An hour later the small solitary boat crept up the current of the
moonlit river. The weary girl plied her oars, looking carefully for the
nook under the roots of the old pine whence she had taken the boat.
She saw the place. She even glanced anxiously about the ground
immediately around it, thinking that in the glamour of light she could
see everything; and yet in that rapid glance, deluded, no doubt, into
supposing the light greater than it was, she failed to see a man who was
standing ready to help her to moor the boat.
Bart Toyner watched her with a look of haggard anxiety as she came
nearer.
A uniform is a useful thing. It is almost natural to an actor to play
his part when he has assumed its dress. A man in any official capacity
is often just an actor, and the best thing that he can do at times is to
act without a thought as to how his inner self accords with the action,
at least till we have attained to a higher level of civilisation. Toyner
had no uniform, nor had he mastered the philosophy that underlies this
instinct for playing a part; he had an idea that the whole mind and soul
of him should be in conscientious accord with all that he did. It was
this ideal that made his fall certain.
He had no notion that the girl had not seen him. Before she got out,
when she put her hand to tether the boat, she felt his hand gently
taking the rope from her and fell back with a cry of fear.
In her wearied state she could have sobbed with disappointment. How much
had he discovered? If he knew nothing more than merely that she had
returned with the boat, how could it be possible to elude him and come
again the next night? She thought of her father, and her heart was full
of pity; she thought that her own plans were baffled, and she was
enraged. Both sentiments fused into keener hatred of Toyner; but she
remembered--yes, even then she remembered quite clearly and
distinctly--that if the worst came to the worst and she could save her
father in no other way, she had one weapon in reserve, one in which she
had perfect faith.
It was for this reason that she sat still for a minute in the boat,
looking up at Toyner, trying to pry into his attitude toward her. At the
end of the minute he put out his hand to lift her up, and she leaned
upon it.
Without hesitation she began to thread her way through the wood toward
home, and he walked by her side. He might have been escorting her from a
dance, so quietly they walked together, except that the question of a
man's life or death which lay between them seemed to surround them with
a strange atmosphere.
At length Bart spoke. "I don't know where you have been," he said. "I
have been patrolling the shore all night." He paused awhile. "I thought
you were safe at home."
She stopped short and turned upon him. "Look here! what are you going to
do now? It's a pretty mean sort of business this you've taken to,
sneaking round your old friends to do them all the harm you can."
"It's the first time I knew that you'd ever been a friend of mine, Ann."
He said this in a sort of sad aside, and then: "You've sense enough to
know that when a man shoots another man he's got to be found and shut up
for the good of the country and for his own good too. It's the kindest
thing that can be done to a man sometimes, shutting him up in jail." He
said this last quite as much by way of explanation to himself as to her.
"Or hanging him," she suggested sarcastically.
He paused a moment. "I hope he won't come to that."
"But you'll do all you can to catch him, knowing that it's like to come
to that. What's the good of hoping?"
He had only said it to soothe her. He had another self-justification.
"I can only do what I have to do: it is not me that will decide whether
Walker dies or not. At any rate, it ain't no use to justify it to you.
It's natural that you should look upon me as an enemy just now; but all
the police in the country are more your enemies than I am. You've got
him off now, I suppose; however you've done it I don't pretend to know.
It'll be some one else that catches him if he's caught."
She wondered if he was only saying this to try her, or if he really
believed that Markham had gone far; yet there was small chance even then
that he would cease to watch her the next night and the next. He had
shown both resolution and diligence in this business--qualities, as far
as she knew, so foreign to his character that she smiled bitterly.
"A nice sort of thing religion is, to get out of the mire yourself and
spend your time kicking your old friends further in!"
Now the fugitive had been never a friend to Toyner, except in the sense
that he had done more than any one else to lead him into low habits and
keep him there. He had, in fact, been his greatest enemy; but that,
according to Toyner's new notions, was the more reason for counting him
a friend, not the less.
"Well, I grant 'tain't a very grand sort of business being constable,"
he said; "to be a preacher 'ud be finer perhaps; but this came to hand
and seemed the thing for me to do. It ain't kicking men in the mire to
do all you can to stop them making beasts of themselves."
He stood idling in the moonlight as he justified himself to this woman.
Surely it was only standing by his new colours to try to make his
position seem right to her. He had no hope in it--no hope of persuading
her, least of all of bringing her nearer to him; if he had had that, his
dallying would have seemed sinful, because it would have chimed so
perfectly with all his natural desires.
Ann took up her theme again fiercely. "Look here, Bart Toyner; I want to
know one thing, honour bright--that is," scornfully, "if you care about
honour now that you've got religion."
He gave a silent sarcastic smile, such as one would bestow upon a
naughty, ignorant child. "Well, at least as much as I did before," he
said.
"Well, then, I want to know if you're a-going to stop spying on me now
that father has got well off? There ain't no cause nor reason for you to
hang about me any longer. You know what my life has been, and you know
that through it all I've kept myself like a lady. It ain't nice, knowing
as people do that you came courting once, 'tain't nice to have you
hanging round in this way."
He knew quite well that the reason she gave for objecting to his spying
was not the true one. He had enough insight into her character, enough
knowledge of her manner and the modulations in her voice, to have a
pretty true instinct as to when she was lying and when she was not; but
he did not know that the allusion to the time when he used to court her
was thrown out to produce just what it did in him, a tender recollection
of his old hopes.
"Until Markham is arrested, you know, and every one else at Fentown
knows, that it is my duty to see that you don't communicate with him.
You've fooled me to-night, and I'll have to keep closer watch; but if
you don't want me to do the watching, I can pay another man."
She had hoped faintly that he would have shown himself less resolute;
now there was only one thing to be done. After all, she had known for
days that she might be obliged to do it.
"I wouldn't take it so hard, Bart, if it was any one but you," she said
softly. She went on to say other things of this sort which would make it
appear that there was in her heart an inward softness toward him which
she had never yet revealed. With womanly instinct she played her little
part well and did not exaggerate; but she was not speaking now to the
man of drug-weakened mind and over-stimulated sense whom she had known
in former years.
He spoke with pain and shame in his voice and attitude. "There isn't
anything that I could do for you, Ann, that I wouldn't do as it is,
without you pretending that way."
She did not quite take it in at first that she could not deceive him.
"I thought you used to care about me," she said; "I thought perhaps you
did yet; I thought perhaps"--she put well-feigned shyness into her
tone--"that you weren't the sort that would turn away from us just
because of what father has done. All the other folks will, of course.
I'm pretty much alone."
"I won't help you to break the laws, Ann. Law and righteousness is the
same for the most part. Your feeling as a daughter leads you the other
way, of course; but it ain't no good--it won't do any good to him in the
long run, and it would be wrong for me to do anything but just what I
ought to do as constable. When that's done we can talk of being friends
if you like, but don't go acting a lie with the hope of getting the
better of me. It hurts me to see you do it, Ann."
For the first time there dawned in her mind a new respect for him, but
that did not alter her desperate resolve. She had been standing before
him in the moonlight with downcast face; now she suddenly threw up her
head with a gesture that reminded him of the way a drowning man throws
up his hands.
"You've been wanting to convert me," she said. "You want me to sign the
pledge, and to stop going to dances and playing cards, and to bring up
Christa that way."
All the thoughts that he had had since his reform of what he could do
for this girl and her sister if she would only let him came before his
heart now, lit through and through with the light of his love that at
that moment renewed its strength with a power which appalled him.
She took a few steps nearer to him.
"Father didn't mean to do any harm," she whispered hastily; "he's got no
more sin on his soul than a child that gets angry and fights for what it
wants. He's just like a child, father is; but it's been a lesson to
him, and he'll never do it again. Think of the shame to Christa and me
if he was hanged. And I've striven so to keep us respectable--Bart, you
know I have. There's no shame in the world like your father being----"
(there was a nervous gasp in her throat before she could go on)--"and
he'd be awfully frightened. Oh, you don't know how frightened he'd be!
If I thought they were going to do that to him, it would just kill me.
I'll do anything; I wouldn't mind so much if they'd take me and hang me
instead--it wouldn't scare me so much: but father would be just like a
child, crying and crying and crying, if they kept him in jail and were
going to do that in the end. And then no one would expect Christa and me
to have any more fun, and we never would have any. There's a way that
you can get father off, Bart, and give him at least one more chance to
run for his life. If you'll do it, I'll do whatever you want,--I'll sign
the pledge; I'll go to church; I'll teach Christa that way. She and I
won't dance any more. You can count on me. You can trust me. You know
that when I say a thing I'll do it."
He realised now what had happened to him--a thing that of all things he
had learned to dread most,--a desperate temptation. He answered, and his
tone and manner gave her no glimpse of the shock of opposing forces that
had taken place within a heart that for many months had been dwelling in
the calm of victory.
"I cannot do it, Ann."
"Bart Toyner," she said, "I'm all alone in this world; there's not a
soul to help me. Every one's against me and against him. Don't turn
against me; I need your help--oh, I need it! I never professed to care
about you; but if your father was in danger of dying an awful death and
you came to me for help, I wouldn't refuse you, you know I wouldn't."
He only spoke now with the wish to conceal from her the panic within;
for with the overwhelming desire to yield to her had come a ghastly fear
that he was going to yield, and faith and hope fled from him. He saw
himself standing there face to face with his idea of God, and this
temptation between him and God. The temptation grew in magnitude, and
God withdrew His face.
"I know, Ann, it sounds hard about your father" (mechanically); "but you
must try and think how it would be if he was lying wounded like Walker
and some other man had done it. Wouldn't you think the law was in the
right then?"
"No!" (quickly). "If father'd got a simple wound, and could be nursed
and taken care of comfortably until he died, I wouldn't want any man to
be hanged for it. It's an awful, awful thing to be hanged."
She waited a moment, and he did not speak. The lesser light of night is
fraught with illusions. She thought that she saw him there quite plainly
standing quiet and indifferent. She was so accustomed to his
appearance--the carefulness of his dress, the grave eyes, and the thin,
drooping moustache--that her mind by habit filled in these details which
she did not in reality see; nor did she see the look of agonised prayer
that came and went across the habitual reserve of his face.
"Can't you believe what I say, Bart? I say that I will give up dancing
and selling beer, and sign the pledge, and dress plain, and go to
church. I say I will do it and Christa will do it; and you can teach us
all you've a mind to, day in and day out, and we'll learn if we can.
Isn't it far better to save Christa and me--two souls, than to hunt one
poor man to death? Don't you believe that I'll do what I promise? I'll
go right home now and give it to you in writing, if you like."
"I do believe you, Ann." He stopped to regain the steadiness of his
voice. He had had training in forcing his voice in the last few months,
for he hated to bear verbal testimony to his religious beliefs, and yet
he had taught himself to do it. He succeeded in speaking steadily now,
in the same strong voice in which he had learnt to pray at meetings. It
was not exactly his natural voice. It sounded sanctimonious and
ostentatious, but that was because he was forced to conceal that his
heart within him was quaking. "I do believe that you would do what you
say, Ann; but it isn't right to do evil that good may come."
He did not appeal to her pity; he did not try to tell her what it cost
him to refuse. If he could have made her understand that, she might have
been turned from her purpose. He realised only the awful weakness and
wickedness of his heart. He seemed to see those appetites which, up to a
few months before, had possessed him like demons, hovering near him in
the air, and he seemed to see God holding them back from him, but only
for so long as he resisted this temptation.
To her he said aloud: "I cannot do it, Ann. In God's strength I cannot
and will not do it."
Within his heart he seemed to be shouting aloud to Heaven: "My God, I
will not do it, I will not do it. Oh, my God!" He turned his back upon
her and went quickly to the village, only looking to see that at some
distance she followed him, trudging humbly as a squaw walks behind her
Indian, as far as her own door.