anywheres near
when it happens. He's too cute fer that. You won't be able to
fasten anything on him till it's too late to do anything."
Kenneth was properly humbled. "You are right, Stain. If you
hear of anybody who wants to have some wood chopped, free of charge,
I wish you'd let me know."
"Well," began the laconic Mr. Stain, "it takes
considerable practice to get to be even a fair to middlin' woodchopper."
CHAPTER XIII
THE GRACIOUS ENEMY
Bright and early the next morning Kenneth gave orders to have
his new home put in order for immediate occupancy. Having made
up his mind to remain in Lafayette and face the consequences that
had seemed insurmountable the night before, he lost no time in
committing himself to the final resolve. Zachariah was despatched
with instructions to lay in the necessary supplies, while two
women were engaged to sweep, scrub and furbish up the long uninhabited
house. He had decided to move in that very afternoon.
Meanwhile he rented an "office" on the north side of
the public square, a small room at the back of a furniture store,
pending the completion of the two story brick block on the south
side. With commendable enterprise he lost no time in outfitting
the temporary office from the furniture dealer's stock. His scanty
library of law books,--a half dozen volumes in all,--Coke, Kent
and Chitty, among them,--had been packed with other things in
the cumbersome saddle bags, coming all the way from Kentucky with
him.
Of necessity he had travelled light, but he had come well provided
with the means to purchase all that was required in the event
that he decided to make Lafayette his abiding place. As he was
hurrying away from the tavern shortly after breakfast, he encountered
Lapelle coming up from the stable-yard. The young Louisianian
appeared to be none the worse for his night's dissipation. In
fact, he was in a singularly amiable frame of mind.
"Hello," he called out. Kenneth stopped and waited for
him to come up. "I'm off pretty soon for my place below town.
Would you care to come along? It's only about eight miles. I want
to arrange with Martin Hawk for a duck shooting trip the end of
the week. He looks after my lean-to down there, and he is the
keenest duck hunter in these parts. Better come along."
"Sorry I can't make it," returned Kenneth. "I am
moving into my house to-day and that's going to keep me pretty
busy."
"Well, how would you like to go out with us a little later
on for ducks?"
"I'd like to, very much. That is, after I've got thoroughly
settled in my new office, shingles painted, and so forth. Mighty
good of you to ask me."
Barry was regarding him somewhat narrowly.
"So you are moving up to your house to-day, are you? That
will be news to Viola. She's got the whim that you don't intend
to live there."
"I was rather undecided about it myself,--at least for the
present. I am quite comfortable here at Mr. Johnson's."
"It isn't bad here,--and he certainly sets a good table.
Say, I guess I owe you a sort of apology, Kenny. I hope you will
overlook the way I spoke last night when you said you couldn't
go to Jack Trentman's. I guess I was a--well, a little sarcastic,
wasn't I?"
There was nothing apologetic in his voice or bearing. On the contrary,
he spoke in a lofty, casual manner, quite as if this perfunctory
concession to the civilities were a matter of form, and was to
be so regarded by Gwynne.
"I make it a rule to overlook, if possible, anything a man
may say when he is drinking," said Kenneth, smiling.
Barry's pallid cheeks took on a faint red tinge; his hard eyes
seemed suddenly to become even harder than before.
"Meaning, I suppose, that you considered me a trifle tipsy,
eh?" he said, the corner of his mouth going up in mirthless
simulation of a grin.
"Well, you had taken something aboard, hadn't you?"
"A drink or two, that was all," said the other, shrugging
his shoulders. "Anyhow, I have apologized for jeering at
you, Gwynne, so I've done all that a sober man should be expected
to do," he went on carelessly. "You missed it by not
going down there with me last night. I cleaned 'em out."
"You did, eh?"
"A cool two thousand," said the other, with a satisfaction
that bordered on exultation. "By the way, changing the subject,
I'd like to ask you a question. Has a mother the legal right to
disinherit a son in case said son marries contrary to her wishes?"
Kenneth looked at him sharply. Could it be possible that Lapelle's
mother objected to his marriage with Viola, and was prepared to
take drastic action in case he did so?
"Different states have different laws," he answered.
"I should have to look it up in the statutes, Barry."
"Well, what is your own opinion?" insisted the other,
impatiently. "You fellows always have to look things up in
a book before you can say one thing or another."
"Well, it would depend largely on circumstances," said
Kenneth, judicially. "A parent can disinherit a child if
he so desires, provided there is satisfactory cause for doing
so. I doubt whether a will would stand in case a parent attempted
to deprive a child of his or her share of an estate descending
from another parent who was deceased. For example, if your father
left his estate to his widow in its entirety, I don't believe
she would have the right to dispose of it in her will without
leaving you your full and legal share under the statutes of this
or any other state. Of course, you understand, there is nothing
to prevent her making such a will. But you could contest it and
break it, I am sure."
"That's all I want to know," said the other, drawing
a deep breath as of relief. "A close friend of mine is likely
to be mixed up in just that sort of unpleasantness, and I was
a little curious to find out whether such a will would stand the
test."
"Your friend should consult his own lawyer, if he has one,
Lapelle. That is to say, he should go to some one who knows all
the circumstances. If you want my advice, there it is. Don't take
my word for it. It is too serious a matter to be settled off-hand,--and
my opinion in the premises may be absolutely worthless."
"I was only asking for my own satisfaction, Gwynne. No doubt
my friend has already consulted a lawyer and has been advised.
I must be off. Sorry you can't come with me."
Kenneth would have been surprised and disturbed if he could have
known all that lay behind these casual questions. But it was not
for him to know that Viola had repeated Mrs. Gwyn's threat to
her impatient, arrogant lover, nor was it for him to connect a
simple question of law with the ugly plot that had been revealed
to Isaac Stain by Moll Hawk.
After two nights of troubled thought, Barry Lapelle had hit upon
an extraordinary means to circumvent Rachel Gwyn. With Machiavellian
cunning he had devised a way to make Viola his wife without jeopardizing
her or his own prospects for the future. No mother, he argued,
could be so unreasonable as to disinherit a daughter who had been
carried away by force and was compelled to wed her captor rather
than submit to a more sinister alternative.
Shortly after the noon meal, Kenneth rode up to the old Gwyn house.
He found Zachariah beaming on the front door step.
"Yas, suh,--yas, suh!" was the servant's greeting. "Right
aroun' dis way, Marse Kenny. Watch out, suh, ailse yo' scrape
yo' hat off on dem branches."
He grasped the bit, after his master had dismounted in the weed-covered
little roadway at the side of the house, and ceremoniously waved
his hand toward the open door.
"Step right in, suh,--yas, suh,--an' make yo'self to home,
suh. Sit right down front of de fiah, Marse Kenny. Ah won't be
more'n two shakes, suh, stablin'--yas, suh! Come on hyar, yo'
Brandy Boy! Ise gwine show yo' whar yo's gwine to be de happies'
hoss in--yas, suh,--yas, suh!"
The young man looked long and searchingly through the trees before
entering the house, but saw no sign of his neighbours. He thought
he detected a slight movement of a curtain in one of the windows,--the
parlor window, if his memory served him right.
It was late in the afternoon before he saw either of his relatives.
He had had occasional glimpses of the negro servant-girl and also
of a gaunt stable-man, both of whom favoured his partially obscured
abode with frank interest and curiosity. A clumsy, silent hound
came up to the intervening fence several times during the afternoon
and inspected the newcomers with seeming indifference, an attitude
which misled Zachariah into making advances that were received
with alarming ill-temper.
Kenneth was on his front doorstep, contemplating with secret despair
the jungle of weeds and shrubbery that lay before him, completely
obliterating the ancient path down to the gate. The whole place
was overgrown with long, broken weeds, battered into tangled masses
by the blasts of winter; at his feet were heaps of smitten burdocks
and the dead, smothered stems of hollyhocks, geraniums and other
garden plants set out and nurtured with tender care by Rachel
Gwyn during her years of occupancy. The house needed painting,
the roof required attention, the front gate was half open and
immovably imbedded in the earth.
He was not aware of Viola's presence on the other side of the
fence dividing the two yards until her voice fell upon his ears.
It was clear and sweet and bantering.
"I suppose you are wondering why we haven't weeded the yard
for you, brother Kenny."
As he made his way through the weeds to the fence, upon which
she rested her elbows while she gazed upon him with a mocking
smile in the eyes that lay far back in the shovel-like hood of
her black quaker bonnet, he experienced a sudden riotous tumult
in the region of his heart. Shaded by the dark, extended wings
of the bonnet, her face was like a dusky rose possessed of the
human power to smile. The ribbon, drawn close under her chin,
was tied in a huge bow-knot, while at the back of her head the
soft, loose cap of the bonnet fitted snugly over hair that he
knew would gleam with tints of bronze if exposed to the rays of
the sinking sun.
"Not at all," he rejoined. "I am wondering just
where I'd better begin."
"Did you find the house all right?"
"Yes. You have saved me a lot of trouble, Viola."
"Don't give me credit for it. Mother did everything. I suppose
you know that the furniture and other things belong to you by
rights. She didn't give them to you out of charity."
"The last thing in the world I should expect would be charity
from your mother," he said, stung by the obvious jibe.
She smiled tolerantly. "She is more charitable than you imagine.
It was only last night that she said she wished Barry Lapelle
was half as good and upright as you are."
"That was very kind of her. But if such were the case, I
dare say it never would have occurred to you to fall in love with
him."
He had come up to the fence and was standing with his hand on
the top rail. She met his ironic gaze for a moment and then lowered
her eyes.
"I wish it were possible for us to be friends, Kenny,"
she surprised him by saying. "It doesn't seem right for us
to hate each other," she went on, looking up at him again.
"It's not our fault that we are who and what we are. I can
understand mother's attitude toward you. You are the son of another
woman, and I suppose it is only natural for her to be jealous.
But you and I had the same father. It--it ought to be different
with us, oughtn't it?"
"It ought to be,--and it shall be, Viola, if you are willing.
It rests entirely with you."
"It is so hard to think of you as a brother. Somehow I wish
you were not."
"It is pretty hard luck, isn't it? You may be sure of one
thing. If I were not your brother I would be Barry Lapelle's most
determined rival."
She did not laugh at this. On the contrary, her eyes clouded.
"The funny part of it is, Kenny, I have been wondering what
would have happened if you had come here as a total stranger and
not as my relation." Then she smiled whimsically. "Goodness
knows poor Barry is having a hard enough time of it as it is,
but what a time he would be having if you were some one else.
You see, you are very good-looking, Kenny, and I am a very silly,
frivolous, susceptible little goose."
"You are nothing of the kind," he exclaimed warmly,
adding in some embarrassment, "except when you say that I
am good-looking."
"And I have also been wondering how many girls have been
in love with you," she went on archly; "and whether
you have a sweetheart now,--some one you are engaged to. You needn't
be afraid to tell me. I can keep a secret. Is there some one back
in Kentucky or in the east who--"
"No such luck," whispered simple, honest Kenneth. "No
one will have me."
"Have you ever asked anybody?" she persisted.
"No,--I haven't."
"Then, how do you know that no one will have you?"
"Well, of course, I--I mean to say I can't imagine any one
caring for me in that way."
"Don't you expect ever to get married?"
"Why,--er,--naturally I--" he stammered, bewildered
at this astonishing attack.
"Because if you want to remain a bachelor, I would advise
you not to ask any one of half a dozen girls in this town that
I could mention. They would take you so quick your head would
swim."
By this time he had recovered himself. Affecting grave solicitude,
he inquired:
"Is there any one here that you would particularly desire
as a sister-in-law?"
She shook her head, almost pensively. "I don't want you to
bring any more trouble into the family than you've already brought,
and goodness knows THAT would be doing it. But I shouldn't have
said that, Kenny. There are lots of fine, lovely girls here. I
wouldn't know which one to pick out for you if you were to ask
me to do your choosing."
"I will leave it entirely in your hands," said he, grinning
boyishly. "Pick me out a nice, amiable, rather docile young
lady,--some one who will come the nearest to being a perfect sister-in-law,
and I will begin sparking her at once. By the way, I hope matters
are going more smoothly for you and Barry."
Her face clouded. She shot a suspicious, questioning look at him.
"I--I want to talk to you about Barry some day," she
said seriously.
"You seemed to resent it most bitterly the last time I attempted
to talk to you about him," said he, somewhat pointedly.
"You were horrid that day," said she. "I have a
good deal to forgive. You said some very mean, nasty things to
me that day over there," indicating the thicket with a jerk
of her head.
"I am glad to see that you took them to heart and have profited,"
he ventured boldly.
She hesitated, and then spoke with a frankness that shamed him.
"Yes, I did take them to heart, Kenny. I will not say that
I have profited, but I'll never make the same kind of a fool of
myself again. I hated you with all my soul that day,--and for
a long time afterward,--but I guess you took the right way with
me, after all. If I was fair and square, I would say that I am
grateful to you. But, you see, I am not fair and square. I am
as stubborn as a mule."
"The best thing about a mule is that he takes his whalings
without complaining."
She sighed. "I often wonder what a mule thinks about when
he stands there without budging while some angry, infuriated man
beats him until his arm gets tired."
"That's very simple. He just goes on thinking what a fool
the man is for licking a mule."
"Good! I hope you will remember that the next time you try
to reason with me."
"What is it you want to say to me about Barry?" he asked,
abruptly.
"Oh, there is plenty of time for that," she replied,
frowning. "It will keep. How are you getting along with the
house?"
"Splendidly. It was in very good order. I will be settled
in a day or two and as comfortable as anything. To-night Zachariah
and I are going to make a list of everything we need and to-morrow
I shall start out on a purchasing tour. I intend to buy quite
a lot of new furniture, things for the kitchen, carpets and--"
Viola interrupted him with an exclamation. Her eyes were shining,
sparkling with eagerness.
"Oh, won't you take me along with you? Mr. Hanna has just
received a wonderful lot of things from down the river, and at
Benbridge & Foster's they have a new stock of--"
"Hurrah!" he broke in jubilantly. "It's just what
I wanted, Viola. Now you are being a real sister to me. We will
start early in the morning and--and buy out the town. Bless your
heart, you've taken a great load off my mind. I haven't the intelligence
of a snipe when it comes to fitting up a--why, say, I tell you
what I'll do. I will let you choose everything I need, just as
if you were setting up housekeeping for yourself. Curtains, table
cloths, carpets, counterpanes, china, Queensware, chairs, chests--"
"Brooms, clothes-pins, rolling-pins, skillets, dough-bowls,
cutlery--"
"Bureaus, looking-glasses, wardrobe, antimacassar tidies,
bedspreads, towels--"
"Oh, Kenny, what fun we'll have," she cried. "And,
first of all, you must let me come over right now and help you
with your list. I know much better than you do what you really
need,--and what you don't need. We must not spend too much money,
you see."
"'Gad," he gulped, "you--you talk just as if you
and I were a poor, struggling young couple planning to get married."
"No, it only proves how mean and selfish I am. I am depriving
your future bride of the pleasure of furnishing her own house,
and that's what all brides like better than anything. But I promise
to pick out things that I know she will like. In the meantime,
you will be happy in knowing that you have something handsome
to tempt her with when the time comes. As soon as you are all
fixed up, you must give a party. That will settle everything.
They'll all want to marry you,--and they'll have something to
remember me by when I'm gone. Come on, Kenny, let's go in and
start making the list."
She started off toward her own gate, but stopped as he called
out to her.
"Wait! Are you sure your mother will approve of your--"
"Of course she will!" she flung back at him. "She
doesn't mind our being friendly. Only,"--and she came back
a few steps, "I am afraid she will never be friends with
you, Kenny. I am sorry."
He was silent. She waited for a moment before turning away, shaking
her head slightly as if attempting to dismiss something that perplexed
her sorely. There was a yearning in his eyes as they followed
her down to the gate; then he shot a quick, accusing glance at
the house in which his enemy lived. He saw the white curtains
in the north parlor window drop into place, flutter for a second
or two, and then hang perfectly still. Rachel Gwyn had been watching
them. He made no effort to hide the scowl that darkened his brow
as he continued to stare resentfully at the window.
He met Viola at his own disabled gate, which cracked and shivered
precariously on its rusty hinges as he jerked it open.
"I lived for nearly three years in this house, Kenny,"
she said as she picked her way through the weeds. "I slept
on a very hard straw tick up in the attic. It was dreadfully cold
in the winter time. I used to shiver all night long curled up
with my knees up to my chin. And in the summer time it was so
hot I slept with absolutely nothing,--" She broke off in
sudden confusion. "Our new house is only about a year old,"
she went after a moment. Pointing, she added: "That is my
bedroom window up there. You can get a glimpse of it through the
trees but when the leaves are out you can't see it at all from
here."
"I shall keep an eye on that window," said he, with
mock severity, "and if ever I catch you climbing down on
a ladder to run away with--well, I'll wake the dead for miles
around with my yells. See to it, my dear sister, that you attempt
nothing rash at the dead hour of night."
She laughed. "Have you seen our dog? I pity the valiant knight
who tries to put a ladder up to my window."
They spent the better part of an hour going over the house. She
was in an adorable mood. Once she paused in the middle of a sentence
to ask why he was so solemn.
"Goodness me, Kenny, you look as if you had lost your very
best friend. Aren't you interested? Shall we stop?"
A feeling of utter desolation had stricken him. He was sick at
heart. Every drop of blood in his body was crying out for her.
Small wonder that despair filled his soul and lurked in his gloomy,
disconsolate eyes. She had removed her bonnet. If he had thought
her beautiful on that memorable night at Striker's he now realized
that his first impression was hopelessly inadequate. Her eyes,
dancing with eagerness, no longer reflected the disdain and suspicion
with which she had regarded him on that former occasion. Her smile
was frank and warm and joyous. He saw her now as she really was,
incomparably sweet and charming--and so his heart was sick.
"I wouldn't stop for the world," he exclaimed, making
a determined effort to banish the tell-tale misery from his eyes.
"I know!" she cried, after a searching look into his
eyes. "You are in love with some one, Kenny, and you are
wishing that she were here in my place, helping you to plan the--"
"Nonsense," he broke in gruffly. "Put that out
of your head, Viola. I tell you there is no--er--no such girl."
"Then," she said darkly, "it must be the dreadful
extravagance I am leading you into. Goodness, when I look at this
list, I realize what a lot of money it is going to take to--"
"We're not half through," he said, "and I am not
thinking of the expense. I am delighted with everything you have
suggested. I shudder when I think how helpless I should have been
without you. Didn't I tell you in the beginning that I wanted
you to fix this house up just as if you were planning to live
in it yourself? Put down all the things you would most like to
have, Viola, and--and--well, confound the expense. Come along!
We're losing time. Did you jot down that last thing we were talking
about? That--er--that--" He paused, wrinkling his forehead.
"I don't believe you have been paying any attention to what--Now,
tell me, what WAS the last thing we were talking about?"
He squinted hard at the little blank book in her hand. She closed
it with a snap.
"Have you got it down?" he demanded severely.
"I have."
"Then, there's no use worrying about it," he said, with
great satisfaction. "Now, let me see: don't you think I ought
to have a clock for the mantelpiece?"
"I put that down half an hour ago," she said. "The
big gold French clock I was telling you about."
"That's so. The one you like so well down at Currie's."
They proceeded. He had followed about, carrying the ink pot into
which she frequently dipped the big quill pen. She overlooked
nothing in the scantily furnished house. She even went so far
as to timidly suggest that certain articles of furniture might
well be replaced by more attractive ones, and he had promptly
agreed. At last she announced that she must go home.
"If you buy all the things we have put down here, Kenny,
you will have the loveliest house in Lafayette. My, how I shall
envy you!"
"I have a feeling I shall be very lonely--amidst all this
splendour," he said.
"Oh, no, you won't. I shall run in to see you every whipstitch.
You will get awfully sick of having me around."
"I am thinking of the time when you are married, Viola, and,--and
have gone away from Lafayette."
"Well," she began, her brow clouding, "you seem
to have got along without me for a good many years,--so I guess
you won't miss me as much as you think. Besides, we are supposed
to be enemies, aren't we?"
"It doesn't look much like it now, does it?"
"No," she said dubiously, "but I--I must not do
anything that will make mother feel unhappy or--"
He broke in a little harshly. "Are you forgetting how unhappy
it will make her if you marry Barry Lapelle?"
"Oh, that may be a long way off," she replied calmly.
"You see, Barry and I quarrelled yesterday. We both have
vile tempers,--perfectly detestable tempers. Of course, we will
make up again--we always do--but there may come a time when he
will say, 'Oh, what's the use trying to put up with you any longer?'
and then it will all be over."
She was tying her bonnet strings as she made this astonishing
statement. Her chin being tilted upward, she looked straight up
into his eyes the while her long, shapely fingers busied themselves
with the ribbons.
"I guess you have found out what kind of a temper I have,
haven't you?" she added genially. As he said nothing (being
unable to trust his voice): "I know I shall lead poor Barry
a dog's life. If he knew what was good for him he would avoid
me as he would the plague."
He swallowed hard. "You--you will not fail to come with me
to-morrow morning on the purchasing tour," he said, rather
gruffly. "I'll be helpless without you."
"I wouldn't miss it for anything," she cried.
As they walked down to the gate she turned to him and abruptly
said:
"Barry is going down the river next week. He expects to be
away for nearly a fortnight. Has he said anything to you about
it?"
Kenneth started. Next week? The dark of the moon.
"Not a word," he replied grimly.
CHAPTER XIV
A MAN FROM DOWN THE RIVER
Kenneth's first night in the old Gwyn house was an uneasy, restless
one, filled with tormenting doubts as to his strength or even
his willingness to continue the battle against the forces of nature.
Viola's night was also disturbed. Some strange, mysterious instinct
was at work within her, although she was far from being aware
of its significance. She lay awake for a long time thinking of
him. She was puzzled. Over and over again she asked herself why
she had blushed when he looked down at her as she was tying her
bonnet-strings, and why had she felt that queer little thrill
of alarm? And why did he look at her like that? She answered this
question by attributing its curious intensity to a brotherly interest--which
was quite natural--and the awakening of a dutiful affection--but
that did not in any sense account for the blood rushing to her
face, so that she must have reminded him of a "turkey gobbler."
She announced to her mother at breakfast:
"I don't believe I can ever think of Kenny as a brother."
Rachel Gwyn looked up, startled. "What was that you called
him?" she asked.
"Kenny. He has always been called that for short. And somehow,
mother, it sounds familiar to me. Have I ever heard father speak
of him by that name?"
"I--I am sure I do not know," replied her mother uneasily.
"I doubt it. It must be a fancy, Viola."
"I can't get over feeling shy and embarrassed when he looks
at me," mused the girl. "Don't you think it odd? It
doesn't seem natural for a girl to feel that way about a brother."
"It is because you are not used to each other," interrupted
Rachel. "You will get over it in time."
"I suppose so. You are sure you don't mind my going to the
stores with him, mother?"
Her mother arose from the table. There was a suggestion of fatalism
in her reply. "I think I can understand your desire to be
with him." She went to the kitchen window and looked over
at the house next door. "He is out in his back yard now,
Viola," she said, after a long pause, "all dressed and
waiting for you. You had better get ready."
"It will not hurt him to wait awhile," said Viola perversely.
"In fact, it will do him good. He thinks he is a very high
and mighty person, mother." She glanced at the clock on the
kitchen wall. "I shall keep him waiting for just an hour."
Rachel's strong, firm shoulders drooped a little as she passed
into the sitting-room. She sat down abruptly in one of the stiff
rocking-chairs, and one with sharp ears might have heard her whisper
to herself:
"We cannot blindfold the eyes of nature. They see through
everything."
It was nine o'clock when Viola stepped out into her front yard,
reticule in hand, and sauntered slowly down the walk, stopping
now and then to inspect some Maytime shoot. He was waiting for
her outside his own gate.
"What a sleepy-head you are," was her greeting as she
came up to him.
"I've been up since six o'clock," he said.
"Then, for goodness' sake, why have you kept me waiting all
this time?"
"My dear Viola, I was not born yesterday, nor yet the day
before," he announced, with aggravating calmness. "Long
before you were out of short frocks and pantalettes I was a wise
old gentleman."
"I don't know just what you mean by that."
"I learned a great many years ago that it is always best
to admit you are in fault when a charming young lady says you
are. If you had kept me waiting till noon I should still consider
it my duty to apologize. Which I now do."
She laughed merrily. "Come along with you. We have much to
do on this fine May day. First, we will go to the hardware store,
saving the queensware store till the last,--like float at the
end of a Sunday dinner."
And so they advanced upon the town, as fine a pair as you would
find in a twelvemonth's search. First she conducted him to Jimmy
Munn's feed and wagon-yard, where he contracted to spend the first
half-dollar of the expedition by engaging Jimmy to haul his purchases
up to the house.
"Put the sideboards on your biggest wagon, Jimmy," was
Viola's order, "and meet us at Hinkle's."
She proved to be a very sweet and delightful autocrat. For three
short and joyous hours she led him from store to store, graciously
leaving to him the privilege of selection but in nine cases out
of ten demonstrating that he was entirely wrong in his choice,
always with the naive remark after the purchase was completed
and the money paid in hand: "Of course, Kenny, if you would
rather have the other, don't for the world let me influence you."
"You know more about it than I do," he would invariably
declare. "What do I know about carpets?"--or whatever
they happened to be considering at the time.
She was greatly dismayed, even appalled, as they wended their
way homeward, followed by the first wagonload of possessions,
to find that he had spent the stupendous, unparalleled sum of
two hundred and forty-two dollars and fifty cents.
"Oh, dear!" she sighed. "We must take a lot of
it back, Kenny. Why didn't you keep track of what you were spending?
Why, that's nearly a fourth of one thousand dollars." He
grinned cheerfully. "And we haven't begun to paint the house
yet, or paper the walls, or set out the flower beds, or--"
"Goodness me!" she cried, aghast. "You are not
going to do all that now, are you?"
"Every bit of it," he affirmed. "I am going to
rebuild the barn, put in a new well, dig a cistern, build a smoke-house,
lay a brick walk down to the front gate and put up a brand new
picket fence--"
"You must be made of money," she cried, eyeing him with
wonder in her big, violet eyes.
"I am richer now than when we started out this morning,"
said he, magnificently.
"When you say things like that, you almost make me wish you
were not my brother," said she, after a moment, and to her
annoyance she felt the blood mount to her face.
"And what would you do if I were not your brother?"
he inquired, looking straight ahead.
Whereupon she laughed unrestrainedly. "You would be dreadfully
shocked if I were to tell you,--but I can't help saying that Barry
would be so jealous he wouldn't know what to do."
"You might find yourself playing with fire."
"Well," she said, flippantly, "I've got over wanting
to play with dolls. Now don't scold me! I can see by your face
that you'd like to shake me good and hard. My, what a frown! I
am glad it isn't January. If your face was to freeze--There! That's
better. I shouldn't mind at all if it froze now. You look much
nicer when you smile, Kenny." Her voice dropped a little
and a serious expression came into her eyes. "I don't believe
I ever saw father smile. But I've seen him when he looked exactly
as you did just then. I--I hope you don't mind my talking that
way about your father, Kenny. I wouldn't if he were not mine as
well."
"You knew him far better than I," he reminded her. Then
he added brightly: "I shall try to do better from now on.
I'll smile--if it kills me."
"Don't do that," she protested, with a pretty grimace.
"I've been in mourning for ages, it seems, and I'm sure I
should hate you if you kept me in black for another year or two."
As they parted at Kenneth's gate,--it seemed to be mutely understood
that he was to go no farther,--they observed a tall, black figure
cross the little front porch of the house beyond and disappear
through the door. Kenneth's eyes hardened. The girl, looking up
into those eyes, shook her head and smiled wistfully.
"Will you come over and help me put all these things where
they belong?" he asked, after a moment.
"This afternoon, Kenny?"
"If you haven't anything else you would rather--" he
began.
"I can't wait to see how the house will look when we get
everything in place. I will be over right after dinner,--unless
mother needs me for something."
. . . . .
That evening Zachariah was noticeably perturbed. He had prepared
a fine supper, and to his distress it was scarcely touched by
his preoccupied master. Now, Zachariah was proud of his cooking.
He was pleased to call himself, without fear of contradiction,
"a natteral bo'n cook, from de bottom up." Moreover,
his master was a gentleman whose appetite was known to be absolutely
reliable; it could be depended upon at almost any hour of the
day or night. Small wonder then that Zachariah was not only mystified
but grieved as well. He eyed the solemn looking young man with
anxiety.
"Ain't yo' all feelin' well, Marse Kenneth?" he inquired,
with a justifiable trace of exasperation in his voice.
"What's that, Zachariah?" asked Kenneth, startled out
of a profound reverie.
"Is dey anything wrong wid dat ham er--"
"It is wonderful, Zachariah. I don't believe I have ever
tasted better ham,--and certainly none so well broiled."
"Ain't--ain't de co'n-bread fitten to eat, suh?"
"Delicious, Zachariah, delicious. You have performed wonders
with the--er--new baking pan and--"
"What's de matteh wid dem b'iled pertaters, suh?"
"Matter with them? Nothing! They are fine."
"Well, den, suh, if dere ain't nothin' de matteh wid de vittels,
dere suttinly mus' be somefin de matteh wid you, Marse Kenneth.
Yo' all ain't etten enough fo' to fill a grasshoppeh."
"I am not hungry," apologized his master, quite humbly.
"'Cause why? Yas, suh,--'cause why?" retorted Zachariah,
exercising a privilege derived from long and faithful service.
"'Cause Miss Viola she done got yo' all bewitched. Can't
fool dis yere nigger. Wha' fo' is yo' all feelin' dis yere way
'bout yo' own sister? Yas, suh,--Ah done had my eyes open all
de time, suh. Yo' all was goin' 'round lookin' like a hongry dog,
'spectin'--Yas, suh! Yas, SUH! Take plenty, suh, Marse Johnson
he say to me, he say, 'Dis yere sap come right outen de finest
maple tree in de State ob Indianny, day befo' yesterday,' he say.
A leetle mo' coffee, suh? Yas, suh! Das right! Yo' suttinly gwine
like dat ham soon as ever yo' get a piece in yo' mouth,--yas,
SUH!"
Kenneth's abstraction was due to the never-vanishing picture of
Viola, the sleeves of her work-dress rolled up to the elbows,
her eyes aglow with enthusiasm, her bonny brown hair done up in
careless coils, her throat bare, her spirits as gay as the song
of a roistering gale. She had come over prepared for toil, an
ample apron of blue gingham shielding her frock, her skirts caught
up at the sides, revealing the bottom of her white petticoat and
a glimpse of trim, shapely ankles.
She directed the placing of all the furniture carried in by the
grunting Jimmy Munn and Zachariah; she put the china safe and
pantry in order; she superintended the erection of the big four
poster bed, measured the windows for the new curtains, issued
irrevocable commands concerning the hanging of several gay English
hunting prints (the actual hanging to be done by Kenneth and his
servant in a less crowded hour,--after supper, she suggested);
ordered Zachariah to remove to the attic such of the discarded
articles of furniture as could be carried up the pole ladder,
the remainder to go to the barn; left instructions not to touch
the rolls of carpet until she could measure and cut them into
sections, and then went away with the promise to return early
in the morning not only with shears and needle but with Hattie
as well, to sew and lay the carpets,--a "Brussels" of
bewildering design and an "ingrain" for the bedroom.
"When you come home from the office at noon, Kenny, don't
fail to bring tacks and a hammer with you," she instructed,
as she fanned her flushed face with her apron.
"But I am not going to the office," he expostulated.
"I have too much to see to here."
"It isn't customary for the man of the house to be anywhere
around at a time like this," she informed him, firmly. "Besides
you ought to be down town looking for customers. How do you know
that some one may not be in a great hurry for a lawyer and you
not there to--"
"There are plenty of other lawyers if one is needed in a
hurry," he protested. "And what's more, I can't begin
to practise law in this State without going through certain formalities.
You don't understand all these things, Viola."
"Perhaps not," she admitted calmly; "but I do understand
moving and house-cleaning, and I know that a man is generally
in the way at such times. Oh, don't look so hurt. You have been
fine this afternoon. I don't know how I should have got along
without you. But to-morrow it will be different. Hattie and I
will be busy sewing carpets and--and--well, you really will not
be of any use at all, Kenny. So please stay away."
He was sorely disgruntled at the time and so disconsolate later
on that it required Zachariah's startling comment to lift him
out of the slough of despond. Spurred by the desire to convince
his servant that his speculations were groundless, he made a great
to-do over the imposed task of hanging the pictures, jesting merrily
about the possibility of their heads being snapped off by Mistress
Viola if she popped in the next morning to find that they had
bungled the job.
Four or five days passed, each with its measure of bitter and
sweet. By the end of the week the carpets were down and the house
in perfect order. He invited her over for Sunday dinner. A pained,
embarrassed look came into her eyes.
"I was afraid you would ask me to come," she said gently.
"I don't think it would be right or fair for me to accept
your hospitality. Wait! I know what you are going to say. But
it isn't quite the same, you see. Mother has been very kind and
generous about letting me come over to help you with the house,--and
I suppose she would not object if I were to come as your guest
at dinner,--but I have a feeling in here somewhere that it would
hurt her if I came here as your guest. So I sha'n't come. You
understand, don't you?" "Yes," he said gravely,--and
reluctantly. "I understand, Viola."
Earlier in the week he had ridden out to Isaac Stain's. The hunter
had no additional news to give him, except that Barry, after spending
a day with Martin Hawk, had gone down to Attica by flat-boat and
was expected to return to Lafayette on the packet Paul Revere,
due on Monday or Tuesday.
Lapelle's extended absence from the town was full of meaning.
Stain advanced the opinion that he had gone down the river for
the purpose of seeing a Williamsport justice of the peace whose
record was none too good and who could be depended upon to perform
the contemplated marriage ceremony without compunction if his
"palm was satisfactorily greased."
"If we could only obtain some clear and definite idea as
to their manner of carrying out this plan," said Kenneth,
"I would be the happiest man on earth. But we will be compelled
to work in the dark,--simply waiting for them to act."
"Well, Moll Hawk hain't been able to find out just yet when
er how they're goin' to do it," said Stain. "All she
knows is that two or three men air comin' up from Attica on the
Paul Revere and air goin' to get off the boat when it reaches
her pa's place. Like as not this scalawag of a justice will be
one of 'em, but that's guesswork. That reminds me to ask, did
you ever run acrosst a feller in the town you come from named
Jasper Suggs?"
"Jasper Suggs? I don't recall the name."
"Well, she says this feller Suggs that's been stayin' at
Martin's cabin fer a week er two claims to have lived there some
twenty odd years ago. Guess you must ha' been too small to recollect
him. She says he sort of brags about bein' a renegade durin' the
war an' fightin' on the side of the Injins up along the Lakes.
He's a nasty customer, she says. Claims to be a relation of old
Simon Girty's,--nephew er something like that."
"Does he claim to have known any of my family down there?"
inquired Kenneth, apprehensively.
"From what Moll says he must have knowed your pa. Leastwise,
he says the name's familiar. He was sayin' only a day or two ago
that he'd like to see a picter of your pa. He'd know if it was
the same feller he used to know soon as he laid eyes on it."
Kenneth pondered a moment and then said: "Do you suppose
you could get a letter to Moll Hawk if I were to write it, Stain?"
"I could," said the other, "but it wouldn't do
any good. She cain't read er write. Besides, if I was you, I wouldn't
risk anything like that. It might fall into Hawk's hands, and
the fust thing he would do would be to turn it over to Lapelle,--'cause
Martin cain't read himself."
"I was only wondering if she could find out a little more
about this man Suggs,--just when he lived there and--and all that."
"He's purty close-mouthed, she says. Got to be, I reckon.
He fell in with Martin ten er twelve years ago, an' there was
a price on his head then. Martin hid him for awhile an' helped
him to git safe away. Like as not Suggs ain't his real name anyhow."
Kenneth was a long time in deciding to speak to Rachel Gwyn about
the man Suggs. He found an opportunity to accost her on the day
that the Paul Revere came puffing up to the little log-built landing
near the ferry. Viola had left the house upon learning that the
boat had turned the bend in the river two or three miles below
town, and had made no secret of her intention to greet Lapelle
when he came ashore. This was Gwynne's first intimation that she
was aware of her lover's plan to return by the Paul Revere. He
was distinctly annoyed by the discovery.
Rachel was in her back yard, feeding the chickens, when he came
up to the fence and waited for her to look in his direction. All
week,--in fact, ever since he had come up there to live,--he had
been uncomfortably conscious of peering eyes behind the curtains
in the parlor window. Time and again he had observed a slight
flutter when he chanced to glance that way, as of a sudden release
of the curtains held slightly apart by one who furtively watched
from within. On the other hand, she never so much as looked toward
his house when she was out in her own yard or while passing by
on the road. Always she was the straight, stern, unfriendly figure
in black, wrapped in her own thoughts, apparently ignorant of
all that went on about her.
She turned at last and saw him standing there.
"May I have a word with you?" he said.
She did not move nor did she speak for many seconds, but stood
staring hard at him from the shade of her deep black bonnet.
"What is it you want, Kenneth Gwynne?"
"No favour, you may be sure, Rachel Carter."
She seemed to wince a little. After a moment's hesitation, she
walked slowly over to the fence and faced him.
"Well?" she said curtly.
"Do you remember a man at home named Jasper Suggs?"
"Are you speaking of my old home in Salem or of--of another
place?"
"The place where I was born," he said, succinctly.
"I have never heard the name before," she said. "Why
do you ask?"
"There is a man in this neighbourhood,--a rascal, I am told,--who
says he lived there twenty years ago."
She eyed him narrowly. "Well,--go on! What has he to say
about me?"
"Nothing, so far as I know. I have not talked with him. It
came to me in a roundabout way. He is staying with a man named
Hawk, down near the Wea." "He keeps pretty company,"
was all she said in response to this.
"I have been told that he would like to see a daguerreotype
of my father some time, just to make sure whether he was the Gwynne
he used to know."
"Has he ever seen you, Kenneth Gwynne?" She appeared
to be absolutely unconcerned.
"No."
"One look at you would be sufficient," she said. "If
you are both so curious, why not arrange a meeting?"
"I am in no way concerned," he retorted. "On the
other hand, I should think you would be vitally interested, Rachel
Carter. If he knew my father, he certainly must have known you."
"Very likely. What would you have me do?" she went on
ironically. "Go to him and beg him to be merciful? Or, if
it comes to the worst, hire some one to assassinate him?"
"I am not thinking of your peace of mind. I am thinking of
Viola's. We have agreed, you and I, to spare her the knowledge
of--"
"Quite true," she interrupted. "You and I have
agreed upon that, but there it ends. We cannot include the rest
of the world. Chance sends this man, whoever he may be, to this
country. I must likewise depend upon Chance to escape the harm
he may be in a position to do me. Is it not possible that he may
have left before I came there to live? That chance remains, doesn't
it?"
"Yes," he admitted. "It is possible. I can tell
you something about him. He is related to Simon Girty, and he
was a renegade who fought with the Indians up north during the
war. Does that throw any light upon his identity?"
"He says his name is Suggs?" she inquired.
He was rewarded by a sharp catch in her breath and a passing flicker
of her eyes.
"Jasper Suggs."
She was silent for a moment. "I know him," she said
calmly. "His name is Simon Braley. At any rate, there was
a connection of Girty's who went by that name and who lived down
there on the river for a year or two. He killed the man he was
working for and escaped. That was before I--before I left the
place. I don't believe he ever dared to go back. So, you see,
Chance favours us again, Kenneth Gwynne."
"You forget that he will no doubt remember you as Rachel
Carter. He will also remember that you had a little girl."
"Let me remind you that I remember the cold-blooded murder
of John Hendricks and that nobody has been hung for it yet,"
she said. "My memory is as good as his if it should come
to pass that we are forced to exchange compliments. Thank you
for the information. The sheriff of this county is a friend of
mine. He will be pleased to know that Simon Braley, murderer and
renegade, is in his bailiwick. From what I know of Simon Girty's
nephew, he is not the kind of man who will be taken alive."
He started. "You mean,--that you will send the sheriff out
to arrest him?"
She shook her head. "Not exactly," she replied. "Did
you not hear me say that Simon Braley would never be taken alive?"
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving him to stare after
her until she entered the kitchen door. He was conscious of a
sense of horror that began to send a chill through his veins.
CHAPTER XV
THE LANDING OF THE "PAUL REVERE"
The Paul Revere tied up at the landing shortly after two o'clock.
The usual crowd of onlookers thronged the bank, attention being
temporarily diverted from an important game of "horseshoes"
that was taking place in the sugar grove below Trentman's shanty.
Pitching horseshoes was the daily fair-weather pastime of the
male population of the town. At one time or another during the
course of the day, practically every man in the place came down
to the grove to shy horseshoes at the stationary but amazingly
elusive pegs. It was not an uncommon thing for a merchant to close
his place of business for an hour or so in order to keep an engagement
to pitch horseshoes with some time-honoured adversary.
On this occasion a very notable match was in progress between
"Judge" Billings and Mr. Pennington Sawyer, the real
estate agent. They were the recognized champions. Both were accredited
with the astonishing feat of ringing eight out of ten casts at
twenty paces; if either was more than six inches away from the
stake on any try the crowd mutely attributed the miss to inhibitions
of the night before. Not only was the betting lively when these
two experts met but all other matches were abandoned during the
classic clash.
The "Judge" did not owe his title to service on the
bench nor even at the bar of justice. It had been bestowed upon
him by a liberal-minded community because of his proficiency as
a judge of horse races, foot races, shooting matches, dog or rooster
fights, and other activities of a similar character. He was, above
all things, a good judge of whiskey. When not engaged in judging
one thing or another, he managed to eke out a comfortable though
sometimes perilous living by trading horses,--a profession which
made him an almost infallible judge of men, notwithstanding two
or three instances where he had erred with painful results to
his person. Notably, the prodigious thrashing Jake Miller had
given him two days after a certain trade, and an almost identical
experience with Bud Shanks who had given a perfectly sound mare
and seventeen dollars to boot for a racehorse that almost blew
up with the heaves before Bud was half-way home.
But, whatever his reputation may have been as a horse-trader,
"Judge" Billings was unaffectedly noble when it came
to judging a contest of any description. Far and wide he was known
to be "as honest as the day is long," proof of which
may be obtained from his publicly uttered contention that "nobody
but a derned fool would do anything crooked while a crowd was
lookin' on, with more'n half of 'em carryin' guns or some other
weapon that can't be expected to listen to argument."
He was Kenneth Gwynne's first client. In employing the young man
to defend a suit brought by Silas Kenwright, he ingenuously announced
that the plaintiff had a perfectly good case and that his only
object in fighting the claim was to see how near Silas could come
to telling the truth under oath. Mr. Kenwright was demanding twenty-five
dollars damages for slander. In the complaint Mr. Billings was
charged with having held Mr. Kenwright up to ridicule and contumely
by asseverating that said plaintiff was "a knock-kneed, cross-eyed,
red-headed, white-livered liar."
"The only chance we've got," he explained to Gwynne,
"is on the question of his liver. We can prove he's a liar,--in
fact, he admits that,--but, doggone it, he's as bow-legged as
a barrel hoop, he's wall-eyed, and what little hair he's got is
as black as the ace o' spades. I don't suppose the Court would
listen to a request to have him opened up to see what colour his
liver is,--and that's where he's got us. It ain't so much being
called a liar that riles him; he's used to that. It's being called
knock-kneed and cross-eyed. He don't mind the white-livered part
so much, or the way I spoke about his hair, 'cause one of 'em
you can't see an' the other could be dyed or sheared right down
to the skin if the worst came to the worst. If I'd only called
him a lousy, ornery, low-lived, sheep-stealing liar, this here
suit never would have been brought. But what did I do but up and
hurt his feelings by callin' him knock-kneed and cross-eyed. That
comes of not stickin' to the truth, Mr. Gwynne,--and it's a derned
good lesson for me. Honesty is the best policy, as the feller
says. It'll probably cost me forty or fifty dollars for being
so slack with my veracity."
Kenneth's suggestion that an effort be made to settle the controversy
out of court had met with instant opposition.
"It ain't to be thought of," declared Mr. Billings firmly.
"Why, dodgast it, you don't suppose I'm going to pay that
feller any money, do you? Not much! I'm willing enough to let
him get a judgment against me for any amount he wants, just fer
the fun of it, but, by gosh, when you begin to talk about me giving
him money, why, that's serious. I'm willing to pay you your ten
dollars fee and the court costs, but the only way Si Kenwright
can ever collect a penny from me will be after I'm dead and he
sneaks in when nobody's around and steals the coppers off my eyes."
This digression serves a simple purpose. It introduces a sporty
gentleman of unique integrity whose friendship for Kenneth Gwynne
flowered as time went on and ultimately bore such fruits as only
the most favoured of men may taste. In passing he may be described
as a pudgy, middle-aged individual, with mild blue eyes, an engaging
smile, cherubic cheeks, sandy hair, and a highly pitched, far-reaching
voice. He also had a bulbous nose resembling a large, ripe strawberry.
Before coming to rest alongside the wharf, the Paul Revere indulged
in a vast amount of noise. She whistled and coughed and sputtered
and gasped with all the spasmodic energy of a choking monster;
her bells kept up an incessant clangour; her wheel creaked and
grovelled on the bed of the river, churning the water into a yellowish,
foaming mass; her captain bellowed and barked, her crew yelped,
her passengers shouted; the flat boats and perogues moored along
the bank, aroused from their lassitude, began to romp gaily in
the swirl of her crazy backwash; ropes whined and rasped and groaned,
the deck rattled hollowly with the tread of heavy feet and the
shifting of boxes and barrels and crates; the gangplank came down
with a crash,--and so the mighty hundred and fifty ton leviathan
of the Wabash came to the end of her voyage!
There were a score of passengers on board, among them Barry Lapelle.
He kept well in the rear of the motley throng of voyagers, an
elegant, lordly figure, approached only in sartorial distinction
by the far-famed gambler, Sylvester Hornaday, who likewise held
himself sardonically aloof from the common horde, occupying a
position well forward where, it might aptly be said, he could
count his sheep as they straggled ashore.
From afar Barry had recognized Viola standing among the people
at the top of the bank, and his eager, hungry gaze had not left
her. She, too, had caught sight of him long before the boat was
near the landing. She waved her kerchief.
He lifted his hat and blew a kiss to her. A thrill of exultation
ran through him. He had not expected her to meet him at the landing.
Her mere presence there was evidence of a determination to defy
not only her mother but also to brave the storm of gossip that
was bound to attend this public demonstration of loyalty on her
part, for none knew so well as he how the townspeople looked upon
their attachment. A most satisfying promise for the future, he
gloated; here was the proof that she loved him, that her tantalizing
outbursts of temper were not to be taken seriously, that his power
over her was irresistible. There were times when he felt uncomfortably
dubious as to his hold upon her affections. She was whimsical,
perverse, maddening in her sudden transitions of mood. And she
had threatened more than once to have nothing more to do with
him unless he mended his ways! Now he smiled triumphantly as he
gazed upon her. All that pother about nothing! Henceforth he would
pay no attention to her whims; let her rail and fume and lecture
as much as she liked, there was nothing for him to be worried
about. She would always come round like a lamb,--and when she
was his for keeps he would take a lot of the nonsense out of her!
With few exceptions the passengers on board the Revere were strangers,--fortune-seekers,
rovers, land-buyers and prospectors from the east and south come
to this well-heralded region of promise, perhaps to stay, perhaps
to pass on. Three or four Lafayette men, home after a trip down
the river, crowded their way ashore, to be greeted by anxious
wives. The strangers were more leisurely in their movements. They
straggled ashore with their nondescript possessions and ambled
off between two batteries of frank, appraising eyes.
Judge Billings, shrewd calculator of human values, quite audibly
disclosed his belief that at least three of the newcomers would
have to be run out of town before they were a day older, possibly
astraddle of a rail.
One of these marked individuals was a tall, swart, bearded fellow
with black, shifty eyes and a scowling brow. His baggage consisted
of a buckskin sack slung across his shoulder and a small bundle
which he carried under his arm. He appeared to have no acquaintances
among the voyagers.
"You don't know how happy this makes me, Viola," exclaimed
Lapelle as he clasped the girl's hand in his. He was devouring
her with a bold, consuming gaze.
She reddened. "I told mother I was coming down to meet you,"
she explained, visibly embarrassed by the stares of those nearby.
"I--I wanted to see you the instant you arrived, Barry. Shall
we walk along slowly behind the rest?"
"What's happened?" he demanded suspiciously, his brow
darkening.
"Don't be impatient. Wait till they are a little ahead."
"'Gad, it sounds ominous. I thought you came down to meet
me because you love me and were--well, glad to see me."
"I am glad to see you. You didn't expect me to make an exhibition
of myself before all those people, did you?"
His face brightened. "Well, THAT sounds better." His
mouth went up at the corner in its habitual curl. "I'd give
all I possess if it was dark now, so that I could grab you and
squeeze the--"
"Sh! They will hear you," she whispered, drawing away
from him in confusion.
They held back until the throng had moved on a short distance.
Then she turned upon him with a dangerous light in her eyes.
"And what's more," she said in a low voice, "I
don't like to hear you say such things. They sound so cheap and
low--and vulgar, Barry. I--" "Oh, you're always jumping
on me for saying the things I really feel," he broke in.
"You're my girl, aren't you? Why shouldn't I tell you how
I feel? What's vulgar about my telling you I want to hold you
in my arms and kiss you? Why, I don't think of anything else,
day or night. And what do I get? You put me off,--yes, you do!--bringing
up some silly notion about--about--what is it?--propriety! Good
Lord, Viola, that's going back to the days of the Puritans,--whoever
they were. They just sat around and held hands,--and that's about
all I've been allowed to do with you. It's not right,--it's not
natural, Viola. People who are really in love with each other
just simply can't help kissing and--"
"I guess you were right when you said you were not expecting
me down to meet the boat, Barry," she interrupted, looking
straight before her.
"Well, didn't I tell you how happy it made me?"
"If you had thought there was any chance of me coming down
to meet you, you wouldn't have taken so much to drink," she
went on, a little catch in her voice.
Whereupon he protested vigorously that he had not tasted a drop,--except
one small dram the captain had given him early that morning when
he complained of a chill.
"Why, you're drunk right now," she said miserably. "Oh,
Barry, won't you ever--"
"Drunk? I'm as sober as the day I was born," he retorted,
squaring his shoulders. "Look at me,--look me in the eye,
Viola. Oh, well, if you WON'T look you won't, that's all. And
if I'm as drunk as you imagine I am I should think you'd be ashamed
to be seen in my company." She did not respond to this, so,
with a sneering laugh, he continued: "Suppose I have had
a little too much,--who's the cause of it? You! You drive me to
it, you do. The last couple of weeks you've been throwing up all
my faults to me, tormenting me till I'm nearly crazy with uncertainty.
First you say you'll have me, that you'll do anything I wish,
and then, just as I begin to feel that everything's all right,
you up and say you're not sure whether you care for me or not
and you're going to obey your mother in every--And, say, that
reminds me. Unless I am very much mistaken, I think I'll soon
have a way to bring your mother to time. She won't--"
He brought himself up with a jerk, realizing that his loose tongue
was running away with his wits. She was looking at him with startled,
inquiring eyes.
"What do you mean by that, Barry Lapelle?" she asked,
and he was quick to detect the uneasiness in her manner.
He affected a grin of derision. "I'm going to put my case
in the hands of Kenny Gwynne, the rising young barrister. With
him on our side, my dear, I guess we'll bring her to time. All
he has to do is to stand up to her and say he isn't going to put
up with any more nonsense, and she'll see the light of wisdom.
If he thinks it's all right for you to marry me, I guess that
will end the matter. He's the head of the family, isn't he?"
This hastily conceived explanation of his luckless remark succeeded
in deceiving her. She stared at him in distress.
"Oh, Barry, you--you surely can't be thinking of asking Kenneth
to intercede--"
"Why not? He doesn't see any reason why we shouldn't be married,
my dear. In fact, he told me so a few days ago. He--"
"I don't believe it," she cried.
"You don't?" he exclaimed sharply.
"No, I don't," she repeated.
"Has he been talking to you about me?" he demanded,
an ugly gleam flashing into his eyes.
"He has never said a word against you,--not one. But I don't
believe you when you say he told you that we ought to get married."
She felt her cheeks grow hot. She had turned her face away from
him.
"I'm a liar, am I?" he snarled.
"I--I don't believe he ever said it," she said stubbornly.
"Well,--you're right," he admitted, after a moment's
hesitation. "Not in so many words. But he did say to me that
he had told you he saw no reason why you shouldn't marry me if
you wanted to. Did he ever tell you that?"
She remembered only too well the aggravating encounter in the
thicket path.
"Yes, he did," she replied, lifting her head defiantly.
"And," she added, "I hated him for it. I hate him
more and more every time I think of it. He--he was perfectly abominable."
"Well, you're--you're damned complimentary," he grated,
his face expressing the utmost bewilderment.
She walked on for eight or ten paces before speaking again. Her
head was lowered. She knew that he was glaring at the wing of
the bonnet which shielded her whitening cheek. Suddenly she turned
to him.
"Barry, let's sit down on that log over there for a few minutes.
There is something I've got to say to you,--and I'm sorry. You
must not be angry with me. Won't you come over there with me,--and
listen to what I have to tell you?"
He hung back for a moment, his intuition grasping at something
vague and yet strangely definite.
"You--you are going to tell me it's all over between us,
Viola?" he ventured, going white to the lips. He was as sober
now as though he had never touched liquor in his life.
"Come and sit down," she said gently, even compassionately.
He followed her in silence to the log she had indicated, a few
rods back from the roadside at the edge of the clearing. He sat
down beside her and waited for her to speak, and as she remained
speechless, evidently in distress, his lips curled in a smile
of reviving confidence. He watched the quick rise and fall of
her bosom, exulting in her difficulty. Birds were piping among
the fresh green twigs overhead. The air was redolent of the soft
fragrance of May: the smell of the soil, the subtle perfume of
unborn flowers, the tang of the journeying breeze, the spice of
sap-sweating trees. The radiance of a warm, gracious sun lay soft
upon the land.
At last she spoke, not tremulously as he had expected but with
a firmness that boded ill for his composure.
"Barry," she began, still staring straight ahead, "I
don't know just how to begin. It is awfully hard to--to say what
I feel I must say. Perhaps I should have waited till--well, till
you were home for a little while,--before doing what I have made
up my mind to do. But I thought it right to have it over with
as soon as possible."
She paused for a moment and then resolutely faced him. He saw
the pain in her dark, troubled eyes, and the shadow of an appealing
smile on her lips. His face hardened.
"So," she went on unflinchingly, "I came down to
the landing to meet you in case you were on the Paul Revere. I
cannot marry you, Barry. I--I don't love you as I should. I thought
I did but--but--well, that's all. I don't know what has happened
to make me see things so differently, but whatever it is I know
now that I was mistaken,--oh, so terribly mistaken. I know I am
hurting you, Barry,--and you have a right to despise me. I--I
somehow hope you will,--because I deserve it."
He smiled indulgently. "I hope you don't think I am taking
this seriously. This isn't the first time I've heard you take
on like--"
"But I mean it this time, Barry,--I do truly and honestly,"
she cried. "I know I've played hot and cold with you,--and
that's just the point. It proves that I never really cared for
you in--in that way--down in my soul, I mean. I am sure of it
now. I have been dreadfully unhappy about it,--because, Barry
dear, I can't bear to hurt you. We are not suited to each other.
We think differently about a great many things. We--"
"Look here," he exclaimed roughly, no longer able to
disguise his anger; "you've got to stop this everlasting--"
"Let go of my arm, Barry Lapelle!" she cried. "Don't
you dare lay your hand on me like that!"
He loosened his grip on her arm and drew back sulkily. "Ah,--I
didn't mean to hurt you and you know it. I wouldn't hurt you for
anything in the world. I'm sorry if I was rough with--"
"I don't blame you," she broke in, contritely. "I
guess it would serve me right if you beat me black and blue."
"What I was going to say," he growled, controlling himself
with difficulty, "is this: if you think I'm going to take
this as final, you're very much mistaken. You'll get over this,
just as you've gotten over your peevishness before. I've spoiled
you, that's the truth of the matter. I always give in to you--"
"I tell you I am in earnest," she cried hotly. "This
is for good and all,--and you make me furious when you talk like
that. I am doing my best to be kind and considerate, so you'd
better be careful, Barry Lapelle, not to say too much."
He looked into her flaming eyes for a moment and then muttered
slowly, wonderingly: "By heaven, Viola, I believe you DO
mean it. You--you are actually throwing me over,--giving me the
mitten?"
"I can't help it, Barry," she insisted. "Something,--I
don't know what,--has come over me. Nothing seems to be the same
as it used to be. I only know that I cannot bear the thought of--why,
Barry dear, for the past three or four nights I've lain awake
for hours thinking of the awful consequences if we had succeeded
in making our escape that night, and had been married as we planned.
How terrible it would have been if I had found out too late that
I did not love you,--and we were tied to each other for life.
For your sake as well as my own, Barry. Can you imagine anything
more horrible than to be married to a woman who--who didn't love
you?"
"Yes," he snapped, "I can. It's worse a thousand
times over not to be married to the girl you love,--and to see
her married to some one else. That would be hell,--hell, do you
understand?"
She drew a little away from him. "But not the hell it would
be for me when I found out--too late. Won't you understand, Barry?
Can't you see how terrible it would be?"
"Say, when did you get this idea into your head?" he
demanded harshly. "What put it there? You were loving me
hard enough a while ago,--couldn't get along without me, you claimed.
Now you're singing another tune. Look here! Is--is there some
one else?"
"You know there isn't," she cried indignantly. "Who
else could there be? Don't be foolish, Barry."
"By God, if some one else has cut me out, I'll--I'll--"
"There is no one else, I tell you! I don't love anybody,--I
swear it."
He eyed her narrowly. "Has Kenny Gwynne anything to do with
all this?"
She started. "Kenny? Why,--no,--of course not. What on earth
could he have to do with my loving or not loving you?"
"It would be just like him to turn you against me because
he thinks I'm not fit to--Say, if I find out that he's been sticking
his nose into my affairs, I'll make it so hot for him,--brother
or no brother,--that he'll wish he'd never been born. Wait a minute!
I'll tell you what I think of him while I'm about it--and you
can run and tell him as quick as you please. He's a G-- d----
snake in the grass, that's what he is. He's a conceited, sanctimonious,
white-livered--"
"Stop that!" she cried, springing to her feet, white
with fury, her eyes blazing. "You are forgetting yourself,
Barry Lapelle. Not another word! How dare you speak like that
about my brother?"
He sat staring up at her in a sort of stupefaction.
"How dare you?" she repeated furiously.
He found his voice. "You weren't sticking up for him this
time last week," he sneered. "You were hating him like
poison. Has the old woman had a change of heart, too? Is she letting
him sit in her lap so's she can feed him with a spoon when he's
hungry and--"
"I wouldn't marry you if you were the only man in the world,
Barry Lapelle," said she, her voice low with passion.
She whirled and walked rapidly away from him, her head in the
air, her hands clenched. Leaping to his feet, he started after
her, calling:
"Wait a minute, Viola! Can't you see I'm almost out of my
head over what you've--Oh, well, go it! I'm not going to CRAWL
after you! But let me tell you one thing, my girl. You'll be talking
out of the other side of your mouth before you're much older.
You'll be down on your knees--"
"Don't you follow me another step!" she cried over her
shoulder.
He was not more than two yards behind her when she uttered this
withering command. He stopped short in his tracks.
"Well, this is a hell of a way to treat a gentleman!"
he shouted, hoarse with fury.
CHAPTER XVI
CONCERNING TEMPESTS AND INDIANS
Shortly after dark that evening, the tall, swarthy man who had
come up on the Paul Revere sauntered slowly up and down that part
of Main Street facing the Court House. Ostensibly he was inspecting
store windows along the way, but in reality he was on the lookout
for a man he had agreed to meet at a point just above the tavern,--a
casual meeting, it was to appear, and between two strangers. Barry
Lapelle came out of the tavern at the stroke of eight and walked
eastward a few paces, halting at the dark open lot between Johnson's
place and Smith's store beyond. The swarthy man approached slowly,
unconcernedly. He accosted Lapelle, inquiring:
"Is that the tavern, Mister?"
"Yes," replied Barry, needlessly pointing down the street.
"Well?"
"It's her," said the stranger. "I had a good look
at her 'long about five o'clock from the woods across from her
house. She's a heap sight older but I knowed her all right."
"You are sure?"
"Sure as my name is--"
"Sh!"
"Course I'm sure. She was Owen Carter's widder. He was killt
by a tree fallin' on him. Oh, I got a good memory. I can't afford
to have a bad one. I remember her as plain as if it wuz yestiday."
He pointed off in a westerly direction for the benefit of a passerby.
"Thank ye, mister. You say it's not more'n six mile out yan
way?" Lowering his voice, he went on: "A feller wouldn't
be likely to fergit a woman like her. Gosh, I used to wish--but
wishin' don't count fer much in this world."
"Get on with it. We can't stand here talking all night."
"Well, she's the woman that run off with Bob Gwynne. There
ain't no doubt about it. Everybody knowed it. I wuz there at the
time, workin' fer Ed Peters. He left his wife an' a little boy.
His wife was a daughter of ole Squire Blythe,--damn his heart!
He had me hoss-whipped in public fer--well, fer some triflin'
thing I done. Seems to me Mrs. Carter had a little baby girl.
Maybe not. I ain't much of a hand fer noticin' babies."
"You are sure,--absolutely positive about all this?"
whispered Lapelle intensely.
"You bet yer boots I am."
"She ran off with a married man?"
"She did. A feller by the name o' Gwynne, as I said afore,--Bob
Gwynne. An' I want to tell you, he got out o' that town jest in
time or I'd have slit his gizzard fer him. He had me arrested
fer stealin' a saddle an' bridle. He never WOULD have got away
ef I hadn't been locked up in Jim Hatcher's smokehouse with two
men settin' outside with guns fer a solid month, keepin' watch
on me day an' night. I wuz--"
"That's all for to-night," snapped Barry impatiently.
"You get out of town at once. Mart will be waiting for you
down below Granny Neff's cabin,--this side of the tanyard,--as
arranged."
"What about that other business? Mart'll want to know when
we're to--"
"He knows. The Paul Revere goes south day after to-morrow
morning. If the plans are changed before that time, I'll get word
to him. It may not be necessary to do anything at all. You've
given me information that may bring the old woman to her senses."
"Them two fellers that come up on the boat to-day. Air you
sure you c'n--"
"That's all for to-night," interrupted Barry, and strode
off up the street, leaving Jasper Suggs, sometime Simon Braley
of the loathsome Girty stock, to wend his lonely way out into
a silence as black as the depths of his own benighted soul.
The night was sultry. Up in the marshy fastnesses of Lake Stansbury
all the frogs in the universe seemed to have congregated for a
grand festival of song. The treble of baby frogs, the diapason
of ancient frogs, the lusty alto of frogs in the prime of life,
were united in an unbroken, penetrating chant to the starless
sky. The melancholy hoot of the owl, the blithesome chirp of the
cricket, even the hideous yawp of the roaming loon, were lost
in the din and clatter of Lake Stansbury's mighty chorus.
There was promise of storm in the lifeless air. Zachariah, resting
his elbows on the fence, confided this prognostication to an almost
invisible Hattie on the opposite side of the barrier between two
back yards.
"Ah allus covers my haid up wid de blanket--an' de bolster--an'
de piller when hit's astormin'," said Hattie, in an awed
undertone. "An' Ah squeals lak a pig ev' time hit claps."
"Shucks, gal!" scoffed Zachariah. "What yo' all
so skeert o' lightnin' fo'? Why, good lan' o' Goshen, Ah hain't
no mo' askeert o' storms dan Ah is ob--ob YOU!" He chuckled
rather timorously after blurting out this inspired and (to him)
audacious remark. To his relief and astonishment, Hattie was not
offended.
"Ah bet yo' all hain't see no setch thunderstorms as we has
'round dis yere neck o' de woods," said she, with conviction.
"Ah bet yo' be skeert ef you--"
"Don' yo' talk to me, gal," boasted Zachariah. "Wuzzin
Ah in de wustest storm dis yere valley has seed sence dat ole
Noah he climb up in dat ole ark an' sez, 'Lan' sakes, Ah wonder
ef Ah done gone an' fergit anyt'ing.' Yes, MA'AM,--dat evenin'
out to Marse Striker's--dat wuz a storm, gal. Wuz Ah skeert? No,
SUH! Ah stup right out in de middle of it, lightnin' strikin'
all 'round an' de thunder so turrible Marse Kenneth an' ever'body
ailse wuz awonderin' ef de good Lord could hear 'em prayin' fo'
mercy. Yas, suh--yas, SUH! Dat's de gospel trufe. An' me right
out dere in dat ole barnyard doin' de chores fo' ole Mis' Striker.
Marse Kenneth he stick his haid out'n de winder an' yell, 'Zachariah,
yo' come right in heah dis minnit! Yo' heah me? Wha' yo' all doin'
out dere in dat hell-fire an' brimstone? Ah knows yo' is de bravest
nigger in all dis world, but fo' mah sake, Zachariah, won't yo'
PLEASE come in?' Well, suh, jes' den Ah happens to look up from
what Ah wuz doin' an' sees a streak o' lightnin' comin' straight
to'ards de cabin. So Ah yells fo' him to pull his haid in mighty
quick, an' shore 'nuff he got it in jes' in de nick o' time. Dat
streak o' lightnin' went right pass de winder an' hit de groun'.
Den hit sort o' bounce up in de air an' lep right over mah haid
an' hitten a tree--"
"Wuz hit rainin' all dis time?"
"Rainin'? Mah lan', gal, course hit wuz rainin'," replied
Zachariah, somewhat testily. "Hitten a tree not more'n ten
foot from where Ah wuz--"
"Hain't yo' all got no sense at all, nigger?" demanded
Hattie, witheringly. "Don' yo' know 'nough to go in out'n
de rain?"
Zachariah was flabbergasted. Here was a bolt from a supposedly
clear and tranquil sky; it flattened him out as no stroke of lightning
could ever have done. For once in his life he was rendered speechless.
Hattie, who had got religion on several unforgettable occasions
and was at this very time on the point of returning to the spiritual
fold which she had more or less secretly abandoned at the behest
of the flesh, regarded this as an excellent opportunity to re-establish
herself as a disciple of salvation.
"An' what's more, nigger," she went on severely, "ef
de good Lord ever cotch setch a monst'ous liar as yo' is out in
a hurricane lak what yo' all sez it wuz, dere wouldn't be no use
buryin' what wuz lef' of yo'. 'Cause why, 'cause yo' jes' gwine
to be a lil black cinder no bigger'n a chinkapin. I knows all
about how brave yo' wuz out to Marse Striker's. Miss Violy she
done tell how yo' all snuck under de table an' prayed an' carried
on somefin' scan'lous."
Zachariah, though crushed, made a noble effort to extricate himself
from the ruins. "Ah lak to know what Miss Violy knows about
me on dat yere occasion. Yas, suh,--dat's what Ah lak to know.
She never lay eyes on me dat night. 'Ca'se why? 'Ca'se I wuz out
in de barnlot all de time. She done got me contwisted wid dat
other fool nigger, dat's what she done."
"What other fool nigger?"
"Didden she tell yo' all about dat nigger we fotch along
up from Craffordsville to--"
"Yas, suh, she done tole all about dat Craffordsville nigger,
ef dat's de one yo' means."
Zachariah was staggered. "She--she tole yo' about--about
dat Craffordsville nigger?"
"Yas, suh,--she did. Miss Violy she say he wuz de han'somest
boy she ever did see,--great big strappin' boy wid de grandest
eyes an'--"
"Dat's enough,--dat'll do," exclaimed Zachariah in considerable
heat. "Marse Kenneth he got to change his tune, dat's all
I got to say. He say Ah am de biggest liar in dis yere land,--but,
by golly, he ain' ever heared about dis yere gal Hattie. No, SUH!
When Ah lies, Ah lies about SOMEFIN', but when yo' lies, yo' jes'
lies about NUFFIN',--'ca'se why? 'Ca'se dat Craffordsville nigger
he ain' nuffin'. Yo' ought to be 'shamed o' yo'self, nigger, makin'
out Miss Violy to be a liar lak dat,--an' her bein' de fines'
lady in--"
"Go on 'way wid yo', nigger," retorted Hattie airily.
"Don' yo' come aroun' heah no mo' makin' out how brave yo'
is,--'ca'se Ah knows a brave nigger when Ah sees one, lemme tell
yo' dat, Mistah Zachariah Whatever-yo'-name is."
Silence followed this Parthian shot. Zachariah, being a true philosopher,
rested his case without further argument. He appeared to have
given himself up to reflection. Presently Hattie, tempering her
voice with honey, remarked: "Ah suttinly is mighty glad yo'
is come up yere to live, Zachariah."
"Look here, gal,--don' yo' go countin' on me too much,"
said he, suspiciously. "Ah got all Ah c'n do 'tendin' to
mah own wo'k 'thout comin' over yander an' hulpin' yo'--"
"Lan's sakes, man, 'tain't mah look-out ef yo' come over
yere an' tote mah clo'se-basket an' ev'thing 'round fo' me,--no,
suh! Ah ain' nev' ast yo', has Ah? All Ah does is to hole Cato
so he won't chaw yo' laig off when yo' come botherin' me to please
'low yo' to hulp me,--das all Ah do. An' lemme tell yo', nigger,
dat ain' no easy job. 'Ca'se ef dere's one t'ing Cato do enjoy
hit's dark meat,--yas, suh, hit's come so he won't even look at
light meat no mo', he so sick o' feedin' off'n dese yere white
shin-bones."
"Well, den, why is yo' glad Ah come up yere to live?"
demanded Zachariah defensively.
"'Ca'se o' dis yere ole Black Hawk."
"Ah don' know nuffin' 'bout no ole Black Hawk."
"Yo' all gwine to know 'bout him mighty quick," said
she solemnly. "He's on de rampage. Scalpin' an' burnin' white
folks at de stake an' des wallerin' in blood. Yas, suh,--Ah suttinly
ain't gwine feel so skeert o' dat ole Black Hawk 'long as yo'
is livin' right nex' do', Zachariah."
"Wha' yo' all talkin' about?"
"Marse Joe,--he de sheriff dis yere county,--he done tole
ole Mis' Gwyn dis evenin' all de news 'bout dat ole Black Hawk.
Yas, suh,--ole Black Hawk he on de warpath. All de Injuns in dis
yere--"
"Injuns?" gulped Zachariah.
"Dey all got dere warpaint on an' dere tommyhawks--"
"How come Marse Kenneth he don' know nuffin' 'bout all dis?"
demanded Zachariah, taking a step or two backward and glancing
anxiously over one shoulder, then the other. "He a lawyer.
How come he don' know nuffin' 'bout--Say, how close dat ole sheriff
say dem Injuns is?"
"Dat's what I can't make out, Zachariah. He talk so kind
o' low an' me lettin' de dishpan drop right in de middle--"
"Ah guess Ah better go right straight in de house an' tell
Marse Kenneth 'bout dis," hastily announced Zachariah. Then
he bethought himself to add: "'Ca'se me an' him got a lot
to do ef dese here Injuns come 'roun' us lookin' fo' trouble,
Yas, suh! Ah got to git de guns an' pistols an' huntin' knives
all ready fo'--"
The words froze on his lips. A low, blood-curdling moan that seemed
to end in a gasp,--or even a death-rattle,--fell upon the ears
of the two negroes. It was close at hand,--not more than twenty
feet away. This was succeeded, after a few seconds of intense
stillness--(notwithstanding the uproarious frogs!)--by a hair-raising
screech from Hattie. An instant later she was scuttling for her
own kitchen door, emitting inarticulate cries of terror.
As for Zachariah? His course was a true one so far as direction
was concerned. Blind instinct located the back door for him and
he made a bee-line toward it regardless of all that lay between.
First he encountered a tree-stump. This he succeeded in passing
without the slightest deviation from the chosen route. Scrambling
frantically to his feet after landing with a mighty grunt some
two yards beyond the obstacle, he dashed onward, tearing his way
through a patch of gooseberry bushes, coming almost immediately
into contact with the wood-pile. Here he was momentarily retarded
in his flight. There was a great scattering of stove-wood and
chips, accompanied by suppressed howls, and then he was on his
feet again. Almost simultaneously the heavy oak door received
and withstood the impact of his flying body; a desperate clawing
at the latch, the spasmodic squeak of rusty hinges, a resounding
slam, the jar of a bolt being shot into place,--and Zachariah
vociferously at prayer in a sanctuary behind the kitchen stove.
CHAPTER XVII
REVELATIONS
That sepulchral groan had issued not from a mortal in the agony
of impending death but from the smiling red lips of Viola Gwyn.
The grewsome "death-rattle" was the result of the means
she took to suppress a shriek of laughter by frantically clapping
both hands to her convulsed mouth.
For some time she had been standing at the fence, her elbows on
the top rail, gazing pensively at the light in Kenny's window.
A clump of honeysuckle bushes was between her and the unsuspecting
servants. At first she had paid little or no attention to the
gabble of the darkies, her thoughts being centred on her own serious
affairs. She had been considerably shaken and distressed by the
unpleasant experience of the early afternoon. Somehow she longed
to take her troubles to Kenneth, to rid herself of them in the
comfort of his approbation, to be reassured by his brotherly counsel.
She knew he was sitting beside the table in the cosy sitting-room,
poring over one of his incomprehensible law books. How jolly,
how consoling to her own agitated mind, if she could only be there
in the same room with him, quiet as a mouse so as not to disturb
his profound studies, and reposing in that comfortable new rocker
on the opposite side of the table where she could watch the studious
frown on his brow while she waited patiently for him to lay aside
the book.
Indeed, she had come out of the house animated by a sudden impulse
to pay him a brief, surreptitious visit; then to run back home
before she was missed by her mother. This impulse was attended
by a singularly delightful sensation of guilt. She had never been
over to see him at night. In fact, it had never occurred to her
to do such a thing before. But even as she started forth from
the house, a strange timidity assailed her. It halted her impetuous
footsteps, turned them irresolutely aside, and led her not to
the gate but to the barrier fence. She could not explain, even
to herself, the queer, half-frightened thumping of her heart,
nor the amazing shyness, nor the ridiculous feeling that it would
be improper for her to be alone with him at night.
But why, she argued,--why should it be improper? What could be
wrong in going to see her own brother? What difference did it
make whether it was night or day? Still the doubt persisted,--a
nagging yet agreeable doubt that made her all the more eager to
defy its feeble authority. First she sought to justify her inclination
by reminding herself that her mother had never by word or look
signified the slightest opposition to her intimacy with Kenneth.
This attitude of resignation on her mother's part, however, was
a constant thorn in her side, a prick to her conscience. It caused
her many a pang.
Then she called to mind certain of her girl friends who had brothers,
--one in particular who declared that she had slept in the same
bed with her brother up to the time she was fourteen years old.
She felt herself turn scarlet. That was really quite dreadful,
even though the cabin in which her friend dwelt was very tiny
and there were six children in the family. She had bitterly envied
certain others, those who told of the jolly good times they had
had with their brothers, the fun they had in quarrelling and the
way they teased the boys when they first began "going out"
with the girls.
What fun to have had a brother when she was little,--a brother
to play with! Kenny was so unreal. He was not like a brother at
all. He was no different from other men,--she did not believe
she could ever get used to thinking of him as a brother,--even
a half-brother. This very thought was in her mind,--perhaps it
was an ever-present thought,--as she stood gazing shyly at his
window.
She wanted to tell him about her break with Barry. Somehow,--although
she was not quite conscious of it,--she longed to have him pat
her on the shoulder, or clasp her hands in his, and tell her she
had done the right thing and he was glad. The corners of her mouth
were drooping a little.
But the pensive droop slowly disappeared as she harkened to the
valiant words of Zachariah. It was not until Kenny's servant lifted
his voice in praise of his own deeds at Phineas Striker's that
she became acutely aware of the close proximity of the speakers.
Gradually she surrendered to the spirits of mirth and mischief.
The result of her awesome moan,--even though it narrowly escaped
ending in a shriek of laughter,--has already been revealed. The
manner of Zachariah's flight sobered her instantly. Too late she
regretted the experiment.
"Oh, goodness!" she murmured, blanching. "The poor
fellow has hurt himself--"
The slamming of the door behind Zachariah was reassuring. At any
rate he was alive and far too sprightly to have suffered a broken
leg or a cracked skull. A few seconds later she saw Kenny's shadow
flit hurriedly past the window as he dashed toward the kitchen.
For some time she stood perfectly still, listening to the confused
jumble of voices in the house across the way, debating whether
she should hurry over to explain,--and perhaps to assist in dressing
poor Zachariah's cuts and bruises. Suddenly she decided; and,
without thought of her garments, she scrambled hastily over the
fence. Just as her feet touched the ground, the front door of
Kenneth's house flew open and a figure, briefly revealed by the
light from within, rushed out into the yard and was swallowed
up by the darkness. She whirled and started to climb back over
into her own yard, giggling hysterically. She heard the rush of
feet through the weeds and shrubbery. They halted abruptly, and
then:
"Stop where you are, damn you! I've got you covered and,
so help me God, I'll put a bullet through--"
"Kenny! Kenny!" she cried out. "It's I--Viola!"
There was a moment's silence.
"My God! You? Viola?" came in suppressed, horrified
tones from the darkness. "Drop down,--drop to the ground!
They may begin firing at me. You--"
"Firing at you?" she cried, shakily. "What on earth
are you talking about? There's--there's no one here. I am all
alone. I did it. I'm the ghost. It was all in fun. I didn't dream--"
"Do as I tell you!" he called out sharply. "There
is a pack of ruffians--"
"Pack your granny!" she cried, with a shrill laugh.
"I tell you I am all alone. My goodness, what on earth did
Zachariah think was after him? A regiment of soldiers?"
As he came quickly toward her she shrank back, seized by a strange,
inexplicable panic. He loomed above her in the darkness as she
half-crouched against the fence. For a few seconds he stood looking
down at her, breathing sharply. She heard something drop at his
feet, and then both his hands gripped her shoulders, drawing her
roughly up to him.
"Oh-h! Wh-what are you doing?" she gasped as his arm
went around her. That arm of steel drew her so close and held
her so tightly to his breast that she could feel the tremendous
thumping of his heart. She felt herself trembling--trembling all
over; the light in the window up beyond seemed to draw nearer,
swelling to vast proportions as it bore down upon her. She closed
her eyes. What was happening to her,--what was causing this strange
languor, this queer sensation as of falling?
As abruptly as he had clasped her to him, he released her, springing
back with a muttered execration. She tottered dizzily, and involuntarily
reached out to clutch his arm for support. He shook her hand off.
"What is the matter, Kenny?" she murmured, hazily.
He did not answer. He leaned heavily against the fence, his head
on his arm. She did not move for many seconds. Then he heard her
gasp,--a gasp of actual terror.
"Who are you?" she whispered tensely. "You are
not my brother. You are not the real Kenneth Gwynne! Who are you?"
She waited for the answer that did not come. Then as she drew
farther away from him: "You are an impostor. You have deceived
us. You have come here representing yourself to be--to be my brother,--and
you are not--you are not! I know it--oh, I know it now. You are--"
This aroused him. "What is that you are saying?" he
cried out, fighting to pull his disordered wits together. "Not
your brother? Impostor? What are you saying, Viola?"
"I want the truth," she cried. "Are you what you
claim to be?"
"Of course I am," he answered, stridently. "I am
Kenneth Gwynne. Your brother. Have you lost your senses?"
"Then, why--" she began huskily. "Why did you--Oh,
Kenny, I don't know what I am saying," she murmured piteously.
"I--I don't know what has come over me. Something--something--Oh,
I don't know what made me feel--I mean, what made me say that
to you. You are Kenneth Gwynne. You are my half-brother. You are
not--" "There, there!" he interrupted, his voice
shaking a little. "You were frightened. I came so near to
shooting--Yes, that is it. And I was so happy, so relieved that
I--I almost ate you alive,--my little sister. God, what a horrible
thing it would have been if I had--fired and the bullet had--"
She interrupted him, speaking rapidly, breathlessly in her effort
to regain command of herself. "But you didn't--you didn't,
you see,--so what is the use of worrying about it now?" She
laughed jerkily. "But, my goodness, it is a good lesson for
me! I'll never try to scare anybody else again as I did poor Zachariah."
He stooped and, feeling among the weeds, recovered not one but
both of the long duelling pistols.
"I was after bigger game than you," he muttered. "Here
are my pistols,--all primed and ready for business."
She stretched out her hand and touched one of the weapons. "Ready
for what business?" she inquired. "What did you mean
by a pack of ruffians?" As he did not answer at once, she
went on to explain what had actually occurred, ending with, "I
suppose Zachariah ran in and told you that old Black Hawk and
his warriors were attacking the town."
"I couldn't get much out of him, he was so excited. But I
was mortally afraid they had stolen a march on us, and you were
already in their hands. You see, Isaac Stain was to have kept
me informed and we were to have laid a trap for them. Oh, Lord!"
he exclaimed in sudden consternation. "I am letting the cat
out of the bag."
"Will you please tell me what you are talking about, Kenneth
Gwynne?" she said impatiently.
He came to a quick decision. "Yes, I will tell you everything.
I guess I was a fool not to have told you before,--you and your
mother. There is a plot afoot, Viola, to abduct you. Stain got
wind of it, through--well, he got wind of it. He came to me with
the story. I don't suppose you will believe me,--and you will
probably despise me for what I am about to say,--but the man you
love and expect to marry is behind the scheme. I mean Barry Lapelle.
He--"
"When did you hear of this?" she interrupted quickly.
"After the Revere came in?"
"More than a week ago. He came home on the Revere to-day.
His plan is to--"
"I know. I saw him. We quarrelled. It is all over between
us, Kenny. He was furious. I thought he may have--but you say
you knew of this a week ago? I don't--I can't understand it. A
week ago there was no heed of--of carrying me off against my will."
"It is all over between you?" he cried, and he could
not disguise the joy in his voice. "You have ended it, Viola?"
"Yes,--it is all over," she said stiffly. "I am
not going to marry him. I was coming over to tell you. But--go
on. What is this cock-and-bull story about abducting me? Goodness,
I am beginning to feel like a girl in a story-book."
"It is no laughing matter," he said, a little gruffly.
"Does it look like it when I come rushing out here with two
loaded pistols and come near to shooting you? Come up to the house.
We will talk it all over, and then,--" he hesitated for a
moment,--"then I'll go over and see your mother."
He took her arm and led her up to the house. As they entered the
front door, Zachariah's groans fell upon their ears. She looked
at Kenny in alarm, and for the first time realized that he was
without coat or waistcoat. His hair was tousled in evidence of
his studious application to the open law books that lay on the
floor.
"He must be quite badly hurt," she cried miserably.
"Oh, I'm SO sorry."
Kenny went to the kitchen door. "Zachariah! Stop that groaning.
You're not hurt. Here! What are you doing with that rifle?"
"Ah was jes' co-comin' out, Marse Kenny, fo' to he'p yo'
kill--yas, suh! Ah was--" The remainder was lost as Kenneth
deliberately closed the door behind him and walked over to the
negro, who was squatting in a corner with a rifle in his hands.
Viola, left alone, crossed to the window and looked out. She was
pale and anxious. Her wide, alarmed eyes tried to pierce the darkness
outside. Suddenly she started back, pressing her hands to her
cheeks.
"Oh, my soul!" she murmured. "They could have shot
him dead. He could not have seen them." She felt herself
turn faint. Then a thrill of exaltation swept over her and she
turned quickly toward the kitchen door, her eyes glowing. "And
he was not afraid! He ran out to face them alone. He thought they
were out there,--he risked being shot to save me from--"
The door opened and Kenneth came swiftly into the room. He stopped
short, staring at her radiant face.
"Oh, Kenny, you--you really believed they were out there,--a
crowd of them,--trying to carry me off? Why,--why, that was the
bravest thing a man--"
"Shucks!" he scoffed. "My tragedy turns out to
be the most uproarious farce. I've never seen a funnier one in
the theatre. But there is a serious side to it, Viola. Sit down
for a minute or two, and I'll tell you. Zachariah is all right.
Barked his shins a little, that's all."
At the conclusion of his short, unembellished recital, he said:
"There is nothing for you to be worried about. They cannot
carry out the plot. We are all forewarned now. I should have told
you all this before, but I was afraid you would think I was trying
to blacken Lapelle. I wanted to catch him red-handed, as the saying
is. Isaac Stain is coming in to sleep here to-morrow night, and
Zachariah, for all his fear of ghosts and lightning, is not afraid
of men. We will be ready for them if they come,--so don't you
worry."
There was a puzzled frown in her eyes. "I don't see why he
should have planned this a week ago, Kenny. I had told him I would
marry him. There must be something back of all this."
"Do you know anything about a friend of his who is going
to be married soon? He spoke to me about it the other day, and
asked if a parent could legally deprive a daughter of a share
in her deceased father's--"
"Why,--that's me, Kenny," she cried excitedly. "I
told him that mother would disinherit me entirely if I married
him without her consent."
A light broke over him. "By jingo!" he cried. "I
am beginning to see. Why, it's as plain as day to me now. The
beastly scoundrel!"
"What do you mean?"
"Could your mother very well carry out her threat if he made
off with you by force and compelled you to marry him, whether
or no?"
She stiffened. "I would never,--never consent, Kenny. I would
die first."
"I suppose you imagine there could be no worse fate than
that?" he said, pity in his eyes.
She looked puzzled for a moment and then grasped his meaning.
Her face blanched.
"I said I would die first," she repeated in a low, steady
voice.
"Well," he cried, starting up briskly from his chair,
"I guess we'd better hurry if we want to catch your mother
before she goes to bed. And that reminds me, Viola,--I would like
to speak with her alone. You see," he went on lamely, "you
see, we're not friends and I don't know how she will receive me."
She nodded her head without speaking and together they left the
house.
CHAPTER XVIII
RACHEL DELIVERS A MESSAGE
Rachel was standing on her porch as they came up the walk. The
light through the open door at her back revealed her tall, motionless
figure but not her face which was in shadow.
"Kenneth wants to talk to you about something very important,"
said Viola unevenly, as they drew near.
The woman on the porch did not speak until they paused at the
bottom of the steps.
"Have you been over at his house, Viola?" she asked
levelly.
"Yes, mother."
After a moment's hesitation: "Come in, Kenneth." She
stood aside to let Viola pass. Kenneth, who had hastily donned
his coat, followed the two women into the house. There was a light
in the parlor. "Will you sit down, or do you prefer to remain
standing in my house, Kenneth Gwynne?"
He bowed stiffly, indicating a chair with a gesture. "Will
you be seated first, madam?"
His sophomoric dignity drew a faint, ironic smile to her lips.
"Thank you," she said calmly, and seated herself on
the little horsehair sofa. If there was any uneasiness in the
look she sent from one to the other of the young people it was
not noticeable. "Hattie came in a little while ago,"
she said, "scared out of her wits. I suspected that you were
up to one of your pranks, Viola. I do wish you would stop frightening
the girl."
"Kenneth will tell you what happened," said the girl,
hurriedly. "He wants to see you alone. I am going upstairs."
She left the room, closing the door behind her. Neither spoke
until they heard her footsteps on the floor overhead.
"Well, what have you been telling her?" asked Rachel,
leaning forward, her eyes narrowing.
He drew a chair up close to the sofa and sat down. "Nothing
that she should not know," he answered. "I will first
tell you what happened a little while ago, and then--the rest
of it. There is evil afoot. I have been wrong, I realize, in not
warning you and Viola."
She listened intently to the end; not once did she interrupt him,
but as he proceeded to unfold the meagre details of the plot as
presented to him by Isaac Stain, her brow darkened and her fingers
began to work nervously, restlessly in her lap. His account of
the frightening of Zachariah and its immediate results took up
but little time. He was careful to avoid any mention of that stirring
scene at the fence, its effect upon the startled girl, or how
near he was to betraying the great secret.
Rachel Gwyn's eyes never left his face during the whole of the
unbroken recital. Toward the end he had the disconcerting impression
that she was reading his turbulent thoughts, that she was successfully
searching his soul.
"That's the story as it came to me," he concluded. "I
deserve your condemnation for not preparing Viola against a trick
that might have resulted disastrously while we were marking time."
"Why did Isaac Stain go to you instead of coming to me?"
was her first question.
"Because he believes I am her brother, and this happens to
be a man's job," he said, lowering his voice. "It is
only fair, however, to state that he wanted to come to you and
I, in my folly, advised him not to do so."
She was silent for a moment. Then: "And why did you think
it not advisable to tell me?"
"I will be frank with you," he replied, colouring under
her steady gaze. "I wanted her to find out for herself just
what kind of man Lapelle really is. I was prepared to let the
plot go almost to the point of consummation. I--I wanted to be
the one to save her." He lowered his eyes, afraid that she
would discover the truth in them.
Again she hesitated, apparently weighing her words.
"You are in love with her, Kenneth."
He looked up, startled, almost aghast. Involuntarily he started
to rise to his feet, his eyes still fixed on hers, vehement denial
on his parted lips, only to sink back into the chair again, convicted.
There was no use attempting to deceive this cold, clear-headed
woman. She knew. No lie, no evasion could meet that direct statement.
For a long time they looked straight into each other's eyes, and
at length his fell in mute confession.
"God help me,--I am," he groaned.
"Oh, the pity of it!" she cried out. He looked up and
saw that she was trembling, her ashen face working as in pain.
"No! The curse of it, Rachel Carter!"
She appeared not to have heard his words. "'God works in
a mysterious way,'" she muttered, almost inaudibly. "The
call of the blood is unfailing. The brain may be deceived, the
heart never." With an effort, she regained control of herself.
"She has broken off with Barry Lapelle. Do you know the reason
why? Because, all unbeknownst to her, she has fallen in love with
you. Yes! It is true. I know. I have seen it coming."
She arose and crossed to the door, which she cautiously opened.
For a moment she remained there listening, then closing it gently,
she came over and stood before him.
"Love is a wonderful thing, Kenneth," she said slowly.
"It is the most powerful force in all the world. It overcomes
reason, it crushes the conscience, it makes strong men weak and
weak men strong. For love a woman will give her honour, for love
a man will barter his chance for eternal salvation. It overlooks
faults, it condones crime, it rises above every obstacle that
the human mind can put before it. It knows no fear, it has no
religion, it serves no God. You love my girl, Kenneth. She is
the daughter of the woman you despise, the daughter of one you
call evil. Is your love for her great enough,--or will it ever
be great enough,--to overcome these obstacles? In plain words,
would you take her unto yourself as your wife, to love and cherish
and honour,--mind you, HONOUR,--to the end of your days on earth?"
He stood up, facing her, his face white.
"She has done nothing dishonourable," he said levelly.
"'The sins of the mother,'" she paraphrased, without
taking her eyes from his.
"Was her mother any worse than my father? Has the sin been
visited upon one of us and not upon the other?"
"Then, you WOULD be willing to take Viola as your wife?"
He seemed to wrench his gaze away. "Oh, what is the use of
talking about the impossible?" he exclaimed. "I have
confessed that I love her,--yes, in spite of everything,--and
you--"
"You have not answered my question."
"No, I have not," he said deliberately,--"and I
do not intend to answer it. You know as well as I that I cannot
ask her to marry me, so why speak of it? Good God, could I ask
my own sister to be my wife?"
"She is not your sister. She has not one drop of Gwynne blood
in her veins."
He gave a short, bitter laugh. "But who is going to tell
her that, may I ask, Rachel Carter?"
She turned away, took two or three turns up and down the room,
her head bent, a heavy frown between her eyes, and then sank wearily
into a chair.
"I will put it this way, Kenneth," she said. "Would
you ask her to be your wife if the time should ever come when
she knows the truth?"
He hesitated a long time. "Will you be kind enough to tell
me what your object is in asking me these questions?"
"I want to know whether you are truly in love with her,"
she replied steadily.
"And if I say that I could not ask her to marry me, would
that prove anything to you?" "Yes. It would prove two
things. It would prove that you do not love her with all your
heart and soul, and it would prove that you are the same kind
of man that your father was before you."
He started. It was the second reason that caused him to look at
her curiously. "What do you mean?"
"When you have answered my question, I will answer yours,
Kenneth."
"Well," he began, setting his jaw, "I DO love her
enough to ask her to be my wife. But I would ask her as Owen Carter's
daughter. And," he added, half closing his eyes as with pain,
"she would refuse to have me. She could not look at the matter
as I do. Her love,--if she should ever come to have such a feeling
for me,--her love would revolt against--Oh, you know what I mean!
Do you suppose it would survive the shock of realization? No!
She has a clean heart. She would never marry the son of the man
who--who--" He found himself unable to finish the sentence.
A strange, sudden reluctance to hurt his enemy checked the words
even as they were being framed on his lips,--reluctance due not
to compassion nor to consideration but to a certain innate respect
for an adversary whose back is to the wall and yet faces unequal
odds without a sign of shrinking.
"Shall I say it for you?" she asked in a cold, level
voice. But she had winced, despite her iron control.
"It is not necessary," said he, embarrassed.
"In any case," she said, with a sigh, "you have
answered my question. If you could do this for my girl I am sure
of your love for her. There could be no greater test. I shall
take a little more time before answering your question. There
are one or two more things I must say to you before I come to
that,--and then, if you like, we will take up this story of Isaac
Stain's. Kenneth, the time may come,--I feel that it is sure to
come, when--" She stopped. A sound from above caught her
ear,--a regular, rhythmic thumping on the floor. After a few seconds
she remarked:
"It is all right. That is a rocking-chair. She is getting
impatient." Nevertheless she lowered her voice and leaned
forward in her chair. "The time is sure to come when Viola
will learn the truth about herself and me,--and you, as well.
I feel it in my bones. It may not come till after I am dead. But
no matter when it comes, I want to feel sure now,--to-night, Kenneth,--that
you will never undertake to deprive her of the lands and money
I shall leave to her."
He stared at her in astonishment. "What is this you are saying?"
She slowly repeated the words. "Why, how could I dispossess
her? It is yours to bequeath as you see fit, madam. Do you think
I am a mercenary scoundrel,--that I would try to take it away
from her? I know she is not my father's daughter, but--why, good
heaven, I would never dream of fighting for what you--"
"Your love for her,--though unrequited,--aye, even though
she became embittered toward you because of what happened years
ago,--you love her enough to stand aside and allow her to hold
what I shall leave to her?"
"You are talking in riddles. What on earth are you driving
at?" "You will not fight her right, her claim to my
estate?" she insisted, leaning still closer.
"Why, of course not!" he exclaimed, angrily.
"Even though the law might say she is not entitled to it?"
"The law can take no action unless I invoke its aid,"
said he. "And that is something I shall never do," he
added, with finality.
"I wish I could be sure of that," she murmured, wistfully.
He came to his feet. "You may be sure of it," he said,
with dignity. "Possess your soul in peace, if that is all
that is troubling it."
"Sit down," she said, a strange huskiness in her voice.
He obeyed her. "Your father left a certain part of his fortune
to me. There was no provision made for Viola. You understand that,
don't you?"
"Yes. I know all about that," said he, plainly bewildered.
"On the other hand, he did not impose any restrictions upon
you. You are at liberty to dispose of your share by will, as you
see fit, madam. I am not likely to deny my step-sister what is
rightfully hers. And that reminds me. She is not my blood relation,
it's true. But she is my step-sister. That settles another point.
I could not ask my step-sister to be my wife. The law would--"
"Now we have come to the point where I shall answer the question
you asked a while ago," she interrupted, straightening up
in her chair and regarding him with a fixed, steady light in her
eyes that somehow seemed to forewarn him of what was about to
be revealed. "I said it would prove two things to me. One
of them was that you are the same kind of man that your father
was before you. I mean if you had said you could not ask Viola
to be your wife." She paused, and then went on slowly, deliberately.
"I lived with your father for nearly twenty years. In all
that time he never asked me to be his wife."
At first he stared blankly at her, uncomprehending.
Then a slow, dark flush spread over his face. He half-started
up from his chair.
"You--you mean--" he stammered.
"He never asked me to be his wife," she repeated without
emotion.
He sank back, incredulous, dumbfounded. "My God! Am I to
understand that you--that you were never married to my father?"
"Yes. I waited twenty years for him to ask me to marry him,--but
he never did."
He was still somewhat stupefied. The disclosure was so unexpected,
so utterly at odds with all his understanding that he could not
wholly grasp its significance. Somewhat footlessly he burst out:
"But surely you must have demanded--I mean, did you never
ask him to--to marry you?"
Her eyebrows went up slightly.
"How could I?" she inquired, as if surprised by the
question. "I had not sunk so low in my own estimation as
that, Kenneth Gwynne. My bed was made the day I went away with
him. Some day you may realize that even such as I may possess
the thing called pride. No! I would have died rather than ask
him to marry me. I chose my course with my eyes open. It was not
for me to demand more than I gave. He was not a free man when
I went to him. He made no promises, nor did I exact any."
She spoke in the most matter-of-fact way. He regarded her in sheer
wonder.
"But he SHOULD have made you his wife," he exclaimed,
his sense of fairness rising above the bitter antipathy he felt
toward her.
"That was for him to decide," said she, calmly. "I
respected his feelings in the matter,--and still do. He had no
right to marry me when we went away together. He did not take
me as a wife, Kenneth Gwynne. He took me as a woman. He had a
wife. Up to the day he died he looked upon her as his wife. I
was his woman. I could never take her place. Not even after she
had been in her grave for twenty years. He never forgot her. I
see the scorn in your eyes. He does not quite deserve it, Kenneth.
After all is said and done, he was fair to me. Not one man in
a thousand would have done his part so well as he.
"I don't suppose you know what men do with their mistresses
when they begin to feel that they are through with them and there
is no legal bond to hold them. They desert them. They cast them
off. And then they turn to some honest woman and marry her. That
is the way with men. But he was not like that. I can tell what
you are about to say. It is on your lips to say that he deserted
an honest woman. Well, so he did. And therein lies the secret
of his constancy to me,--even after he had ceased to love me and
the passion that was in him died. He would never desert another
woman who trusted him. He paid too dearly in his conscience for
the first offence to be guilty of a second.
"You see I am laying bare my innermost soul to you. It hurts
me to say that through all these years he loved and honoured and
revered his wife,--and the memory of her. He was never unkind
to me,--he never spoke of her. But I knew, and he knew that I
knew. He loved you, his little boy. I, too, loved you once, Kenneth.
When you were a little shaver I adored you. But I came to hate
you as the years went by. It is needless to tell you the reason
why. When it came time for him to die he left you half of his
fortune. The other half,--and a little over,--he gave to me."
Her voice faltered a little as she added: "For good and faithful
service, I suppose."
During this long speech Kenneth had succeeded in collecting his
thoughts. He had been shocked by her confession, and now he was
mentally examining the possibilities that might arise from the
aspect it bared.
First of all, Viola was not even his step-sister. He experienced
a thrill of joy over that,--notwithstanding the ugly truth that
gave her the new standing; to his simple, straightforward mind,
Viola's mother was nothing more than a prostitute. (In his thoughts
he employed another word, for he lived in a day when prostitutes
were called by another name.) Still, Viola was not to blame for
that. That could never be held against her.
"Why have you told me all this?" he asked bluntly. "I
had no means of learning that you were never married to my father.
There was never a question about it in my mind, nor in anybody
else's, so far as I know. You have put a very dangerous weapon
in my hand in case I should choose to use it against you."
She was silent for a long time, struggling with herself. He could
almost feel the battle that was going on within her. Somehow it
appalled him.
The wind outside was rising. It moaned softly, plaintively through
the trees. A shutter creaked somewhere at the back of the house
and at intervals banged against the casement. The frogs down in
the hollow had ceased their clamour and no doubt took to themselves
credit for the storm that was on the way in answer to their exhortations.
The even, steady thump of the rocking-chair in the room overhead
stopped suddenly, and Viola's quick tread was heard crossing the
floor. She closed a window. Then, after a moment, the sound of
the rocking-chair again.
Rachel left her chair and walked over to the window to peer out
into the night.
"It is coming from the west," she said, as if to test
the steadiness of her voice.
A far-off flicker of lightning cast a faint, phosphorescent glow
into the dimly lighted room, quivering for a second or two on
the face of the woman at the window, then dying away with what
seemed to be a weird suggestion of reluctance.
She stood before him, looking down. "I have at last obeyed
a command imposed by Robert Gwynne when he was on his death-bed.
Almost his last words to me were in the nature of a threat. He
told me that if I failed to carry out his request,--he did not
call it a command,--he would haunt me to my dying day. You may
laugh at me if you will, but he HAS been haunting me, Kenneth
Gwynne. If I ever cherished the notion that I could ignore his
command and go on living in the security of my own secret, I must
have known from the beginning that it would be impossible. Day
and night, ever since you came, some force that was not my own
has been driving at my resistance. You will call it compunction,
or conscience or an honest sense of duty. I do not call it by
any of those names. Your father commanded me to tell you with
my own lips,--not in writing or through the mouth of an agent,--he
commanded me to say to you that your mother was the only wife
he ever had. I have done this to-night. I have humbled myself,--but
it was after a long, cruel fight."
She sat down, and it seemed to him that her very soul went out
in the deep, long sigh that caused her bosom to flatten and her
shoulders to droop forward.
"He was either an ingrate or a coward," said he harshly,
after a short silence.
"It is not for you to pass judgment on my master," said
she, simply. "May I beg you to refrain from putting your
own judgment of him into words? Will you not spare me that?"
He stared at her in astonishment. He saw that she was in earnest,
desperately in earnest. Choking back the words that had rushed
to his lips, he got up from his chair and bent his head gravely.
"Yes, if it is any comfort to you, Rachel Carter," he
said, acute pity in his eyes. "I cannot resist saying, however,
that you have not spared yourself. It cost you a great deal to
pay one of the debts he left for you to settle. I shall not forget
it."
She arose and all the humility fell away from her. Once more she
was the strong, indomitable,--even formidable,--figure he had
come to know so well. Her bosom swelled, her shoulders straightened,
and into her deep-set, sombre eyes came the unflinching light
of determination.
"Then we are done with that," she said quietly. "I
have asked no favours save this last one for myself,--but it is
a greater one than you may think. You know everything now, Kenneth.
You have called me Rachel Carter. Was it divination or was it
stubborn memory? I wonder. So far as I know, you are the only
person left in the world who knows that I was not his wife, the
only one who knows that I am still Rachel Carter. No matter what
this man Braley may know, or what he may tell, he--But we are
wasting time. Viola must be wondering. Now as to this plan of
Barry Lapelle's. I think I can safely assure you that nothing
will come of it."
"Then, you knew about it before I told you?" he exclaimed.
"No. You brought me word of Jasper Suggs this morning. You
said he was staying at Martin Hawk's cabin. You may have forgotten
what I said to you at the time. Now you bring me word that Barry
Lapelle's plot was hatched at Martin Hawk's. Well, this afternoon
I went to the Court House and swore out a warrant charging Martin
Hawk with stealing some of my yearling calves and sheep. That
warrant is now in the hands of the sheriff. It will be served
before another day is gone."
"That's pretty sharp work," he said, but still a little
puzzled. "Naturally it will upset Barry's plans, but Suggs
is still to be accounted for. You mentioned something about charging
him with a murder back in--"
"I guess that can wait till another day," said she,
with a smile that he did not quite understand. "It would
be rather stupid of me, don't you think, to have him arrested?"
"You said he was not the kind of a man to be taken alive,"
he remarked, knitting his brows.
"I think I said something of the kind. The name of Simon
Braley is known from one end of this State to the other. It is
a name to conjure fear with. Every Indian uprising in the past
ten years has had Braley's name connected with it. It was he who
led the band of Chippewas twelve years ago when they massacred
some fifteen or eighteen women and children in a settlement on
White River while their men were off in the fields at work. Isn't
it rather significant that the renegade Simon Braley should turn
up in these parts at a time when Black Hawk is--But that is neither
here nor there. My warrant calls for the arrest of Martin Hawk.
For more than two years Hawk has been suspected of stealing livestock
down on the Wea, hut no one has ever been willing to make a specific
charge against him. He is very cunning and he has always covered
his tracks."
"Do you think he will resist the sheriff? I mean, is there
likely to be fighting?"
"It all depends on whether Martin is caught napping,"
she replied in a most casual manner. "By the way, has Isaac
Stain told you much about himself?"
Kenneth could not repress a smile. "He has mentioned one
or two affairs of the heart."
"His sister was one of the women massacred by the Chippewas
down on White River that time. She was the young wife of a settler.
Isaac will be overjoyed when he finds out that Jasper Suggs and
Simon Braley are one and the same person."
He was speechless for a moment, comprehension coming slowly to
him. "By all that's holy!" he exclaimed, something like
awe in his voice. "I am beginning to understand. Stain will
be one of the sheriff's party?"
"We will stop at his cabin on the way to Hawk's," she
replied. "If he chooses to join us after I have told him
who I think this man Suggs really is, no one will object."
"You say 'we.' Do you mean to tell me that you are going
along with the posse? Good God, woman, there will be shooting!
You must not think of--"
She checked him with an imperious gesture. "I cannot send
these men to face a peril that I am not willing to face myself.
That would be dastardly. I will take my chances with the rest
of them. You seem to forget that I spent a good many years of
my life in the wilderness. This will not be my first experience
with renegades and outlaws. When I first came to this State, the
women had to know how to shoot. Not only to shoot birds and beasts,
but men as well. Those were hard days. I was not like the men
who cut notches in their rifle stocks for every Indian they slew,
and yet there is a gun in my room upstairs that could have two
notches on it if I had cared to put them there."
"What time do you start?" he said, the fire of excitement
in his eyes. "I insist on being one of the--"
"You will not be needed," she said succinctly. "I
think you had better go now. The storm will soon be upon us. Thank
you for coming here to-night, Kenneth."
CHAPTER XIX
LAPELLE SHOWS HIS TEETH
Kenneth went to bed that night firmly resolved to accompany the
sheriff when he set out to arrest Martin Hawk. Zachariah had instructions
to call him at daybreak and to have breakfast ready on the dot.
No doubt the posse would start about sunrise,--in any case, he
would be up and prepared to take to his saddle the instant he
saw his neighbour leaving her house.
The thunderstorm came rollicking down the valley, crashed and
rolled and roared for half an hour or so, and then stole mumbling
away in the night, leaving in its wake a sighing wind and the
drip of forsaken raindrops.
He was astir at cockcrow. The first faint glow of red in the greying
east found him at breakfast, with Zachariah sleepily serving him
with hot corn-cakes, lean side-meat and coffee.
"Take plenty dis yere hot coffee, Marse Kenneth," urged
Zachariah, at the end of a prodigious yawn. "Yo' all gwine
need sumpin to keep yo' 'wake, suh, so's yo' won't fall out'n
de saddle. Dis yere--"
"Speaking of saddles, have you fed Brandy Boy?"
"Yas, suh. Ah dunno as Ah evah see a hoss mo' took by 'stonishment
dan he wuz when Ah step brisk-like into his stall an' sez 'Doggone
yo', Brandy Boy, don't yo' know de sun's gwine to be up in less'n
two hours? Wha' fo' is yo' keepin' me an' Marse Kenneth waitin'
lak dis? Git ep dar, yo' lazy, good-fer-nuffin,--'"
"And what did Brandy Boy say in response to that?" broke
in his master, airily.
"How dat, suh?"
"Did he reply in courteous terms or was he testy and out
of sorts? Now, just what DID he say?"
Zachariah stared at the speaker in some uneasiness. "Ah reckon
yo' all better go on back to bed, suh, an' lemme call yo' when
yo' is wide awake. Ain' no sense in yo' startin' off on dis yere
hossback ride when yo' is still enjoyin' setch a good night's
sleep. No, SUH!"
"I will take another cup of your excellent coffee, Zachariah.
That will make three, won't it?"
Zachariah shuffled over to the stove, muttering as he lifted the
coffee pot: "Fust Ah is seein' things in de evenin' an' den
Ah hears all dis yere talk 'bout a hoss SAYIN' things in de mornin',--Yas,
suh,--yas, SUH! Comin' right along, suh. Little mo' side-meat,
suh?"
"Take a peep out of the window and see if any one is stirring
over at Mrs. Gwyn's."
"'Pears lak Ah c'n see a lady out in de front yard, suh,"
said Zachariah, at the window.
"You don't say so! Is it Mrs. Gwyn?" cried Kenneth,
hastily gulping his coffee as he pushed his chair back from the
table.
"Hit ain' light enough fo' to see--"
"Run out and saddle Brandy Boy at once, and be quick about
it."
"No, suh, hit ain' Mrs. Gwyn. Hit's Miss Violy. 'Pears lak
she comin' over here, suh. Leastwise she come out'n de gate kind
o' fast-like,--gotten a shawl wrap aroun'--"
Kenneth waited for no more. He dashed from the house and down
to the fence,--where stood Viola, pulling at the swollen, water-soaked
gate peg. She was bareheaded, her brown hair hanging down her
back in long, thick braids. It was apparent at a glance that she
had dressed hastily and but partially at that. With one hand she
pinched close about her throat the voluminous scarlet shawl of
embroidered crepe in which the upper part of her body was wrapped.
Later he was to observe that her heavy shoes were unlaced and
had been drawn on over her bare feet. Her eyes were filled with
alarm.
"I don't know where mother is," she said, without other
greeting. "She is not in the house, Kenny. I am worried almost
sick."
He stared at her in dismay. "Oh, blast the luck! She must
have--Say, are you sure she's gone?"
"I can't find her anywhere," cried she, in distress.
"I've been out to the barn and--Why, what ails you, Kenneth?"
"She got away without my knowing it. But maybe it's not too
late. I can catch up with them if I hurry. Hey, Zachariah!"
"Then, you know where she is?" cried the girl, grasping
his arm as he turned to rush away. "For goodness' sake, tell
me! Where has she gone?"
"Why, don't you--But of course you don't!" he exclaimed.
"You poor girl! You must be almost beside yourself,--and
here I go making matters worse by--"
"Where is she?" she broke in, all the colour going from
her face as she shook his arm impatiently. "Come in the house,"
he said gently, consolingly. "I'll tell you all I know. There's
nothing to be worried about. She will be home, safe and sound,
almost before you know it. I will explain while Zachariah is saddling
Brandy Boy." He laid his hand upon her shoulder. "Come
along,--dear."
She held back. "If anything happens to her and you could
have--" she began, a threat in her dark, harassed eyes.
"I had no idea she would start at such an unearthly hour.
I had made up my mind to go with her, whether or not. Didn't she
tell you she had made an affidavit against Martin Hawk?"
"No. The sheriff was up here last night, just after supper,
but,--Oh, Kenny, what is it all about?"
His arm stole about her shoulders. She leaned heavily, wearily
against him as they walked up the drenched path.
"Have you any idea at all what time she left the house?"
he asked.
"I heard her go down the stairs. It was pitch dark, but the
clock struck one quite a long time afterward. I did not think
anything about it then, because she often gets up in the middle
of the night and goes down to sit in the kitchen. Ever since father
died. I must have gone to sleep again because I did not hear her
come back upstairs. I awoke just at daybreak and got up to see
if she needed me. She--she had not gone to bed at all, Kenny.--and
I couldn't find her anywhere. Then I thought that Martin Hawk
and the others had come and taken her away by mistake, thinking
it was me in the darkness."
"Sit down, Viola. I'll light the fire. It's quite chilly
and you are shaking like a--"
"I want to know where she has gone," she insisted.
Then he told her briefly as much as he thought she ought to know.
She was vastly relieved. She even smiled.
"There's no use of your trying to catch up with her. Thank
you for lighting the fire, Kenny. If you don't mind, I will sit
here awhile, and I may go to sleep in this comfortable chair of
yours. Goodness, I must look awful. My hair--"
"Don't touch it! It is beautiful as it is. I wish girls would
always wear their hair in braids like that."
She yawned, stretched her legs out to the fire, and then suddenly
realizing that her ankles were bare, drew them back again to the
shelter of her petticoat with a quick, shy glance to see if he
had observed.
"I wish I could cut it off,--like a boy's. It is miles too
long. You might as well head Zachariah off. She has been gone
since one o'clock. I am sure I heard the front door close before
I dropped off to sleep. Don't fidget, Kenny. They've probably
got old Martin in the calaboose by this time. Mother never fails
when she sets out to do a thing. That good-for-nothing sleepy-head,
Hattie, never heard a sound last night. What a conscience she
must have!"
He frowned at his big silver watch. "It's after five. See
here, Viola, suppose you just curl up on the sofa there and get
some sleep. You look tired. I'll put a quilt over you and--"
She half-started up from the chair, flushing in embarrassment.
"Oh, I ought not to stay here, Kenny. Suppose somebody were
to come along and catch me here in your--"
"Shucks! You're my sister, aren't you?"
"I suppose it's all right," she said dubiously, sinking
back into the chair again. "But somehow, Kenny, I don't believe
I will ever be able to think of you as a brother; not if I live
a thousand years. I'm sorry to hurt your feelings, but--well,
I just can't help being a little bit afraid of you. I suppose
it's silly of me, but I'm so ashamed to have you see me with my
hair down like this, and no stockings on, and only half-dressed.
I--I feel hot all over. I didn't think of it at first, I was so
worried, but now I--"
"It is very silly of you," he said, rather thickly.
"You did right in coming over, and I'm going to make you
comfortable now that you are here. Lie down here and get some
sleep, like a good little girl, and when you wake up Zachariah
will have a nice hot breakfast for you."
"I'd rather not lie down," she stammered. "Let
me just sit here awhile,--and don't bother about breakfast for
me. Hattie will--"
"But he has to get breakfast anyhow," he argued.
She looked at him suspiciously. "Haven't you had your breakfast?"
"No," he lied. Then he hurried off to give guilty instructions
to Zachariah.
"Fo' de lan's sake," the latter blurted out as he listened
to his master's orders; "is yo' all gwine to eat another
breakfast?"
"Yes, I am," snapped Kenneth. "I'll take care of
Brandy Boy. You go in and clear the table,--and see to it that
you don't make any noise. If you do, I'll skin you alive."
An hour later, Kenneth arose from his seat on the front doorstep
and stole over to the sitting-room window.
She was asleep in the big rocking-chair, her head twisted limply
toward her left shoulder, presenting a three-quarters view of
her face to him as he gazed long and ardently upon her. He could
see the deep rise and fall of her bosom. The shawl, unclasped
at the throat, had fallen away, revealing the white flannel nightgown
over which she had hastily drawn a petticoat before sallying forth.
He went to the kitchen door and found Zachariah sitting grumpily
on the step.
"She's still sound asleep," he announced.
"So's dat lazy Hattie over yander," lamented Zachariah,
with a jerk of his head. "Ain' no smoke comin' out'n her
chimbley, lemme tell yo'."
"Fill that wash-pan and get me a clean towel," ordered
his master. He looked at his watch. "I'm going to awaken
her,--in half an hour."
It was nearly seven o'clock when he stamped noisily into the sitting-room
with towel and basin. He had thrice repeated his visit to the
window, and with each succeeding visit had remained a little longer
than before, notwithstanding the no uncertain sense of guilt that
accused him of spying upon the lovely sleeper.
She awoke with a start, looked blankly about as if bewildered
by her strange surroundings, and then fixed her wide, questioning
eyes upon him, watching him in silence as he placed the basin
of spring-water on a chair and draped the coarse towel over the
back.
"Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes, Miss," he announced,
bowing deeply. "If you desire to freshen yourself a bit after
your profound slumbers, you will find here some of the finest
water in the universe and a towel warranted to produce a blush
upon the cheek of a graven image."
"Has mother come home?" she inquired anxiously, as she
drew the shawl close about her throat again. "No sign of
her. Hurry along, and as soon as we've had a bite to eat I'll
ride down to the Court House and see if she's there."
He left her, and presently she came out into the kitchen, her
skin glowing warmly, her braids loosely coiled on the crown of
her head, her eyes like violet stars.
Zachariah marvelled at his master's appetite. Recollection of
an already devoured meal of no small proportions caused him to
doubt his senses. From time to time he shook his head in wonder
and finally took to chuckling. The next time Marse Kenneth complained
about having no appetite he would know what to say to him.
"I must run home now," said Viola at the close of the
meal. "It's been awfully nice,--and so exciting, Kenny. I
feel as if I had been doing something I ought not to do. Isn't
it queer? Having breakfast with a man I never saw until six weeks
ago!"
"It does my heart good to see you blush so prettily,"
said he warmly. Then his face darkened. "And it turns my
blood cold to think that if you had succeeded in doing something
you ought not to have done six weeks ago, you might now be having
breakfast with somebody else instead of with me."
"I wish you would not speak of that, Kenneth," she said
severely. "You will make me hate you if you bring it up again."
Then she added with a plaintive little smile: "The Bible
says, 'Love thy neighbour as thyself.' I am doing my best to live
up to that, but sometimes you make it awfully hard for me."
He went to the door with her. She paused for a moment on the step
to look searchingly up the road and through the trees. There was
no sign of her mother. The anxious, worried expression deepened
in her eyes.
"Don't come any farther with me," she said. "Go
down to the Court House as fast as you can."
He watched her till she passed through the gate. As he was on
the point of re-entering the house he saw her come to an abrupt
stop and stare straight ahead. He shot a swift, apprehensive glance
over his shoulder.
Barry Lapelle had just emerged from Rachel's yard, his gaze fixed
on the girl who stood motionless in front of Gwynne's gate, a
hundred feet away. Without taking his eyes from her, he slowly
closed the gate and leaned against it, folding his arms as he
did so.
Viola, after a moment's indecision and without a glance at Kenneth,
lifted her chin and went forward to the encounter. Kenneth looked
in all directions for Lapelle's rascals. He was relieved to find
that the discarded suitor apparently had ventured alone upon this
early morning mission. What did it portend?
Filled with sharp misgivings, he left his doorstep and walked
slowly down to the gate, where he halted. It occurred to him that
Barry, after a sleepless night, had come to make peace with his
tempestuous sweetheart. If such was the case, his own sense of
fairness and dignity would permit no interference on his part
unless it was solicited by the girl herself. He was ready, however,
to take instant action if she made the slightest sign of distress
or alarm. While he had no intention of spying or eavesdropping,
their voices reached him distinctly and he could not help hearing
what passed between them.
"Have you been up to the house, Barry?" were Viola's
first words as she stopped in front of the man who barred the
way.
Lapelle did not change his position. His chin was lowered and
he was looking at her through narrowed, unsmiling eyes.
"Yes, I have."
"Where was the dog?" she inquired cuttingly.
"He came and licked my hand. He's the only friend I've got
up here, I reckon."
"I will have him shot to-day. What do you want?"
"I came to see your mother. Where is she?"
"She's away."
"Over night?"
"It will do you no good to see her, Barry. You might as well
realize it first as last."
Lapelle glanced past her at the man beyond and lowered his voice.
Kenneth could not hear what he said. "Well, I'm going to
see her, and she will be down on her knees before I'm through
with her, let me tell you. Oh, I'm sober, Viola! I had my lesson
yesterday. I'm through with whiskey forever. So she was away all
night, eh? Out to the farm, eh? That nigger girl of yours says
she must have gone out to the farm last night, because her bed
wasn't slept in. And you weren't expecting visitors as early as
this or you would have got home a little sooner yourself, huh?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Soon as she is out of the house you scoot over to big brother
Kenny's, eh? Afraid to sleep alone, I suppose. Well, all I've
got to say is you ought to have taken a little more time to dress."
"Oh! Oh,--you--you low-lived dog!" she gasped, going
white to the roots of her hair. "How dare you say--"
"That's right! Call me all the pretty names you can think
of. And say, I didn't come up here to beg anything from you or
your mother. I'm not in a begging humour. I'm through licking
your boots, Viola. What time will the old woman be back?"
"Stand away from that gate!" she said in a voice low
and hoarse with fury. "Don't you dare speak to me again.
And if you follow me to the house I'll--I'll--"
"What'll you do?" he jeered. "Call brother Kenny?
Well, go ahead and call him. There he is. I'll kick him from here
to the pond,--and that won't be half so pleasant as rocking little
sister to sleep in her cradle while mamma is out for the night."
"And I used to think I was in love with you!" she cried
in sheer disgust. "I could spit in your face, Barry Lapelle.
Will you let me pass?"
"Certainly. But I'm going into the house with you, understand
that. I'd just as soon wait there for your mother as anywhere
else."
"When my mother hears about this she will have you horsewhipped
within an inch of your life," cried the girl furiously.
These words, rising on a wave of anger, came distinctly to Kenneth's
ears. He left his place at the gate and walked swiftly along inside
his fence until he came to the corner of the yard, where the bushes
grew thickly. Here he stopped to await further developments. He
heard Barry say, with a harsh laugh:
"Oh, she will, will she?"
"Yes, she will. She knows more about you than you think she
does,--and so do I. Let me by! Do you hear me, Bar--"
"That's funny," he interrupted, lowering his voice to
a half-whisper. "That's just what I came up to see her about.
I want to tell her that I know more about her than she thinks
I do. And when I get through telling her what I know she'll change
her mind about letting us get married. And you'll marry me, too,
my girl, without so much as a whimper. Oh, you needn't look around
for big brother,--God, I bet you'd be happy if he wasn't your
brother, wouldn't you? Well, he has sneaked into the house, just
as I knew he would if it looked like a squall. He's a white-livered
coward. How do you like that?"
He was not only astonished but distinctly confounded by the swift,
incomprehensible smile that played about her disdainful lips.
"What the hellfire are you laughing at?" he exploded.
"Nothing much. I was only thinking about last night."
"Christ!" he exclaimed, the blood rushing to his face.
"Why,--why, you--" The words failed him. He could only
stare at her as if stunned by the most shocking confession.
"Please remember that you are speaking to--"
He broke in with a snarling laugh. "By thunder, I'm beginning
to believe you're no better than she was. She wasn't anything
but a common------, and I'm blessed if I think it's sensible to
marry into the family, after all."
"Oh!" she gasped, closing her eyes as she shrank away
from him. The word he had used stood for the foulest thing on
earth to her. It had never passed her clean, pure lips. For the
moment she was petrified, speechless.
"It's about time you learned the truth about that damned
old hypocrite,--if you don't know it already," he continued,
raising his voice at the urge of the now reckless fury that consumed
him. He stood over her shrinking figure, glaring mercilessly down
into her horror-struck eyes. "You don't need to take my word
for it. Ask Gwynne. He knows. He knows what happened back there
in Kentucky. He knows she ran off with his father twenty years
ago, taking him away from the woman he was married to. That's
why he hates her. That's why he never had anything to do with
his dog of a father. And, by God, he probably knows you were born
out of wedlock,--that you're a love-child, a bas--"
CHAPTER XX
THE BLOW
He never finished the word. A whirlwind was upon him. Before he
could raise a hand to defend himself, Kenneth Gwynne's brawny
fist smote him squarely between the eyes. He went down as though
struck by a sledge-hammer, crashing to the ground full six feet
from where he stood. Behind that clumsy blow was the weight of
a thirteen stone body, hurled as from a mighty catapult.
He never knew how long afterward it was that he heard a voice
speaking to him. The words, jumbled and unintelligible, seemed
to come from a great distance. He attempted to rise, gave it up,
and fell back dizzily. His vision was slow in clearing. What he
finally saw, through blurred, uncertain eyes, was the face of
Kenneth Gwynne, far above him,--and it was a long time before
it stopped whirling and became fixed in one place. Then he realized
that it was the voice of Gwynne that was speaking to him, and
he made out the words. Something warm and wet crept along the
sides of his mouth, over his chin, down his neck. His throat was
full of a hot nauseous fluid. He raised himself on one elbow and
spat.
"Get up! Get up, you filthy whelp! I'm not going to hit you
again. Get up, I say!"
He struggled to his knees and then to his feet, sagging limply
against the fence, to which he clung for support. He felt for
his nose, filled with a horrid, sickening dread that it was no
longer on his face.
"I ought to kill you," he heard Gwynne saying. "You
black-hearted, lying scoundrel. Get out of my sight!"
He succeeded in straightening up and looked about him through
a mist of tears. He tried to speak, but could only wheeze and
sputter. He cleared his throat raucously and spat again.
"Where--where is she?" he managed to say at last.
"Shut up! You've dealt her the foulest--"
He broke off abruptly, struck by the other's expression: Lapelle
was staring past him in the direction of the house and there was
the look of a frightened, trapped animal in his glassy eyes.
"My God!" fell from his lips, and then suddenly he sprang
forward, placing Kenneth's body between him and the object of
his terror. "Stop her! For God's sake, Gwynne,--stop her!"
For the first time since Barry went crashing to earth and lay
as one dead, Gwynne raised his eyes from the blood-smeared face.
Vaguely he remembered the swift rush of Viola's feet as she sped
past him,--but that was long ago and he had not looked to see
whither she fled.
She was now coming down the steps of the porch, a half-raised
rifle in her hands. He was never to forget her white, set face,
nor the menacing look in her eyes as she advanced to the killing
of Barry Lapelle,--for there was no mistaking her purpose.
"Drop down!" he shouted to Lapelle. As Barry sank cowering
behind him, he cried out sharply to the girl: "Viola! Drop
that gun! Do you hear me? Good God, have you lost your senses?"
She came on slowly, her head a little to one side the better to
see the partially obscured figure of the crouching man.
"It won't do you any good to hide, Barry," she said,
in a voice that neither of the men recognized.
"Don't be a fool, Viola!" cried Kenneth. "Leave
him to me. Go back to the house. I will attend to him."
She stopped and lifted her eyes to stare at the speaker in sheer
wonder and astonishment.
"Why,--you heard what he said. You heard what he called my
mother. Stand away from him, Kenneth."
"I can't allow you to shoot him, Viola. You will have to
shoot me first. My God, child,--do you want to have a man's life-blood
on your hands?"
"He said she ran away with your father," she cried,
a spasm of pain crossing her face. "He said I was born before
they were married. I have a right to kill him. Do you hear? I
have a right to--"
"Don't you know it would be murder? Cold-blooded murder?
No! You will have to kill me first. Do you understand? I shall
not move an inch. I am not going to let you do something you will
regret to the end of your life. Put it down! Drop that gun, I
say! If there is to be any killing, I will do it,--not you!"
She closed her eyes. Her tense body relaxed. The two men, watching
her with bated breath and vastly different emotions, could almost
visualize the struggle that was going on within her. At last the
long rifle barrel was lowered; as the muzzle touched the ground
she opened her eyes. Slowly they went from Kenneth to the man
who crouched behind him. She gazed at the bloody face as if seeing
it for the first time.
The woman in her revolted at the spectacle. After a moment of
indecision, she turned with a shudder and walked toward the house,
dragging the rifle by the stock. As she was about to mount the
steps she paused to send a swift glance over her shoulder and
then, obeying the appeal in Kenneth's eyes, reluctantly, even
carefully, leaned the gun against a post and disappeared through
the door.
"Stand up!" ordered Gwynne, turning to Lapelle. "I
ought to kill you myself. It's in my heart to do so. Do you know
what you've done to her?"
Barry drew himself up, his fast swelling, bloodshot eyes filled
with a deadly hatred. His voice was thick and unsteady.
"You'd better kill me while you have the chance," he
said. "Because, so help me God, I'm going to kill you for
this."
"Go!" thundered the other, his hands twitching. "If
you don't, I'll strangle the life out of you."
Lapelle drew back, quailing before the look in Kenneth's eyes.
He saw murder in them.
"You didn't give me a chance, damn you," he snarled.
"You hit me before I had a chance to--"
"I wish to God I had hit you sooner,--and that I had killed
you," grated Kenneth.
"You will wish that with all your soul before I am through
with you," snarled Barry. "Oh, I'm not afraid of you!
I know the whole beastly story about your father and that--"
"Stop!" cried Kenneth, taking a step forward, his arm
drawn back. "Not another word, Lapelle! You've said enough!
I know where you got your information,--and I can tell you, here
and now, that the man lied to you. I'm going to give you twenty-four
hours to get out of this town for good. And if I hear that you
have repeated a word of what you said to her I'll see to it that
you are strung up by the neck and your miserable carcass filled
with bullets. Oh, you needn't sputter! It will be your word against
mine. I guess you know which of us the men of this town will believe.
And you needn't expect to be supported by your friend Jasper Suggs
or the gentle Mr. Hawk,--Aha, THAT got under your pelt, didn't
it? If either of them is still alive at this minute, it's because
he surrendered without a fight and not because God took care of
him. Your beautiful game is spoiled, Lapelle,--and you'll be lucky
to get off with a whole skin. I'm giving you a chance. Get out
of this town,--and stay out!"
Barry, recovering quickly from the shock, made a fair show of
bravado.
"What are you talking about? What the devil have I got to
do with--"
"That's enough! You know what I'm talking about. Take my
advice. Get out of town before you are a day older. You will save
yourself a ride on a rail and a rawhiding that you'll not forget
to your dying day."
"I will leave this town when I feel like it, Gwynne,"
said Lapelle, drawing himself up. "I don't take orders from
you. You will hear from me later. You've got the upper hand now,--with
that nigger of yours standing over there holding an axe in his
hands, ready to kill me if I make a move. We'll settle this in
the regular way, Gwynne,--with pistols. You may expect a friend
of mine to call on you shortly."
"As you like," retorted the other, bowing stiffly. "You
may name the time and place."
Lapelle bowed and then cast an eye about in quest of his hat.
It was lying in the road some distance away. He strode over and
picked it up. Quite naturally, perhaps unconsciously, he resorted
to the habit of years: he cocked it slightly at just the right
angle over his eye. Then, without a glance behind, he crossed
the road and plunged into the thicket.
Kenneth watched him till he disappeared from view. Suddenly aware
of a pain in his hand, he held it out before him and was astonished
to find that the knuckles were already beginning to puff. He winced
when he tried to clench his fist. A rueful smile twitched at the
corners of his mouth.
"Mighty slim chance I'll have," he said to himself.
"Won't be able to pull a trigger to save my life."
He hurried up the path and, without knocking, opened the door
and entered the house. Hattie was coming down the stairs, her
eyes as round as saucers.
"Where is Miss Viola?"
"She done gone up stairs, suh. Lan' sakes, Mistah Gwynne,
what fo' yo' do dat to Mistah Barry? He her beau. Didn't yo'all
know dat? Ah close mah eyes when she tooken dat gun out dar. Sez
Ah, she gwine to shoot Mistah Gwynne--"
"Tell her I'm here, Hattie. I must see her at once. It's
all right. She isn't angry with me."
The girl hesitated. "She look mighty white an' sick, suh.
She never say a word. Jes' go right up stairs, she did. Ah follers,
'ca'se Ah was skeert about de way she look. She shutten de do'
an' drop de bolt,--yas, suh, dat's what she do. Lordy, Ah wonder
why her ma don't come home an' look after--"
"See here," he broke in, "don't disturb her now.
I will come back in a little while. If she wants me for anything
you will find me out at the gate. Do you understand? Don't fail
to call me. I am going out there to wait for her mother."
It suddenly had occurred to him that he ought to intercept Rachel
Carter before she reached the house, not only to prepare her for
the shock that awaited her but to devise between them some means
of undoing the harm that already had been done. They would have
to stand together in denouncing Barry, they would have to swear
to Viola that the story was false. He realized what this would
mean to him: an almost profane espousal of his enemy's cause,
involving not only the betrayal of his own conscience, but the
deliberate repudiation of the debt he owed his mother and her
people. He would have to go before Viola and proclaim the innocence
of the woman who had robbed and murdered his own mother. The unthinkable,
the unbelievable confronted him.
A cold sweat broke out all over him as he stood down by the gate,
torn between hatred for one woman and love for another: Rachel
and Minda Carter. He could not spare one without sparing the other;
lying to one of them meant lying for the other. But there was
no alternative. The memory of the look in Viola's eyes as she
shrank away from Lapelle, the thought of the cruel shock she must
have suffered, the picture of her as she came down the path to
kill--no, there could be no alternative!
And so, as he leaned rigidly against the gate, sick at heart but
clear of head, waiting for Rachel Carter, he came to think that,
after all, a duel with Barry Lapelle might prove to be the easiest
and noblest way out of his difficulties.
CHAPTER XXI
THE AFFAIR AT HAWK'S CABIN
It wanted half an hour of daybreak when a slow-riding, silent
group of men came to a halt and dismounted in the narrow lane
some distance from the ramshackle abode of Martin Hawk, squatting
unseen among the trees that lined the steep bank of the Wabash.
A three hours' ride through dark, muddy roads lay behind them.
There were a dozen men in all,--and one woman, at whose side rode
the hunter, Stain. They had stopped at the latter's cabin on the
way down, and she had conversed apart with him through a window.
Then they rode off, leaving him to follow.
There were no lights, and no man spoke above a whisper. The work
of tethering the horses progressed swiftly but with infinite caution.
Eyes made sharp by long hours of darkness served their owners
well in this stealthy enterprise.
The half-hour passed and the night began to lift. Vague unusual
objects slowly took shape, like gloomy spectres emerging from
impenetrable fastnesses. Blackness gave way to a faint drab pall;
then the cold, unearthly grey of the still remote dawn came stealing
across the fields.
At last it was light enough to see, and the advance upon the cabin
began. Silently through the dense, shadowy wood crept the sheriff
and his men,--followed by the tall woman in black and a lank,
bearded man whose rifle-stock bore seven tiny but significant
notches,--sinister epitaphs for as many by-gone men.
A dog barked,--the first alarm. Then another, and still a third
joined in a fierce outcry against the invaders. Suddenly the door
of the hut was thrown open and a half-dressed man stooped in the
low aperture, peering out across the dawn-shrouded clearing. The
three coon-dogs, slinking out of the shadows, crowded up to the
door, their snarling muzzles pointed toward the encircling trees.
Two men stepped out of the underbrush and advanced. Even in the
dim, uncertain light, Martin Hawk could see that they carried
rifles. His eyes were like those of the bird whose name he bore.
They swept the clearing in a flash. As if by magic, men appeared
to right of him, to left of him, in front of him. He counted them.
Seven,--no, there was another,--eight. And he knew there were
more of them, back of the house, cutting off retreat to the river.
"Don't move, Martin," called out a voice.
"What do you want?" demanded Hawk, in a sharp, querulous
voice.
"I am the sheriff. Got a warrant for your arrest. No use
makin' a fight for it, Hawk. You are completely surrounded. You
can't get away."
"I ain't done nothin' to be arrested fer," cried the
man in the doorway. "I'm an honest man,--I hain't ever done--"
"Well, that's not for me to decide," interrupted the
sheriff, now not more than a dozen feet away. "I've got a
warrant charging you with sheep-stealing and so on, and that's
all there is to it. I'm not the judge and jury. You come along
quiet now and no foolishness."
"Who says I stole sheep?"
"Step outside here and I'll read the affidavit to you. And
say, if you don't want your dogs massacreed, you'd better call
'em off."
Martin Hawk looked over his shoulder into the dark interior of
the hut, spoke to some one under his breath, and then began cursing
his dogs.
"I might have knowed you'd git me into trouble, you lop-eared,
sheep-killin' whelps!" he whined. "I'd ought to shot
the hull pack of ye when you was pups. Git out'n my sight! There's
yer sheep-stealers, sheriff,--them ornery, white-livered, blood-suckin'--"
"I don't know anything about that, Martin," snapped
the sheriff. "All I know is, you got to come along with me,--peaceable
or otherwise,--and I guess if you're half as smart as I think
you are, you won't come otherwise. Here! Don't go back in that
house, Hawk."
"Well, I got to tell my daughter--"
"We'll tell her. There's another man or two in there. Just
tell 'em to step outside,--and leave their weapons behind 'em."
"There ain't a livin' soul in thar, 'cept my daughter,--so
he'p me God, sheriff," cried Hawk, his teeth beginning to
chatter. The sheriff was close enough to see the look of terror
and desperation in his eyes.
"No use lyin', Hawk. You've got a man named Suggs stayin'
with you. He ain't accused of anything, so he needn't be afraid
to come out. Same applies to your daughter Moll. But I don't want
anybody in there to take a shot at us the minute we turn our backs.
Shake 'em out, Hawk."
"I tell ye there ain't nobody here but me an' Moll,--an'
she's sick. She can't come out. An'--an' you can't go in,--not
unless you got a warrant to search my house. That's what the law
sez,--an' you know it. I'll go along with you peaceable,--an'
stand my trial fer sheep-stealin' like a man. Lemme get my hat
an' coat, an' I'll come--"
"I guess there's something queer about all this," interrupted
the sheriff. The man beside him had just whispered something in
his ear. "We'll take a look inside that cabin, law or no
law, Hawk. Move up, boys!" he called out to the scattered
men. "Keep your eyes skinned. If you ketch sight of a rifle
ball comin' to'ards you,--dodge. And you, Martin, step outside
here, where you won't be in the way. I'm going in there."
Martin Hawk looked wildly about him. On all sides were men with
rifles. There was no escape. His craven heart failed him, his
knees gave way beneath him and an instant later he was grovelling
in the mud at the sheriff's feet.
"I didn't do it! I didn't do it! I swear to God I didn't.
It was her. She done it,--Moll done it!" he squealed in abject
terror.
He was grabbed by strong hands and jerked to his feet. While others
held him, the sheriff and several of the men rushed into the cabin.
Off at the edge of the clearing stood Rachel Carter and Isaac
Stain, watching the scene at the door.
"One look will be enough," the woman had said tersely.
"Twenty years will not have changed Simon Braley much. I
will know him at sight."
"You got to be sure, Mrs. Gwyn," muttered the hunter.
"Ef you got the slightest doubt, say so."
"I will, Isaac."
"And ef you say it's him, fer sure an' no mistake, I'll foller
him to the end of the world but what I git him."
"If it is Simon Braley he will make a break for cover. He
is not like that whimpering coward over yonder. And the sheriff
will make no attempt to bring him down. There is no complaint
against him. No one knows that he is Simon Braley."
"Well, I'll be on his heels," was the grim promise of
Isaac Stain, thinking of the sister who had been slain by Braley's
Indians down on the River White.
One of the men rushed out of the cabin. He was vastly excited.
"Don't let go of him," he shouted to the men who were
holding Martin. "There's hell to pay in there. Where is Mrs.
Gwyn?"
"I never done it!" wailed Martin, livid with terror.
"I swear to God--"
"Shut up!"
"She's over there, Sam,--with Ike Stain."
Ignoring the question that followed him, the man called Sam hurried
up to the couple at the edge of the bush.
"Better clear out, Mrs. Gwyn," he said soberly. "I
mean, don't stay around. Something in there you oughtn't to see."
"What is it?" she inquired sharply.
"Well, you see,--there's a dead man in there,--knifed. Blood
all over everything and--"
"The man called Suggs?"
"I reckon so. Leastwise it must be him. 'Pears to be a stranger
to all of us. Deader'n a door nail. He's--"
"I am not chicken-hearted, Mr. Corbin," she announced.
"I have seen a good many dead men in my time. The sight of
blood does not affect me. I will go in and see him. No! Please
do not stay me."
Despite his protestations, she strode resolutely across the lot.
As she passed Martin Hawk that cowering rascal stared at her,
first without comprehension, then with a suddenly awakened, acute
understanding.
It was she who had brought the authorities down upon him. She
had made "affidavy" against him,--she had got him into
this horrible mess by swearing that he stole her sheep and calves.
True, he had stolen from her,--there was, no doubt about that,--but
he had covered his tracks perfectly. Any one of a half-dozen men
along the river might have stolen her stock,--they were stealing
right and left. How then did she come to fix upon him as the one
to accuse? In a flash he leaped to a startling conclusion. Barry
Lapelle! The man who knew all about his thievish transactions
and who for months had profited by them. Hides, wool, fresh meats
from the secret lairs and slaughter pens back in the trackless
wilds, all these had gone down the river on Barry's boats, products
of a far-reaching system of outlawry, with Barry and his captains
sharing in the proceeds.
Now he understood. Lapelle had gone back on him, had betrayed
him to his future mother-in-law. The fine gentleman had no further
use for him; Mrs. Gwyn had given her consent to the marriage and
in return for that he had betrayed a loyal friend! And now look
at the position he was in, all through Barry Lapelle. Sheep stealing
was nothing to what he might have to face. Even though Moll had
done the killing, he would have a devil of a time convincing a
jury of the fact. More than likely, Moll would up and deny that
she had anything to do with it,--and then what? It would be like
the ornery slut to lie out of it and let 'em hang her own father,
just to pay him back for the lickings he had given her.
All this raced through the fast-steadying brain of Martin Hawk
as he watched his accuser pass him by without a look and stop
irresolutely on his threshold to stare aghast at what lay beyond.
It became a conviction, rather than a conjecture. Barry had set
the dogs upon him! Snake! Well,--just let him get loose from these
plagued hounds for half an hour or so and, by glory, they'd have
something to hang him for or his name wasn't Martin Hawk.
Isaac Stain did not move from the spot where she had left him,
over at the edge of the clearing. His rifle was ready, his keen
eyes alert. Rachel Carter entered the hut. Many minutes passed.
Then she came to the door and beckoned to him.
"It is Simon Braley," she said quietly. "He is
dead. The girl killed him, Isaac. Will you ride over to my farm
and have Allen come over here with a wagon? They're going to take
the body up to town,--and the girl, too."
Stain stood his rifle against the wall of the hut. "I guess
I won't need this," was all he said as he turned and strode
away.
The man called Jasper Suggs lay in front of the tumble-down fireplace,
his long body twisted grotesquely by the final spasm of pain that
carried him off. The lower part of his body was covered by a filthy
strip of rag carpet which some one had hastily thrown over him
as Rachel Carter was on the point of entering the house. His coarse
linsey shirt was soaked with blood, now dry and almost black.
The harsh light from the open door struck full upon his bearded
face and its staring eyes.
In a corner, at the foot of a straw pallet, ordinarily screened
from the rest of the cabin by a couple of suspended quilts, stood
Moll Hawk, leaning against the wall, her dark sullen eyes following
the men as they moved about the room. The quilts, ruthlessly torn
from their fastenings on the pole, lay scattered and trampled
on the floor, sinister evidence of the struggle that had taken
place between woman and beast. At the other end of the room were
two similar pallets, unscreened, and beside one of these lay Jasper
Suggs' rawhide boots.
From her place in the shadows Moll Hawk watched the other woman
stoop over and gaze intently at the face of the slain man. She
was a tall, well-developed girl of twenty or thereabouts. Her
long, straight hair, the colour of the raven's wing, swung loose
about her shoulders, an occasional strand trailing across her
face, giving her a singularly witchlike appearance. Her body from
the waist up was stripped almost bare; there were several long
streaks of blood across her breast, where the fingers of a gory
hand had slid in relaxing their grip on her shoulder. With one
hand she clutched what was left of a tattered garment, vainly
seeking to hide her naked breasts. The stout, coarse dress had
been almost torn from her body.
Mrs. Gwyn left the hut but soon returned. After a few earnest
words with the sheriff, she came slowly over to the girl. Moll
shrank back against the wall, a strange glitter leaping into her
sullen, lifeless eyes.
"I don't want nobody prayin' over me," she said huskily.
"I jest want to be let alone."
"I am not going to pray over you, my girl. I want you to
come out in the back yard with me, where I can wash the blood
off of you and put something around you."
"What's the use'n that? They're goin' to take me to jail,
ain't they?"
"Have you another frock to put on, Moll?"
The girl looked down at her torn, disordered dress, a sneering
smile on her lips.
"This is all I got,--an' now look at it. I ain't had a new
dress in God knows how long. Pap ain't much on dressin' me up.
Mr. Lapelle he promised me a new dress but--say, who air you?"
"I am Mrs. Gwyn, Moll."
"I might ha' knowed it. You're her ma, huh? Well, I guess
you'd better go on away an' let me alone. I ain't axin' no favours
off'n--" "I am not trying to do you a favour. I am only
trying to make you a little more presentable. You are going up
to town, Moll."
"Yes,--I guess that's so. Can't they hang me here an' have
it over?" A look of terror gleamed in her eyes, but there
was no flinching of the body, no tremor in her voice.
The sheriff came over. "Better let Mrs. Gwyn fix you up a
little, Moll. She's a good, kind lady and she'll--"
"I don't want to go to town," whimpered the girl, covering
her face with her hands. "I don't want to be hung. I jest
had to do it,--I jest had to. There wuz no other way,--'cept to--'cept
to--an' I jest couldn't do that. Now I wish I had,--oh, Lordy,
how I wish I had! That wuz bad enough, but hangin's wuss. He wuz
goin' away in a day or two, anyhow, so--"
"You're not going to be hung, Moll," broke in the sheriff.
"Don't you worry about that. We don't hang women for killing
men like that feller over there. Like as not you'll be set free
in no time at all. All you've got to do is to tell the truth about
how it happened and that'll be all there is to it."
"You're lyin' to me, jest to git me to go along quiet,"
she quavered, but there was a new light in her eyes.
"I'm not lying. You will have to stand trial, of course,--you
understand that, don't you?--but there isn't a jury on earth that
would hang you. We don't do that kind of thing to women. Now you
go along with Mrs. Gwyn and do what she says,--and you can tell
me all about this after a while."
"I'll wash, but I hain't got no more clothes," muttered
the girl.
"We will manage somehow," said Mrs. Gwyn. "One
of the men will give you a coat,--or you may have my cape to wear,
Moll."
Moll looked at her in surprise. Again she said the unexpected
thing. "Why, ever'body says you air a mighty onfeelin' woman,
Mis' Gwyn. I can't believe you'd let me take your cape."
"You will see, my girl. Come! Show me where to find water
and a comb and--"
"Wait a minute," said Moll abruptly. "Somehow I
ain't as skeert as I wuz. You're shore they won't hang me? 'Ca'se
I'd hate to be hung,--I'd hate to die that-away, Mister."
"They won't hang you, Moll,--take my word for it."
"Well, then," said she, bringing forward the hand she
had been holding behind her back all the time; "here's the
knife I done it with. It's his'n. He was braggin' last night about
how many gullets he had slit with it,--I mean men's gullets. I
wuz jest sort o' hangin' onto it in case I--but I don't believe
I ever could a' done it. 'Tain't 'ca'se I'm afeared to die but
they say a person that takes his own life is shore to go to hell--'ca'se
he don't git no chance fer to repent. Take it, Mister."
She handed the big sheath-knife to the sheriff. Then she followed
Rachel Carter out of the hut, apparently unconscious of the curious
eyes that followed her. She passed close by the corpse. She looked
down at the ghastly face and twisted body without the slightest
trace of emotion,--neither dread nor repugnance nor interest beyond
a curious narrowing of the eyes as of one searching for some sign
of trickery on the part of a wily adversary. On the way out she
stopped to pick up a wretched, almost toothless comb and some
dishrags.
"I guess we better go down to the river," she said as
they stepped out into the open. "'Tain't very fer, Mrs. Gwyn,--an'
the water's cleaner. Hain't no danger of me tryin' to git away,"
she went on, with a feeble grin as her eyes swept the little clearing,
revealing armed men in all directions. Her gaze rested for a moment
on Martin Hawk, who was staring at her from his seat on a stump
hard by.
"There's my pap over yonder," she said, with a scowl.
"He's the one that ort to be strung up fer all this. He didn't
do it,--but he's to blame, just the same. They ain't got him 'rested
fer doin' it, have they? 'Ca'se he didn't. He'll tell you he's
as innocent as a unborn child,--he allus does,--an' he is as fer
as the killin' goes. But ef he'd done what wuz right hit never
would 'a' happened. Thet's whut I got ag'inst him."
Rachel Carter was looking at the strange creature with an interest
not far removed from pity. Despite the sullen, hang-dog expression
she was a rather handsome girl; wild, untutored, almost untamed
she was, and yet not without a certain diffidence that bespoke
better qualities than appeared on the surface. She was tall and
strongly built, with the long, swinging stride of the unhampered
woods-woman. Her young shoulders and back were bent with the toil
and drudgery of the life she led. Her eyes, in which lurked a
never-absent gleam of pain, were dark, smouldering, deep set and
so restless that one could not think of them as ever being closed
in sleep.
The girl led the way down a narrow path to a little sand-bar.
"I go in swimmin' here every day, 'cept when it's froze over,"
she volunteered dully. "Hain't you skeert at the sight o'
blood, ma'am? Some people air. We wuz figgerin' on whuther we'd
dig a grave fer him or jest pull out yonder into the current an'
drop him over. Pap said we had to git rid of him 'fore anybody
come around. 'Nen the dogs begin to bark an' he thought mebby
it wuz Mr. Lapelle, so he--say, you mustn't get Mr. Lapelle mixed
up in this. He--"
"I know all about Mr. Lapelle, Moll," interrupted the
older woman.
The girl gave her a sharp, almost hostile look. "Then you
hain't goin' to let him have your girl, air you?"
Mrs. Gwyn shook her head. "No, Moll,--I am not," she
said. "You set here on this log," ordered the girl as
they came down to the water's edge. "I'll do my own washin'.
I'm kind o' 'shamed to have any one see me as naked as this. There
ain't much left of my dress, is they? We fit fer I don't know
how long, like a couple o' dogs. You c'n see the black an' blue
places on my arms out here in the daylight,-an' I guess his finger
marks must be on my neck, where he wuz chokin' me. I wuz tryin'
to wrassle around till I could git nigh to the table, where his
knife wuz stickin'. My eyes wuz poppin' right out'n my head when
I--"
"For heaven's sake, girl!" cried Rachel Carter. "Don't!
Don't tell me any more! I can't bear to hear you talk about it."
Moll stared at her for a moment as if bewildered, and then suddenly
turned away, her chin quivering with mortification. She had been
reprimanded!
For several minutes Rachel stood in silence, watching her as she
washed the blood from her naked breast and shoulders. Presently
the girl turned toward her, as if for inspection.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, if I talked too much," she mumbled
awkwardly. "I'd ort to have knowed better. Is--is it all
off?"
"I think so," said Rachel, pulling herself together
with an effort. "Let me--"
"No, I'll finish it," said the girl stubbornly. She
dried her brown, muscular arms, rubbed her body vigorously with
one of the rags and then began to comb out her long, tangled hair,--not
gently but with a sort of relentless energy. Swiftly, deftly she
plaited it into two long braids, which she left hanging down in
front of her shoulders, squaw fashion.
"How long had you known this man Suggs, Moll?" suddenly
inquired the other woman.
"Off an' on ever sence I kin remember," replied the
girl. "Pap knowed him down south. We hain't seed much of
him fer quite a spell. Four--five year, I guess mebby. He come
here last week one day."
The eyes of the two women met. Moll broke the short silence that
ensued. She glanced over her shoulder. The nearest man was well
out of earshot. Still she lowered her voice.
"He claims he use ter know you a long time ago," she
said.
"Yes?"
"Mebby you'd recollect him ef I tole you his right name."
"His name was Simon Braley," said Rachel Carter calmly.
Moll's eyes narrowed. "Then what he sez wuz true?"
"I don't know what he said to you, Moll."
"He sez you run off with some other woman's husband,"
replied Moll bluntly.
"Did he tell this to any one except you and your father?"
"He didn't tell no one but me, fer as I know. He didn't tell
Pap."
"When did he tell you?"
"Las' night," said Moll, suddenly dropping her eyes.
"He wuz drinkin',--an' I thought mebby he wuz lyin'."
"You are sure he did not tell your father?"
"I'm purty shore he didn't."
"Why did he tell you?"
The girl raised her eyes. There was a deeper look of pain in them
now. "I'd ruther not tell," she muttered.
"You need not be afraid."
"Well, he wuz arguin' with me. He said there wuzn't any good
women in the world. 'Why,' sez he, 'I seen a woman this very day
that everybody thinks is as good as the angels up in heaven, but
when I tell you whut I know about her you'll--'"
"You need not go on," interrupted Rachel Carter, drawing
her brows together. "Would you believe me if I told you the
man lied, Moll Hawk?"
"Yes, ma'am,--I would," said the girl promptly. "Fer
as that goes, I TOLE him he lied."
Rachel started to say something, then closed her lips tightly
and fell to staring out over the river. The girl eyed her for
a moment and then went on:
"You needn't be skeert of me ever tellin' anybody whut he
said to me. Hit wouldn't be right to spread a lie like thet, Mis'
Gwyn. You--"
"I think they are waiting for us, Moll," interrupted
Rachel, suddenly holding out her hand to the girl. "Thank
you. Come, give me your hand. We will go back to them, hand in
hand, my girl."
Moll stared at her in sheer astonishment.
"You--you don't want to hold my hand in yours, do you?"
she murmured slowly, incredulously.
"I do. You will find me a good friend,--and you will need
good friends, Moll."
Dumbly the girl held out her hand. It was clasped firmly by Rachel
Carter. They were half-way up the bank when Moll held back and
tried to withdraw her hand.
"I--I can't let you,--why, ma'am, that's the hand I--I held
the knife in," she cried, agitatedly.
Rachel gripped the hand more firmly. "I know it is, Moll,"
she said calmly.
CHAPTER XXII
THE PRISONERS
The grewsome cavalcade wended its way townward. Moll Hawk sat
between the sheriff and Cyrus Allen on the springless board that
served as a seat atop the lofty sideboards of the wagon. The crude
wooden wheels rumbled and creaked and jarred along the deep-rutted
road, jouncing the occupants of the vehicle from side to side
with unseemly playfulness. Back in the bed of the wagon, under
a gaily coloured Indian blanket, lay the outstretched body of
Jasper Suggs, seemingly alive and responsive to the jolts and
twists and turns of the road. The rear end gate had been removed
and three men sat with their heels dangling outside, their backs
to the sinister, unnoticed traveller who shared accommodations
with them. The central figure was Martin Hawk, grim, saturnine,
silent, his feet and hands secured with leather thongs. Trotting
along under his heels, so to speak, were his three dogs,--their
tongues hanging out, their tails drooping, their eyes turning
neither to right nor left. They were his only friends.
Some distance behind rode three horsemen, leading as many riderless
steeds. On ahead was another group of riders. Rachel Carter rode
alongside the wagon.
Moll had firmly refused to wear the older woman's cape. She had
on a coat belonging to one of the men and wore a flimsy, deep-hooded
bonnet that once had been azure blue. Her shoulders sagged wearily,
her back was bent, her arms lay limply upon her knees. She was
staring bleakly before her over the horses' ears, at the road
ahead. The reaction had come. She had told the story of the night,
haltingly but with a graphic integrity that left nothing to be
desired.
Martin Hawk had spent a black and unhappy hour. He was obliged
to listen to his daughter's story and, much to his discontent,
was not permitted to contradict her in any particular. Two or
three mournful attempts to reproach her for lying about her own,--and,
he always added, her ONLY--father, met with increasingly violent
adjurations to "shut up," the last one being so emphatic
that he gave vent to a sharp howl of pain and began feeling with
his tongue to see if all his teeth were there.
Luckily for him, he was impervious to the scorn of his fellow-man,
else he would have shrivelled under the looks he received from
time to time. Especially distressing to him was that part of her
recital touching upon his unholy greed; he could not help feeling,
with deep parental bitterness, that no man alive ever had a more
heartless, undutiful daughter than he,--a conviction that for
the time being at least caused him to lament the countless opportunities
he had had to beat her to death instead of merely raising a few
perishable welts on her back. If he had done that, say a month
ago, how different everything would be now!
This part of her story may suffice:
"Pap never wanted anything so bad in all his life as that
powder horn an' shot flask. They wuz all fixed up with gold an'
silver trimmin's an' I guess there wuz rubies an' di'monds too.
Fer three days Pap dickered with him, tryin' to make some kind
of a swap. Jasper he wouldn't trade 'em er sell 'em nuther. He
said they wuz wuth more'n a thousand dollars. Some big Injun Chief
made him a present of 'em, years ago,--fer savin' his life, he
said. First Pap tried to swap his hounds fer 'em, 'nen said he'd
throw in one of the hosses. Jasper he jest laughed at him. Yesterday
I heerd Pap tell him he would swap him both hosses, seven hogs,
the wagon an' two boats, but Jasper he jest laughed. They wuz
still talkin' about it when they got home from town last night,
jest ahead of the storm. I could hear 'em arguin' out in the room.
They wuz drinkin' an' talkin' so loud I couldn't sleep.
"Purty soon Pap said he'd trade him our cabin an' ever'thing
else fer that pouch an' flask. It wuz rainin' so hard by this
time I couldn't hear all they said but when it slacked up a little
I cotch my own name. They wuz talkin' about me. I heerd Jasper
tell Pap he'd give him the things ef he'd promise to go away an'
leave him an' me alone in the cabin. That kind o' surprised me.
But all Pap sez wuz that he hated to go out in the rain. So Jasper
he said fer him to wait till hit stopped rainin'. Pap said all
right, he would, an' fer Jasper to hand over the pouch and flask.
Jasper cussed an' said he'd give 'em to him three hours after
sunrise the nex' morning' an' not a minute sooner, an' he wuz
to stay away from the house all that time or he wouldn't give
'em to him at all. Well, they argued fer some time about that
an' finally Pap said he'd go out to the hoss shed an' sleep if
Jasper would hand over the shot pouch then an' there an' hold
back the powder flask till mornin'. Jasper he said all right,
he would. I never guess what wuz back of all this. So when Pap
went out an' shut the door behind him, I wuz kind o' thankful,
ca'se all the arguin' an' jawin' would stop an' I could go to
sleep ag'in. Jasper he let down the bolt inside the door."
. . . . . . . . . . . .
It was after eight o'clock when the wagon and its escort entered
the outskirts of the town. Grim, imperturbable old dames sitting
on their porches smoking their clay or corncob pipes regarded
the strange procession with mild curiosity; toilers in gardens
and barnyards merely remarked to themselves that "some'pin
must'a happened some'eres" and called out to housewife or
offspring not to let them forget to "mosey up to the square"
later in the day for particulars, if any. The presence of the
sheriff was more or less informing; it was obvious even to the
least sprightly intelligence that somebody had been arrested.
But the appearance of Mrs. Gwyn on horseback, riding slowly beside
the wagon, was not so easily accounted for. That circumstance
alone made it absolutely worth while to "mosey up to the
square" a little later on.
Martin Hawk was lodged in the recently completed brick jail adjoining
the courthouse. He complained bitterly of the injustice that permitted
his daughter, a confessed murderess, to enjoy the hospitality
of the sheriff's home whilst he, accused of nothing more heinous
than sheep-stealing, was flung into jail and subjected to the
further indignity of being audibly described as a fit subject
for the whipping post, an institution that still prevailed despite
a general movement to abolish it throughout the state.
It galled him to hear the fuss that was being made over Moll.
Everybody seemed to be taking her part. Why, that Gwyn woman not
only went so far as to say she would be responsible for Moll's
appearance in court, but actually arranged to buy her a lot of
new clothes. And the sheriff patted her on the shoulder and loudly
declared that the only thing any judge or jury could possibly
find her guilty of was criminal negligence in only half-doing
the job. This was supplemented by a look that left no doubt in
Martin's mind as to just what he considered to be the neglected
part of the job. He bethought himself of the one powerful friend
he had in town,--Barry Lapelle. So he sent this message by word
of mouth to the suspected dandy:
"I'm in jail. I want you to come and see me right off. I
mean business."
Needless to say, this message,--conveying a far from subtle threat,--was
a long time in reaching Mr. Lapelle, who had gone into temporary
retirement at Jack Trentman's shanty, having arrived at that unsavoury
retreat by a roundabout, circuitous route which allowed him to
spend some time on the bank of a sequestered brook.
Meanwhile Rachel Carter approached her own home, afoot and weary.
As she turned the bend she was surprised and not a little disturbed
by the sight of Kenneth Gwynne standing at her front gate. He
hurried up the road to meet her.
"The worst has come to pass," he announced, stopping
in front of her. "Before you go in I must tell you just what
happened here this morning. Come in here among the trees where
we can't be seen from the house."
She listened impassively to his story. Only the expression in
her steady, unswerving eyes betrayed her inward concern and agitation.
Not once did she interrupt him. Her shoulders, he observed, drooped
a little and her arms hung limply at her side, mute evidence of
a sinking heart and the resignation that comes with defeat.
"I am ready and willing," he assured her at the end,
"to do anything, to say anything you wish. It is possible
for us to convince her that there is no truth in what he said.
We can lie--"
She held up her hand, shaking her head almost angrily. "No!
Not that, Kenneth. I cannot permit you to lie for ME. That would
be unspeakable. I am not wholly without honour. There is nothing
you can do for her,--for either of us at present. Thank you for
preparing me,--and for your offer, Kenneth. Stay away from us
until you have had time to think it all over. Then you will realize
that this generous impulse of yours would do more harm than good.
Let her think what she will of me, she must not lose her faith
in you, my boy."
"But--what of her?" he expostulated. "What are
you going to say to her when she asks you--"
"I don't know," she interrupted, lifelessly. "I
am not a good liar, Kenneth Gwynne. Whatever else you may say
or think of me, I--I have never wilfully lied."
She started away, but after a few steps turned back to him. "Jasper
Suggs is dead. Moll Hawk killed him last night. She has been arrested.
There is nothing you can do for Viola at present, but you may
be able to help that poor, unfortunate girl. Suggs told her about
me. She will keep the secret. Go and see the sheriff at once.
He will tell you all that has happened."
Then she strode off without another word. He watched the tall,
black figure until it turned in at the gate and was lost to view,
a sort of stupefaction gripping him. Presently he aroused himself
and walked slowly homeward. As he passed through his own gate
he looked over at the window of the room in which Viola had sought
seclusion. The curtains hung limp and motionless. He wondered
what was taking place inside the four walls of that room.
Out of the maze into which his thoughts had been plunged by the
swift procession of events groped the new and disturbing turn
in the affairs of Rachel Carter. What was back of the untold story
of the slaying of Jasper Suggs? What were the circumstances? Why
had Moll Hawk killed the man? Had Rachel Carter figured directly
or indirectly in the tragedy? He recalled her significant allusion
to Isaac Stain the night before and his own rather startling inference,--and
now she was asking him to help Moll Hawk in her hour of tribulation.
A cold perspiration started out all over him. The question persisted:
What was back of the slaying of Jasper Suggs?
He gave explicit and peremptory directions to Zachariah in case
Mrs. Gwyn asked for him, and then set out briskly for the courthouse.
By this time the news of the murder had spread over the town.
A crowd had gathered in front of Scudder's undertaking establishment.
Knots of men and women, disregarding traffic, stood in the streets
adjoining the public square, listening to some qualified narrator's
account of the night's expedition and the tragedy at Martin Hawk's.
Kenneth hurried past these crowds and made his way straight to
the office of the sheriff. Farther down the street a group of
people stood in front of the sheriff's house, while in the vicinity
of the little jail an ever-increasing mob was collecting.
"Judge" Billings espied him. Disengaging himself from
a group of men at the corner of the square, the defendant in the
case of Kenwright vs. Billings made a bee-line for his young attorney.
"I've been over to your office twice, young man," he
announced as he came up. "Where the devil have you been keepin'
yourself? Mrs. Gwyn left word for you to come right up to her
house. She wants you to take charge of the Hawk girl's case. Maybe
you don't know it, but you've been engaged to defend her. You
better make tracks up to Mrs. Gwyn's and--"
"I have seen Mrs. Gwyn," interrupted Kenneth. "She
sent me to the sheriff. Where is he?"
"Over yonder talkin' to that crowd in front of the tavern.
He's sort o' pickin' out a jury in advance,--makin' sure that
the right men get on it. He got me for one. He don't make any
bones about it. Just tells you how it all happened an' then asks
you whether you'd be such a skunk as to even think of convictin'
the girl for what she did. Then you up an' blaspheme considerable
about what you'd like to do to her dodgasted father, an' before
you git anywhere's near through, he holds up his hand an' says,
'Now, I've only got to git three more (or whatever it is), an'
then the jury's complete!' We're figgerin' on havin' the trial
to-morrow mornin' between nine an' ten o'clock. The judge says
it's all right, far as he's concerned. We'd have it to-day, only
Moll's got to have a new dress an' bonnet an' such-like before
she can appear in court. All you'll have to do, Kenny, is jest
to set back,--look wise an' let her tell her story. 'Cordin' to
law, she's got to stand trial fer murder an' she's got to have
counsel. Nobody's goin' to object to you makin' a speech to the
jury,--bringin' tears to our eyes, as the sayin' is,--only don't
make it too long. I've got to meet a man at half-past ten in regards
to a hoss trade, an' I happen to know that Tom Rank's clerk is
sick an' he don't want to keep his store locked up fer more than
an hour. I'm jest tellin' you this so's you won't have to waste
time to-morrow askin' the jurymen whether they have formed an
opinion or not, or whether they feel they can give the prisoner
a fair an' impartial trial or not. The sheriff's already asked
us that an' we've all said yes,--so don't delay matters by askin'
ridiculous questions."
The "Judge" interrupted himself to look at his watch.
"Well, I've got to be movin' along. I'm on the coroner's
jury too, and we're goin' up to Matt's right away to view the
remains. The verdict will probable be: 'Come to his death on account
of Moll Hawk's self-defense,' or somethin' like that. 'Never put
off till to-morrow what you can do to-day,' as the sayin' goes.
Wouldn't surprise me a bit if he was buried before three o'clock
to-day. Then we won't have him on our minds to-morrow. Well, see
you later--if not sooner."
An hour later Kenneth accompanied the sheriff to the latter's
home for an interview with his client. He had promptly consented
to act as her counsel after hearing the story of the crime from
the sheriff.
"Mrs. Gwyn told my wife to go out and get some new clothes
for the girl," said the sheriff as they strode down the street,
"and she'd step into the store some time to-day and settle
for them. By thunder, you could have knocked me over with a feather,
Kenneth. If your stepmother was a man we'd describe her as a skinflint.
She's as stingy and unfeeling as they make 'em. Hard as nails
and about as kind-hearted as a tombstone. What other woman on
this here earth would have gone out to Martin Hawk's last night
just for the satisfaction of seein' him arrested? We didn't want
her,--not by a long shot,--but she made up her mind to go, and,
by gosh, she went. I guess maybe she thought we'd make a botch
of it, and so she took that long ride just to make sure she'd
git her money's worth. 'Cause, you see, I had to pay each of the
men a dollar and a half and mileage before they'd run the risk
of bein' shot by Hawk and his crowd. Hard as nails, I said, but
doggone it, the minute she saw that girl out there she turned
as soft as butter and there is nothin' she won't do for her. It
beats me, by gosh,--it certainly beats me."
"Women are very strange creatures," observed Kenneth.
"Yep," agreed the other. "You can most always tell
what a man's goin' to do, but I'm derned if you can even GUESS
what a woman's up to. Take my wife, for instance. Why, I've been
livin' with that woman for seventeen years and I swear to Guinea
she's still got me puzzled. Course I know what she's talking about
most of the time, but, by gosh, I never know what she's thinkin'
about. Women are like cats. A cat is the thoughtfulest animal
there is. It's always thinkin'. It thinks when it's asleep,--and
most of the time when you think it's asleep it ain't asleep at
all. Well, here we are. I guess Moll's out in the kitchen with
my wife. I told Ma to roll that old dress of Moll's up and save
it for the jury to see. It's the best bit of evidence she's got.
All you'll have to do is to hold it up in front of the jury and
start your speech somethin' like this: 'Gentlemen of the jury,
I ask you to gaze upon this here dress, all tattered and torn,--'
and that's as far as you'll get, 'cause this jury is goin' to
be composed of gentlemen and they'll probably stand up right then
and there and say 'Not guilty.' Come right in, Mr. Gwynne."
After considerable persuasion on the part of the sheriff and his
kindly wife, Moll repeated her story to Gwynne. She was abashed
before this elegant young man. A shyness and confusion that had
been totally lacking in her manner toward the other and older
men took possession of her now, and it was with difficulty that
she was induced to give him the complete details of all that took
place in her father's cabin.
When he shook hands with her as he was about to take his departure,
she suddenly found courage to say:
"Kin I see you alone fer a couple of minutes, Mr. Gwynne?"
"Certainly, Miss Hawk," he replied, gravely courteous.
"I am sure Mr. and Mrs.--"
"Come right in the sitting-room, Mr. Gwynne," interrupted
the housewife, bustling over to open the door.
Moll stared blankly at her counsel. No one had ever called her
Miss Hawk before. She was not quite sure that she had heard aright.
Could it be possible that this grand young gentleman had called
her Miss Hawk? Still wondering, she followed him out of the kitchen,
sublimely unconscious of the ridiculous figure she cut in the
garments of the older woman.
"Shut the door," she said, as her keen, wood-wary eyes
swept the room. She crossed swiftly to the window and looked out.
Her lips curled a little. "Most of them people has been standin'
out yonder sence nine o'clock, tryin' to see what sort of lookin'
animile I am, Mr. Gwynne. Hain't nohody got any work to do?"
"Vulgar curiosity, nothing more," said he, joining her
at the window.
"'Tain't ever' day they get a chance to see a murderer, is
it?" she said, lowering her head suddenly and putting a hand
to her quivering chin. For the first time she seemed on the point
of breaking down.
He made haste to exclaim, "You are not a murderer. You must
not think or say such things, Miss Hawk."
She kept her head down. A scarlet wave crept over her face. "I--I
wish you wouldn't call me that, Mr. Gwynne. Hit--hit makes me
feel kind o'--kind o' lonesome-like. Jest as--ef I didn't have
no friends. Call me Moll. That's all I am."
He studied for a moment the half-averted face of this girl of
the forest. He could not help contrasting it with the clear-cut,
delicate, beautifully modelled face of another girl of the dark
frontier,--Viola Gwyn. And out of this swift estimate grew a new
pity for poor Moll Hawk, the pity one feels for the vanquished.
"You will be surprised to find how many friends you have,
Moll," he said gently.
There was no indication that she was impressed one way or the
other by this remark. She drew back from the window and faced
him, her eyes keen and searching.
"Do you reckon anybody is listenin'?" she asked.
"I think not,--in fact, I am sure we are quite alone."
"Well, this is somethin' I don't keer to have the shurreff
know, or anybody else, Mr. Gwynne. Hit's about Mr. Lapelle."
"Yes?" he said, as she paused warily.
"Mrs. Gwyn she tole me this mornin' that whatever I said
to my lawyer would be sacred an' wouldn't ever be let out to anybody,
no matter whut it wuz. She said it wuz ag'inst the code er somethin'.
Wuz she right?"
"In a sense, yes. Of course, you must understand, Moll, that
no honest lawyer will obligate himself to shield a criminal or
a fugitive from justice, or--I may as well say to you now that
if you expect that of me I must warn you not to tell me anything.
You would force me to withdraw as your counsel. For, you see,
Moll, I am an honest lawyer."
She looked at him in a sort of mute wonder for a moment, and then
muttered: "Why, Pap,--Pap he sez there ain't no setch thing
as a honest lawyer." An embarrassed little smile twisted
her lips. "I guess that must ha' been one of Pap's lies."
"It is possible he may never have come in contact with one,"
he observed drily.
"Well, I guess ef you're a honest lawyer," she said,
knitting her brows, "I'd better keep my mouth shut. I wuz
only thinkin' mebby you could see your way to do somethin' I wuz
goin' to ask. I jest wanted to git some word to Mr. Lapelle."
"Mr. Lapelle and I are not friends, Moll."
"Is it beca'se of whut I asked Ike Stain to tell ye?"
"Partly."
"I mean about stealin' Miss Violy Gwyn an' takin' her away
with him?"
"I want to thank you, Moll, for sending me the warning. It
was splendid of you."
"Oh, I didn't do it beca'se--" she began, somewhat defiantly,
and then closed her lips tightly. The sullen look came back into
her eyes.
"I understand. You--you like him yourself."
"Well,--whut ef I do?" she burst out. "Hit's my
look-out, ain't it?"
"Certainly. I am not blaming you."
"I guess there ain't no use talkin' any more," she said
flatly. "You wouldn't do whut I want ye to do anyhow, so
what's the sense of askin' you. We better go back to the kitchen."
"It may console you to hear that I have already told Mr.
Lapelle that he must get out of this town before to-morrow morning,"
said he deliberately. "And stay out!"
She leaned forward, her face brightening. "You tole him to
git away to-night?" she half-whispered, eagerly. "I
thought you said you wuzn't a friend o' his'n."
"That is what I said."
"Then, whut did you warn him to git away fer?"
He was thinking rapidly. "I did it on account of Miss Gwyn,
Moll," he replied, evasively.
"Do you think he'll go?" she asked, a fierce note of
anxiety in her voice.
"That remains to be seen." Then he hazarded: "I
think he will when he finds out that your father has been arrested."
"He's been a good friend to me, Mr. Gwynne, Mr. Lapelle has,"
said she, a little huskily. She waited a moment and then went
on earnestly and with a garrulousness that amazed him: "I
don't keer whut he's done that ain't right, er whut people is
goin' to say about him, he's allus been nice to me. I guess mebby
you air a-wonderin' why I tole Ike Stain about him figgerin' on
carryin' Miss Gwyn away. That don't look very friendly, I guess.
Hit wuzn't beca'se I thought I might git him fer myself some time,--no,
hit wuzn't that, Mr. Gwynne. I ain't setch a fool as to think
he could ever want to be sparkin' me. I reckon Ike Stain tole
ye I wuz jealous. Well, I wuzn't, I declare to goodness I wuzn't.
Hit wuz beca'se I jest couldn't 'low her to git married to him,
knowin' whut I do. I wuz tryin' to make up my mind to go an' see
her some time an' tell her not to marry him, but I jest couldn't
seem to git the spunk to do it. She used to come to see me when
I wuz sick last winter an' she wuz mighty nice to me.
"First thing I know, him an' Pap begin to fix up this plan
to carry her off. So I started up to town to tell her. I got as
fer as Ike's when I figgered I better let him do it, him bein'
a man, so I drapped in at his cabin an' tole him. I didn't know
whut else to do. I had to stop 'em from doin' it somehow. Hit
wouldn't do no good fer me to beg Pap to drap it, er to rare up
on my hind-legs an' make threats ag'inst 'em,--ca'se they'd soon
put a stop to that. Course I had it all figgered out whut I wuz
goin' to do when thet pack o' rascals got caught tryin' to steal
her,--some of 'em shot, like as not,--and I didn't much keer whuther
my Pap wuz one of 'em er not.
"I knowed where Mr. Lapelle wuz to meet 'em down the river
acrosst from Le Grange, so I was figgerin' on findin' him there
an' tellin' him whut had happened an' fer him to make his escape
down the river while he had setch a good start. I wuzn't goin'
to let him be ketched an' at the same time I wuzn't goin' to let
anything happen to Miss Violy Gwyn ef I could help it. I--I sort
of figgered it out as a good way to help both o' my friends, Mr.
Gwynne, an'--an' then this here thing happened. I want Mr. Lapelle
to git away safe,--ca'se I know whut Pap's goin' to do. He's goin'
to blat out a lot o' things. He says he's sure Mr. Lapelle put
Mrs. Gwyn up to havin' him arrested."
"I think you may rest easy, Moll," said he, a trifle
grimly. "Mr. Lapelle had an engagement with me for to-morrow
morning, but I'll stake my life he will not be here to keep it."
"All right," she said, satisfied. "Ef you say so,
Mr. Gwynne, I'll believe it. Whut do you think they'll do to Pap?"
"He will probably get a dose of the whipping-post, for one
thing."
She grinned. "Gosh, I wish I could be some'eres about so's
I could see it," she cried.
CHAPTER XXIII
CHALLENGE AND RETORT
Kenneth could hardly contain himself until the time came for him
to go home for his noon-day meal. Try as he would, he could not
divorce his thoughts from the trouble that had come to Viola.
The sinister tragedy in Martin Hawk's cabin was as nothing compared
to the calamity that had befallen the girl he loved, for Moll
Hawk's troubles would pass like a whiff of the wind while Viola's
would endure to the end of time,--always a shadow hanging over
her brightest day, a cloud that would not vanish. Out of the silence
had come a murmur more desolating than the thunderbolt with all
its bombastic fury; out of the silence had come a voice that would
go on forever whispering into her ear an unlovely story.
A crowd still hung about the jail and small, ever-shifting groups
held sober discourse in front of business places. He hurried by
them and struck off up the road, his mind so intent upon what
lay ahead of him that he failed to notice that Jack Trentman had
detached himself from the group in front of the undertaker's and
was following swiftly after him. He was nearly half-way home when
he turned, in response to a call from behind, and beheld the gambler.
"I'd like a word with you, Mr. Gwynne," drawled Jack.
"I am in somewhat of a hurry, Mr.--"
"I'll walk along with you, if you don't mind," said
the other, coming up beside him. "I'm not in the habit of
beating about the bush. When I've got anything to do, I do it
without much fiddling. Barry Lapelle is down at my place. He has
asked me to represent him in a little controversy that seems to
call for physical adjudication. How will day after to-morrow at
five in the morning suit you?"
"Perfectly," replied Kenneth stiffly. "Convey my
compliments to Mr. Lapelle and say to him that I overlook the
irregularity and will be glad to meet him at any time and any
place."
"I know it's irregular," admitted Mr. Trentman, with
an apologetic wave of the hand, "but he was in some doubt
as to who might have the honour to act for you, Mr. Gwynne, so
he suggested that I come to you direct. If you will oblige me
with the name of the friend who is to act as your second, I will
make a point of apologizing for having accosted you in this manner,
and also perfect the details with him."
"I haven't given the matter a moment's thought," said
Kenneth, frowning. "Day after to-morrow morning, you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can't you arrange it for to-morrow morning?"
Mr. Trentman spread out his hands in a deprecatory manner. "In
view of the fact that you are expected to appear in court at nine
to-morrow morning to defend an unfortunate girl, Mr. Lapelle feels
that he would be doing your client a very grave injustice if he
killed her lawyer--er--a trifle prematurely, you might say. He
has confided to me that he is the young woman's friend and can't
bear the thought of having her chances jeopardized by--"
"Pardon me, Mr. Trentman," interrupted Kenneth shortly.
"Both of you are uncommonly thoughtful and considerate. Now
that I am reminded of my pleasant little encounter with Mr. Lapelle
this morning, I am constrained to remark that I have had all the
satisfaction I desire. You may say to him that I am a gentleman
and not in the habit of fighting duels with horse-thieves."
Mr. Trentman started. His vaunted aplomb sustained a sharp spasm
that left him with a slightly fallen jaw.
"Am I to understand, sir, that you are referring to my friend
as a horse-thief?" he demanded, bridling.
"I merely asked you to take that message to him," said
Kenneth coolly. "I might add cattle-thief, sheep-stealer,
hog-thief or--"
"Why, good God, sir," gasped Mr. Trentman, "he'd
shoot you down like a dog if I--"
"You may also tell Mr. Lapelle that his bosom friend Martin
Hawk is in jail."
"Well, what of it?"
"Does Lapelle know that Martin is in jail?"
"Certainly,--and he says he ought to be hung. That's what
he thinks of Hawk. A man that would sell his own--"
"Hawk is in jail for stock-stealing, Mr. Trentman."
"What's that got to do with the case? What's that got to
do with your calling my friend a horse-thief?"
"A whole lot, sir. You will probably find out before the
day is over that you are harbouring and concealing a thief down
there in your shanty, and you may thank Martin Hawk for the information
in case you prefer not to accept the word of a gentleman. If you
were to come to me as a client seeking counsel, I should not hesitate
to advise you,--as your lawyer,--that there is a law against harbouring
criminals and that you are laying yourself open to prosecution."
Trentman dubiously felt of his chin.
"Being well versed in the law," he said, "I suppose
you realize that Mr. Lapelle can recover heavy damages against
you in case what you have said to me isn't true."
"Perfectly. Therefore, I repeat to you that I cannot engage
in an affair of honour with a thief. I knocked him down this morning,
but that was in the heat of righteous anger. For fear that your
report to him may lead Mr. Lapelle to construe my refusal to meet
him day after to-morrow morning as cowardice on my part, permit
me to make this request of you. Please say to him that I shall
arm myself with a pistol as soon as I have reached my house, and
that I expect to be going about the streets of Lafayette as usual."
"I see," said Mr. Trentman, after a moment. "You
mean you'll be ready for him in case he hunts you up."
"Exactly."
"By the way, Mr. Gwynne, have you ever fought a duel?"
"No."
"Would it interest you to know that Mr. Lapelle has engaged
in several, with disastrous results to his adversaries?"
"I think he has already mentioned something of the kind to
me."
"I'd sooner be your friend than your enemy, Mr. Gwynne,"
said the gambler earnestly. "I am a permanent citizen of
this town and I have no quarrel with you. As your friend, I am
obliged to inform you that Barry Lapelle is a dead shot and as
quick as lightning with a pistol. I hope you will take this in
the same spirit that it is given."
"I thank you, sir," said Kenneth, courteously. "By
the way, do you happen to have a pistol with you at present, Mr.
Trentman?"
The other looked at him keenly for a few seconds before answering.
"I have. I seldom go without one."
"If you will do me the kindness to walk with me up to the
woods beyond the lake and will grant me the loan of your weapon
for half a minute, I think I may be able to demonstrate to you
that Mr. Lapelle is not the only dead shot in the world. I was
brought up with a pistol in my hand, so to speak. Have you ever
tried to shoot a ground squirrel at twenty paces? You have to
be pretty quick to do that, you know."
Trentman shook his head. "There's a lot of difference between
shooting a ground squirrel and blazing away at a man who is blazing
away at you at the same time. I'll take your word for the ground
squirrel business, Mr. Gwynne, and bid you good day."
"My regrets to your principal and my apologies to you, Mr.
Trentman," said Kenneth, lifting his hat.
The gambler raised his own hat. A close observer would have noticed
a troubled, anxious gleam in his eye as he turned to retrace his
steps in the direction of the square. It was his custom to saunter
slowly when traversing the streets of the town, as one who produces
his own importance and enjoys it leisurely. He never hurried.
He loitered rather more gracefully when walking than when standing
still. But now he strode along briskly,--in fact, with such lively
decision that for once in his life he appeared actually to be
going somewhere. As he rounded the corner and came in sight of
the jail, he directed a fixed, consuming glare upon the barred
windows; a quite noticeable scowl settled upon his ordinarily
unruffled brow,--the scowl of one searching intently, even apprehensively.
He was troubled. His composure was sadly disturbed. Kenneth Gwynne
had given him something to think about,--and the more he thought
about it the faster he walked. He was perspiring quite freely
and he was a little short of breath when he flung open the door
and entered his "den of iniquity" down by the river.
He took in at a glance the three men seated at a table in a corner
of the somewhat commodious "card-room." One of them
was dealing "cold hands" to his companions. A fourth
man, his dealer, was leaning against the window frame, gazing
pensively down upon the slow-moving river. Two of the men at the
table were newcomers in town. They had come up on the _Revere_
and they had already established themselves in his estimation
as "skeletons"; that is, they had been picked pretty
clean by "buzzards" in other climes before gravitating
to his "boneyard." He considered himself a good judge
of men, and he did not like the looks of this ill-favoured pair.
He had made up his mind that he did not want them hanging around
the "shanty"; men of that stripe were just the sort
to give the place a bad name! One of them had recalled himself
to Barry Lapelle the night before; said he used to work for a
trader down south or somewhere.
Without the ceremony of a knock on the door, Mr. Trentman entered
a room at the end of the shanty, and there he found Lapelle reclining
on a cot. Two narrow slits in a puffed expanse of purple grading
off to a greenish yellow indicated the position of Barry's eyes.
The once resplendent dandy was now a sorry sight.
"Say," began Trentman, after he had closed the door,
"I want to know just how things stand with you and Martin
Hawk. No beating about the bush, Barry. I want the truth and nothing
else."
Barry raised himself on one elbow and peered at his host. "What
are you driving at, Jack?" he demanded, throatily.
"Are you mixed up with him in this stock-running business?"
"Well, that's a hell of a question to ask a--"
"It's easy to answer. Are you?"
"Certainly not,--and I ought to put a bullet through you
for asking such an insulting question."
"He's in jail, charged with stealing sheep and calves, and
he's started to talk. Now, look here, Lapelle, I'm your friend,
but if you are mixed up in this business the sooner you get out
of here the better it will suit me. Wait a minute! I've got more
to say. I know you're planning to go down on the boat to-morrow,
but I don't believe it's soon enough. I've seen Gwynne. He says
in plain English that he won't fight a duel with a horse-thief.
He must have some reason for saying that. He has been employed
as Moll Hawk's lawyer. She's probably been talking, too. I've
been thinking pretty hard the last ten minutes or so, and I'm
beginning to understand why you wanted me to arrange the duel
for day after to-morrow when you knew you were leaving town on
the _Revere_ in the morning. You were trying to throw Gwynne off
the track. I thought at first it was because you were afraid to
fight him, but now I see things differently. I'll be obliged to
you if you'll come straight out and tell me what's in the air.
I'm a square man and I like to know whether I'm dealing with square
men or not."
Lapelle sat up suddenly on the edge of the bed. Somehow, it seemed
to Trentman, the greenish yellow had spread lightly over the rest
of his face.
"You say Martin's in jail for stealing?" he asked, gripping
the corn-husk bedtick with tense, nervous fingers, "and not
in connection with the killing of Suggs?"
"Yep. And I sort of guess you'll be with him before you're
much older, if Gwynne knows what he's--"
"I've got to get out of this town to-night, Jack," cried
the younger man, starting to his feet. "Understand, I'm not
saying I am mixed up in any way with Hawk and his crowd, but--but
I've got important business in Attica early to-morrow morning.
That's all you can get me to say. I'll sneak up the back road
to the tavern and pack my saddle-bags this afternoon, and I'll
leave money with you to settle with Johnson. I may have to ask
you to fetch my horse down here--"
"Just a minute," broke in Trentman, who had been regarding
him with hard, calculating eyes. "If it's as bad as all this,
I guess you'd better not wait till to-night. It may be too late,--and
besides I don't want the sheriff coming down here and jerking
you out of my place. You don't need to tell me anything more about
your relations with Hawk. I'm no fool, Barry. I know now that
you are mixed up in this stock-stealing business that's been going
on for months. It don't take a very smart brain to grasp the situation.
You've probably been making a pretty good thing out of moving
this stuff down the river on your boats, and--Now, don't get up
on your ear, my friend! No use trying to bamboozle me. You're
scared stiff,--and that's enough for me. And you've got a right
to be. This will put an end to your company's boats coming up
here for traffic,--it will kill you deader'n a doornail so far
as business is concerned. So you'd better get out at once. I never
liked you very much anyhow and now I've got no use for you at
all. Just to save my own skin and my own reputation as a law-abiding
citizen, I'll help you to get away. Now, here's what I'll do.
I'll send up and get your horse and have him down here inside
of fifteen minutes. There's so darned much excitement up in town
about this murder that nobody's going to notice you for the time
being. And besides a lot of farmers from over west are coming
in, scared half to death about Black Hawk's Indians. They'll be
out looking for you before long, your lordship, and it won't be
for the purpose of inviting you to have a drink. They'll probably
bring a rail along with 'em, so's you'll at least have the consolation
of riding up to the calaboose. You'll--"
"Oh, for God's sake!" grated Barry, furiously. "Don't
try to be comical, Trentman. This is no time to joke,--or preach
either. Give me a swig of--"
"Nope! No whiskey, my friend," said the gambler firmly.
"Whiskey always puts false courage into a man, and I don't
want you to be doing anything foolish. I'll have your mare Fancy
down here in fifteen minutes, saddled and everything, and you
will hop on her and ride up the street, right past the court house,
just as if you're out for an hour's canter for your health. You
will not have any saddle-bags or traps. You'll ride light, my
friend. That will throw 'em off the track. But what I want you
to do as soon as you get out the other side of the tanyard is
to turn in your saddle and wave a last farewell to the Star City.
You might throw a kiss at it, too, while you're about it. Because
you've got a long journey ahead of you and you're not coming back,--that
is, unless they overtake you. There's some pretty fast horses
in this town, as you may happen to remember. So I'd advise you
to get a good long start,--and keep it."
If Lapelle heard all of this he gave no sign, for he had sidled
over to the little window and was peering obliquely through the
trees toward the road that led from the "shanty" toward
the town. Suddenly he turned upon the gambler, a savage oath on
his lips.
"You bet I'll come back! And when I do, I'll give this town
something to talk about. I'll make tracks now. It's the only thing
to do. But I'm not licked--not by a long shot, Jack Trentman.
I'll be back inside of--"
"I'll make you a present of a couple of pistols a fellow
left with me for a debt a month or so ago. You may need 'em,"
said Trentman blandly. "Better get ready to start. I'll have
the horse here in no time."
"You're damned cold-blooded," growled Barry, pettishly.
"Yep," agreed the other. "But I'm kind-hearted."
He went out, slamming the door behind him. Twenty minutes later,
Barry emerged from the "shanty" and mounted his sleek,
restless thoroughbred. Having recovered, for purposes of deception,
his lordly, cock-o'-the-walk attitude toward the world, he rode
off jauntily in the direction of the town, according Trentman
the scant courtesy of a careless wave of the hand at parting.
He had counted his money, examined the borrowed pistols, and at
the last moment had hurriedly dashed off a brief letter to Kenneth
Gwynne, to be posted the following day by the avid though obliging
Mr. Trentman.
Stifling his rancour and coercing his vanity at the same time,
he cantered boldly past the Tavern, bitterly aware of the protracted
look of amazement that interrupted the conversation of some of
the most influential citizens of the place as at least a score
of eyes fell upon his battered visage. Pride and rage got the
better of him. He whirled Fancy about with a savage jerk and rode
back to the group.
"Take a good look, gentlemen," he snapped out, his eyes
gleaming for all the world like two thin little slivers of red-hot
iron. "The coward who hit me before I had a chance to defend
myself has just denied me the satisfaction of a duel. I sent him
a challenge to fight it out with pistols day after to-morrow morning.
He is afraid to meet me. The challenge still stands. If you should
see Mr. Gwynne, gentlemen, between now and Friday morning, do
me the favour to say to him that I will be the happiest man on
earth if he can muster up sufficient courage to change his mind.
Good day, gentlemen."
With this vainglorious though vicarious challenge to an absent
enemy, he touched the gad to Fancy's flank and rode away, his
head erect, his back as stiff as a ramrod, leaving behind him
a staring group whose astonishment did not give way to levity
until he was nearing the corner of the square. He cursed softly
under his breath at the sound of the first guffaw; he subdued
with difficulty a wild, reckless impulse to turn in the saddle
and send a shot or two at them. But this was no time for folly,--no
time to lose his head.
Out of the corner of his eye he took in the jail and the group
of citizens on the court house steps. Something seemed to tell
him that these men were saying, "There he goes,--stop him!
He's getting away!" They were looking at him; of that he
was subtly conscious, although he managed to keep his eyes set
straight ahead. Only the most determined effort of the will kept
him from suddenly putting spur to the mare. Afterwards he complimented
himself on his remarkable self-control, and laughed as he likened
his present alarm to that of a boy passing a graveyard at night.
Nevertheless, he was now filled with an acute, very real sense
of anxiety and apprehension; every nerve was on edge.
It was all very well for Jack Trentman to say that this was the
safest, most sensible way to go about it, but had Jack ever been
through it himself? At any moment Martin Hawk might catch a glimpse
of him through the barred window of the jail and let out a shout
of warning; at any moment the sheriff himself might dash out of
the court house with a warrant in his hand,--and then what? He
had the chill, uneasy feeling that they would be piling out after
him before he could reach the corner of the friendly thickets
at the lower end of the street.
A pressing weight seemed to slide off his shoulders and neck as
Fancy swung smartly around the bend into the narrow wagon-road
that stretched its aimless way through the scrubby bottom-lands
and over the ridge to the open sweep of the plains beyond. Presently
he urged the mare to a rhythmic lope, and all the while his ears
were alert for the thud of galloping horses behind. It was not
until he reached the table-land to the south that he drove the
rowels into the flanks of the swift four-year-old and leaned forward
in the saddle to meet the rush of the wind. Full well he knew
that given the start of an hour no horse in the county could catch
his darling Fancy!
And so it was that Barry Lapelle rode out of the town of Lafayette,
never to return again.
CHAPTER XXIV
IN AN UPSTAIRS ROOM
It was characteristic of Rachel Carter that she should draw the
window curtains aside in Viola's bedroom, allowing the pitiless
light of day to fall upon her face as she seated herself to make
confession. She had come to the hour when nothing was to be hidden
from her daughter, least of all the cheek that was to be smitten.
The girl sat on the edge of the bed, her elbow on the footboard,
her cheek resting upon her hand. Not once did she take her eyes
from the grey, emotionless face of the woman who sat in the light.
In course of time, Rachel Carter came to the end of her story.
She had made no attempt to justify herself, had uttered no word
of regret, no signal of repentance, no plea for forgiveness. The
cold, unfaltering truth, without a single mitigating alloy in
the shape of sentiment, had issued from her tired but unconquered
soul. She went through to the end without being interrupted by
the girl, whose silence was eloquent of a strength and courage
unsurpassed even by this woman from whom she had, after all, inherited
both. She did not flinch, she did not cringe as the twenty-year-old
truth was laid bare before her. She was made of the same staunch
fibre as her mother, she possessed the indomitable spirit that
stiffens and remains unyielding in the face of calamity.
"Now you know everything," said Rachel Carter wearily.
"I have tried to keep it from you. But the truth will out.
It is God's law. I would have spared you if I could. You are of
my flesh and blood, you are a part of me. There has never been
an instant in all these hard, trying years when I have not loved
and cherished you as the gift that no woman, honest or dishonest,
can despise. You will know what that means when you have a child
of your own, and you will never know it until that has come to
pass. You may cast me out of your heart, Viola, but you cannot
tear yourself out of mine. So! I have spoken. There is no more."
She turned her head to look out of the window. Viola did not move.
Presently the older woman spoke again. "Your name is Minda
Carter. You will be twenty-two years old next September. You have
no right to the name of Gwynne. The boy who lives in that house
over yonder is the only one who has a right to it. But his birthright
is no cleaner than yours. You can look him in the face without
shame to yourself, because your father was an honest man and your
mother was his loyal, faithful wife,--and Kenneth Gwynne can say
no more than that."
"Nor as much," burst from the girl's lips with a fervour
that startled her mother. "His father was not a loyal, faithful
husband, nor was he an honest man or he would have married you."
She was on her feet now, her body bent slightly, forward, her
smouldering eyes fixed intently upon her; mother's face.
Rachel Carter stared incredulously. Something in Viola's eyes,
in the ring of her voice caused her heart to leap.
"I was his wife in the eyes of God," she began, but
something rushed up into her throat and seemed to choke her.
"And you have told Kenneth all this?" cried Viola, a
light as of understanding flooding her eyes. "He knows? How
long has he known?"
"I--I can't remember. Some of it for weeks, some of it only
since last night."
"Ah!" There was a world of meaning in the cry. Even
as she uttered it she seemed to feel his arms about her and the
strange thrill that had charged through her body from head to
foot. She sat down again on the edge of the bed; a dark wave of
colour surging to her cheek and brow.
"I am waiting," said her mother, after a moment. Her
voice was steady. "It is your turn to speak, my child."
Viola came to her side.
"Mother," she began, a deep, full note in her voice,
"I want you to let me sit in your lap, with your arms around
me. Like when I was a little girl."
Rachel lifted her eyes; and as the girl looked down into them
the hardness of years melted away and they grew wondrous soft
and gentle.
"Is this your verdict?" she asked solemnly.
"Yes," was the simple response.
"You do not cast me out of your heart? Remember, in the sight
of man, I am an evil woman."
"You are my mother. You did not desert me. You would not
leave me behind. You have loved me since the day I was born. You
will never be an evil woman in my eyes. Hold me in your lap, mother
dear. I shall always feel safe then."
Rachel's lips and chin quivered.... A long time afterward the
girl gently disengaged herself from the strong, tense embrace
and rose to her feet.
"You say that Kenneth hates you," she said, "and
you say that you do not blame him. Is it right and fair that he
should hate you any more than I should hate his father?"
"Yes," replied Rachel Carter, "it is right and
fair. I was his mother's best friend. His father did not betray
his best friend as I did, for my husband was dead. There is a
difference, my child."
Viola shook her head stubbornly. "I don't see why the woman
must always be crucified and the man allowed to go his way--"
"It is no use, Viola," interrupted Rachel, rising. Her
face had hardened again. "We cannot change the ways of the
world." She crossed the room, but stopped with her hand on
the door-latch. Turning to her daughter, she said: "Whatever
Kenneth may think of me, he has the greatest respect and admiration
for you. He bears no grudge against Minda Carter. On the contrary,
he has shown that he would lay down his life for you. You must
bear no grudge against him. You and he are children who have walked
in darkness for twenty years, but now you have come to a place
where there is light. See to it, Viola, that you are as fair to
him as you would have him be to you. You stand on common ground
with the light of understanding all about you. Do not turn your
backs upon each other. Face one another. It is the only way."
Viola's eyes flashed. She lifted her chin.
"I am not ashamed to look Kenneth Gwynne in the face,"
said she, a certain crispness in her voice. Then, with a quick
change to tenderness, "You are so tired, mother. Won't you
lie down and sleep awhile?"
"After I have eaten something. Come downstairs. I want to
hear what happened here this morning. Kenneth told me very little
and you have done nothing but ask questions of me."
"Did he tell you that he struck Barry Lapelle?"
"No."
"Or how near I came to shooting him?"
"Merciful heaven!" "Well, I guess Barry won't rest
till he has told the whole town what we are,--and then we'll have
to face something cruel, mother. But we will face it together."
She put her arm about her mother's shoulders and they went down
the narrow staircase together.
"It will not cost me a single friend, Viola," remarked
Rachel grimly. "I have none to lose. But with you it will
be different."
"We don't have to stay in the old town," said Viola
bravely. "The world is large. We can move on. Just as we
used to before we came here to live. Always moving on, we were."
Rachel shook her head. They were at the bottom of the stairs.
"I will not move on. This is where I intend to live and die.
The man I lived for is up yonder in the graveyard. I will not
go away and leave him now,--not after all these years. But you,
my child, you must move on. You have something else to live for.
I have nothing. But I can hold my head up, even here. You will
not find it so easy. You will--"
"It will be as easy for me as it will for Kenneth Gwynne,"
broke in the girl. "Wait and see which one of us runs away
first. It won't be me."
"He will not go away and leave you," said Rachel Carter.
Viola gave her a quick, startled look. They were in the kitchen,
however, before she spoke. Then it was to say:
"Now I understand why I have never been able to think of
him as my brother." That, and nothing more; there was an
odd, almost frightened expression in her eyes.
She got breakfast for her mother, Hattie having been sent down
into the town by her mistress immediately upon her return home,
ostensibly to make a few purchases but actually for the purpose
of getting rid of her. Viola, in relating the story of the morning's
events, was careful to avoid using the harshest of Barry's terms,
but earnestly embellished the account of Kenny's interference
with some rather formidable expressions of her own, putting them
glibly into the mouth of her champion. Once her mother interrupted
her to inquire:
"Did Kenneth actually use those words, Viola? 'Pusillanimous
varlet,' --and 'mendacious scalawag'? It does not sound like Kenneth."
Viola had the grace to blush guiltily. "No, he didn't. He
swore harder than anybody I've ever--"
"That's better," said Rachel, somewhat sternly.
Later on they sat on the little front porch, where the older woman,
with scant recourse to the graphic, narrated the story of Moll
Hawk. Pain and horror dwelt in Viola's wide, lovely eyes.
"Oh, poor, poor Moll," she murmured at the end of the
wretched tale. "She has never known a mother's love, or a
mother's care. She has never had a chance."
Then Rachel Carter said a strange thing. "When all this is
over and she is free, I intend to offer her a home here with me."
The girl stared, open-mouthed. "With you? Here with us?"
"You will not always be here with me," said her mother.
"How can you say such a thing?" with honest indignation.
Then quickly: "I know I planned to run off and leave you
a little while ago, but that was before I came to know how much
you need me."
Rachel experienced one of her rare smiles. "And before you
came to know Kenneth Gwynne," she said. "No, my dear,
the time is not far off when you will not need a mother. Moll
Hawk needs one now. I shall try to be a mother to that hapless
girl."
Viola looked at her, the little line of perplexity deepening between
her eyes.
"Somehow it seems to me that I am just beginning to know
my own mother," she said.
A bluejay, sweeping gracefully out over the tree-tops, came to
rest upon a lofty bough in the grove across the road. They sat
for a long time without speaking, these two women, watching him
preen and prink, a bit of lively blue against the newborn green.
Then he flew away. He "moved on,"--a passing symbol.
How simple, how easy it was for this bright, gay vagabond to return
to the silence from which he had come.
CHAPTER XXV
MINDA CARTER
Viola was alone on the porch when Kenneth came into view at the
bend in the road. He had chuckled more than once after parting
from the gambler; a mental vision of the inwardly agitated though
outwardly bland Mr. Trentman making tracks as fast as his legs
would carry him to warn Lapelle of his peril afforded him no small
amount of satisfaction. If he knew his man,--and he thought he
did,--Barry would lose no time in shaking the dust of Lafayette
from his feet. The thought of that had sent his spirits up. He
went even farther in his reflections and found himself hoping
that Barry's flight might be so precipitous that he would not
have the opportunity to disclose his newfound information concerning
Rachel Carter.
He was nearing his own gate before he saw Viola, seated on the
porch. Involuntarily he slackened his pace. A sort of panic seized
him. Was she waiting there to question him? He experienced a sudden
overwhelming dismay. What was he to say to her? How was he to
face the unhappy, stricken,--but even as he contemplated a cowardly
retreat, she arose and came swiftly down the path. He groaned
inwardly. There was no escape.
Now, as he hesitated uncertainly at his own gate, his heart in
his boots, she serenely beckoned to him.
"I want to see you, Kenny," she called out.
This was no stricken, unhappy creature who approached him. Her
figure was proudly erect; she walked briskly; there was no trace
of shame or humiliation in her face; if anything, she was far
more at ease than he.
"I want to thank you," she said calmly, "for what
you did this morning. Not only for what you did to him but for
keeping me from shooting him." She held out her hand, but
lowered it instantly when she saw that his own was rather significantly
hidden inside the breast of his coat. A look of pain fluttered
across her eyes.
"Where is your mother?" he asked lamely.
She seemed to read his thoughts. "Mother and I have talked
it all over, Kenneth. She has told me everything."
"Oh, you poor darling!" he cried.
"Don't waste any sympathy on me," she retorted, coldly.
"I don't want it. Not from Robert Gwynne's son at any rate."
He was now looking at her steadily. "I see. You don't care
for the breed, is that it?"
"Kenny," she began, a solemn note in her voice, "there
is no reason why you and I should hurt each other. If I hurt you
just now I am sorry. But I meant what I said. I do not want the
pity of Robert Gwynne's son any more than you want to be pitied
by the daughter of Rachel Carter. We stand on even terms. I just
want you to know that my heart is as stout as yours and that my
pride is as strong." He bowed his head. "All my life
I have thought of my father as a Samson who was betrayed by a
Delilah. I have never allowed myself to think of him as anything
but great and strong and good. I grew to man's estate still believing
him to be the victim of an evil woman. I am not in the ordinary
sense a fool and yet I have been utterly without the power to
reason. My eyes have been opened, Viola. I am seeing with a new
vision. I have more to overlook, more to forgive in my father
than you have in your mother. I speak plainly, because I hope
this is to be the last time we ever touch upon the subject. You,
at least, have grown up to know the enduring love of a mother.
She did not leave you behind. She was not altogether heartless.
That is all I can say, all I shall ever say, even to you, about
my father."
He spoke with such deep feeling and yet so simply that her heart
was touched. A wistful look came into her eyes.
"I am still bewildered by it all, Kenny," she said.
"In the wink of an eye, everything is altered. I am not Viola
Gwyn. I am Minda Carter. I am not your half-sister. You seem suddenly
to have gone very far away from me. It hurts me to feel that we
can never be the same toward each other that we were even this
morning. I had come to care for you as a brother. Now you are
a stranger. I--I loved being your sister and--and treating you
as if you were my brother. Now all that is over." She sighed
deeply.
"Yes," he said gently, "all that is over for you,
Viola. But I have known for many weeks that you are not my sister."
"I bear no grudge against you," she said, meeting his
gaze steadily. "My heart is bitter toward the man I have
always looked upon as my father. But it does not contain one drop
of bitterness toward you. What matters if I have walked in darkness
and you in the light? We were treading the same path all the time.
Now we meet and know each other for what we really are. The path
is not wide enough for us to walk beside each other without our
garments touching. Are we to turn back and walk the other way
so that our unclean garments may not touch?"
"For heaven's sake, Viola," he cried in pain, "what
can have put such a thought into your head? Have I ever said or
done anything to cause you to think I--"
"You must not forget that you can walk by yourself, Kenny.
Your father is dead. The world is kind enough to let the dead
rest in peace. But it gives no quarter to the living. My mother
walks with me, Kenneth Gwynne. The world, when it knows, will
throw stones at her. That means it will have to throw stones at
me. She did not abandon me. I shall not abandon her. She sinned,"--here
her lip trembled,--"and she has been left to pay the penalty
alone. It may sound strange to you, but my mother was also deserted
by your father. God let him die, but I can't help feeling that
it wasn't fair, it wasn't right for him to die and leave her to
face this all alone."
"And you want to know where I stand in the matter?"
"It makes no difference, Kenny. I only want you to understand.
I don't want to lose you as a friend,--I would like to have you
stand up and take your share of the--"
"And that is just what I intend to do," he broke in.
"We occupy strange positions, Viola. We are,--shall I say
birds of a feather? This had to come. Now that it has come and
you know all that I know, are we to turn against each other because
of what happened when we were babies? We have done no wrong. I
love you, Viola,--I began loving you before I found out you were
not my half-sister. I will love you all my life. Now you know
where I stand."
She looked straight into his eyes for a long time; in her own
there was something that seemed to search his soul, something
of wonder, something groping and intense as if her own soul was
asking a grave, perplexing question. A faint, slow surge of colour
stole into her face. "I must go in the house now," she
said, a queer little flutter in her voice. "After dinner
I am going down with mother to see Moll Hawk. If--if you mean
all that you have just said, Kenny, why did you refuse to shake
hands with me?"
He withdrew his bruised right hand from its hiding-place. "It
is an ugly thing to look at but I am proud of it," he said.
"I would give it for you a thousand times over."
"Oh, I'm--I'm sorry I misjudged you--" she cried out.
Then both of her hands closed on the unsightly member and pressed
it gently, tenderly. There was that in the touch of her firm,
strong fingers that sent an ecstatic shock racing into every fibre
in his body. "I will never question that hand again, Kenny,"
she said, and then, releasing it, she turned and walked rapidly
away.
He stood watching her until she ran nimbly up the porch steps
and disappeared inside the house. Whereupon he lifted the swollen
but now blessed knuckles to his lips and sighed profoundly.
"Something tells me she still loves Barry, in spite of everything,"
he muttered, suddenly immersed in gloom. "Women stick through
thick and thin. If they once love a man they never--"
"Dinner's ready, Marse Kenneth," announced Zachariah
from the door-step.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE FLIGHT OF MARTIN HAWK
Now, Martin Hawk was not a patient man. He waited till mid-afternoon
for some word from Barry Lapelle in response to his message, and,
receiving none,--(for the very good reason that it was never delivered),--fell
to blaspheming mightily, and before he was through with it revealed
enough to bring about an ultimate though fruitless search for
the departed "go-between." He was, however, careful
to omit any mention of the _Paul Revere's_ captain, remembering
just in time that hardy riverman's promise to blow his brains
out if he even so much as breathed his name in connection with
certain nefarious transactions,--and something told him that Cephas
Redberry would put a short, sharp stop to any breathing at all
on his part the instant he laid eyes on him. He was not afraid
of Barry Lapelle but he was in deadly terror of Redberry. The
more he thought of Ceph being landed in the same jail with him,
the longer the goose feathers grew on his shrinking spine. So
he left the Captain out of it altogether,--indeed, he gave him
a perfectly clean bill of health.
Along about dusk that evening a crowd began to collect in the
neighbourhood of the jail. Martin, peering from behind a barred
window, was not long in grasping the significance of this ominous
gathering. He was the only inmate of the "calaboose";
therefore, he was in no doubt as to the identity of the person
to whom so many different terms of opprobrium were being applied
by certain loud-voiced citizens in the crowd. He also gathered
from remarks coming up to the window that the person referred
to stood in grave danger of being "skinned alive," "swung
to a limb," "horsewhipped till he can't stand,"
"rode on a rail," "ham-strung," "drownded,"
"hung up by the thumbs," "dogged out o' town,"
"peppered with bird-shot," "filled with buckshot,"
and numerous other unpleasant alternatives, no one of which was
conducive to the peace of mind.
As the evening wore on, Martin became more and more convinced
that his life wasn't worth a pinch of salt, and so began to pray
loudly and lustily. The crowd had increased to alarming proportions.
In the light of torches and bonfires he recognized men from far-off
Grand Prairie, up to the northwest of town. Wagons rumbled past
the jail and court house and were lost in the darkness of the
streets beyond. He was astonished to see that most of these vehicles
contained women and children, and many of them were loaded high
with household goods. This, thought Martin, was the apex of attention.
People were coming from the four corners of the world to witness
his execution! Evidently it was to be an affair that every householder
thought his women-folk and the children ought to see. Some men
might have been gratified by all this interest, but not Martin.
He began to increase the fervor of his prayers by inserting, here
and there, hair-raising oaths,--not bravely or with the courage
of the defiant, but because all other words failed him in his
extremity.
He had no means of knowing, of course, that he was dividing the
honours, so to speak, with another and far more imposing rascal,--the
terrible Black Hawk. How was he to know, locked up in jail, that
all evening long panic-stricken people from the distant and thinly-settled
prairies were piling into town because of the report that bands
of Black Hawk's warriors had been seen by reputable settlers along
the upper edge of the Prairie?
Like reports had been filtering into town for several days, but
not much credence had been given them. Indian scares were not
uncommon, and for the most part people had scoffed at them. But
now there was an actual threat from the powerful Black Hawk, whose
headquarters were up along the Rock River, in the northern part
of Illinois. The chieftain had at last thrown down the gauntlet;
he had refused to recognize the transfer of lands and rights as
laid down by the Government, and had openly announced his intention
to fight. Already troops from the forts were on the move, and
there was talk of the State militia being called out. Some of
the leading spirits in Lafayette had been moved to organize a
local company.
Naturally, Martin Hawk knew nothing of all this. He knew, through
Simon Braley, that Indian troubles were bound to come, but how
was he to know that red-skins in warpaint had been seen on the
Grand Prairie, or that he was not the only subject of conversation?
All he knew was that if the Lord didn't take a hand pretty soon
he would be--Well, it was useless to fix his mind on any particular
form of destruction, so many and so varied were the kinds being
disputatiously considered by the people in the street.
Suddenly the sound of fife and drum smote upon his ear, coming
from somewhere up the street. He huddled down in a corner and
began to moan. He knew the meaning of that signal-call. They were
organizing for a rush upon the jail,--an irresistible, overwhelming
charge that would sweep all opposition before it. Then he heard
the shuffling of many feet, loud exclamations and an occasional
cheer. Finally he screwed up the courage for another cautious
peep through the bars. The crowd was moving off up the street.
A small group remained undecided near a bonfire in the court house
yard. One of these men held a long rope in his hand, and seemed
argumentative.
Martin listened with all ears, trying to catch what was being
said. What an infernal noise that fife and drum were making! At
last the little knot of men moved away from the fire, coming toward
the window. Martin, being a wary rascal, promptly ducked his head,
but kept his ears open.
"It's a trick, that's what it is," he heard some one
growl. "A trick to get us away from the jail. They know we'll
get him, sure as God made little apples, so they've fixed this
up to--"
"Well, what if it is a trick?" broke in another. "It
ain't going to work. The crowd'll be back here again inside of
ten minutes an' all the sheriffs an' constables in the State can't
stop us from taking him out an' stringin' him up."
"We might as well go and see what's up," said another.
"I guess he's where he'll keep. He'll be here when we come
back, Bill. He can't get out till we open the door, so what's
the use cussin' about ten or fifteen minutes' delay? Come on!
I don't take any stock in this talk about Indians, but, great
snakes, if they want to get up a company to go out and--"
The rest of the remark was lost to Martin when the group turned
the corner of the jail.
"Ten or fifteen minutes," he groaned. In ten or fifteen
minutes the whole town would be out there, breaking down the door--the
work of a few seconds. He remembered hearing people laugh and
joke about the new jail. No less a person than Cap' Redberry had
said, after a casual inspection of the calaboose, that if THAT
was what they called a jail he'd hate to be inside of it if a
woodpecker started to peckin' at it, 'cause if such a thing happened
the whole blamed she-bang would cave in and like as not hurt him
considerable. And Cap' was not the only one who spoke derisively
of the new jail. Ed Bloker declared he had quit walkin' past it
on his way home from the grocery because he was in mortal terror
of staggerin' up against it and knockin' it all to smash. Of course,
Martin knew that it was not as bad as all that, but, even so,
it could not hold out for more than a minute if some one began
pounding at the door with a sledge-hammer.
There were two rooms, or compartments, to the jail; a little ante-room
and the twelve-by-sixteen foot "cage," of which he was
the sole occupant. A single cornhusk mattress had been put in
for him that afternoon. He never seemed quite able to fix its
position in his mind, a circumstance that caused him to stumble
over it time and again as he tramped restlessly about the place
in the darkness.
Suddenly he stopped as if shot. A tremendous idea struck him,
and for a moment his head spun dizzily. If it was so blamed easy
to break into the jail, why should it be so all-fired difficult
to break out of it? Why, he hadn't even tried the door, or the
bars in the window; now that he thought of it, the grate in the
south window had appeared to be a little shaky. Inspired by a
wild, alluring hope, he sprang over to the window and gripped
the thin iron bars; with all his might and main he jerked, bracing
his feet against the wall. No use! It would come just so far and
no farther. He tried the other window, with even less encouraging
results. In eight or ten minutes now, the crowd would be,--he
leaped to the barred door. It, too, resisted his crazy strength.
The huge padlock on the other side clattered tauntingly against
the grating, but that was all. All the while he was grunting and
whining: "If I ever get out of this, it'll take a streak
o' greased lightnin' to ketch me. Oh, Lordy! That drum's gettin'
closer! They're comin'! If I ever get out of this, nobody'll ever
see me closer'n a hundred mile o' this here town,--never as long
as I live. Gimme a half hour's start an'--Jehosophat!"
He had shoved a trembling hand between the bars and was fumbling
with the padlock. His ejaculation was due to a most incredible
discovery. Some one had forgotten to take the key out of the padlock!
He laughed shrilly, witlessly. Twenty seconds later he was out
in the little anteroom or vestibule, panting and still chortling.
The outer door opened readily to the lifting of the latch. He
peeped out cautiously, warily. The square was deserted save for
a few men hurrying along the street toward the drill ground up
beyond Horton's tanyard,--where the drum and fife were playing
and men were shouting loudly.
Thereupon Martin Hawk did the incomprehensible thing. He squared
his brawny shoulders, set his hat rakishly over one ear, and sauntered
out of the jail, calmly stopping to latch the door--and even to
rattle it to make sure that it had caught!
He was far too cunning to dart around the corner and bolt for
safety. That would have been the worst kind of folly. Instead,
he strode briskly off in the direction from whence came the strains
of martial music! So much for the benefit of watchful, suspicious
eyes. But as he turned the corner of Baker's store his whole demeanour
changed. He was off like a frightened rabbit, and as soft-footedly.
He ran as the huntsman or the Indian runs,--almost soundlessly,
like the wind breezing over dead leaves or through the tops of
reeds. Three men stepped out from behind a wagon on the far side
of the square. The flare of a bonfire reached dimly to the corner
around which the fugitive had scurried. One of the men gave vent
to a subdued snort and then spat hurriedly and copiously.
"We'll never see hide nor hair of him again," quoth
he. "He won't stop running till daybreak. I guess you'd better
wait about ten minutes, Jake, and then fire a few shots. That'll
put new life into him. Course, a lot of blamed fools will cuss
the daylights out of me for letting him get away right under my
nose, and all that, but let 'em talk. He's gone for good, you
can bet on that,--and the county's lucky to get rid of him so
cheaply."
"I guess you're right, Sheriff," agreed one of his companions.
"From all I hear, Mrs. Gwyn would have a hard time provin'
it was him as stole her--"
"Supposin' she did prove it, what then?" broke in the
high sheriff of the bailiwick. "The county would have to
feed him for a couple of months or so and then turn him loose
again to go right back to stealing, same as before. The best way
to punish a thief, accordin' to my notion, is to keep him everlastingly
on the jump, scared to death to show his face anywheres and always
hatin' to go to sleep for fear he'll wake up and find somebody
pointin' a pistol at him and sayin,' 'Well, I got you at last,
dang ye.' Besides, lockin' Mart up isn't going to bring back Mrs.
Gwyn's sheep, is it?"
"When that gal of his tells her story in court to-morrow,"
advanced the third member of the group, "there'll be plenty
of people in this town that won't be put off a second time by
any fife and drum shinanigan."
"Anyhow," said the sheriff, "I didn't want to have
the blamed skunk on my mind while we're organizin' the company.
It's bad enough havin' to go out and fight Indians without worryin'
all the time I'm away about whether anybody back here has had
sense enough to keep Martin from starvin' to death. I guess we'd
better mosey along up to the drill ground, boys. Martin's got
into the bushes by this time, and if I'm any kind of a guesser
he ain't dawdlin' along smellin' every spring flower he comes
across."
"Don't you think you'd better go over an' take a look around
the jail first?"
"What for? There ain't anybody in it."
"No, but like as not the dog-gasted whelp run off with that
padlock, an' we'd ought to know it before he gets too big a start.
Padlocks cost money," explained the other, with a dry chuckle
and a dig in the sheriff's ribs.
"So do prisoners," was the rejoinder of this remarkable
sheriff.
And thus it came to pass that between the sheriff and Kenneth
Gwynne and Moll Hawk, the county got rid of three iniquitous individuals.
One rode forth in broad daylight on a matchless thoroughbred;
another stole off like a weasel in the night, and the third took
passage on the Ship that Never Returns.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE TRIAL OF MOLL HAWK
The trial of Moll Hawk was a brief one. "Judge" Billings,
as foreman of the jury, asked permission of the Court to make
a few remarks before the taking of testimony began.
"Your honour, this here jury got together last night and
sort of talked things over while Mr. Benbridge and other patriotic
citizens of Lafayette were engaged in organizing a number of noble
and brave-hearted gentlemen into a company of soldiers to give
battle to the bloodthirsty red man who is about to swoop down
upon us, with tommyhawk and knife and rifle, to ravage our lands
and pillage our women--er--I mean pillage our lands and--er--so
forth. As I was saying, your honour, we talked it over and seeing
as how we have all enlisted in Mr. Benbridge's troop and he sort
of thought we'd better begin drilling as soon as possible, and
also seeing as how this here trial is attractin' a good deal of
attention at a time when we ought to be thinkin' of the safety
of our wives and children,--if we have any,--we came to the conclusion
to address you, sir, with all respect, and suggest that you instruct
the counsel on both sides to be as lenient as possible with the
jury.
"This here innocent girl's father broke out of jail and got
away. As far as this here jury knows he ain't likely ever to come
back, so, for the time being at least, there don't seem to be
anybody we can hang for the crime with which the prisoner at the
bar is charged. This jury was picked with a great deal of care
by the sheriff and is, I am reliably informed, entirely satisfactory
to both sides of the case.
"In view of the fact that Black Hawk's warriors are reported
to have been seen within twenty miles of our beautiful little
city, and also in view of the additional fact that Mrs. Rachel
Gwyn, one of our foremost citizens and taxpayers, has recently
informed me,--and your honour also, I believe, in my presence,--that
she intends to give this poor girl a home as soon as she is lawfully
discharged by the jury as not guilty, we, the jury, implore your
honour to keep an eye on the clock. As we understand the case,
there were only two witnesses to the killing of the villain against
whom this young woman fought so desperately in self-defence. One
of 'em is here in this courtroom. The other is dead and buried.
It is now ten minutes past nine. We, the jury, would like for
you to inform the counsel on both sides that at precisely ten
o'clock we are going to render a verdict, because at a quarter-past
ten the majority of us have to attend a company drill. The lawyer
for the prisoner enlisted last night as a private in our company,
and so did the prosecuting attorney."
"This is a most unusual and unprecedented action on the part
of a jury," said the Court gravely. "However, in view
of the extraordinary circumstances, I feel that we should be as
expeditious as possible in disposing of the case on trial. Gentlemen,
you have heard the remarks of the foreman of the jury. Have either
of you any reason for objecting to the suggestion he has made?
Very well, then; we will proceed with the trial of Mary Hawk,
charged with murder in the first degree. Call your first witness,
Mr. Prosecutor."
The little courtroom was jammed to its capacity. Hundreds, unable
to gain admission, crowded about the entrance and filled the square.
The town was in the throes of a vast excitement, what with the
trial, the Indian uprising in the north, the escape of Martin
Hawk and the flight of Barry Lapelle, hitherto regarded as a rake
but not even suspected of actual dishonesty. The Paul Revere,
with Captain Redberry in charge, had got away at daybreak, loaded
to the rails with foot-loose individuals who suddenly had decided
to try their fortunes elsewhere rather than remain in a district
likely to be overrun by savages.
Moll Hawk sat in front of the judge's table and at her side was
Kenneth Gwynne. Mrs. Gwyn and Viola occupied seats on a bench
near one of the windows, facing the jury. The prisoner was frightened.
She was stiff and uncomfortable in the new dress the sheriff's
wife had selected for her. Her black hair was neatly brushed and
coiled in two thick lobs which hung down over her ears. Her deep-set
eyes darted restlessly, even warily about her as she sat there
in the midst of this throng of strange, stern-faced men. Now and
then they went appealingly to Mrs. Gwyn or Viola or to the sheriff's
wife, and always they seemed to be asking: "What are they
going to do to me?"
The prosecuting attorney, a young man of slender experience but
chivalrous instincts, solemnly announced that he had but two witnesses
to examine and then he was through. He called the undertaker to
the stand.
"In as few words as possible, tell the jury who it was that
you buried yesterday afternoon."
"Jasper Suggs."
"Was he dead?"
"He was."
"That's all, your honour."
"Any questions, Mr. Gwynne?" inquired the judge.
"None, your honour."
"Call your next witness, Mr. Prosecutor."
"Mr. Sheriff, will you take the stand for a moment? Did you
see the defendant along about four o'clock yesterday morning?"
"I did."
"State where."
"At her father's cabin."
"State what had happened there prior to your arrival, if
you know."
"This defendant had had a little difficulty with the corpse,
and he was dead on the floor when we got there."
"From a knife wound?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who inflicted that wound, if you know?"
"Miss Mary Hawk."
"You are sure about that, Mr. Sheriff?"
"Pos-i-tively."
"How can you be sure of that, sir, if you did not witness
the deed with your own eyes?"
The Court rapped on the table.
"This is your own witness, Mr. Prosecutor. Are you trying
to cross-examine him, or to discredit his testimony?"
"I beg your honour's pardon."
Kenneth arose. "We will admit that Jasper Suggs came to his
death at the hands of the defendant."
"In that case," said his gentlemanly adversary, "the
State rests."
"Judge" Billings was heard audibly to remark: "Give
'em an inch and they take a mile."
"Order in the court! Call your first witness, Mr. Gwynne."
"Take this chair, if you please, Miss Hawk. Hold up your
right hand and be sworn. Now, be good enough to answer the questions
I put to you, clearly and distinctly, so that the jury may hear."
After a few preliminary questions he said: "Now tell the
Court and the jury exactly what happened, beginning with the return
of your father and Jasper Suggs from a trip to town. Don't be
afraid, Miss--er--Moll. Tell the jury, in your own words, just
what took place between the time you first heard Suggs and your
father talking in the cabin and the arrival of the sheriff and
his men."
It lacked just three minutes of ten o'clock when she finished
her story. It had been delivered haltingly and with visible signs
of embarrassment at times, but it was a straightforward, honest
recital of facts.
"Any questions, Mr. Prosecutor?"
"None, your honour. The State does not desire to present
argument. It is content to submit its case to the jury without
argument, asking only that a verdict be rendered fairly and squarely
upon the evidence as introduced. All we ask is justice."
"Any argument, Mr. Gwynne?"
"None, your honour. The defence is satisfied to leave its
case entirely in the hands of the jury."
"Gentlemen of the jury," said the Court, glancing at
the clock, "the Court will omit its instructions to you,
merely advising you that if you find the prisoner guilty as charged
your verdict must be murder in the first degree, the penalty for
which is death."
"Judge" Billings leaned over and picked up his hat from
the floor. Then he arose and announced:
"We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty." "Prisoner
discharged," said the Court, arising. "The Court desires
to thank the jurors for the close attention you have paid to the
evidence in this case and for the prompt and just verdict you
have returned. Court stands adjourned."
Later on Moll Hawk walked up the hill with Mrs. Gwyn and Viola.
Very few words had passed between them since they left the curious
but friendly crowd in the public square. Finally Moll's dubious
thoughts found expression in words, breaking in upon the detached
reflections of her two companions.
"I don't see why they let me off like that, Mis' Gwyn. I
killed him, didn't I?"
"Yes, Moll,--but the law does not convict a person who kills
in self-defence. Didn't you understand that?" "But supposin'
I wuz starvin' to death an' I stole a ham like Bud Gridley did
last fall when his pa an' ma wuz sick, wouldn't that be self-defence?
They put him in jail fer two months, jest fer stealin' a ham when
he hadn't had nothin' to eat fer three days,--bein' crippled an'
couldn't work. Wuz that fair?"
"Don't forget, Moll," said Rachel ironically, "that
Henry Butts valued his ham at seventy-five cents."
"Anyhow, hit don't seem right an' fair," said Moll.
"I didn't have to kill Jasper to save my life. I could ha'
saved it without killin' him."
"You did perfectly right in killing him, Moll," broke
in Viola warmly. "I would have done the same thing if I had
been in your place."
Moll thought over this for a few seconds. "Well, maybe you
might have had to do it, Miss Violy, if them fellers had got away
with you as they wuz plannin' to do," she said.
Silence fell between them again, broken after a while by Moll.
"They'll never ketch Pap," she said. "I guess I'll
never lay eyes on him ag'in. I wuz jest wonderin' what's goin'
to become of his dogs. Do you suppose anybody'll take the trouble
to feed 'em?"
Toby Moxler, Jack Trentman's dealer, accosted Kenneth Gwynne at
the conclusion of the first drill.
"Jack found this here letter down at the shanty this morning,
Mr. Gwynne. It's addressed to you, so he asked me to hand it to
you when I saw you."
Kenneth knew at once who the letter was from. He stuck it into
his coat pocket, unopened.
"Tell Jack that I am very much obliged to him," he said,
and walked away.
When he was safely out of hearing distance, Toby turned to the
man at his side and remarked:
"If what Barry Lapelle told me and Jack Trentman yesterday
morning is true, there'll be the doggonedest scandal this town
ever heard of."
"What did he tell you?" inquired his neighbour eagerly.
"It's against my principles to talk about women," snapped
Toby, glaring at the man as if deeply insulted. Seeing the disappointment
in the other's face, he softened a little: "'Specially about
widders," he went so far as to explain. "You keep your
shirt on, Elmer, and wait. And when it _does_ come out, you'll
be the most surprised man in town."
Kenneth did not open Barry's letter until he reached his office.
His face darkened as he read but cleared almost instantly. He
even smiled disdainfully as he tore the sheet into small pieces
and stuffed them into his pocket against the time when he could
consign them to the fire in his kitchen stove.
"Kenneth Gwynne, Esquire.
"Sir: Upon receipt of your discurtious and cowardly reply
to my challenge I realized the futility of expecting on your part
an honourable and gentlemanly settlement of our difficulties.
My natural inclination was to seek you out and force you to fight
but advice of friends prevailed. I have decided to make it my
business to verify the story which has come to my ears regarding
the Gwynne and Carter families. In pursuit of this intention I
am starting immediately for your old home town in Kentucky where
I am convinced there still remain a number of people who will
be able to give me all the facts. If I was misled into making
statements that were untrue in my last meeting with your sister
I shall most humbly apologize to her. If on the contrary I find
that what I said to her was true I will make it my business to
bring all the facts to the notice of the people of Lafayette and
let them decide what to do in the matter. In any case I shall
return in about a month or six weeks at which time I shall renew
my challenge to you with the sincere hope that you may accept
it and that I may have the belated pleasure of putting a bullet
through your cowardly heart. I must however in the meantime refuse
to sign myself
"Yours respectfully
"BARRY LAPELLE."
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE TRYSTING PLACE OF THOUGHTS
The turmoil and excitement over the Indian outbreak increased
during the day. A constant stream of refugees, mostly old men,
women and children, poured into Lafayette from regions west of
the Wabash. By nightfall fully three hundred of them were being
cared for by the people of the town, and more were coming. Shortly
after noon a mounted scout rode in from Warren County with the
word that the militia of his county was preparing to start off
at once to meet the advancing hordes; he brought in the report
that farther north the frontier was being abandoned by the settlers
and that massacres already had occurred. There was also a well-supported
rumour that a portion of the Illinois militia, some two hundred
and fifty men in all, had been routed on Hickory Creek by Black
Hawk's invincible warriors, with appalling losses to the whites.
He bore a stirring message from his commanding officer, urging
the men of Tippecanoe to rouse themselves and join Warren County
troops in an immediate movement to repel or at least to check
the Sacs and Miamis and Pottawattomies who were swarming over
the prairies like locusts.
The appearance of this messenger, worn and spent after his long
ride, created a profound sensation. Here at last was official
verification of the stories brought in by the panic-stricken refugees;
here was something that caused the whole town suddenly to awake
to the fact that a real menace existed, and that it was not, after
all, another of those rattle-brained "scares" which
were constantly cropping up.
For months there had been talk of old Black Hawk and his Sacs
going on the warpath over the occupation of their lands in Northern
Illinois by the swift-advancing, ruthless whites. The old Sac,
or Sauk, chieftain had long threatened to resist by force of arms
this violation of the treaty. He had been so long, however, in
even making a start to carry out his threat that the more enlightened
pioneers had ceased to take any stock in his spoutings.
The Free Press, Lafayette's only newspaper, had from time to time
printed news seeping out of the Northwest by means of carrier
or voyageur; their tales bore out the reports furnished by Federal
and State authorities on the more or less unsettled conditions.
There was, for example, the extremely disquieting story that Black
Hawk, on his return from a hunting trip west of the Mississippi,
had travelled far eastward across Northern Indiana to seek the
advice of the British commander in Canada. Not only was the story
of this pilgrimage true, but the fact was afterward definitely
established that the British official advised the chief to make
war on the white settlers,--this being late in 1831, nearly twenty
years after the close of the War of 1812. Many of Black Hawk's
warriors had served under Tecumseh in the last war with England,
and they still were rabid British sympathizers.
Amidst the greatest enthusiasm and excitement, the men of Lafayette
organized the "Guards," a company some three hundred
strong. After several days of intensive and, for a time, ludicrous
"drilling," they were ready and eager to ride out into
the terrorized Northwest.
Kenneth Gwynne was a private in "The Guards."
During the thrilling days of preparation for the expedition, he
saw little of the women next door. Doubtless for reasons of their
own, Viola and her mother maintained a strange and persistent
aloofness. It was not until the evening before the departure of
the "Guards" that he took matters into his own hands
and walked over to Rachel's house.
The few glimpses he had had of Viola during these busy days and
nights served not only to increase his ardent craving for her
but caused him the most acute misery as well. Utter despond had
fallen upon him.
It was significant of her new attitude toward life that she had
cast aside the sombre habiliments of mourning. She was now appearing
in bright, though not gay, colours,--unmistakable evidence of
her decision to abandon all pretence of grief for the man she
had looked upon for so many years as her father.
There was a strange, new vivacity in her manner, too,--something
that hurt rather than cheered him. He heard her singing about
the house,--gay, larksome little snatches,--and she whistled merrily
as she worked in the garden. Somehow her very light-heartedness
added to his despair. What right had she to be happy and gay and
cheerful whilst he was so miserable? Had he not told her in so
many words that he loved her? Did that mean nothing to her? Why
should she sing and whistle in her own domain when she must have
known that he was suffering in his, not twenty rods away? He was
conscious at times of a sense of injury, and as the time drew
near for his departure without so much as a sign of regret or
even interest on her part, this feeling deepened into resentment.
He was very stiff and formal as he approached the porch on which
Viola and her mother were seated, enjoying the cool evening breeze
that had sprung up at the end of the hot and sultry day. A strange
woman and two small children, refugees from the Grand Prairie,
had been given shelter by Mrs. Gwyn, but they had already gone
to bed.
"We are off at daybreak," he said, standing before them,
his hat in his hand. "I thought I would come over to say
good-bye."
His hungry gaze swept over the figure of the girl, shadowy and
indistinct in the semi-darkness. To his amazement, he saw that
she was attired in the frock she had worn on that unforgettable
night at Striker's. She leaned forward and held out her hand to
him. As he took it he looked up into her dusky face and caught
his breath. Good heaven! She was actually smiling! Smiling when
he was going away perhaps never to return alive!
She did not speak. It was Rachel Carter who said, quietly:
"Thank you for coming over, Kenneth. We would not have allowed
you to go, however, without saying good-bye and wishing you well
on this hazardous undertaking. May God protect you and all the
brave men who go out with you."
He had not released Viola's hand. Suddenly her grip tightened;
her other hand was raised quickly to her face, and he was dumbfounded
to see that she was dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.
His heart swelled. She had been smiling bravely all the while
her eyes were filled with tears. And now he knew why she was silent.
He lifted her hand to his lips.
"I want you to know, Viola dear, before I go away,"
he said huskily, "that I can and will give you back the name
of Gwynne, and with my name I give more love than ever any man
had for woman before in all this world. I lay my heart at your
feet. It is yours whether you choose to pick it up or not."
She slowly withdrew her hand. Neither of them heard the long,
deep sigh in the darkness beside them.
"I don't know what to say to you, Kenny," she murmured,
almost inaudibly.
"There is nothing for you to say, Viola, unless you love
me. I am sorry if I have distressed you. I only wanted you to
know before I go away that I love you."
"I--I am glad you love me, Kenny. It makes me very happy.
But it is all so strange, so unreal. I can't seem to convince
myself that it is right for you to love me or for me to love you.
Some day, perhaps, it will all straighten itself out in my mind
and then I will know whether it is love,--the kind of love you
want,--or just a dear, sweet affection that I feel for you."
"I understand," he said gravely. "It is too soon
for you to know. A brother turned into a lover, as if by magic,
and you are bewildered. I can only pray that the time will come
when your heart tells you that you love me as I want you to, and
as I love you."
They spoke thus freely before the girl's mother, for those were
the days when a man's courting was not done surreptitiously. It
is doubtful, however, if they remembered her presence.
"There have been times--" she began, a trace of eagerness
in her voice, "when something seemed to tell me that--that
I ought to keep away from you. I used to have the queerest sensations
running all over--" She did not complete the sentence; instead,
as if in a sudden panic over the nearness of unmaidenly revelations,
she somewhat breathlessly began all over again: "I guess
it must have been a--a warning, or something."
"They say there is such a thing as a magnetic current between
human beings," he said. "It was that, Viola. You felt
my love laying hold upon you, touching you, caressing you."
"The other night, when you held me so close to you, I--I
couldn't think of you as my brother."
Out of the darkness spoke Rachel Carter.
"You love each other," she said. "There is no use
trying to explain or account for your feelings. The day you came
here, Kenneth Gwynne, I saw the handwriting on the wall. I knew
that this would happen. It was as certain as the rising of the
sun. It would have been as useless for me to attempt to stop the
rising sun as to try to keep you two from falling in love with
each other. It was so written long ago."
"But, mother, I am not sure,--how can you say that I am in
love with him when I don't know it myself?" cried Viola.
"When you came, Kenneth, I knew that my days were numbered,"
went on the older woman, leaning forward in her chair. "The
truth would have to come out. A force I could not stand up against
had entered the field. For want of a better word we will call
it Fate. It is useless to fight against Fate. If I had never told
you two the truth about yourselves, you would have found it out
anyway. You would have found it out in the touch of your hands,
in the leap of the blood, in the strange, mysterious desire of
the flesh over which the soul has no control. You began loving
him, Viola,--without knowing it,--that night at Phineas Striker's.
You--"
"How can you say such a thing, mother?" cried Viola
hotly. "I was in love with Barry Lapelle at that--"
"You were never in love with Barry," broke in her mother
calmly.
"I think I ought to know when I am in love and when I am
not!"
"Be that as it may, you now know that you were never in love
with him,--so it comes to the same thing."
Kenneth's heart gave a joyous bound. "I--I wish I could believe
that. I wish I knew that you are not thinking of him now, Viola,
and wanting him back in spite of all he has done."
Viola arose suddenly. "I am going in the house," she
said haughtily. "Neither of you seems to think I have a grain
of sense. First mother says I am in love with you without knowing
it, and now you are wondering if I am in love with Barry without
knowing it, I suppose. Don't you give me credit for having a mind
of my own? And, mother, I've just got to say it, even if it is
insolent,--I will be very much obliged to you if you will allow
me to make up my own mind about Kenny. It is not for you or anybody
else to say I am in love with him."
"Oh, don't go away angry, Viola," cried Kenneth, distressed.
"Let's forget all we've said and--"
"I don't want to forget all we've said," she exclaimed,
stamping her foot. "How dare you come over here and tell
me you love me and then ask me to forget--Oh, if that's all it
amounts to with you, Kenneth, I dare say I can make up my mind
right now. I--"
"You will find, Kenneth," broke in her mother drily,
"that she has a temper."
"I guess he has found that out before this," said Viola,
from the doorstep. "He has had a taste of it. If he doesn't
like--"
"I am used to tempers," said he, now lightly. "I
have a devil of a temper myself."
"I don't believe it," she cried. "You've got the
kindest, sweetest, gentlest nature I've ever--"
"Come and sit down, Viola," interrupted her mother,
arising. "I am going in the house myself."
"You needn't, mother. I am going to bed. Good night, Kenny."
"I came to say good-bye," he reminded her.
She paused with her hand on the latch. He heard the little catch
in her breath. Then she turned impulsively and came back to him.
He was still standing on the ground, several feet below her.
"What a beast I am, Kenny," she murmured contritely.
"I waited out here all evening for you to come over so that
I could say good-bye and tell you how much I shall miss you,--and
to wish you a speedy and safe return. And you paid me a great
compliment,--the greatest a girl can have. I don't deserve it.
But I will miss you, Kenny,--I will miss you terribly. Now, I
MUST go in. If I stay another second longer I'll say something
mean and spiteful,--because I AM mean and spiteful, and no one
knows it better than I do. Good-bye, Kenneth Gwynne."
"Good-bye, Minda Carter," he said softly, and again
raised her hand to his lips. "My little Minda grown up to
be the most beautiful queen in all the world."
She turned and fled swiftly into the house. They heard her go
racing up the stairs,--then a door open and slam shut again.
"She would be very happy to-night, Kenneth, if it were not
for one thing," said Rachel. "I still stand in the way.
She cannot give herself to you except at a cost to me. There can
be nothing between you until I stand before the world and say
there is no reason why you should not be married to each other.
Do you wonder that she does not know her own heart?"
"And I would not deserve her love and trust if I were to
ask you to pay that price, Rachel Carter," said he steadily.
"Good-bye, Kenneth," she said, after a moment. She held
out her hand. "Will you take my hand,--just this once, boy?"
He did not hesitate. He grasped the hard, toil-worn hand firmly
in his.
"We can never be friends, Rachel Carter,--but, as God is
my witness, I am no longer your enemy," he said, with feeling.
"Good-bye."
He was half-way down to the gate when she called to him:
"Wait, Kenneth. Moll has something for you."
He turned back and met Moll Hawk as she came swiftly toward him.
"Here's somethin' fer you to carry in your pocket, Mr. Gwynne,"
said the girl in her hoarse, low-pitched voice. "No harm
c'n ever come to you as long as you got this with you,--in your
pocket er anywheres. Hit's a charm an old Injin chief give my
Pap when he wuz with the tribe, long before I wuz born. Pap lost
it the day before he wuz tooken up by the sheriff, er else he
never would ha' had setch bad luck. I found it day before yesterday
when I wuz down to the cabin, seein' about movin' our hogs an'
chickens an' hosses over to Mis' Gwyn's barn. The only reason
the Injun give it to Pap wuz because he wuz over a hundred years
old an' didn't want to warn off death no longer. Hit's just a
little round stone with somethin' fer all the world like eyes
an' nose an' mouth on one side of it,--jest as if hit had been
carved out, only hit wuzn't. Hit's jest natural. Hit keeps off
sickness an' death an' bad luck, Mr. Gwynne. Pap knowed he wuz
goin' to ketch the devil the minute he found out he lost it. I
tole Miss Violy I wanted fer you to have it with you while you
wuz off fightin' the Injuns, an' she said she'd love me to her
dyin' day if I would give you the loan of it. Mebby you don't
believe in charms an' signs an' all setch, but it can't hurt you
to carry it an'--an' hit's best to be on the safe side. Please
keep it, Mr. Gwynne."
It was a round object no bigger than a hickory nut. He had taken
it from her and was running his thumb over its surface while she
was speaking. He could feel the tiny nose and the little indentations
that produced the effect of eyes.
"Thank you, Moll," he said, sincerely touched. "It's
mighty good of you. I will bring it back to you, never fear, and
I hope that after it has served me faithfully for a little while
it may do the same for you till you, too, have seen a hundred
and don't want to live any longer. What was it Miss Viola said
to you?"
"I guess I hadn't ought to said that," she mumbled.
"Anyhow, I ain't goin' to say it over again. Good-bye, Mr.
Gwynne,--and take good keer o' yourself."
With that she hurried back to the house, and he, after a glance
up at the second story window which he knew to be Viola's, bent
his steps homeward.
His saddle-bags were already packed, his pistols cleaned and oiled;
the long-barrelled rifle he had borrowed from the tavern keeper
was in prime order for the expedition. Zachariah had gotten out
his oldest clothes, his thick riding boots, a linsey shirt and
the rough but serviceable buckskin cap that old Mr. Price had
hobbled over to the office to give him after the first day of
drill with the sententious remark that a "plug hat was a
perty thing to perade around in but it wasn't a very handy sort
of a hat to be buried in."
His lamp burned far into the night. He tried to read but his thoughts
would not stay fixed on the printed page. Not once but many times
he took up from the table a short, legal-looking document and
re-read its contents, which were entirely in his own cramped,
scholastic hand save for the names of two witnesses at the end.
It was his last will and testament, drawn up that very day. Minda
Carter was named therein as his sole legatee,--"Minda Carter,
at present known as Viola Gwyn, the daughter of Owen and Rachel
Carter." His father had, to all intents and purposes, cut
her off without a penny, an injustice which would be righted in
case of his own death.
It was near midnight when he blew out the light and threw himself
fully dressed upon the bed. Sleep would not come. At last, in
desperation, he got up and stole guiltily, self-consciously out
into the yard, treading softly lest he should wake the vehement
Zachariah in his cubbyhole off the kitchen. Presently he was standing
at the fence separating the two yards, his elbows on the top rail,
his gloomy, lovelorn gaze fixed upon Viola's darkened window.
The stars were shining. A cool, murky mantle lay over the land.
He did not know how long he had been standing there when his ear
caught the sound of a gently-closing door. A moment later a dim,
shadowy figure appeared at the corner of the house, stood motionless
for a few seconds, and then came directly toward him. The blood
rushed thunderously to his head. He could not believe his senses.
He had been wishing--aye, vainly wishing that by some marvellous
enchantment she could be transported through the dark little window
into his arms. He rubbed his eyes.
"Viola!" he whispered.
"Oh, Kenny," she faltered, and her voice was low and
soft like the sighing of the wind. "I--I am so ashamed. What
will you think of me for coming out here like this?"
The god of Love gave him wings. He was over the fence, she was
in his arms, and he was straining the warm, pliant body close
to his bursting breast. His lips were on hers. He felt her stiffen
and then relax in swift surrender. Her heart, stilled at first,
began to beat tumultuously against his breast; her free arm stole
about his neck and tightened as the urge of a sweet, overwhelming
passion swept over her.
At last she released herself from his embrace and stood with bowed
head, her hands pressed to her eyes.
"I didn't mean to do it,--I didn't mean to do this,"
she was murmuring.
"You love me,--you love me," he whispered, his voice
trembling with joy. He drew her hands down from her eyes and held
them tight in his own. "Say you do, Viola,--speak the words."
"It must be love," she sighed. "What else could
make me feel as I do now,--as I did when you were holding me,--and
kissing me? Oh,--oh,--yes, I DO love you, Kenny. I know it now.
I love you with all my soul." She was in his arms again.
"But," she panted a little later, "I swear I didn't
know it when I came out here, Kenny,--I swear I didn't."
"Oh, yes, you did," he cried triumphantly. "You've
known it all the time, only you didn't understand."
"I wonder," she mused. Then quickly, shyly: "I
had no idea it could come like this,--that it would BE like this.
I feel so queer. My knees are all trembly,--it's the strangest
feeling. Now you must let me go, Kenny. I must not stay out here
with you. It is terribly late. I--"
"I can't let you go in yet, dearest. Come! We will sit for
a little while on the steps. Don't leave me yet, Viola. It is
all so wonderful, so unbelievable. And to think I was looking
up at your window only a few minutes ago, wishing that you would
fly down to me. Good heavens! It can't be a dream, can it? All
this is real, isn't it?" She laughed softly. "It can't
be a dream with me, because I haven't even been in bed. I've been
sitting up there in my window for hours, looking over at your
house. When your light went out, I was terribly lonely. Yes, and
I was a little put out with you for going to bed. Then I saw you
come and lean on the fence. I knew you were looking up at my window,--and
I was sure that you could see me in spite of the darkness. You
never moved,--just stood there with your elbows on the fence,
staring up at me. It made me very uncomfortable, because I was
in my nightgown. So I made up my mind to get into bed and pull
the coverlet up over my head. But I didn't do it. I put on my
dress,--everything,--shoes and stockings and all,--and then I
went back to see if you were still there. There you were. You
hadn't moved. So I sat down again and watched you. After awhile
I--I--well, I just couldn't help creeping downstairs and coming
out to--to say good-bye to you again, Kenny. You looked so lonesome."
"I was lonesome," he said,--"terribly lonesome."
She led him to a crudely constructed bench at the foot of a towering
elm whose lower branches swept the fore-corner of the roof.
"Let us sit here, Kenny dear," she said. "It is
where I shall come and sit every night while you are gone away.
I shall sit with my back against it and close my eyes and dream
that you are beside me as you are now, with your arms around me
and your cheek against mine,--and it will be the trysting place
for our thoughts."
"That's wonderful, Viola," he said, impressed. "'The
trysting place for our thoughts.' Aye, and that it shall be. Every
night, no matter where my body may be or what peril it may be
in, I shall be here beside you in my thoughts."
She rested against him, in the crook of his strong right arm,
her head against his shoulder, and they both fell silent and pensive
under the spell of a wondrous enchantment.
After a while, she spoke, and there was a note of despair in her
voice:
"What is to become of us, Kenny? What are we to do?"
"No power on earth can take you away from me now, Minda,"
he said.
"Ah,--that's it," she said miserably. "You call
me Minda,--and still you wonder why I ask what we are to do."
"You mean--about--"
"We can be nothing more to each other than we are now. There
is some one else we must think of. I--I forgot her for a little
while, Kenny,--I was so happy that I forgot her."
"Were ever two souls so tried as ours," he groaned,
and again silence fell between them.
Kneeling at the window from which Viola had peered so short a
time before, looking down upon the figures under the tree, was
Rachel Carter. She could hear their low voices, and her ears,
made sharp by pain, caught the rapturous and the forlorn passages
breathed upon the still air.
She arose stiffly and drew back into the darkness, out of the
dim, starlit path, and standing there with her head high, her
arms outspread, she made her solemn vow of self-renunciation.
"I have no right to stand between them and happiness. They
have done no wrong. They do not deserve to be punished. My mind
is made up. To-morrow I shall speak. God has brought them together.
It is not for me to keep them apart. Aye, to-morrow I shall speak."
Then Rachel Carter, at peace with herself, went back to her bed
across the hall and was soon asleep, a smile upon her lips, the
creases wiped from between her eyes as if by some magic soothing
hand.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE ENDING
At crack-o'-day Kenneth rode out of his stable-yard on Brandy
Boy, and went cantering away, followed on foot by the excited
Zachariah, bound for the parade ground where the "soldiers"
were to concentrate.
The rider turned in his saddle to wave farewell to the little
group huddled at Rachel's gate,--three tall women who waved back
to him. Rounding the bend, he sent a swift glance over his shoulder.
There was but one figure at the gate now; she blew a kiss to him.
Nearly three hundred horsemen moved out of Lafayette that forenoon
amidst the greatest excitement and enthusiasm. Most of them swam
their horses across the river, too eager to wait for the snail-like
ferry to transport them to the opposite bank. They were fearfully
and wonderfully armed and equipped for the expedition. Guns of
all descriptions and ages; pistols, axes, knives and diligently
scoured swords; pots and pans and kettles; blankets, knapsacks
and parcels of varying sizes; in all a strange and motley assortment
that would have caused a troop of regulars to die of laughter.
But the valiant spirit was there. Even the provident and far-sighted
gentlemen who strapped cumbersome and in some cases voluptuous
umbrellas (because of their extraneous contents) across their
backs alongside the guns, were no more timorous than their swashbuckling
neighbours who scorned the tempest even as they scoffed at the
bloodthirsty red-skins. Four heavily laden wagons brought up the
rear.
Kenneth Gwynne rode beside the ubiquitous "Judge" Billings,
who cheerfully and persuasively sought to "swap" horses
with him when not otherwise employed in discoursing upon the vast
inefficiency of certain specifically named officers who rode in
all their plump glory at or near the head of the column. He was
particularly out of sympathy with a loud-mouthed lieutenant.
"Why," said he, "if the captain was to say 'halt'
suddenly that feller'd lose his mind tryin' to think what to do.
No more head on him than a grasshopper. And him up there givin'
orders to a lot of bright fellers like you an' me an' the rest
of us! By gosh, I'd like to be hidin' around where I could see
the look on the Indian's face that scalps him. The minute he got
through scrapin' a little hide an' hair off of the top o' that
feller's head he'd be able to see clear down to the back of his
Adam's Apple."
Historians have recorded the experiences and achievements of this
gallant troop of horse. It is not the intention of the present
chronicler to digress. Suffice to say, the expedition moved sturdily
westward and northward for five or six days without encountering
a single Indian. Then they were ordered to return home. There
were two casualties. One man was accidentally shot in the arm
while cleaning his own rifle, and another was shot in the foot
by a comrade who was aiming at a rattlesnake. Nine or ten days
after they rode out from Lafayette, the majority of the company
rode back again and were received with acclaim. Two score of the
more adventurous, however, separated from the main body on Sugar
Creek and, electing their own officers, proceeded to Hickory Creek
and on to the River O'Plein in Northern Illinois, without finding
a hostile redskin.
As a matter of fact, Black Hawk was at no time near the Indiana
border. His operations were confined to Northwestern Illinois
in the region of the Mississippi River. Subsequently a series
of sanguinary battles took place between the Indians and strong
Illinois militia forces supported by detachments of United States
troops under General Brady. It was not until the beginning of
August that Black Hawk was finally defeated, his dwindling horde
almost annihilated, and the old chieftain, betrayed into the hands
of the whites by the Winnebagos, was made a prisoner of war. And
so, summarily, the present chronicler disposes of the "great
Black Hawk war," and returns to his narrative and the people
related thereto.
Kenneth Gwynne did not go back to Lafayette with the main body
of troops; he decided to join Captain McGeorge and his undaunted
little band of adventurers. Gwynne's purpose in remaining with
McGeorge was twofold. Not only was he keenly eager to meet the
Indians but somewhere back in his mind was the struggling hope
that, given time, Rachel Carter's reserve would crack under the
fresh strain put upon it and she would voluntarily, openly break
the silence that now stood as an absolutely insurmountable obstacle
to his marriage with Viola. Not until Rachel Carter herself cleared
the path could they find the way to happiness.
He would have been amazed, even shocked, could he have known all
that transpired in Lafayette on the day following his departure.
He was not to know for many a day, as it was nearly three weeks
after the return of the main body of troops that McGeorge and
his little band rode wearily down through the Grand Prairie and
entered the town, their approach being heralded by a scout sent
on in advance.
Kenneth searched eagerly among the crowd on the river bank, seeking
the face that had haunted him throughout all the irksome days
and nights; he looked for the beloved one to whom his thoughts
had sped each night for communion at the foot of the blessed elm.
She was nowhere to be seen. He was bitterly disappointed. As soon
as possible he escaped from his comrades and hurried home. There
he learned from Rachel Carter herself that Viola had gone away,
never to return to Lafayette again.
Mid-morning on the day after the troops rode away, Rachel Carter
appeared at the office of her lawyer, Andrew Holman. There, in
the course of the next hour, she calmly, unreservedly bared the
whole story of her life to the astonished and incredulous gentleman.
She did not consult with her daughter before taking this irrevocable
step. She put it beyond her daughter's power to shake the resolution
she had made on the eve of Kenneth's departure; she knew that
Viola would cry out against the sacrifice and she was sorely afraid
of her own strength in the presence of her daughter's anguish.
"I shall put it all in the paper," she said, regarding
the distressed, perspiring face of the lawyer with a grim, almost
taunting smile, as if she actually relished his consternation.
"What I want you to do, first off, Andrew, is to prepare
some sort of affidavit, setting forth the facts, which I will
sign and swear to. It needn't be a long document. The shorter
the better, just so it makes everything clear."
"But, my dear Mrs. Gwyn, this--this may dispossess you of
everything," remonstrated the agitated man of law. "The
fact that you were never the wife of Robert--"
"Your memory needs refreshing," she interrupted. "If
you will consult Robert Gwyn's will you will discover that he
leaves half of his estate, et cetera, to 'my beloved and faithful
companion and helpmate, Rachel, who, with me, has assumed the
name of Gwyn for the rest of her life in view of certain circumstances
which render the change in the spelling of my name advisable,
notwithstanding the fact that in signing this, my last will and
testament, I recognize the necessity of affixing my true and legal
name.' You and I know the sentence by heart, Andrew. No one can
or will dispute my claim to the property. I have thought this
all out, you may be sure,--just as he thought it all out when
he drew up the paper. I imagine he must have spent a great deal
of time and thought over that sentence, and I doubt if you or
any other lawyer could have worded it better."
"Of course, if the will reads as you say,--er,--ahem! Yes,
yes,--I remember now that it was a--er--somewhat ambiguous. Ahem!
But it has just occurred to me, Mrs. Gwyn, that you are going
a little farther than is really necessary in the matter. May I
suggest that you are not--er--obliged to reveal the fact that
you were never married to him? That, it seems to me, is quite
unnecessary. If, as you say, your object is merely to set matters
straight so that your daughter and Mr. Gwynne may be free to marry,
being in no sense related either by blood or by law,--such as
would have been the case if you had married Kenneth's father,--why,
it seems to me you can avoid a great deal of unpleasant notoriety
by--er--leaving out that particular admission."
"No," she said firmly. "Thank you for your kind
advice,--but, if you will reflect, it is out of the question.
You forget what you have just said. For a lawyer, my dear friend,
you are surprisingly simple to-day."
"I see,--I see," mumbled the lawyer, mopping his brow.
"Of course,--er,--you are quite right. You are a very level-headed
woman. Quite so. I would have thought of it in another moment
or two. You can't leave out that part of it without--er--nullifying
the whole object and intent of your--er--ahem!--I was about to
say confession, but that is a nasty word. In other words, unless
you acknowledge that you and Robert were never lawfully married,
the--er--"
"Exactly," she broke in crisply. "That is the gist
of the matter. Society does not countenance marriage between step-brother
and -sister. So we will tell the whole truth,--or nothing at all.
Besides, Robert Gwyn put the whole story in writing himself, as
I have told you. The hiding-place of that piece of paper is still
a mystery, but it will be found some day. I am trying to take
the curse off of it, Andrew."
As she was leaving the office, he said to her, with deep feeling:
"I suppose you realize the consequences, Mrs. Gwyn? It means
ostracism for you. You will not have a friend in this town,--not
a person who will speak to you, aside from the storekeepers who
value your custom and"--he bowed deeply--"your humble
servant."
"I fully appreciate what it means," she responded wearily.
"It means that if I continue to hold my head up or dare to
look my neighbour in the face I shall be called brazen as well
as corrupt," she went on after a moment, a sardonic little
twist at the corner of her mouth. "Well, so be it. I have
thought of all that. Have no fear for me, my friend. I have never
been afraid of the dark,--so why should I fear the light?"
"You're a mighty fine woman, Rachel Gwyn," cried the
lawyer warmly.
She frowned as she held out her hand. "None of that, if you
please," she remarked tersely. "Will you have the paper
ready for me to sign this afternoon?"
"I will submit it to you right after dinner."
"You may expect me here at two o'clock. We will then step
over to the Free Press and allow Mr. Semans to copy the document
for his paper." She allowed herself a faint smile. "I
daresay he can make room for it, even if he has to subtract a
little from his account of the stirring events of yesterday."
"Your story will make a great sensation," declared the
lawyer, wiping his brow once more. "He can't afford to--er--to
leave it out."
At two o'clock she was in his office again. He read the carefully
prepared document to her.
"This is like signing your own death warrant, Rachel Gwyn,"
he said painfully, as she affixed her signature and held up her
hand to be sworn.
"No. I am signing a pardon for two guiltless people who are
suffering for the sins of others."
"That reminds me," he began, pursing his lips. "I
have been reflecting during your absence. Has it occurred to you
that this act of yours is certain to react with grave consequences
upon the very people you would--er--befriend? I am forced to remind
you that the finger of scorn will not be pointed at you alone.
Your daughter will not escape the--er--ignominy of being--ahem!--of
being your daughter, in fact. Young Gwynne will find his position
here very greatly affected by the--er--"
"I quite understand all that, Andrew. I am not thinking of
the present so much as I am considering the future. The past,
so far as we all are concerned, is easily disposed of, but these
two young people have a long life ahead of them. It is not my
idea that they shall spend it here in this town,--or even in this
State."
"You mean you will urge them to leave Lafayette forever?"
"Certainly."
"But if I know Viola,--and I think I do,--she will refuse
to desert you. As for Gwynne, he strikes me as a fellow who would
not turn tail under fire."
"In any case, Andrew, it will be for them to decide. Kenneth
had already established himself as a lawyer back in the old home
town. I shall urge him to return to that place with Viola as soon
as they are married. His mother was a Blythe. There is no blot
upon the name of Blythe. My daughter was born there. Her father
was an honest, God-fearing, highly respected man. His name and
his memory are untarnished. No man can say aught against the half
of Kenneth that is Blythe, nor the half of Viola that is Carter.
I should like the daughter of Owen Carter to go back and live
among his people as the wife of the son of Laura Blythe, and to
honourably bear the name that was denied me by a Gwynne."
He looked at her shrewdly for a moment and then, as the full significance
of her plan grew upon him, revealing in a flash the motive behind
it, he exclaimed:
"Well, by gosh, you certainly have done an almighty lot of
calculating."
"And why shouldn't I? She is my child. Is it likely that
I would give myself the worst of everything without seeing to
it that she gets the best of everything? No, my friend; you must
not underrate my intelligence. I will speak plainly to you,--but
in confidence. This is between you and me. There is no love lost
between Kenneth Gwynne and me. He hates me and always will, no
matter how hard he may try to overcome it. In a different way
I hate him. We must not be where we can see each other. I am sorely
afraid that the tender love he now has for Viola would fail to
outlast the hatred he feels toward me. I leave you to imagine
what that would mean to her. He has it in his power to give her
a place among his people. He can force them to honour and respect
her, and her children will be THEIR children. Do you see? Need
I say more?"
"You need say nothing more. I understand what you want, Mrs.
Gwyn,--and I must say that you are in a sense justified. What
is to become of young Gwynne's property here in this county?"
"I think I can be trusted to look after it satisfactorily,"
she said quietly; "perhaps even better than he could do for
himself. I am a farm woman."
"I thought maybe you had some notion of buying him out."
"He would not sell to me. His farm is being properly handled
by the present tenant. His lots here in town cannot run away.
The time will come when they will be very valuable, or I am no
prophetess. There is nothing to keep him here, Andrew, and his
interests and my daughter's will be as carefully looked after
as my own."
"We will be sorry to lose him as a citizen."
"If you are ready, we will step over to the Free Press office,"
she said, without a sign that she had heard his remark.
They crossed the square and turned up the first street to the
left. "This will be a terrible shock to your daughter,"
said he, breaking a long silence.
"She will survive it," replied Rachel Gwyn sententiously.
He laid his hand on her arm. "Will you accept a bit of advice
from me?"
They stopped. "I am not above listening to it," she
replied.
"My advice is to postpone this action until you are sure
of one thing."
"And what may that be?"
"Kenneth Gwynne's safe return from this foray against the
Indians. He may not come back alive."
"He will come back alive," said she, in a cool, matter-of-fact
tone. "It is so ordained. I know. Come, we are wasting time.
I have much to do between now and nightfall. Bright and early
to-morrow morning my daughter and I are leaving town."
"Leaving town?" he cried, astonished.
"I am taking her out in the country,--to the farm. If I can
prevent it she shall never put foot in this town again. You know
Phineas Striker? An honest, loyal man, with a wife as good as
gold. When Kenneth Gwynne marches back to town again he will find
me here to greet him. I will tell him where to find Viola. Out
at Striker's farm, my friend, she will be waiting for him to come
and claim his own."
A smile he did not understand and never was to understand played
about her lips as she continued drily, for such was the manner
of this amazing woman:
"He will even find that her wedding gown is quite as much
to his fancy as it was the day he met her."
THE END