A CALL FOR HELP
That night Adam, who had given up his cabin to the female watchers of
the dead, lay stretched at the door of Durgan's hut.
In the small hours Durgan was awakened by the negro's sighs.
"Oh, Adam! Can't you sleep?"
"Oh! Marse Neil, suh; d'you think my pore gal's in de bad place? The
min'ster, he come to see me to-day, an' he said as how she was, 'cause
she wasn't converted. D'you think so, suh?"
If Durgan had the modern distrust of old-fashioned preaching, he did not
feel sure that he knew better than the preacher.
He lay a moment, thinking of the brightness and lightness of the
creature so suddenly laid stark, trying in thought to place her spirit
in any sort of angelic state. It would not do; the woman, as he knew
her, refused to be content with any heaven his thought could offer. He
could not conceive of any sane and wholesome spiritual condition to
which the trivial, sensual soul could be adjusted.
"Oh, Adam, I don't know any better than your preacher; but I can tell
you something that I suppose----"
"Yes, Marse Neil?" The tone told of a deep, sustained attention which
surprised the educated man.
"I think the good Lord will take you to the good place when you die, and
that----"
"Yes, but marsa, I done gone an' got religion long time ago, an' my pore
gal she wer'n't ever converted."
"I was going to say that I think the Lord may let you be as near her
there as you were here if you go on caring for her--which was all the
distance between heaven and hell," he added within himself.
Before the dawn Durgan was again disturbed. Far off there was hint of a
sound, the hoofs of several horses, perhaps--a ring, faint and far, of a
bridle chain? Yes, certainly, horsemen were in the valley. Adam heard
nothing but the throbs of his own heart-sorrow. Durgan listened. The
road in the valley circled the mountain to Deer Cove. The sound of the
horsemen was lost again almost before it was clearly heard. They were
coming from Hilyard; were they coming further than the village? An hour
later he heard them again; they were on the road to the mine.
Adam had fallen into the sleep of exhaustion. Durgan stood out on the
road and listened and waited. Had Bertha met with some accident, and was
this her escort home? Were the horsemen coming for some purpose quite
unknown to him, bearing on the mystery of the summit house? Alas! doubt
as he would, he knew of one errand which these sounds might easily
betoken. It was widely known that Adam had had quarrels with his wife.
Soon the men appeared. There were three constables, leading an extra
horse. Durgan saw the handcuffs held by the foremost.
He ground his teeth in helpless indignation.
All the affection he felt for the home of his forefathers, all the
warmth of the sights and sounds of his own joyous youth in the Durgan
plantations, intensified his sentiment for the friend who still slept
on, childlike, with teardrops on his cheek.
When Adam was taken, Durgan brooded over this wrong. He realized more
and more that his certainty of one man's guilt and the other's innocence
was based only on his own estimate of their characters. The one was
true to the core, the other false; but how to prove it?
About nine o'clock Bertha rode up. Her horse was jaded, her face worn.
"I started from Hilyard at daybreak," she said. "I loped nearly all the
way."
"Did you meet the constables?"
Her reply was a monosyllable of brief distress.
"You saw Adam--had they 'Dolphus, too?"
"Yes. Don't let us talk of it; I can't bear it."
She slid from her horse, grateful for respite, and Durgan, seeing her
weariness, offered coffee and food.
She partook eagerly, as she had eaten little since the day before; but
she seemed in no hurry to go on. Hers was a depression from which words
did not come easily.
He asked if the telegram had been sent.
"Yes. Mr. Alden will be here the day after to-morrow."
"You had his answer?"
"No; but I know he will come as soon as possible. I could not decide
what to say and what not, even in cipher; I only said 'Come.'"
There was silence again, for Durgan was too heartsore at the injustice
done to Adam to think much of anything else.
At last Bertha broke out almost fiercely, "It was a glorious sunrise. I
saw it as I came over the ridge. The clouds were like a meadow of
flame-flower, and the purple color ran riot upon the hills till the
common, comfortable sunshine flashed over and made all the world happy,
looking as if life was good."
"It was not to see the sunrise that you started so early," said he.
"No, I could not rest. I was afraid, afraid that you would not believe
what I said yesterday."
"What part of it?"
"About being on your guard. Indeed, indeed I beg of you--laugh if you
like, but if you have any regard for me, do as I say. I only ask it
until Mr. Alden comes. He will be here the day after to-morrow, I am
sure. When I confess that I came so early because I was afraid that you
would not take care of yourself, you will take heed, I am sure."
There was an awkward silence. She was hanging her head in shame, and
seemed hardly able to find her way as she rose and groped for her
bridle.
"If we are in this danger I will certainly escort you to the house."
"Yes; you may do that."
So he led the horse under the green arches in the warm silence up to
the gate where the dogs fawned on their mistress. Near the house Miss
Smith came running to meet them. She embraced Bertha with motherly
tenderness, asking crisp little questions about her journey and about
Adam's mother.
"I am safe now," said Bertha, dismissing Durgan with thanks. She added
in explanation to her sister, "I felt overdone with the heat. Mr. Durgan
gave me coffee and brought me up the hill."