John slept very poorly that night. The news which Dan Travers had given
him was enough to keep him awake. Marston was going to Jericho the next
morning! What would he bring back? What would he have to tell upon his
return? Ah, God! could a man never escape the slightest misstep? Must it
dog him to his grave, even though he had won through by days of anguish
and hours of wrestling in the silent night? What a morsel this would be
for vile tongues to handle! What possibilities for enlargement, and
opportunities for misrepresentation! Haggard with wide-eyed watching as
the black moments slowly passed--it was not new to him, this grim facing
of an ever-present spectre--he managed to gain a few hours sleep just
before day. But his cheek bones showed more plainly when he appeared
upon the street the following morning, and the faint lines about his
strong mouth had deepened.
He found Judge Colver and made his report; there was a caucus of the
board of health in Doctor Kale's office; dodgers were ordered printed
and distributed telling the fearsome news and instructing the public as
to what sanitary measures they should employ to keep down the plague.
The local physicians gave him respectful attention when he talked, and
adopted his suggestions cheerfully. This was pleasant, but it did not
lift the weight which had fallen upon him. When the business meeting was
over, John found a piece of yellow cloth at one of the dry goods stores,
armed himself with a supply of disinfectants, and started on his second
trip to his pauper patient.
He had a half formed notion when he left town to stop at the Dudleys for
a moment, and when, driving somewhat slowly in front of the house, he
saw Julia bending over gathering nasturtiums, his tentative idea became
a fixed resolution. He left his horse at the gate, securing him to one
of the iron palings, and went up the drive afoot. She had seen him
coming, and she walked forward to meet him, her face tinting delicately,
and a smile showing through the look of anxiety which she wore. She gave
him a pliant palm, holding a huge armful of vari-coloured blooms to her
breast with her other hand--the flowers spread out over her, a wonderful
breast-plate of gorgeous hues. Some matched her cheeks, and some her
lips, and some her throat, which had assumed a shy pink as she came
within arm's length of John, standing with hat breast high, and
searching eyes. He took her hand and held it a moment longer than was
necessary, but she waited until he released it, and made no effort to
draw it away. He did not attempt to veil the candid admiration which
beamed from his face.
"You are looking _very_ well this morning, if you will allow the
compliment," he said, gravely, and she quickly noted the weary note in
his voice. "I'm sure this flower bed is the most fitting environment you
could possibly have. You seem one of them."
The blood rushed up in torrents at his words, and she turned scarlet. To
hide all this she buried her face for a moment in the armful of
nasturtiums. Her eyes were a-sparkle when she lifted her head at once,
and said, reproachfully:
"Why did you run away yesterday before any of us could see you?"
"One saw me, and I left a message with him. It was too early for either
you or your father to be up. Did Peter not tell you that all went well?"
"Yes, he told us that, and I went down myself to look at The Prince.
Come here a moment, Doctor Glenning."
She crossed the drive with a faint swish of drapery, and walked across
the lawn to the base of a large maple, not many yards from the front
door of the mansion. Beneath this tree, resting against it, was an iron
settee of ornamental design. Lying upon the settee was a large revolver.
Julia picked it up, cocked as it was, and held it out, muzzle earthward.
"I found this, too, inside under the window. It isn't yours, is it?"
John recognized immediately the weapon he had wrested from the hand of
Travers, and which he had neglected to procure before leaving the
smoke-house.
"No, it isn't mine," he replied, readily.
"Peter said that you told him to say to us that nothing had happened."
"He did not quote me correctly. I told him to say that nothing of
_consequence_ had happened."
"Whose revolver is this, Doctor Glenning?"
"It belongs to the man who came to shoot The Prince."
Julia gave a little start, and uttered an involuntary exclamation.
"You--" she began, then stopped and looked at him, her breath coming
faster.
"I didn't see any use in making a fuss about it, you see," explained
John, smiling. "Travers came, as we all knew he would, and I just waited
and let him walk into the trap which Uncle Peter set when he cut that
window, and baited when he led the colt in. That's all there is to it."
"Let's sit down," suggested Julia.
Then, side by side upon the settee, the revolver still in her hand, she
resumed:
"This is a fearful looking thing. Did he have this?"
"Yes, that's what he came hunting with near three o'clock in the
morning. It would kill an elephant if properly handled."
"How did you happen to get possession of it?"
"I see you must have the whole story," said John, with his inimitable
chuckle, and thereat he proceeded, very faithfully and very accurately,
to recount the entire tale.
Julia drew back in wonder as she listened.
"And you _held_ him!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide and her brows
contracted in surprise. Doubtless she did not know it, but her gaze went
sweeping over the man, from top to toe, and her mind was wondering where
all that power was stored, for he was very lean, though wonderfully
broad of shoulder.
"Yes, it was easy, for I really took him at an unfair advantage, but it
was the only way--that or nothing."
"Yes," she said, but nothing more, for she could not understand him. But
she knew there was a sweet feeling of security when he was near. He
could do anything; of that she was entirely confident.
"There's small-pox in the county," said John, presently, with such
sudden irrelevance that the girl half rose from her seat.
"Where?"
"Some paupers out this road--I don't think you need be scared. I'm
waiting on them."
"You!"
"Yes, I'm a doctor, you know. Old Mr. Hoonover came in yesterday
afternoon with the news, and I am constrained to believe that it was
more a matter of personal interest with him than it was love for his
neighbour. He lives close to them. But what's worse than small-pox is
the fact that I was compelled to strike Devil Marston yesterday
afternoon on the streets of your town."
He rapidly detailed the encounter. Julia was all interest and concern,
and hovered on his words eagerly, yet with dread.
"Travers told me last night that he's gone to Jericho," concluded
Glenning.
"What for?"
"To try and ruin me, Miss Dudley!"
John turned upon her with a face every lineament of which bespoke
suffering and strength.
"I came away from there, my friend, because had I stayed I would have
gone to hell, along the broadest and most flowery of all the broad and
flowery ways which lead there. My feet had turned in at that wide
gate--God forgive me!--when all at once I awoke! I can't tell you now--I
have no right--but some day I will tell you, some day when we know each
other better, and there's nothing which makes for quick and
understanding companionship like a common danger. We are each
threatened, you the most, poor girl, for you cannot fight--but I have
strength for two--" he stopped, and shut his teeth. He had nearly gone
too far. Then he leaned towards her and took one of her hands, crushing
it in both of his almost roughly. The flowers fell in a gorgeous heap
between them, strewing her lap with their fresh beauty. He looked
steadily into her eyes, and she looked back into his, fearlessly and
earnestly.
"Trust me!" he said, in a strained voice. "Trust me! Believe in me! It
will come to you! Devil Marston will not let his news suffer for want of
garnishment--and you will hear! Am I asking too much to ask for your
faith and trust? It means much to me--now! It means more to me than all
of life, I believe--right now! Will you do it? Will you believe in me?
It is going to be a strong test, Miss Dudley. Answer me!"
The situation was new and strange to the girl who had never known aught
of life save that which the peaceful environs of home had disclosed.
She knew nothing of the world--of its wickedness, trials and sins. She
had never seen a strong man wrought up to a pitch like this; she had
never heard such words before, and now she but vaguely sensed their
meaning. She knew that she was trembling, but she was not afraid, for
cowardice did not run in her blood. She knew that her hand was aching
under the force he had unconsciously put upon it. Her eyes beheld the
melancholy shadows which dwelt perpetually in his; she saw the fresh
scars on his forehead and cheek where the burns had not yet healed--the
singed hair. And back of it all she seemed to see his soul, suffering,
but clean! A half sob struggled in her throat.
"I don't know what you mean!" she said, with child-like candour which
was almost pitiful. "But I know you are a man! Nothing can change that
opinion, Doctor Glenning, I do believe in you, and I have faith in you,
and trust you!"
"Thank God!" he said, huskily, and released her hand.
They sat without speaking for several minutes. Peter appeared upon the
other side of the lawn, hoe in hand, diligently searching for any weeds
which might have come up within the last few days.
"Father is not very well this morning," Julia began, her hand straying
absently among the scattered nasturtiums. "He fears a breakdown, and has
been talking a great deal of his brother, my uncle Arthur, who went west
before I was born, and from whom we haven't heard for years. We don't
know whether he's living or not, and this distresses father, for he
says he would like above all things to see him now."
"That is strange. How long has it been since you had a letter?"
"Oh, many years. Not since I was quite a little girl."
"I'm sorry to hear the Major is indisposed. Try and keep him in a
cheerful mood if you can. It won't do for a man of his age to grow
despondent. I fear these troubles which have come to him are the cause."
"Yes, he is so unlike himself. I suspect I had better go to him now."
She arose and began gathering up her flowers. Glenning picked up a few
which had fallen upon the ground, and gave them to her.
"Won't you come in?" she asked.
"Not this morning, thank you. Give Major Dudley my regards, and tell him
I'll call soon. I must go see my pauper now; the poor fellow's pretty
sick."
He pressed her hand quickly and firmly and strode rapidly away. She went
slowly towards the house, her head bent over the armful of flowers. Her
thoughts were new, many and tumultuous, but they were not bitter. At the
portico steps she remembered that this was the day when the town paper
was issued. Ordinarily she cared little for what was going on in the
vicinity, but now something made her turn and call to the old negro--
"Uncle Peter, will you please go to town at once, and bring the mail?"
The old fellow retreated to put his hoe away, and Julia, casting a
glance at a buggy now being driven briskly down the road, went in to her
father.
The Major was decidedly unwell. He was up and dressed, and was sitting
in his favourite chair by the window. But his posture was not his own.
Always erect hitherto, standing or sitting, this morning he slouched
down in his chair, listlessly, and his shoulders had pulled forward. An
expression almost of hopelessness was on his face, and Julia noticed, as
she came quietly in, that there was no book in his hand. This fact,
apparently trivial, worried her more than the dejected appearance her
father presented. For she did not remember of ever seeing him alone
before when he did not hold a book; if he was not reading it he was
nursing it. The girl quickly and noiselessly arranged the flowers in
sundry vases and bowls, then came and knelt by her father's side and
took one of his passive, unresponsive hands.
"Daddy, don't you feel a little better?" she pleaded.
He did not look at her. His eyes were directed on the floor, and he
merely shook his head slowly in answer to her solicitous query.
"What is it, daddy dear? Do you hurt anywhere? Won't you go to bed, or
lie down on the couch and let me sit by you?"
The tender words from his beloved child roused the Major. He lifted his
head and mechanically adjusted his stock. Then he turned to her and
placed his hand caressingly upon her brown hair.
"Ah, little Julia! Little Julia!"
That was all for several moments. He sat and looked at her for some
time, and the love in his soul beatified his countenance.
"I'm not sick," he said, after a while. "That is, no doctor on earth
could help me. It's just the letting go, sweet daughter. I'm old, you
must remember, and I can't endure things nor fight as I once could. It
has come in the last few days--I have seemed to crumble--to wither, and
it has weighed me down horribly. I should have risen above it. I do not
care about myself; my life is lived, but you, dear child--it is the
thought of your future which fills me with alarm and well-nigh breaks my
heart. I have no inheritance for you--I have nothing to leave you but
poverty and danger. Don't you understand?"
His voice was gravely tender as he spoke to her thus, and it made her
heart ache, and the burning tears come to her lids.
"Oh, daddy!" she cried; "you must be mistaken! You will--you _must_ stay
with me many years yet, for I could not get along without you. Tell me
you will try--you know the mind has so much to do with the body. Brace
up, daddy, for your Julia! You say you have no sickness; then try and
let your spirit be bright--for me! Won't you?"
She arose, glided into his lap, curled one arm around his neck and
kissed him on the forehead.
"For such a daughter one should try very hard for life," he replied, and
the twinkle she had not seen for several days shone in his eyes. "I'm
stricken, lassie, but I'll promise you this: I'll make the best fight of
my life now, in its last days, and that shall be to stay with my
precious little girl as long as I can. Does that satisfy you, young
miss?"
The Major's last words were almost gay, and Julia's heart bounded with
joy as she heard him speak in his old, brave way. It must be her
constant duty to buoy him up and cheer him on. She smiled into his eyes
happily, and asked him what book she should bring him. He mentioned a
certain volume relating to archaeological research, which she at once
procured, and seeing Peter coming up the drive she gave her father
another caress and went out, almost tripping, for so quickly do we
respond to conditions of joy or sadness. Peter bore nothing but the town
paper, which he delivered with an obsequious bow, and immediately sought
his hoe again. The lawn, next to The Prince, was his greatest pride, and
some weeds were beginning to come up.
Julia sank down upon the portico step, and opened the still damp pages
of the _Herald_. She tried to make herself believe that she was merely
conning the column bearing on local happenings and people of the town,
but surely such disinterested employment as that would not bring the
blood to her checks, nor an added sparkle to her eyes. Directly she
found that which she declared to herself she was not looking for, and
which she read merely because she happened to see it. The item was in
regard to the small-pox, and the attending physician. The _Herald_ had
some very nice things to say of the new doctor; in fact, he and his
actions took up a goodly portion of so much of the _Herald_ as was
printed at home, because the fire had to be told of, with all things
relating thereto. Truth to tell, Julia had never fully nor properly
appreciated her town paper until this morning, when she found it
brimming full of the most interesting news in the world. It seemed that
John Glenning's name appeared in nearly every paragraph. There was also
a notice of his encounter with Devil Marston, and this was most adroitly
written, the editor evidently not wishing to offend the rich bank
president, and at the same time endeavouring to keep the friendship of
Uncle Billy Hoonover, who had a large county connection, all of whom
subscribed for the _Herald_, and paid for it promptly. The editor
opined, in conclusion, that it "was an unfortunate incident, and
everyone hoped and believed it was now amicably settled."
But it was a news item on the other inside page which made the colour
die out of the girl's face as the clouds grow gray in the west after the
sun is gone. It was a news item only, printed without comment, but a
cold hand was laid upon Julia's heart as she read on and on, down to the
last bitter word, then sat crushed and shivering in the warm June
sunshine. The item told of the passing of the bank dividend, giving in
explanation the reasons which Marston had declared to the directors of
the institution. She could scarcely believe it. It was their
maintenance--their sole support. Without it was abject poverty,
starvation. They could not live another month, to say nothing of six
months, shorn of this income. Slowly her numbed mind came back to its
normal state, and she tried to think it out. Why had it been done? Did
the item say? Who had done it? Were there any names given? In a dazed
way she lifted the paper which she had allowed to fall to the ground,
and read the paragraph again. No names were given. "The directors deemed
it necessary" because of the reasons which followed. She could not doubt
its truth. She sat gazing in front of her, stunned, hopeless. Fate was
surely unkind. Neither she nor her father merited treatment like this.
Her spirit grew rebellious, almost wicked. After a time Aunt Frances
came to receive orders for dinner. "Anything you can find" was Julia's
reply, and she continued to gaze straight in front of her, A buggy
passed, and its occupant lifted his hat, but she made no sign. She did
not see the buggy, nor Glenning. He wondered that she did not return his
salutation. Then he saw a newspaper crushed in her hand, and his active
mind guessed the truth. He drove on with his heart seething at the
injustice of it all, and his inability to help.
The moments passed, and still Julia sat like a woman of stone, a look on
her fresh young face which was piteous in its tragic helplessness.
"Daddy must not know! Daddy must not know!" This one sentence coursed
through her mind with each throb of her pulse, and its constant
reiteration almost maddened her, for how could she hold the truth from
him? She saw nothing, not even the figure which presently laboured up
the drive, wiping the streaming perspiration from its face as it came.
Not till Dillard stopped in front of her, waiting to be recognized, did
she lift her eyes to him, dully. But she said nothing. She felt as one
who had suddenly come to the end of life, unexpectedly, in the heyday of
his youth and happiness.
"Good morning, Miss Julia," said Dillard, "may I sit down? I can't stay
but a moment."
She brushed her skirts aside, and the young man took the seat made
vacant by her movement. He was breathing hard, and had evidently come in
a hurry. He, too, noted the paper, and he saw where it was opened.
"It's a bloomin' shame, Miss Julia!" he blurted out, twirling his straw
hat nervously between his hands. "You've read it, I know, and I've
rushed out here at my dinner hour to tell you that it's the meanest
trick I ever knew anybody to do, and--"
"Who did it?"
Her voice sounded hollow and old.
"Who did it?" he repeated. "Devil Marston did it! He did it just to
spite you and the Major. We made the dividend, and two hundred and fifty
dollars of it belongs to you, but Marston's word is law in that bank.
Oh, it's a shame! I've come out here to let you know. I can't do
anything. Nobody can do anything, but I wanted you to know that it
wasn't the bank that played you false. It was Marston, and he did it to
ruin you and your father! I know I'm talkin' plain to you, and I beg
your pardon if I'm too outspoken, but I've known you a long time, Miss
Julia, and we've been friends, in a way. I'd give my right hand to set
matters right at the bank, but I can't move an inch. Does the Major
know?"
"Father is not well, and this news must be kept from him," she answered.
"The paper--I will destroy it myself, now." She began to tear it into
strips, methodically. "It's good of you to come, Tom, so good of you,
and I'm grateful. I'm glad to know who was back of this crime--for it
amounts to that as far as we are concerned. It has a bit gotten the best
of me."
She stopped her occupation of shredding the _Herald_, and gazed
pensively at the ground in front of her. Dillard's round, baby-blue eyes
dwelt upon her in a protectingly hungry way. His pudgy face showed his
keen distress, and his fat hands toyed unceasingly with his hat. It was
plain there was something else he wanted to say, but he could not find
the words in which to express himself. Then, too, the time was not
propitious. If he had loved Julia Dudley silently and in a worshiping
way for six years, he surely could love her that same way a few days
longer, when he would come to her with the offer of his honest heart,
and plead with her to come with him away from all the troubles which
beset her. So he got to his feet rather awkwardly, dropping his hat as
he did so, and remarked--
"It's hot as blazes today, Miss Julia. If I can do _anything_ for you or
the Major, call on me."
"Thank you, Tom. But I'm sorry to have been the cause of you coming out
here in the sun at noonday."
"That doesn't matter a fig. I felt that you would want to know, and I
wanted to be the one to tell you. Good-bye; I must be back by one."
He held a red, moist hand towards her. She smiled at him and took it
with a few added words of appreciation, then Dillard was departing down
the avenue with such dignity as his avoirdupois would allow, for he felt
that the eyes of the girl were following his retreating form. Such was
not the case, however. Julia arose the instant her caller's back was
turned, gathered the streaming bits of paper into a tight wad in her two
hands, and going to the kitchen, flung them in the stove.
The rest, of the day was a waking nightmare to the poor girl. She had
nowhere to turn; there was no one to whom she could go and ask for
advice or help. She dared not broach the fearful subject to her father,
for his despondency would be sure to return, and it might be she could
not raise him from it again. The blow had fallen upon tender shoulders,
unused to the bearing of loads, but she did not murmur after the first
flame of resentment had passed. She even brought herself to accept it as
right, and all that afternoon Major Dudley saw no change in the smiling,
sweet-voiced, bright-tempered being who flitted about him, attending to
his wants or engaging him in light conversation.
After tea the old gentleman seemed markedly improved, and readily
retired at a rather early hour upon his daughter's suggestion. Then,
when she knew he was asleep, the desolate girl stole out upon the lawn,
down to the spot where that morning she and Glenning had sat, and
throwing herself upon the settee, she sobbed and cried for nearly an
hour. It was awful--awful! and she was so helpless! Then bitter despair
seized her and she prayed to die. She asked God to take her with her
father and not leave her alone to fight these strange and awful battles
with the world. When her grief and terror had spent themselves in tears
she grew calmer, and still lying prone and motionless, strove to think
of a way out. The problem was set for her. Could she solve it? She
thought, and thought, and in time her thinking brought results. Marston
had done this; then Marston alone could undo it. The money was theirs;
he was stealing it from them. What then? Was there no law to protect the
innocent? She did not know, but she presumed there wasn't, in this case.
There was but one way, and that was a horrible one. She must go to Devil
Marston in person, and demand that which was her right. Insist that he
revoke his cruel order to pass the dividend, and compel him, if she
could, to have it declared yet. She sat up as she reached this
conclusion, a strange thrill sweeping through her. It would be terrible
to go to this man, this being whose nature was a composite of many
dreadful and evil strains. But she would go--she knew it on the
moment--and she would go quickly. Tomorrow morning, as soon as she could
slip away from the Major, she would make the venture. It was the only
chance to escape genteel starvation. There could be little doubt that he
would be at home. He was seldom gone longer than a day at a time.
Doctor Glenning had told her that he went away that very morning. Would
he return that night? She must know. She would sit up for the train from
Jericho. It did not come until eleven, or thereabouts, but she was not
sleepy, and she loved the calm, mysterious nights in summer. The time
sped swiftly. Some of the thoughts which came to her chilled her very
heart; some brought anxiety and worry, and some filled her virgin soul
with strange, elusive whisperings; premonitory warnings of something
wonderfully sweet. If she dwelt upon these most; if her mind's eye saw
beside her at times in the starlight a long shape, lean of limb and lean
of face, with eyes constantly filled with troubled shadows, but true and
unfaltering--who would say her nay? For the approach of love is a
beautiful mystery, fraught with emotions which frighten while they
charm, which awe while they inspire, and there is no more sacred or
precious time in a young girl's life than that when her soul quickens in
response to the summons of love.
So preoccupied was she that Julia barely heard the shriek of the express
from the north as it thundered into the station in Macon. But the sound
of the whistle recalled her to herself--made her remember why she was
sitting there. It was hard to give up dreams for reality. But she faced
the road and pressed her lips together, and waited. She heard the train
pull out and resume its journey southward; its rumble became fainter and
fainter and was lost in the distance. Then she fell to listening for
another sound which she dreaded, yet hoped to hear. She wanted him to
return that night. She wanted the fearful task over and done while her
courage was high. She was perfectly aware that nothing short of
desperation could have driven her to this determination. She felt it of
the utmost importance that he should return that night. But the minutes
passed, and he did not come. A vehicle went by, and later a horse at a
canter. Neither of these was Devil Marston. She did not need the aid of
light to tell her when he rode by. The air began to grow a little
chilly. She had come out without wrap of any kind, and all at once she
realized her imprudence. She arose with a slight shiver, and stood for a
moment with head inclined attentively. What was it? Hoofs? She held her
breath and waited. An indistinguishable sound was on the air. It was
lost; it came again faintly. Then suddenly it burst upon her ears
unmistakably--the noise of a horse running at breakneck speed. She
shuddered involuntarily, but tarried yet a moment longer to be sure.
Then he passed in his whirlwind way--she heard again that sound in the
night which never failed to bring terror to her heart--and then she went
in and locked the door and went up to her room. She had grown calm. She
was surprised at her own coolness, and the deliberateness with which she
went about her preparations to retire. Even when she opened her bureau
drawer and took therefrom a pearl-handled, thirty-two caliber revolver,
she was not stirred. Her father had given it to her on her sixteenth
birthday, and had taught her how to use it. She could shoot straight.
She even smiled as she laid it down in front of the mirror, after
breaking it to see that its chambers were full. Her adventure in the
morning would be fraught with danger, and the revolver which she knew so
well how to handle should go with her when she made her call on Devil
Marston.