him, holding the cup to his lips, for he kept his uninjured hand pressed
to his shoulder. "Don't you worry, Coats," she said resolutely. "I'm not
frightened now. Just you drink this, an' then let me help you up to the
house. I've got father to bed an' I've sent Rachel home an' Ben's not
about. Just you tell me--I'll stand by you no matter what it is, Coats."
Evidently he did not mean to tell her, or else his haste was too great
to waste precious moments. The water had revived him somewhat. "I'm not
going to the house," he said more clearly than he had spoken before. "Go
up and get something soft to wrap my arm in. Bring it to the barn--I'll
manage to get up there and wait for you--in the wagon-shed. Don't let
anybody know what you're about--just come to the barn to me.... Has Ann
come back?"
"No. Ain't you seen her, Coats?"
"No." He paused to think, intently, though his face was twitching from
pain. Then he went on hurriedly, "It's just as well--it's better she
shouldn't know.... She'll come back. Put a note where she's sure to find
it--just say that we've gone driving and won't be back till late, and
that she's to look after her grandfather; that she's not to leave the
house; that Ben will be there, so she needn't feel nervous. Say that and
nothing more. Then get your hat and things and something to put around
my arm and another coat for me--I want you to drive me into the city as
fast as you can. I'd not take you with me, but I can't manage by
myself."
"Coats! You can't go all that way with your arm like that! You've got to
have a doctor!" Every word he had uttered made her the more certain that
there had been a tragedy, something so terrible that he was afraid of
arrest. He was afraid to tell her, and she was afraid to ask him. "You
can't go like that," she reiterated helplessly. "You'll bleed to death."
The thought of it made her sick.
Coats broke into sudden impatience. "I'm going to a doctor! We can't
have a doctor from the Ridge! I want to get to the city as fast as I
can. It's the only way. I know what I'm about--I'm trying to do what's
best for us all--I've had time to think. Ann and your father mustn't
know--what's not known can't be told. I'll explain while we're on our
way. Go and do what I told you, then come and hitch up Billy--he's the
best traveler.... Hurry, Sue--God knows what I'd do if I hadn't you to
help me." His voice failed at the end; he was panting from exhaustion.
Sue obeyed without a word.
XXX
CONTENT
Twenty minutes later, when Ann came out from beneath the pines at the
edge of the woods and started down through the fields to the house, she
saw Sue and Coats driving away from the barn. She could not see
distinctly, they were too far away, but she noticed that they were going
fast. Evidently they had had supper and were going somewhere together,
as they so often did.
Ann had not realized how late it was until the sun touched the horizon.
She was reminded then that it was past the supper hour and that they
would wonder what had become of her. She must have sat for two hours
there, under the pines, simply thinking of her happiness. She had wanted
to be alone with it, just as long as she could be. Once she had carried
her grief and her desolation to that place; it seemed the right place to
come with her joy.
Ann was glad she was going to have the evening to herself, just to sit
on the porch and think. The farm and everything connected with it had
faded into distance since that hour with Edward. They belonged to each
other. The joy of it! During those two weeks of anxious thought over
Garvin, she had realized that Edward was more to her than any one else
in the world. And she knew now that he loved her as she loved him. She
was solemnly, gratefully happy. He was wise and loving and wonderful; he
filled the place of friend, father and lover. The ache of loneliness she
had carried about with her since she was a little thing was stilled.
Ann had thought of Garvin many times that afternoon. Edward had talked
about him while they sat together in the hollow. The first time she and
Edward had met after she had given Garvin her promise, she had gathered
up her courage and had told Edward of her engagement to his brother. Ann
had felt that she must tell him. She had given Edward every detail of
her acquaintance with his brother.
Edward had listened to her, never taking his eyes from her face, and
when she had finished he was a little gray about the lips, as he had
been while she handled the runaway horse, but all he had said was, "You
don't love Garvin, Ann."
"I'm fond of him," Ann had said in deep distress.
"You don't love him--you have been spared that," Edward had repeated
quietly.
"I don't love him as he loves me--I promised to marry him when I was
angry and wretched," Ann had confessed.
"Yes, I understand that," Edward had said in the same steady way. "You
neither love him nor will you marry him. Before long you will collect
courage to write Garvin exactly how you feel. I'd rather have it that
way. Then he will accommodate himself to it without going mad over it,
which will be the best solution for him. And in the meantime he shall
not come near you." Then he had smiled at her as he often did. "You love
to be loved too well to love easily, my little Ann. But it won't always
be so."
"I am so sorry for him," Ann had said.
"We are all sorry for him," Edward had answered. "By and by you will
understand why."
It had been Edward's last word on the subject. In their following
meetings, he had held his peace, listening intently to Ann's troubled
thoughts--until that afternoon, when she had told him that she had
written to Garvin, and what she had written. Then, in that steady way of
his, Edward had told her what she was to him, and heaven had opened to
Ann. He had filled her heart completely.
Edward had gone back over the years and had told her about his life;
about his leaving Westmore; about his marriage; about their future
together. And then he had told her about Garvin, and Ann had understood
why she had been drawn to Garvin and had pitied him, and yet had felt
repelled. He was one of the unfortunates of the world.
Edward had not even hinted at what he knew had been Garvin's endeavor
and that she had been walking on the edge of a precipice over which many
would have fallen; that her elusiveness and her innocence, and, more
than anything else, the quality of her affection for Garvin had probably
saved her. He allowed her to think affectionately and pityingly of his
brother; when he took Ann unto himself, Garvin would necessarily be part
of her inheritance.
Ann was still absorbed when she came slowly down from the woods and into
the house. Sue's note was lying on Ann's plate, and she read it somewhat
vaguely: she was to take care of her grandfather while they were away;
they would not be back until very late, but Ben would be there so she
need not feel anxious.... Ann turned away from the table; she did not
want anything to eat. She went up, dutifully, to see whether her
grandfather needed anything, and, finding him asleep, went to her room.
Then she saw her gaping trunk, Edward's books flung out on the floor ...
and that Garvin's letters were not there.
At first she was terrified, for the spell of secrecy was still upon her,
and the fear of harm to Edward and to Garvin. But then it came to her as
a tremendous relief that Edward would know how to guard himself and how
to shield Garvin. He was very wise and careful. He had said to her, "I
mean to tell Garvin everything just as soon as I feel it is wise to do
so. I shall write to Coats Penniman at once, but I am afraid the
Penniman enmity is insurmountable. If it is, we must wait until you are
of age, and that will be in October." Edward would know what to do and
what to say to them; she need not be frightened.
As she sat on the porch, listening to the night sounds, Ann kept
repeating to herself that she need not be frightened, and her faith in
Edward's wisdom was so complete that she slipped into visions of the
future. It was a dark night illumined only by the orange-red glow in the
west, and it was fading rapidly. It was going to be a black night, misty
with the prescience of rain.
It grew so dark that even the outlines of the nearest objects faded into
the enveloping blackness, but Ann did not move; she was still dreaming
with eyes wide, quite alone yet content.
XXXI
THE FAMILY NAME
It was after sundown when Judith lifted from her work over the
flower-bed on the terrace and looked at the glow in the western sky. It
was twilight; time for Garvin to come from the city, and Edward from his
daily ride to the club; another long evening before her without the
relief of active work.
Would Baird come that evening? Since her visitors had gone, there had
been significant intervals between his calls, and she was quite helpless
in the matter. She was filled with a passionate revolt against what she
felt was woman's helplessness. If she had a man's opportunities, how
long would she remain quiescent at Westmore, a slave to a routine that
had begun to gall her intolerably! And any day she might be set aside.
Judith had endlessly pondered Edward's tense championship of Ann, and
Baird's interest in the girl. What was going to grow out of it all?
Something certainly that would make Westmore unendurable to her. After
fifteen years of mental and physical toil, she was a dependent,
unskilled in any direction--except as a housekeeper--the spinster
adjunct to a family that would not need her. It was the fate of most
women who conserved and conserved. It was her rearing that had made her
what she was. If she had defied the family conventions and had gone out
into the world, she could easily have made a life for herself. It was
men who held the winning cards.... Judith's gardening had been a relief.
She could look her thoughts while she worked; the warm earth her strong
hands had prodded and pressed was a safe confidant.
She stood with hand shading her face, looking at the sunset glow, her
lips shut in a straight line, her eyes smoldering. When the thud of
steps on the porch above warned her that some one was coming, she turned
with her usual swift decision, but first she had wiped expression from
her face, a resolute downward movement of her hand from which her eyes
emerged, level and questioning.
It was Ben Brokaw who was hurrying down to her, his long arms hanging
and his body bent, his usual position when running and which was oddly
suggestive of primordial locomotion. The smile that grew in Judith's
eyes as she watched the grotesque creature changed quickly into a frown
when she saw his face. He had evidently run some distance, for there was
about him the steaming heat of a hard-driven animal. But his ridged and
mottled face was curiously drawn and tense. He had brought up within a
few feet of her, had paused and straightened.
With the instant alarm of one inured to apprehension, Judith asked,
"What has happened?"
Ben could express himself only in the way natural to him. "Miss Judith,
there ain't no time fo' me to come around slow to what I've got to tell,
an' you ain't one to go under, you're Westmo' through an' through....
Miss Judith, the Mine Banks is claimed another Westmo'."
"Garvin?" Judith asked through suddenly blanched lips.
"Not him, tho' there's no tellin' about him. It's Edward, Miss Judith."
"Edward ... not Edward--" Judith's voice was entirely without
modulation.
Ben hurried over his explanation. "I were watchin' over Ann, like Edward
had told me to do--it's Edward I've been workin' for this spring, not
Coats Penniman. I had found out that Garvin was meeting Ann, an' Edward
had told me not to let Garvin come near Ann again. Edward knowed that
Ann were safe if I watched over her. This afternoon Edward had been
talkin' with Ann, down by the Back Road, an' when he went and Ann went
up in the woods, I was clost to her. When she went down to the house I
went to the Banks. I'd heard shootin' there, but that's always goin' on
about here, I didn't think nothin' of that, but I was scart by things I
seen when I got to the Banks, an' I looked about. I found him, Miss
Judith, he's lyin' like one gone peaceful to sleep--the little thing
what killed him done its work quick."
"You mean--he's been shot--to death--?" Judith whispered with pauses.
"Yes." Ben looked down at the flower-bed.
"By whom?" She had straightened, flung back her head.
Ben was silent.
Judith went to him, laid her steel grip on his shoulder. "You tell
me!... There's only one man in the world would do that.... You know who
did it--tell me this instant what you know!"
Ben looked at her, a glance that dropped away from the fire in her eyes.
"It weren't the man you think. Coats Penniman's knowed nothin' of what's
been goin' on. An' I don't know nothin' either--that's my answer to any
who may ask, an' always will be," he said doggedly, "but there's things
I'll tell you an' no one else.... Edward loved Ann, Miss Judith. He
loved her very dear, an' he's seen her pretty constant. An' Garvin, he
were mad over her, like it's in him to be. Edward made him keep away
from Ann--there were hard feelin' between them because of it. But Edward
didn't tell Garvin about Ann and hisself. 'Tain't a thing Edward would
confide to Garvin--there ain't many things you or Edward ever has
trusted to Garvin. I think Garvin suspicioned Edward to-day--that Edward
were seein' Ann--and--" He stopped, then went on. "An' Edward come back
by the Banks--" he stopped again.
Judith had drawn back as if the sight of him burned her. "You're wrong!"
she said passionately. "Garvin was in the city to-day!"
Ben looked at her, pity and affection and respect struggling together in
his eyes and in his voice. "He were at the Banks, Miss Judith. The
traces of him was there. He had hid Black Betty, but I run acrost her,
an' up to Crest Cave I foun' the letter Ann had wrote him, sayin' she
wouldn't have him. An' he'd been drinkin'--I foun' the bottle. An' then,
when I stood up by Crest Cave, I seen Garvin go acrost from the Mine
Banks Road to the creek. It scart me the way he went--like he was hidin'
hisself. I was so scart I went down to the road an' first I saw Edward's
horse, an' then I foun' where he lay."
Judith's hand had covered her lips, as if to smother a shriek; over it
her eyes stared at him.
"There weren't no one else at the Banks but Garvin when I was there--I'd
have knowed it jest so quick as a dog, if there had been. I'd already
took the letter--I run to you then.... Miss Judith, I don't need to tell
you what all this'll come to. Garvin's jest gone mad, but if he comes to
hisself like he does, who'll believe it? The law'll get him, Miss
Judith. An' that ain't all--every bit of all your family history will be
gone into. And Ann's name will be ruined. It will be the end of Westmo'.
I never come up against nothin' like this befo'--I'm jest helpless!" The
big creature looked both helpless and desperate.
Judith turned abruptly, faced God's half-acre, and Ben stood still with
eyes on her rigid shoulders and carven profile. He knew Judith Westmore
well; there was no room for grief, no limit to her capability when the
family name was at stake.
It was not for long; she faced him again. "Where was he shot?" she asked
stiffly.
Ben lifted a finger to his forehead.
Her mask-like face twitched, then was controlled. "Where is he--lying?"
she asked, with the same difficulty over her words. "In the road?...
Where some one may pass?"
"No--off the road--in the hollow--near the first ore-pit."
"In the bushes and grass?"
"Yes."
"Did you search around--him?"
"No. I saw he were gone--then I come quick."
Judith nodded. "Go to the barn and put the horses in the light wagon.
There's no one there--the men have gone. Saddle another horse for
yourself. I'll get some things from the house and come out to you. Go
quick--I'll be quick."
"Are you goin' to the Banks?" Ben asked.
"I'll tell you when I come back. Go put the horses in," and she turned
and walked rapidly to the house.
She returned to Ben's side before he had finished harnessing the horses.
She was laden with blankets and a pillow, and, after she had put them
into the wagon, her skilful hands helped him. She worked swiftly and
accurately, her hard, short-drawn breathing alone indicative of tense
emotion and desperate haste. She spoke low and decidedly.
"We'll have to face it the best way we can.... I want you to ride to the
Copeleys'. Tell Cousin Copeley just that you found Edward--shot at the
Banks, and that you came straight off to me--just that and nothing
more.... Tell any one who asks--just that. Tell Cousin Copeley to come
quick to the Banks to meet me. Then have him send one of the boys for
the doctor and have him bring him to Westmore.... I'm going down through
the woods to the Smiths'. I'll get Allen Smith and his son to go with me
to the Banks--they're the nearest men I can reach, and they're not
relations--I'd rather have them with me."
Judith said no more until they were ready. Then she put her hands on his
huge shoulders. Even in the dim light he could see that her eyes were
brimming. "Ben, you are our friend?" she asked very low. "You will stand
by me?"
"I'd die befo' I hurt a Westmo'--or a Penniman," he said as huskily as
she.
"I believe it, Ben.... Do this for me then: find Garvin and bring him to
Westmore. It's the place where he'll be safest. Tell him I said so.
He'll listen to you when he wouldn't to any one else. And there's no one
who can find him in the night as you can. And, Ben, have him come back
on Black Betty, if you can, and if you can't--" She paused and thought
a moment. "If you can't, get Betty into the club stables during the
night.... You're not afraid to do that for me, Ben?"
Ben's growl was sufficient answer.
Her hands dropped. "We'll go then," she said more clearly.
Ben held her back a moment. "Miss Judith, you'll not put this on a
Penniman, an' you'll keep Ann's name out of it if you can?"
"No--I'll not accuse a Penniman. The dead can't speak--or suffer--let
them bear the blame."
XXXII
THE DEATH-TRAP
Baird was riding slowly back from Westmore to the club. Even if he had
been in the mood for rapid riding, he would not have attempted it; it
was too dark a night. As it was, he was too much absorbed by his
thoughts to hurry his horse. He was thinking of the group of proud
people he had left standing guard over their dead. And he was thinking
of Ann. Did she know?
The thing was terrible. The news had reached the club before the sunset
glow had faded from the sky, brought to Sam by a Westmore negro and
transmitted by him to the men who were dining at the club: Edward
Westmore had taken his own life--at the Mine Banks. The men had
scattered to their homes with the news, and Baird had ridden at once to
Westmore.
There was nothing he could do; the family had already collected. Even
Colonel Dickenson had been sent for and would reach Westmore before
midnight. At Westmore Baird had learned a few details: Ben Brokaw had
found the body and had run to Westmore with the news, and Judith and the
two neighbors she took with her had discovered Edward's pistol, with
one chamber emptied, lying in the grass not far from his hand. It was
the ivory-handled, silver-chased weapon that all of them knew so well,
which Edward always kept loaded and often carried.
Mr. Copeley had said to Baird: "We can't account for such an act on
Edward's part. The only reason we can give to ourselves is that during
the past year he has suffered from occasional attacks of heart trouble.
That's the reason he wouldn't hunt and always rode so slowly. It may
have preyed on his mind.... It is most kind of you to come, Mr. Baird,
and we all thank you; but there is nothing you can do." Baird had
remained only a few moments.
Brave people! Courteous and dignified even when in the deepest distress.
During the moment Judith had given him, Baird had bent to her hand in
profound admiration. She was deadly pale, but erect and clear-voiced.
She was a woman in a million, was Judith Westmore!... And he had liked
Edward almost better than any man he had ever known.... And Ann? Did she
know yet?
Baird was thinking intently of Ann. As soon as the shock of the thing
had worn off, he had thought of Ann. Since the night before, when Ann
had said, "I'd rather you stayed away," he had been as unhappy as he had
thought it possible for him to be, wretched because he felt unable to
get out and fight for the thing he had begun to want badly.
Baird's horse had brought him down into the hollow, to where the creek
crossed the Post-Road. Beyond was the long upgrade at the summit of
which he would turn off into the club road, the extension of the
Pennimans' cedar avenue.... Who would tell Ann? And how much would it
mean to her?
Baird's horse had come to the bridge, his hoofs had struck the planks,
when he stopped abruptly, with fore-feet planted. When Baird spoke to
him, he snorted and backed.
Baird knew the signs of fright, but when he peered over the animal's
head he could see nothing. It was impossible to _see_ anything in that
density of gloom; one could only _feel_. He spoke to his horse again,
but the creature refused to move. There was certainly some good reason
for such reluctance; the bridge was dangerously ramshackle, and should
have been condemned long ago.
Baird dismounted, led his horse to the roadside, and groped until he
found a tree to which he could tie him. He went back to the bridge and,
kneeling, felt his way along. He came upon it very soon; his hand left
the plank and reached into space, a yawning hole wider certainly than
the length of his arm, for there appeared to be nothing beyond.
He crept along then to the side of the bridge, and, presently, he made
it out: beyond the broken and splintered end of timber which supported
the planks on which he was, there was no bridge. It had been torn away,
had collapsed. Full fifteen feet below, in the blackness, the creek tore
along, fretted by the rocks. Whatever had jammed through that rotten
structure had gone to certain destruction.... An automobile!
A certainty, something more than a premonition of a disaster to which he
had played agent, turned Baird hot. He hung over the black gulf, trying
to see, alive with dread of what he might see.... He could not see, but
he could smell. It was an exhalation from below, the odor of gasoline;
he was right, then.
Baird straightened, energetic, as always when action was demanded.... If
only he had a lantern!... He remembered that he had matches, and struck
one. The breeze, faint though it was, snuffed it out. He tried another
with the same result. His next effort was a torch, a letter twisted so
as to burn as long as possible.
It served his purpose, a flickering revelation of a mass of wreckage
thrust against the shelving bank of the creek--until the flame crept to
his fingers and he was forced to drop the charred paper. He sprang up
and went back to the road, not to get help, that did not occur to him,
but to get down to the thing below as soon as possible. There might be
life lingering beneath that mass of wreckage.
Baird encountered a snake fence and an almost impassable mat of briers,
but even in the darkness he felt sure of his direction, certain of it
when he slid down into mud and water. He stood still, trying to
determine just where the wrecked machine lay; to his left? His olfactory
nerves helped him, and his hand soon touched a bit of the wreckage, an
upflung wheel, then the rear of the car. Baird was trying to discover
all he could first by feeling. He had a note-book in his pocket with
which to make a brief bonfire, but he was saving that. If only he had a
lantern!
It was the smell of a reeking wick that suggested a possibility. In
1905, an automobile was not equipped with electricity; its tail light
was a lantern. Baird's hand had encountered it, its glass shattered, but
the metal lamp intact and still warm. He lighted the wick; though
inadequately equipped, he could find his way about now.
The machine lay against a rock, half-overturned, and with nose buried in
the soft earth of the bank. Baird made his way forward on its other
side. Engine, wheel and seat were jammed against the rock and
half-buried in the earth, but by climbing over the rock he reached the
top of the pile, and could throw the light on the confused mass.