[Illustration: 9147]
EHIND the dashing bays the newcomer drove down to Warren's. On the
seat beside him sat a negro boy sent from the livery-stable to hold the
horses. Sanders was dressed in the height of fashion, was young, of the
blond type, and considered handsome. A better figure no man need have
desired. The people living in the Warren neighborhood, who peered
curiously out of windows, not having Dwight's affairs at heart, indulged
in small wonder over the report that Helen was about to accept such a
specimen of city manhood in preference to Carson or any of “the home
boys.”
Alighting at the front gate, Sanders went to the door and rang. He was
admitted by a colored maid and shown into the quaint old parlor with its
tall, gilt-framed, pier-glass mirrors and carved mahogany furniture.
The wide front, lace-curtained windows, which opened on a level with
the veranda floor, let in a cooling breeze which was most agreeable in
contrast to the beating heat out-of-doors.
He had only a few minutes to wait, for Helen had just returned from
a visit to Linda's cottage and was in the library across the hall.
He heard her coming and stood up, flushing expectantly, an eager
light flashing in his eyes.
“I am taking you by surprise,” he said, as he grasped her extended hand
and held it for an instant.
“Well, you know you told me when I left,” Helen said, “that it would
be impossible for you to get away from business till after the first of
next month, so I naturally supposed--”
“The trouble was”--he laughed as he stood courteously waiting for her to
sit before doing so himself--“the trouble was that I didn't know myself
then as I do now. I thought I could wait like any sensible man of my
age, but I simply couldn't, Helen. After you left, the town was simply
unbearable. I seemed not to want to go anywhere but to the places to
which we went together, and there I suffered a regular agony of the
blues. The truth is, I'm killing two birds with one stone. We were about
to send our lawyer to Chattanooga to settle up a legal matter there, and
I persuaded my partner to let me do it. So you see, after all, I shall
not be wholly idle. I can run up there from here and back, I believe, in
the same day.”
“Yes, it is not far,” Helen answered. “We often go up there to do
shopping.”
“I'm going to confess something else,” Sanders said, flushing slightly.
“Helen, you may not forgive me for it, but I've been uneasy.”
“Uneasy?” Helen leaned as far back in her chair as she could, for he had
bent forward till his wide, hungry eyes were close to hers.
“Yes, I've fought the feeling every day and night since you left. At
times my very common-sense would seem to conquer and I'd feel a little
better about it, but it would only be a short time till I'd be down in
the dregs again.”
“Why, what is the matter?” Helen asked, half fearfully.
“It was your letters, Helen,” he said, his handsome face very grave as
he leaned towards her.
“My letters? Why, I wrote as often--even often-er--than I promised,” the
girl said.
“Oh, don't think me over-exacting,” Sanders implored her with eyes and
voice. “I know you did all you agreed to do, but somehow--well, you
know you seemed so much like one of us down there that I had become
accustomed to thinking of you as almost belonging to Augusta; but your
letters showed how very dear Darley and its people are to you, and I was
obliged to--well, face the grim fact that we have a strong rival here in
the mountains.”
“I thought you knew that I adore my old home,” she said, simply.
“Oh yes, I know--most people do--but, Helen, the letter you wrote about
the dance your friends--your 'boys,' as you used to call them--gave you
at that quaint club, why, it is simply a piece of literature. I've read
it over and over time after time.”
“Oh, I only wrote as I felt, out of a full heart,” the girl said.
“When you meet them, and know them as I do, you will not wonder at my
fidelity--at my enthusiasm over that particular tribute.”
Sanders laughed. “Well, I suppose I am simply jealous--jealous not alone
for myself, but for Augusta. Why, you can't imagine how you are missed.
A party of the old crowd went around to your aunt's as usual the
Wednesday following your departure, but we were so blue we could hardly
talk to one another. Helen, the spirit of our old gatherings was gone.
Your aunt actually cried, and your uncle really drank too much brandy
and soda.”
“Well, you mustn't think I don't miss them all,” Helen said, deeply
touched. “I think of them every day. It was only that I had been away
so long that it was glorious to get back home--to my real home again. I
love it down there; it is beautiful; you were all so lovely to me, but
this here is different.”
“That's what I felt in reading your letters,” Sanders said. “A tone of
restful content and happiness was in every line you wrote. Somehow,
I wanted you, in my selfish heart, to be homesick for us so that you
would”--the visitor drew a deep breath--“be all the more likely to--to
consent to live there, you know, _some day_, permanently.” Helen made
no reply, and Sanders, flushing deeply, wisely turned the subject, as he
rose and went to a window and drew the curtain aside.
“Do you see those horses?” he asked, with a smile. “I brought them
thinking I might prevail on you to take a drive with me this morning. I
have set my heart on seeing some of the country around the town, and I
want to do it with you. I hope you can go.”
“Oh, not to-day! I couldn't think of it to-day!” Helen cried,
impulsively.
“Not to-day?” he said, crestfallen.
“No. Haven't you heard about Mam' Linda's awful trouble?”
“Oh, that is _her_ son!” Sanders said. “I heard something of it at the
hotel. I see. She really must be troubled.”
“It is a wonder it hasn't killed her,” Helen answered. “I have never
seen a human being under such frightful torture.”
“And can nothing be done?” Sanders asked. “I'd really like to be of
use--to help, you know, in _some_ way.”
“There is nothing to be done--nothing that _can_ be done,” Helen said.
“She knows that, and is simply waiting for the end.”
“It's too bad,” Sanders remarked, awkwardly. “Might I go to see her?”
“I think you'd better not,” said the girl. “I don't believe she would
care to see any but very old friends. I used to think I could comfort
her, but even I fail now. She is insensible to anything but that
one haunting horror. She has tried a dozen times to go over to the
mountains, but my father and Uncle Lewis have prevented it. That mob,
angry as they are, might really kill her, for she would fight for her
young like a tigress, and people wrought up like those are mad enough to
do anything.”
“And some people think the negro may not really be guilty, do they not?”
Sanders asked.
“I am sure he is not,” Helen sighed. “I feel it; I know it.”
There was the sound of a closing gate, and Helen looked out.
“It is my father,” she said. “Perhaps he has heard something.”
Leaving her guest, she went out to the steps. “Whose turn-out?” the
Major asked, with admiring curiosity, indicating the horses and buggy.
“Mr. Sanders has come,” she said, simply. “He's in the parlor. Is there
any news?”
“Nothing.” The old man removed his hat and wiped his perspiring brow.
“Nothing except that Carson Dwight has gone over there on a fast horse.
Linda sent him a message, begging him to make one more effort, and he
went. All his friends tried to stop him, but he dashed out of town like
a madman. He won't accomplish a thing, and it may cost him his life,
but he's the right sort, daughter. He's got a heart in him as big as
all out-of-doors. Blackburn told him Dan Willis was over there, a raging
demon in human shape, but it only made Carson the more determined. His
father saw him and ordered him back, and was speechless with fury when
Carson simply waved his hand and rode on. Go back to the parlor. I'll
join you in a minute.”
“Have you heard anything?” Sanders asked, as Helen re-entered the room
and stood white and distraught before him.
She hesitated, her shifting glance on the floor, and then she stared at
him almost as one in a dream. “He has heard nothing except--except that
Carson Dwight has gone over there. He has gone. Mam' Linda begged him to
make one other effort and he couldn't resist her. She--she was good to
his mother and to him when he was a child, and he feels grateful. She
thinks he is the only one that can help. She told me last night that she
believed in him as she once believed in God. He can do nothing, but he
knew it would comfort her for him to try.”
“This Mr. Dwight is one of your--your old friends, is he not?”
Sanders' face was the playground of conflicting emotions as he stood
staring at her.
“Yes,” Helen answered; “one of my best and truest.”
“He has undertaken a dangerous thing, has he not?” Sanders managed to
say.
“Dangerous?” Helen shuddered. “He has an enemy there who is now
seeking his life. They are sure to meet. They have already quarrelled,
and--_about this very thing_.”
She sat down in the chair she had just left and Sanders stood near her.
There was a voice in the hall. It was the Major ordering a servant to
bring in mint julep, and the next moment he was in the parlor hospitably
introducing himself to the visitor.
Seeing her opportunity, Helen rose and left them together. She went up
to her room, with heavy, dragging footsteps, and stood at the window
overlooking the Dwight garden and lawn.
Carson knew that Sanders was in town, she told herself, in gloomy
self-reproach. He knew his rival was with her, and right now as the poor
boy was speeding on to--his death, he thought Sanders was making love to
her. Helen bit her quivering lip and clinched her fingers. “Poor boy!”
she thought, almost with a sob, “he deserves better treatment than
that.”