[Illustration: 9193]
ARSON was slightly weakened by the loss of blood and the unusual tax on
his strength, and yet, wearing a strip of sticking-plaster as the
only sign of his wound, he was at the office betimes the next morning,
anxious to make an early start into the arrangements for a hurried
preliminary trial of his client. Garner, as, was that worthy's habit
when kept up late at night, was still asleep in the den when Helen
called.
Carson was at his desk, bending over a law-book, his pipe in his mouth,
when, looking up, he saw her standing in the doorway and rose instantly,
a flush of gratification on his face.
“I've come to see you about poor Pete,” she began, her pale face taking
on color as if from the heat of his own. “I know it's early, but I
couldn't wait. Mam' Linda was in my room this morning at the break of
day, sitting by my bed rocking back and forth and moaning.”
“She's uneasy, of course,” Carson said. “That's only natural of a mother
placed as she is.”
“Oh yes,” Helen answered, with a sigh. “She was thoroughly happy last
night over his rescue, but now you see she's got something else to worry
about. She now wonders if he will be allowed a fair trial.”
“The boy must have that,” Carson said, and then his face clouded over
and he held himself more erect as he glanced past her out at the door.
“Is Mr. Sanders--did he come with you? You see, I met him on the way to
your house as I came down.”
“Yes, he's there talking over the trouble with my father,” Helen made
rather awkward answer. “He came in to breakfast, but--but I wasn't at
the table. I was with Mam' Linda.” And thereupon Helen blushed more
deeply over the reflection that these last words might sound like
intentional and even presumptuous balm to the sensitiveness of a
rejected suitor.
“I was afraid he might be waiting on the outside,” Carson said,
awkwardly. “I want to show hospitality to a stranger in town, you know,
but somehow I can't exactly do my full duty in his case.”
“You are not expected to,” and Helen had tripped again, as her fresh
color proved. “I mean, Carson--” But she could go no further.
“Well, I am unequal to it, anyway,” Carson replied, with tightening lips
and a steady, honest stare. “I don't dislike him personally. I hold no
actual grudge against him. From all I've heard of him he is worthy of
any woman's love and deepest respect. I'm simply off the committee of
entertainment during his stay.”
“I--I--didn't come down to talk about Mr. Sanders,” Helen found herself
saying, as the shortest road from the trying subject. “It seems to me
you ought to hate me. I have, I know, through my concern over Pete,
caused you endless trouble and loss of political influence. Last night
you did what no other man would or could have done. Oh, it was so brave,
so noble, so glorious! I laid awake nearly all night thinking about it.
Your wonderful speech rang over and over in my ears. I was too excited
to cry while it was actually going on, but I shed tears of joy when I
thought it all over afterwards.”
“Oh, that wasn't anything!” Dwight said, forcing a light tone, though
his flush had died out. “I knew you and Linda wanted the boy saved, and
it wasn't anything. I ran no risk. It was only fun--a game of football
with a human pigskin snatched here and there by a frenzied mob of
players. When it fell of its own accord at my feet, and I had laid hands
on it, I would have put it over the line or died trying, especially when
you and Sanders--who has beaten me in a grander game--stood looking on.
Oh, I'm only natural! I wanted to win because--first, because it was
your wish, and--because _that man was there._”
Helen's glance fell to the ragged carpet which, clogged with the dried
mud of a recent rain, stretched from her feet to the door. Then she
looked helplessly round the room at the dusty, open bookshelves,
Garner's disreputable desk strewn with pamphlets, printed forms of notes
and mortgages, cigar-stubs, and old letters. Her eyes rested longer on
the dingy, small-paned windows to which the cobwebs clung.
“You always bring up his name,” she said, almost resentfully. “Is it
really quite fair to him?”
“No, it isn't,” he admitted, quickly. “And from this moment that sort of
banter is at an end. Now, what can I do for you? You came to speak about
Pete.”
She hesitated for a moment. It was almost as if, after all she had said,
that if the subject was to be dropped, hers, not his, should be the
final word.
“I came to tell you that Mam' Linda and I have just left the jail. She
was so wrought up and weak that I made Uncle Lewis take her home in a
buggy. He says she didn't close her eyes all last night and this morning
refused to touch her breakfast. Then the sight of Pete in his awful
condition completely unnerved her. Did you get a good look at him last
night, Carson--I mean in the light?”
“No.” Dwight shrugged his broad shoulders. “But he looked bad enough as
it was.”
“The sight made me ill,” Helen said. “The jailer let us go into the
narrow passage and we saw him through the bars of the cell. I would
never have known him in the world. His clothing was all in shreds and
his face and arms were gashed and tom, his feet bare and bleeding. Poor
mammy simply stood peering through at him and crying, 'My boy, my baby,
my baby!' Carson, I firmly believe he is innocent.”
“So do I,” Dwight made prompt answer. “That is, I am reasonably sure of
it. I shall know _positively_ when I talk to him to-day.”
“Then you will secure his liberty, won't you?” Helen asked, eagerly. “I
promised mammy I'd talk to you and bring her a report of what you said.”
“I am going to do everything in my power,” Dwight said; “but I don't
want to raise false hopes only to disappoint you and Linda all the more
later.”
“Oh, Carson, tell me what you mean. You don't seem sure of the outcome.”
“You must try to look-at the thing bravely, Helen,” Dwight said, firmly.
“There is more in it than an inexperienced girl like you could imagine.
I think we can arrange for a trial to-morrow, but it seems often that it
is while such trials are in progress that the people become most wrought
up; and then, you know, to-day and to-night must pass, and--” He broke
off, avoiding her earnest stare of inquiry.
“Go on, Carson, you can trust me, if I _am_ only a girl.”
“To tell you the truth,” Dwight complied, “it is the next twenty-four
hours that I dread most. That mob last night, it seems, was made up
for the most part of men here in town, workers in the factories and
iron-foundries--many of whom know me personally and have faith in my
promises. If it were left with them I'd have little to fear, but it is
the immediate neighbors of the dead man and woman, the members of the
gang of White Caps who whipped Pete and feel themselves personally
affronted by what they believe to be his crime--they are the men, Helen,
from whom I fear trouble.”
Helen was pale and her hands trembled, though she strove bravely to be
calm.
“You still fear that they may rise and
come--and--take--him--out--of--jail? Oh!” She clasped her hands tightly
and stood facing him, a look of terror growing in her beautiful
eyes. “And can't something be done? Mr. Sanders spoke this morning of
telegraphing the Governor to send troops to guard the jail.”
“Ah, that's it!” said Carson, grimly. “But who is to take that
responsibility on himself. I can't, Helen. It might be the gravest, most
horrible mistake a man ever made, one that would haunt him to his very
grave. The Governor, not understanding the pulse of the people here,
might take the word of some one on the spot. Garner and I know him
pretty well. We've been of political service to him personally, and he
would do all he could if we telegraphed him, but--we couldn't do it. By
the stroke of our pen we might make orphans of the children of scores of
honest white men, and widows of their wives, for the bayonets and shot
of a regiment of soldiers would not deter such men from what they regard
as sacred duty to their families and homes. If the Governor's troops
did military duty, they would have to hew down human beings like wheat
before a scythe. The very sight of their uniforms would be like a red
rag to a mad bull. It would be a calamity such as has never taken
place in the State. I can't have a hand in that, Helen, and not another
thinking man in the South would. I love the men of the mountains
too well. They are turning against me politically because we differ
somewhat, but I simply can't see them shot like rabbits in a net. Pete
is, after all, only _one_--they are many, and they are conscientiously
acting according to their lights. The machinery of modern law moves too
slowly for them. They have seen crime triumphant too often to trust to
any verdict other than that reached from their own reasoning.”
“I see; I see!” Helen cried, her face blanched. “I don't blame you,
Carson, but poor mammy; what can I say to her?”
“Do your best to pacify and encourage her,” Dwight answered, “and we'll
hope for the best.”
He stood in the doorway and watched her as she walked off down the
little street. “Poor, dear girl!” he mused. “I had to tell her the
truth. She's too brave and strong to be treated like a child.”
He turned back to his desk and sat down. There was a deep frown on his
face. “I came within an inch of losing my grip on myself,” his thoughts
ran on. “Another moment and I'd have let her know how I am suffering.
She must never know that--never!”