The predominant feeling in Glenning's breast when Doctor Kale left him
was one of resentment. The old fellow had presumed far beyond his
rights, had gone into the future in an entirely unwarrantable way, and
had given advice for which there was no thanks in the young man's heart.
His resentment was heightened by the fact that Julia Dudley's face had
been haunting him all morning. Certainly he did not love her. He had
never exchanged a word with her; he had only seen her once, a vision of
white beauty with brown, braided hair, standing like a Niobe in that
night of stress and peril. He had never been of a susceptible
temperament. He had work to do in the world, and love must wait. That
had been his motto of renunciation, for he had a deep, strong, tender
heart, charged with that priceless heritage God gives to each of his
children. But when the girl with the braided hair had stepped forward in
the presence of half the town and had singled him out for her cavalier
in the adventure of that hour, he had felt a strange and unaccountable
thrill pass through him. Her presence had been with him in the burning,
blinding heat of his subsequent struggle, and the knowledge that she was
waiting without for him to appear again a victor had nerved his arm and
his smoke-numbed brain to success. He did not try to hide these facts
from himself, but it was galling to think that a meddlesome old
busy-body had also found them out, and had flung them in his face,
coupled with a warning.
He shook himself together and took another view. He must not be
supersensitive. The old man had been good to him. He had ministered to
him and nursed him when he, himself, was worn and tired. And Dillard had
said he was peculiar. But Glenning had seen the deeper, truer side to
Doctor Kale for a few moments, and he knew that whatever nature he
presented exteriorly, down in his heart he was a man. That personal
experience of which he spoke evasively probably referred to the death of
his wife. Anyhow it was something very vital; something of serious
import, and John saw now that it had been shrewdly given him to assist
him in formulating a proper attitude towards Miss Dudley. Old Doctor
Kale loved her. Of course it was a paternal, protecting love, but it was
deep as the nethermost sea, and as true as heaven. And old Doctor Kale
knew that as sure as grass grew, and water ran down hill, a man and a
maid will love.
Slowly through these engrossing reflections a sound crept to Glenning's
brain. He had been conscious of it for several moments in an indifferent
way, but all at once it assumed the tones of a conversation. He inclined
his head in the direction from whence the sound came, and caught a name
which made him start. He got up, alert, calm, quiet, and moved swiftly
towards the cheap oak dresser. He now observed for the first time that
this sat in front of a door connecting with another room, and it was
from that room the voices came. There was no transom, but by moving the
dresser slightly he would have access to the keyhole. This would have to
be accomplished without noise. He listened. The voices had sunk to a
murmur. There was no choice, and instantly his long, sinewy fingers
gripped the top of the dresser on either side. Oh, how it hurt when he
put forth his strength! But he lifted it, swerved it a few inches, and
set it down without a sound. The exertion had racked his body with
acutest pain, but he smiled grimly as he thought of what his recent
caller would have said and done could he have seen him, then squatted
before the keyhole and softly put his ear to the tiny aperture. In an
instant his face grew grave.
"Tonight, Travers; it must be tonight," a husky, coarse voice was
whispering; "it's got to be done!"
"And you want _me_ to do it?" came the answering whisper, in a nervous,
excited manner.
"Yes. There's nothing in the State that can beat my Thunderer, Daystar
and Imperial Don except that long-legged devil-colt. You want to retire
from business. You can do it after this summer's racing with the tips
I'll give you _if you'll kill Dudley's colt tonight_!"
"I can't! I can't!" was the moaning reply. "I'm not too good; I'm
afraid!"
"Afraid of what?" a sneering voice returned. "Of the dark, two old
niggers, an old man and a girl? You're not game a bit!"
"Let me think ... let me think! How much can I make?"
"Ten thousand, easy. See here, it can be done in a minute. We've tried
poison and fire, but there's no escape from a pistol bullet, unless that
lank fool who last night went where I tried to go chooses to stand in
the way--and I shouldn't care if he did."
"Where will the horse be?--the stable's burned flat."
"I'll find that out today and let you know soon after dark. But you'd
better not do it till along towards three in the morning. Everybody will
be asleep then."
"But if they should catch me, Marston? I'm supposed to be respectable!"
"Damn you for a rank coward!" was the explosive rejoinder, spoken aloud.
"I know a fellow who'll do it for a ten-dollar bill!"
The heavy tramping of feet followed this harsh speech, as though the man
who had spoken was leaving the room.
"Hold on, Marston!" the nervous voice protested, eagerly. "Come back a
minute! And don't talk so loud. That new doctor's on this floor
somewhere. I was asleep when they brought him in half dead last night,
and the night clerk, Jones, put him on this floor somewhere. Be patient.
A man can't risk his life and reputation without thinking about it. Sit
down just a minute and let me think."
Some unintelligible grumbling was the only reply Glenning could hear,
but he judged from the silence which followed that both men were still
there. He took advantage of this lull in the conversation to put his
eye to the keyhole. A compactly built, brutish looking man was in his
line of vision, sprawled in a chair directly facing him. Glenning would
have recognized anywhere the one who had vainly tried to enter The
Prince's stall. He was an evil appearing man. His shoulders were very
broad, and his neck was so thick and short that his round head seemed to
spring from his body. He was flashily dressed, with knee length riding
boots of russet leather. His face was sensual and cruel; his straight
black hair grew low upon his forehead. His eyes were small and set close
to his nose, and his upper teeth habitually showed, like a wolf's. A
heavy scowl sat upon his features from his present ill humour. The
watcher at the keyhole felt a great wave of repulsion surge over him as
he beheld this being in the shape of man, and unconsciously his heart
hardened. Nothing was visible of the second occupant of the room except
the toe of one shoe, which kept up an incessant tattoo on the worn
carpet. Two minutes passed, and Glenning noted that the figure fronting
him was growing restless. The frown on his low forehead deepened into
threatening furrows and he began to strike his boots with the whip he
carried. Suddenly he sat upright.
"Out with it, man!" he hissed. "Don't dally here till the morning's
gone! Are you going to do it or not?"
The tattoo ceased, and the foot was withdrawn from view. Then its owner
came within the radius of the little circle formed by the keyhole. He
walked straight to the burly figure in the chair, and bent down to
whisper his decision. The man on watch could only see his back. He was a
low, thin person, wearing a brown checked suit. Glenning swiftly put his
ear to the little opening, and listened with the greatest intensity. It
was of the utmost importance that he should hear the outcome of the
plot. But only elusive murmurs reached him, and not a word could he
hear. Observation was his second chance; the only one left. Again he
brought his eye to bear. Both men were standing now, close together.
They had come to a satisfactory understanding, for the heavy man's face
had lightened, and he had one hand laid in a confiding way upon the
shoulder of his confederate. Then they passed from the room, whispering
as they went.
Glenning got onto his feet, found a chair, and sat down. Of one thing
only was he sure--there was work before him. The rest was dark, but
plain ahead lay his duty. The Dudleys must know of all that had passed
in the next room. The one called Marston had spoken of poison and of
fire. Then the burning of the stable had been the work of an incendiary.
He was exerting every malign effort to get rid of Dudley's horse. The
third trial was to occur that night. John got up and looked at his
watch. It was after eleven. Major Dudley had said in his note that he
would call in the afternoon. But he might not come till late, and
something might happen whereby he could not come at all. The matter was
most urgent and vital, admitting of no delay whatever. He knew no one
who could act as a messenger on an errand of this character. Dillard
had said he would drop in at noon, but he had duties of his own. He must
go himself. There was no other course open. When he had come to this
decision Glenning took a quick inventory of his physical condition. The
wound over his right lung was his most serious hurt. The burns which he
had sustained were only on the surface, and while they were quite
painful, they would not prevent his proposed journey. Strange to say,
his face had scarcely been touched by the fire. There was an ugly welt
about two inches long upon his left cheek, and a scratch or two upon his
forehead and neck; that was all. His hair was badly singed, as he
discovered when he endeavored to brush it. He made his toilet as
carefully as possible, finding shaving a task for a stoic, but going
through with it nevertheless. By twelve he was appareled in a neat gray
suit and clean linen, and feeling very much himself. He went down to the
dining-room early, and was grateful to be assigned to a table in an
obscure corner. It was his especial desire right now to be unnoticed,
and besides he had an innate abhorrence of publicity; of being looked at
and commented upon, even though favorably.
The boy who had brought his breakfast approached in a deferential way
for his order, which Glenning gave with the request that it be served
quickly. But before it came he began to realize the penalty of
greatness. The guests of the hotel commenced to assemble, and every one
that entered, male or female, big or little, cast their eyes about until
they found the hero in his corner. And the painful part of it was they
did not withdraw their eyes after they had found him, but gazed and
gazed with truly rural interest, in which rudeness really had no place.
One little girl in brown curls even ventured to point, and ask, "Mama,
is that him?" before the maternal hand could grasp her arm, and the
paternal voice admonish her in a loud whisper to behave. Still his
dinner did not come, and he began to grow embarrassed. Finally, in
desperation, he drew some old letters from his pocket and began to
re-read them, finding such employment better suited to his taste than
staring sillily back at the many pairs of eyes which were now beholding
him. Directly a small envelope slipped from the packet in his hand and
fell face upward on the table. The address was in an unformed feminine
hand. He did not re-read this letter, but as he picked it up and placed
it back in his breast pocket along with the others a look of dejected
weariness settled heavily on his face. He forgot all those who were
watching him; forgot the urgent present, as a pair of wonderful
wine-brown eyes swam before him. Dishes jingled at his elbow; his dinner
was being served. He must eat quickly and go. He must behave well, and
let the people look as long as they wished, for they were to be his
people now, and his home was to be among them. In time he was to be the
family doctor for many of them.
But the grip of a past such as held him now was not the palsied touch of
age. It was the strong-handed hold of vigorous youth, which tightens the
more as we make resistance. Glenning shook back the straight black
locks which had fallen upon his forehead, and the melancholy of his eyes
became a shadow of living pain. A lassitude was upon him, weighting his
spirit, leaden-like. He ate perfunctorily, choosing no dish above
another, taking always the one closest to hand. He was not aware of the
obsequious attentions of the waiter who stood proudly behind his chair,
with mouth set in a perpetual grin. He did not hear the purring
questions this worthy asked. Sometimes it was this way with him. He had
fought a battle from which gods would have shrunk, and had come out
clean. But the price! Sometimes he wondered, in bitterness, if it had
been worth while, and then later, when quiet came, and he felt an awed
sweetness stealing upon his soul, he was glad.
By force of will alone he brought his mind back to the hour before him.
Then, hurriedly making an end of his dinner, he went to his room for a
light cane, found and descended the parlor stairs to avoid the office
and the loungers there, and started up street.
The appearance of any stranger in a town the size of Macon is always
remarked. Little wonder then that John Glenning found himself, as it
were, on dress parade. When he had run the gantlet of one block, which
happened to be the one upon which most of the business houses were
located, he turned to the right, to allay any suspicions as to his
ultimate destination. He would make a detour, and come back to main
street further on. The first corner which he approached was occupied by
a small, weather-beaten, one-story frame house, setting slightly back in
a yard poorly kept, wherein a few straggling rose bushes strove for
existence. Entering the front door of this house as he passed was a
slightly bent, limping figure. He recognized in a moment Doctor Kale,
but whether this was his residence, or whether he was making a call, he
could not determine. He was quite thankful, however, that the old doctor
had not seen him, for an unpleasant situation would have developed at
once. He had given his word to remain in his room for two days, and he
did not feel inclined to share his secret with a comparative stranger,
even though his friendly interest in the Dudleys could not be
questioned.
Glenning crossed the street diagonally and resumed his eastward course,
walking more rapidly. The increased circulation which his exercise
occasioned caused him considerable suffering, but he set his jaws, and
went on. Presently he passed the jail, a stone structure, with narrow
slits for windows. Pitying any unfortunate who might be languishing in
the gloomy pile this bright June day, he fell to noticing the pleasant
looking houses which he passed, most of them of frame, most of them old,
and possessing no decided style of architecture, but indicating thrift
and cleanliness on the part of their occupants. Then he had swerved onto
the main street once more, which led on in an unbroken line almost to
Cemetery Hill, beyond which was the Dudley home. He passed very few
people now, for it was hot at this time of the day, and not many were
stirring. Then, too, it was the dinner hour. He found this walk would
have been delightful under ordinary circumstances, for the pavement was
lined with maple trees, which cast a continuous shade below. He passed
some beautiful homes on this part of his walk; residences which showed
plainly the lavish elegance of ante-bellum prosperity. He grew the least
bit nervous as he crossed the railroad just this side of Cemetery Hill.
It was here the pavement ended, and for the remainder of his journey he
must take the pike. He was not afraid of his welcome; he knew that would
be cordial and genuine, but until he should be able to make his errand
known it would appear somewhat as if he had come to be thanked. His
sensitive nature revolted at this. He really would have preferred to let
the incident drop without discussion, but he knew that was impossible.
He was now in view of the fence, the long, iron fence bent and twisted
in places which bounded a large and exceedingly well kept lawn, from
which arose in stately splendour, irregularly, majestic oaks, maples and
elms. The lawn sloped gently upward, and on its crest was the home,
looking very square, solid and dignified, with its upper and lower
porticos and its rows of windows, four above and four below. There was
no sign of life. Glenning went down the fence, watching for a gate. The
night before he had had no time for minor things, and it was almost as
though he had never seen the place before. The gate proved to be at the
other corner of the yard, was double, and had a lion's head cast in the
center of the iron arch which spanned it. One of the gates yielded to
his touch and he went in, feeling decidedly like a trespasser. He found
himself at the beginning of a graveled drive, winding picturesquely
through borders of evergreens up to the front of the mansion.
Unconsciously, perhaps, he put his hand to his tie to see that it was in
place, then bravely set his face towards his goal.
As he drew closer he discovered that the house was pretentious, and that
the disposition and care of everything outdoors was peculiarly correct.
He did not tarry as his feet brought him near the end of the drive, but
walked with a firm tread upon the portico, removed his hat, and knocked
briskly upon a panel of one of the heavy doors, both of which were open
wide. Accompanying his knock, rather than following it, came the sound
of the swishing of dainty drapery overhead; a sound which instantly
became more audible, and mingled with it was the musical hum of a
lilting tune. Glenning glanced up, his heart behaving somewhat oddly,
for his position was a trifle nervous, and beheld, around the further
bend of the old stairway, where it gave upon the broad landing, a
flutter of garments. He knew at once who it was, and he knew she had not
heard his summons at the door, for she was humming industriously, and
evidently had just started to descend the stair. Across the landing she
floated, to the top of the downward flight, and at that point she lifted
her eyes and beheld the tall young stranger standing in the middle of
the open doorway. The humming stopped abruptly, and so did Julia. She
did not recognize him at that distance, for the brighter light was at
his back, and his clothing was entirely different from what it had been
the night before. Knowing it to be a stranger, and presuming he had
called to see her father, she came very demurely and very slowly down
the stair, one hand sliding gently along the mahogany rail. Glenning
waited in respectful silence until she should come nearer. She had
dropped her eyes, but as her feet reached the floor she lifted them in
an interrogative glance, and then she saw--the singed and burned hair,
the disfiguring welt upon his cheek, one or two pieces of court plaster
which he had tried to remove and failed. The change which transformed
this quite correct and polite young lady was electric in its rapidity.
Her hands clasped and flew up under her chin, and there came a look upon
her sweet face such as the man had never seen in his life before. There
was gratitude, compassion, and a lingering, unconscious tenderness, and
eloquent, if wordless emotion beamed in her brown eyes. For a moment
each was speechless. Then Julia came forward with outheld hand.
"O, you are he!" she exclaimed, and the blood rushed up to her face,
overflowing its delicate beauty with rich tints. "You saved our Prince!"
The touch of the small, cool hand in his affected Glenning strangely. It
brought recollection--which was bitter--and it made this girl's presence
very real--which was sweet.
She spoke again almost at once, in a somewhat calmer voice, though it
was plain to see her feelings had not abated.
"My father and I are in your lasting debt. Come into the library. He
will want to see you. He was going into town for that purpose later in
the afternoon. Peter told us he delivered father's letter safely."
As she was speaking she led the way into the room on the right. Glenning
followed, and both sat down.
"I--might have waited for him to come," said John, "but--I thought
something might detain him, and an incident has arisen which makes it
necessary that I see him at once. Otherwise I would not have forced
myself upon you so soon after--last night."
"I am glad you have come, Mr.--Doctor--"
"Glenning, Miss Dudley."
"Doctor Glenning, for I want to speak my thanks with father's. I do not
know whether I should apologize or not for appealing to you last night,
for I had never seen you until that moment. But I was wild with grief at
the thought of my Prince burning to death before my eyes, and when the
rest gave back cowardly, and left you alone, it was borne in upon me
that you would do it--that you could do it, and were not afraid. Now,
when I am calm and sane, I see that I was presuming enormously--almost
inhumanly, upon your manhood, for I had no right in the world to speak
to you as I did, and I believe I am ashamed of it today, and think I
should ask your pardon."
Her words followed each other swiftly, as though the speech was one
which she wished to say quickly, before her determination to speak it
wavered. The flush which had come to her face at the door had never
receded, and still enveloped her features charmingly, as she sat with
bent head in the cool semi-gloom of the old library.
Glenning looked on her a moment keenly before he replied. The picture
she made might have stirred any man's heart. He knew she was sincere;
that sufficed for the time.
"Don't speak of apologies," he answered, in a voice which had grown
deeper and more vibrant. "You do not owe me any. I have read of days
when men counted it a favor to serve a lady, be she friend or stranger.
Let us not think those days are entirely gone--that they are as dead as
the people who lived in them. Candidly, and without simulation, I was
glad to do what I did for you--gladder still that you felt you might
call upon me. That means more than all else, perhaps. And it was not all
a duty, believe me; it was a pleasure."
A smile trembled upon her lips as she raised her head and looked
squarely at him.
"And these," she said, "upon your cheek, and neck, and forehead. Your
hands, blackened and burned"--her voice quivered--"your lungs perhaps
scorched--what of these?"
He laughed gently.
"Let us say my body has been purged of some of its sins by fire, and let
us call the marks badges of honor. They will not deface, and I shall
never be sorry for them."
There was a peculiar earnestness to his tones she could not fathom.
None of the young men in Macon would have made a speech like that. None
of them could have understood such sentiments. She understood them but
vaguely herself, yet they appeared very noble. As he spoke, she knew
that she was noticing for the first time the square lines of his angular
face, and the half melancholy, half humorous expression of his eyes.
"You take serious things quite lightly," she contended, "but it is
difficult to answer you. You are striving not to permit your heroism to
be recognized, but _we_ know better, father and I, and you must not
speak deprecatingly of it before us. It will hurt us. Shall I go for
father?" She arose quietly and stood before him. "Peter is arranging new
quarters for the Prince, and father is superintending the work."
"Yes, if it is convenient for him to come now. I don't think I need
delay him long. You, too, had better be present, for you will be
interested in my message."
"Very well. Wait just a moment."
She disappeared in the hall with light footsteps, and Glenning, with his
eyes set intently upon the worn Brussels carpet in front of him, awaited
her return.