As Dick went up the hill, he saw on the porch a spot of blue with an
expanse of white beside it,--Mrs. Osborne in blue gingham, with a dozen
hospital shirts that she was basting, ready for machine work.
Suddenly there was a commotion, a frightened fluttering and squawking
among the fowls in the side yard. Mother hens were warning their
young that a chicken hawk was near. It had alighted in a tall locust
tree, ready to pounce on some defenseless creature. Mrs. Osborne rose
quickly, but unhurriedly, went into the house, and reappeared in the
door with an old shotgun. As the bird poised for its downward dive, she
winged it with a quick, sure shot; it dropped in the midst of the young
things that were to have been its prey.
“Whew! that was a fine shot, Cousin Polly!” Dick said admiringly. “A
hawk on the wing!”
“I am glad to get the rascal,” Mrs. Osborne said quietly. “It has been
raiding my poultry yard, and I was afraid it would get some of Mayo’s
pigeons.”
“Where’s Cousin Mayo?” Dick asked, beginning to feel embarrassed as
soon as he got over the thrill of the hawk-shooting.
Mrs. Osborne always made the boys feel clumsy and untidy and ill at
ease. She was as different as possible from her dark, rugged, merry
husband. Everything about her was neat and prim and small. She had a
pretty little mouth, a little thin nose, little round blue eyes; her
fair glossy hair was plaited and coiled around her small well-shaped
head.
“Mayo has gone away,” she answered. “He may not come back to-night.
Will you come in? Is there any message?”
“No. No, thank you.”
And Dick made his escape.
After all, he was glad Cousin Mayo was not at home and he had not
yielded to the impulse to tell the tale which would have involved the
telling of his own secret. He would watch the mine himself and find out
if Mr. Smith and the two negroes were trying to get its treasure.
At the mill Dick saw the mail hack coming from Redville and ran to get
a ride. Jim Walthall, the driver, had news to tell.
“Three of them drafted niggers from Charleburg County run away from
Camp Lee; deserted, by jinks!--Bill and Martin Toole from the lower
end of the county and Cæsar Gabe. They traced them to a freight
train, and folks think maybe they come back here. I’ve got printed
descriptions of them, to put up at the post office. The sheriff’s on
the search for them.”
“Oh! I hope he’ll find them,” said Dick.
“He won’t,” declared Jim. “Those fellows wouldn’t think of coming back
here where everybody knows them; why, they’d be caught right away. No,
they’ve gone to Richmond or New York, a city somewhere.”
When Dick got home Anne and Patsy were sitting in the swing in the yard.
“There’s Dick! He’s been ‘secreting’ again,” laughed Anne.
“I’ve just come from Larkland,” Dick said shortly. “And at the mill I
met----”
They stopped swinging, and interrupted him before he could tell his
news about the deserter.
“Did you see him?” Patsy asked excitedly.
“Isn’t it Kuno Kleist?” demanded Anne.
“I just saw Cousin Polly. Cousin Mayo’s gone away.”
“With Kuno Kleist, that German friend of his, the one he was in Mexico
with. He was at Larkland. We saw him. And now Cousin Mayo’s gone away
with him and----”
Patsy pinched Anne’s arm. Mr. Jake Andrews was coming up the walk,
was, in fact, close to them before any one saw him. On being told that
Mr. Osborne was not at home, he turned and went away.
“I’m sure he heard me, and I’m awful sorry,” Anne said. “It’s a secret,
Dick, for Cousin Mayo didn’t----” And then she told the whole story.
“Oh, well! What you said didn’t make any difference,” said Dick. “Jake
doesn’t know what you were talking about; he wouldn’t care if he did.”
And then he told them about the deserters.
Anne and Patsy and Dick would have been dismayed if they could have
followed Jake Andrews. He left The Village and went straight along the
Redville road to the old Tolliver place. He gave a shrill whistle, and
a minute later Mr. Smith sauntered out of the back door toward a clump
of trees on a hillock. Andrews cut across the field and joined him on
the wooded eminence where they were secure from observation.
“It’s like you said, Smittie,” declared Andrews; “them dog-gone
old ’ristocrats need watching. Black Mayo Osborne knows a German
spy”--Smith started violently--“friends with him, staying in his house.
Them gals saw him; that German he was with down in Mexico.”
Mr. Smith had regained his composure. “He’s there, you say?”
“Gone now; that mischeevious Dick Osborne was at Larkland after the
gals was there. The man’s gone away, and Black Mayo with him.”
Mr. Smith knit his brows. “To have known this before! What the
devil----” He looked at Jake Andrews and adjusted his face and words.
“You have acted with the wisdom and patriotism in coming to me. It is
service to Government. And there are rewards; much money. But it is
of the most importance that you keep cemetery stillness.” He paused
and his lips writhed and set themselves in a hard, cruel line. Then he
said: “We shall not be surprised now to hear of the outrages. But what
happens, keep you silence except to me.”
The week went by quietly, in spite of Mr. Smith’s prediction. Black
Mayo came home, without a word about his guest or his journey, and went
here and there more busily than ever with his pigeons for trial flights.
And then things did happen.
The Home Guard at Redville had received orders months before to patrol
the high bridge over which troops and supplies were constantly passing
on their way to Camp Lee or to Norfolk. Day and night the youths in
khaki paced to and fro, with guns on their shoulders. And then--what
a thrill of horror it sent through the community!--one of the bridge
guards was killed. The shot came from the heart of a black, rainy night
that hid the criminal. He went free, ready to strike again--where?
whom?--at any minute. Was it one of the deserters? Probably not. Their
one aim would be to “lay low” and avoid arrest; and probably they were
far away; the community had been thoroughly searched without finding
them.
A few days after the bridge guard was killed, Sweet William came
running from the mill in great distress.
“It’s poisoned, mother!” sobbed the little fellow. “There’s glass in
it; the flour we were saving for the Belgians.”
“What’s the matter, dear? What is it, Patsy?” exclaimed Mrs. Osborne.
“It’s so, mother,” cried Patsy. “Oh, mother! Cousin Giles found glass
in a lot of flour. Some one got in and put glass there, to poison it;
in our mill, our own mill here at Larkland.”
The finding of glass in flour at Larkland mill was the one subject
of conversation in The Village that Saturday night. And on Sunday--a
day that in the little Presbyterian town seemed stiller and sweeter
than other days--people stood in troubled groups at the church door,
discussing the matter. The minister even referred to it in his
prayer--not directly, that would have been regarded as irreverent--but
with the veiled allusions considered more acceptable to the Almighty.
Glass in flour at the mill, Larkland mill! The people resented it
with a vehemence that would have puzzled outsiders. Larkland mill was
not merely a mill. It was one of the oldest, most honored, most loyal
members of the community. As the quaint inscription on its wall said,
“This mill was finished building by Hugh Giles Osborne his men, 8 June,
in year of our Lord 1764, ye third year of his gracious majesty King
George III.” On its oaken beams were marks of the fire set to it by
Tarleton’s men because that Hugh Giles Osborne’s sons were fighting
side by side with Washington. Nearly a century later, soldiers in
blue marching from Georgia had taken toll of its stores. And then
Colonel Osborne, coming back in defeat to poverty, had laid aside his
Confederate uniform and become a miller, as his son was to-day.
Larkland mill had served the whole community in peace and war, and it
was loved with a personal feeling. Had not the children even had a
birthday party in its honor at Happy Acres, not so long ago? For it to
deal out poison was like a father’s giving it to his children.
Not that the mill was to blame. Of course not.
Who could have taken advantage of it and put glass in its flour? No
one could even guess. Mr. Spotswood had not seen any suspicious person
around--only the usual frequenters of the mill, which included all the
men of the community, white and black. The evildoer, a stranger and an
outsider of course, must have come in the shielding twilight or the
covering night. Nothing easier. The mill was near the highway; the
doors stood wide open all day, and shutting them at night was a mere
matter of form; there were a dozen easy ways of ingress.
Day after day passed and brought no trace of the criminals. There was
a growing feeling of uneasiness throughout the community. Whispers
went about, tales circulated among the Village loafers, the source and
foundation of which no one could give, but which were repeated, at
first doubtingly; but they were told over and over again and gained
credence with each repetition until they were believed like gospel
truth. These tales were about Black Mayo and his guest.
Dick was in the back room of Mr. Blair’s store one morning, picking
over apples to pay for some candles. He was daydreaming about the mine,
and at first was only conscious of voices in the front room, without
really hearing the conversation. But presently he heard Mrs. Blair
ask excitedly, “Agnes, have you heard these shameful tales about Black
Mayo?”
Shameful tales about Cousin Mayo! Dick listened now.
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Wilson.
“People are saying---- Oh, Will! tell her. I am too furious to talk!”
“Jake Andrews is accusing Mayo of being disloyal, a suspicious
character that ought to be watched, arrested.”
“Mayo watched, arrested! Mayo! Jake Andrews accuses him! And, pray, who
is Jake Andrews?”
“A common fellow from the upper end of the county, who schemed to keep
his sons out of the draft. This Andrews and some other fellows went
to Larkland and actually asked Mayo about a guest of his and what his
business was. Mayo refused to tell, and when Andrews persisted, why, he
settled the matter----”
“‘Settled the matter,’ how?” asked Mrs. Wilson.
“Knocked him down, of course. That was all right. The idea of Andrews
catechizing him! It was infernally insolent.”
“I wonder he dared do it,” said Mrs. Blair.
“Oh! The fellow is a justice of the peace or a deputy sheriff or some
sort of little officer,” conceded Mr. Blair. “It seems that Andrews has
been sneaking around, watching Mayo. And he’s found out, he claims,
that Mayo has been harboring an enemy alien, a German----”
“I don’t believe any one at all has been there,” said Mrs. Blair.
“So the thing has gone on, but----” Mr. Blair paused and frowned.
“But what?” asked Mrs. Wilson.
“Why doesn’t Mayo explain?” he exploded. “I gave him the opportunity,
deuce take it! I was so sure he would make it all right that I brought
up the subject yesterday when there was a crowd here in the office,
waiting for the mail. But instead of saying where he went or who his
guest was--I’m a Dutchman if he didn’t walk out of the office without a
word!”
“And that makes it worse than if you had not given him the chance to
explain,” said Mrs. Wilson.
“Of course. But I was so sure of him,” said Mr. Blair. Then he asked
impatiently: “Why doesn’t he tell where he goes and why?”
“Because he doesn’t want to,” said Mrs. Blair. “He thinks people
haven’t any right to ask, and so he won’t tell.”
“But he ought to tell,” said Mr. Blair. “Of course it’s all right; we
know that. But some people---- Dog-gone it!” he said vehemently. “I
wish I had knocked Andrews down when he came drawling his ‘suspicions’
to me. I will beat the scoundrel to a pulp if he comes in my store with
another question. Of course Mayo’s all right.”
“Of course!” said his wife, more vehemently than absolute certainty
required. “I--I wonder why--what--he wouldn’t tell you.”
“Whatever Black Mayo does is right,” Mrs. Wilson said serenely. “He has
some good reason for silence.”
“Of course!” “Of course!” Mr. and Mrs. Blair said, avoiding her eyes
and each other’s.
“I know about it,” Dick thought, with a thrill of pride. “It is all
right. It was Kuno Kleist.” Kuno Kleist! He remembered with dismay Mr.
Blair’s words, “A German, an alien enemy he’s concealing.” Why, that
was what Kuno Kleist was, and for his Cousin Mayo to hide him was not
“all right,” in the eyes of the law, but a crime. “They’ll never find
out from me,” said Dick to himself, gritting his teeth. “I’ll be hanged
and drawn and quartered, like men in ‘The Days of Bruce,’ before I’ll
tell anything to get Cousin Mayo in trouble.”
“Black Mayo feels--oh! we know how he feels,” said Mrs. Wilson. “But
in these times there are things we owe to ourselves, and to others.
Mayo ought to tell about his perfectly proper journeys and perfectly
proper guest, and I am going to ask him.”
“Agnes!”
“I know. I never thought I would interfere, would ask a question about
any one’s private affairs,” she said. “But I can’t help it. I am going
to do it. I must. Black Mayo suspected of treason! Black Mayo that
we’ve known and loved all our lives! Why, it is as if some one should
say my Ruth was a thief.”
Mrs. Wilson was not one to postpone a disagreeable duty. She put on
her bonnet and gloves and started at once to Larkland. It was a path
familiar to her childish feet. How often she, like her own child, had
roamed about this dear, quiet country--playing in the mill, roaming
about Larkland, fishing in Tinkling Water. Miranda and Giles Spotswood,
Anne Mayo, Polly Spencer, Beverley Wilson, and Red and Black Mayo
Osborne had been her comrades; Black Mayo, the leader in all their
sports, was the chum of Beverley Wilson whom she married the very June
that Black Mayo married Polly Spencer. The friendship of early days had
lasted and deepened with the years. It was stronger than the tactful
habit of never asking personal questions.
She found Polly Osborne on the porch, busy, as usual, with Red Cross
sewing. She dropped her work and set a comfortable chair in a pleasant
corner of the porch while she called greetings to the approaching
visitor. “How good of you to brave the heat and come to see me!” she
said. “Here is a fan. Take off your bonnet. I’ll get you a glass of
raspberry vinegar. It is so refreshing on a warm day!”
Mrs. Wilson put a protesting hand on her arm. “Don’t, Polly. I can’t
sit down, not now. Where is Mayo? I want to see him--about something
important.”
“Mayo? I reckon he’s in the garden. He has some pigeons there in the
old summerhouse. I’ll find him and tell him you want to see him.”
“No, please, Polly. Let me go there and speak to him. Then I will come
back and see you.”
“Certainly; just as you wish,” said Mrs. Osborne. “You know the
way--all the ways here--as well as I do.”
Mrs. Wilson went along the flagstones across the yard, through the
garden gate, down the boxwood-bordered walk. She turned across the
huge old garden to the summerhouse embowered in microfila and Cherokee
roses, with their dark foliage starred with creamy blossoms. She heard
a merry voice whistling “Dixie,” the only tune that Black Mayo had ever
mastered. There he was in overalls, hard at work, putting up boxes for
nests.
“How do you do, Mayo?” she said, speaking before he saw her.
He dropped his hammer and caught both of her hands in his.
“I wished you on me,” he said gleefully. “I was thinking so hard about
the rainy days when we children used to play here! I found a box with
some of our dominoes in that closet when I was clearing it out to make
a place to keep feed for my pigeons. Don’t you remember----”
“I remember everything, Mayo,” she interrupted, with her lovely clear
eyes meeting his, “from the mud-pie days to the generous sending of
your books when mine were burned. And because I do, I have come to ask
you some questions. Who was your guest three weeks ago? Where did you
go, on what business, when you left home with him?”
He looked her straight in the eyes. “You ask, Agnes----”
He hesitated and she took up his words. “I ask, Mayo, about
your private affairs”--her voice did not falter, but her cheeks
flamed--“because people are saying things about you that I--we--want
you to disprove.”
“Oh!” he said sharply. Then he dropped his voice and his eyes, and
answered: “I--I can’t do it, Agnes.”
“Mayo!” she exclaimed. There was a little silence. Then she said, “Oh,
Mayo!” in a tone that implored him to answer.
He looked away. “If you were asking me for yourself, Agnes,” he said,
“I--I ought not, but I might--probably I should--tell you.”
“I do not ask for myself,” she said. “I trust you utterly. If there
were one little doubt in the thought of my heart, I could not come to
you with this question.”
“A question I must leave unanswered,” he said with a wry smile.
“Oh, no, Mayo!” she said. “You know I don’t wish to force your
confidence, but it seems to me that when people ask--how dare they
ask!--we have no right to refuse to prove our loyalty.”
“Are they asking Giles Spotswood or Will Blair to prove theirs?” he
inquired a little bitterly.
“They say--you can guess what they say, Mayo.” She could not make
herself give words to their suspicions.
“Oh, yes!” he answered quickly. “I know. They’ve been questioning me
about Kuno Kleist, my friend in Mexico. Being a German, he was probably
a Prussian; being a Prussian, he was probably sent by the kaiser to
incite the Mexicans against the United States; being a German and a
Prussian and the kaiser’s emissary, he probably perverted me. Good
reasoning!
“And they want to know about my comings and goings. My old absent
days rise up and damn me with my dear stay-at-home county people. And
I’ve had a guest and I’ve taken a few little trips and I haven’t put
a bulletin in the post office to say who and where and why. And so
they want me to explain. I can’t explain.” His voice grew harsh and
he laughed mirthlessly. “Let them roll their doubts and suspicions
like sweet morsels under their tongues.” Then his voice softened. “It
was like you, Agnes, to come to me in the spirit of our old loyal
friendship, and I thank you----”
She put out her hand to stop him, turning away her head. She could not
give him at that minute the sight of her grieved face.
“Don’t, Mayo,” she said unsteadily. “Not ‘thanks’ between us. You--you
understand why I came. I--I am sorry----”
She walked slowly back across the fair, fragrant garden, taking time to
get control of herself before she went through the gate and along the
flagged walk and around the house corner. There was Polly on the porch,
still busy with her sewing. Mrs. Wilson compelled herself to sit down
and chat a few minutes about gardens and fowls and Red Cross work. Then
she said good-by and started home.
Near the mill she met Dick Osborne and he looked at her with eager
eyes. Then his face fell. Cousin Mayo had not told her; Dick was sure
of that as soon as he saw her face. Why not? It must be a tremendous
secret if Cousin Mayo couldn’t tell Cousin Agnes--and she asking him
to! He remembered uneasily the conversation that Jake Andrews had
overheard; he was sorry that fellow had happened to come along just
then. He must tell Anne and Patsy to keep their lips glued up. Alas! It
was too late now for caution. The secret was out.