During the week which followed a number of things happened. First, Dink
Scribbens took a wonderful and sudden turn for the better. The fact that
none of his family had become infected was a matter for marvel
throughout the county, and the credit for their miraculous escape was of
course given to the attending physician. Uncle Billy Hoonover would not
pass the hovel guarded awfully and mutely with a tiny yellow flag tacked
to one corner of it--an emblem with more power to repel than a legion of
soldiers--and he could not stay away from town. Unless the lamp-post
where he invariably hitched renewed acquaintance with his gray nag every
morning, Uncle Billy almost felt it would walk away in indignation and
disappointment. Then, too, municipal, county and national affairs needed
his attention every day in front of the county clerk's office. He
occupied a chair there as regularly as he did at home, and his word was
final. By this I do not mean that it was always accepted, but it surely
was always the last spoken. Provided he secured the last word, he felt
that his opinion was the correct one. During these days Mr. Hoonover
"drove through." That is to say he made a more or less direct route for
town through his own and one of his neighbour's farms; a trip attended
with much discomfort and some peril, for the way led over ground tilled
and untilled, across unexpected gullies and into grass-hidden sinkholes.
One morning, a week after John's encounter with Marston at the latter's
home, the usual gathering began to assemble in the shade before the door
of the county clerk's office. Some were smoking pipes; some were chewing
tobacco. The use of the weed in some form was universal. Conversation
was desultory and spiritless for a time. The morning was extremely hot,
and one would have thought that fact responsible for the listlessness
which pervaded the group. The truth was, however, that their ringleader
had not arrived.
"Uncle Billy must be sick," drawled big Joe Colver, tilting his chair
onto its two rear legs and leaning his weight forward on his knees.
"More like he's fell in a ditch 'n' broke his laig!" chimed in old Tim
Mellowby. Old Tim was the town drunkard, a privileged, harmless
character, whom every one tolerated. He remained in a perpetual state of
comfortable inebriety; was inoffensive; in former years had been a boot
and shoe maker, and during that period of his life had accumulated
enough money to support himself in drunken idleness the rest of his
days. His favourite haunt was the spot he now sat. He loved to listen,
and also to express himself from time to time. A general laugh greeted
Tim's sally.
"Mr. Hoonover will arrive, never fear!" piped a third voice.
It came from against the wall, and the speaker was Colonel Whitley. He
was an old, dried-up little man, with keen eyes, bushy brows, hawk nose
and fuzzy gray side whiskers. He was the learned one of the group--quite
a scholar indeed. He had been "abroad" in his day, too, and this fact
invested him with an added dignity in the eyes of his stay-at-home
townspeople. His profession had formerly been the practice of law, but
he had retired several years before. Nevertheless he always came up to
the courthouse yard every morning to read his paper, and occasionally to
let his voice be heard.
"Possess your souls in patience," he added, "and presently you will
witness the fulfillment of my prediction."
His head went down behind the paper. His hearers were accustomed to his
bombastic style of speech, and admired him too much even to smile at the
fulness of his rhetoric.
A figure came thumping hurriedly across the yard, a black medicine case
in its hand, its vest secured by a single button at the bottom, wearing
a white shirt streaked with ambier, and a derby hat much too large.
"Hullo, doc!" greeted Judge Colver, as the new-comer halted and glared
around as though expecting some hostile move. "The small-pox didn't
spread, did it?"
"Who said it would spread?" snapped Doctor Kale.
"It has a trick o' doin' it, I believe!" retorted the judge.
"Not if it's taken in time, and handled right. You can't kill a damned
pauper!"
"You didn't try 'im!" grinned old Tim Mellowby, "or maybe you'd had
better luck than the new man!"
Doctor Kale wheeled, but when he saw from whence this remark originated
he turned his back in silent contempt.
"I've come from Tom Dudley's, and it's a good day with them," he
observed, abruptly, his harsh crust melting before some powerful inner
force.
"I presume one of them is ill, to require the presence of a physician,"
piped the voice from the wall again. "Then how can you say it is a good
day with them?"
For a wonder Doctor Kale did not retort. He heard Colonel Whitley
plainly, and his ears detected the note of irony in the question, but
his asperity seemed suddenly to have melted; to have merged with and
become engulfed in the warm feeling of joy which surged in his heart.
"You know they've been in bad lines," he said, looking on the ground, a
rather pathetic figure in his ill-fitting, haphazard agglomeration of
garments, none harmonizing with its neighbour. "They'd come almost to a
crust, gentlemen, and such of you as are business men know upon what
they depend. That was cut off something over a week ago. I was passing
this morning, and was called in hurriedly. This is good news of one of
our best citizens, therefore I give it to you. Major had had an attack
with his heart, brought on by excitement caused by the morning's mail.
I straightened him out, then Julia told me all about it. Most of you
will remember Arthur Dudley, Major's brother. He's been away for a score
of years, and they lost him, totally. Thought him dead. This morning Tom
got a letter from a lawyer in St. Louis, with a check in it for two
thousand dollars. Major's brother was on his way back here. He took sick
in St. Louis, sent for this lawyer, died, and the money came on."
"Whose money?--What money?" exclaimed Uncle Billy Hoonover, hastening up
at that moment in time to catch the last words.
Doctor Kale promptly growled something about an engagement, and departed
with the same haste which marked his approach.
The paper by the wall was lowered once more, revealing a hawk nose,
bushy brows and sharp eyes.
"I told you, gentlemen, Mr. Hoonover would arrive!" the thin voice of
Colonel Whitley declared. "Good morning, Mr. Hoonover!"
"What's that sour old coon been tellin' you?" demanded Uncle Billy,
bearing down upon old Tim Mellowby, who had inadvertently occupied his
chair, "Git up! Don't you know that's my seat?"
He made a half threatening movement with his staff, but old Tim slid off
his perch good-naturedly and sought the ground instead, no more chairs
being available.
Judge Colver thereupon essayed, in his longwinded, heavy way, to impart
to the new arrival the story they had just heard. Uncle Billy listened
with becoming patience for one of his excitable temperament.
"Well, 'pon my soul!" he ejaculated, when the recital was done. "Things
happen nowadays as queer as Jonah an' the whale! Arthur--an' who'd 'a'
thought?--two thousand dollars! He's a stiff old codger, but nobody c'n
say anything ag'in 'im! He's got a right to live by hisself an' not
neighbour any."
"Is Dink up yit?" asked a very sober looking, lank individual, who up to
this moment had remained silent. He was the jailer. The question, simple
as it was, proved an unlucky one, for the ire of Uncle Billy arose at
once. He began to thump the earth with his staff and comb his whiskers
with his fingers.
"Ain't I late this mornin'?" he demanded, instead of making direct reply
to the question. "Oughtn't I 'a' been here a half-n-hour ago?"
He glared from one to the other as though daring them to refute it. Each
person present maintained a discreet silence, though one or two nodded
acquiescence.
"Late! Late to town!" he stormed. "And what for? That pesky Lizy Ann
Scribbens had the owdacity to come to my _front_ door this very
mornin'--a beggin'. My _front_ door! An' her just been cooped up with
that diseased rat of a husban', Dink, an' small-pox microbes a-crawlin'
all over her! Didn't I pack her off? I swear, gentlemen, I got my
shotgun before she would leave! Paupers oughter live in the poorhouse
an' not purten' to be decent. Dink won't admit he's a pauper, but he
lives by stealin', what's worse. That's why I'm late, an' if I don't
ketch it I don't know why!"
The paper rustled against the wall.
"I should think, Mr. Hoonover, that you should apprehend no danger of
contagion, as you had no personal contact with your caller. Of course
that is a layman's view only, but I would not give it another thought."
A pistol shot, startlingly near and distinct, punctuated the carefully
uttered speech of Colonel Whitley. The group leaped up as one man--save
the one who had last spoken. Colonel Whitley was in a comfortable
position, and his paper was only half read. The shot sounded from Main
street, and Judge Colver, as fearless as he was big, started in a
lumbering trot across the yard to ascertain the cause of the
disturbance. But almost immediately three men appeared around the corner
of the courthouse. One was a deputy sheriff, another was a blacksmith,
and between them, struggling violently to free himself, was a low,
poorly dressed, unkempt person.
"What's up? What's Hank done?" queried the judge.
"Shot Dick Goodloe!" answered the deputy, quickly, he and the smith
hurrying their man forward as rapidly as possible. On the other side of
the yard was a little gate, and it was for this they were heading, it
being the nearest approach to the jail. "Keep back the crowd, Joe, till
we get Hank in!" called the deputy, and they pushed on.
The crowd as yet, however, was entirely harmless, and was centered
about some indistinguishable object in the middle of the street. The
live assassin was far less interesting than the fallen officer, for Dick
Goodloe was the town marshal; an honest, sober, efficient fellow whom
everyone admired for his adherence to duty. Not three minutes had passed
since the shot split the warm, still air. Before, the town had seemed
only half alive; a few people on the street, a few men in the store
doors, a few loitering negroes. Now a seething mass of humanity of all
ages was congregated in front of the post-office, almost from curb to
curb, and those who had first reached the marshal were so pushed upon
and hampered that they could do nothing.
John was in his office when the unmistakable sound came spitefully
through his window, and caused him to seize his hat and run down stairs.
The mishap had occurred at the other end of the square, and when he
reached the scene it was to find his way blocked by a human wall.
"Get out of my way!" he called, in a loud, clear voice, and begun
pushing his body in, using his hands, elbows and knees irrespective of
who they touched. "Stand back! You'll smother him! Back! Back!" he
commanded, and the stern voice carried weight. They made room for him,
and directly he was kneeling by the prostrate form. A brief examination
showed him it was bad enough. A ball through the man's right side, with
blood spouting from the wound.
"Where does he live?" he asked, quickly, turning his head and looking
up half savagely. "How far?"
"Half mile, I reck'n, anyhow," answered a bystander, with his hands in
his pockets.
"Lift his feet; I'll take his head and shoulders," said Glenning, to a
determined looking man in front of him. "Into the drug store yonder.
It's quick work now, or he's gone!"
They came up with Goodloe's weight between them. The crowd was apathetic
with curiosity.
"Back!--damn you!" gritted John Glenning, his patience leaving him at
the asinine stupidity of the class with which he was surrounded. The
lower element of Macon, which formed the inner line of that congested
caldron of people, had begun to press forward again to get a glimpse of
the senseless form which many of them had seen daily all their lives.
They gave, half in fear; a lane was opened, and Dick Goodloe was carried
across the street into the drug store.
"Lock your door!" ordered Glenning, then he was coolly removing clothing
and calling for this and that, and battling with all the skill that was
in him for the life of this stranger whom a half-drunken, altogether
mean ruffian had tried to kill. The front of the drug store was darkened
by the thronging crowd which pressed against the windows and
door--trying to see! The better class of citizens began to assemble, but
these were content to wait; they wanted to be on hand when the doctor's
verdict was given out. Squads of men had already formed up and down the
street to talk it over. Business was suspended for the time, and an
atmosphere of gloom began to settle over Main street. Very soon it
became known that Goodloe had only a thread of a chance for his life.
The bullet had been found and taken out, but the wound was in a vital
part. The chances were against the marshal. These things Glenning told
quietly and willingly to such as inquired after his patient as he left
the drug store, giving instructions that the man be carried to his home
as soon as possible.
The being whose wanton hand had stricken down the officer was a totally
worthless character; shiftless, depraved, wicked. He had that morning,
while under the influence of liquor, provoked an altercation with a
colored labourer in the street. He began using vile language; ladies
were passing. Goodloe warned him to stop, and take himself off. Then the
miscreant had shot him. That was all. And now this thing which
masqueraded as a human had been given the protection of the law, had
been sheltered in the jail from the just wrath of his fellowmen. There
were low murmurings running about the streets of the town all that day,
and men came and went, went and came from the humble cottage which was
Dick Goodloe's home, getting news of the sick man and disseminating it
to the scores who inquired of his condition. The reports were not good.
And as the afternoon waned word came that the marshal was delirious.
Some apprehensive friend had sent Doctor Kale to wait upon the marshal,
with instructions to stay in the house. The old fellow stormed and swore
that he wouldn't take any man's patient from him, that professional
etiquette forbade it, and damned if he'd go! Glenning persuaded him to
change his mind, urging him to go and do all he could. John was out of
town most of the day. His practice had increased three patients that
week, but those who had sought his services lived rather far in the
country, and it required some time for him to make his rounds. It was
dark before he returned to Macon. He did not go to supper, but ate at a
restaurant. Then he bathed, changed his linen, and started afoot for the
Dudleys.
It had taken him exactly seven days to get his own consent to call here.
During that time he had not seen Julia, even at a distance. He wanted to
see her, more than he had ever wanted to see anyone in his life, but he
did not know how she would receive him now. What had Marston told her?
To be sure he had warned her against Marston in time, but a woman's
heart is ever an unsolved riddle, and the story she had heard may have
stung, and blighted, and seared. He was at last determined to know. He
had remained in ignorance as long as he could. Better to hear from her
own lips that she cared no more to see him, than to hide from her like a
coward, and by his silence and absence confess his guilt. One thing
gladdened him as he strode along in the starlight. That morning a letter
had come from Will Porter, stating that he had carried out his part of
the plan, and sent Major Dudley the money.
Glenning's accustomed ease had entirely deserted him as he knocked at
the open front door. He was painfully harassed, and uncertain of
himself. He scarcely knew what he would say, or do. He heard a step,
heavy, flapping. Aunt Frances appeared at the rear of the long, shadowy
hall, and came waddling towards him.
"Ebenin', Marse Glen'n'" She greeted him a little stiffly.
"Where's your mistress, Aunt Frances? Tell her I am come, if you please,
and would like to see her for a few moments."
He came in and placed his hat upon the hall rack, but the old coloured
woman made no move to do his bidding.
"What's the matter?" he queried. "Isn't Miss Dudley in?"
"She am wid de Majuh, who's sick. She can't see nobody."
"Did she tell you that?"
"Yas'r."
"Did she say that you were to tell me that if I should come?"
Before Aunt Frances' thick lips could form the affirmative reply which
was on her tongue, a soft voice descended from the upper hall.
"I will be there in a moment, Doctor Glenning. Please be seated."
Aunt Frances turned her turbanned head and rolled her eyes in the
direction from whence the voice came, then with a snort of disgust
retreated, mouthing as she went in an undertone.
John took a chair near the door which commanded the full sweep of
stairway, and thus he watched Julia descend a few moments later; very
sedately and with the hint of haughtiness in her air. He arose to take
her hand, and he could not help contrasting this meeting with their
first. Her hand in his tonight was almost lifeless, and there was a
rebellious look in her dark eyes as she raised them briefly to his, he
fancied accusingly.
"I told you not to believe him!" was the mute cry in John's heart, where
little devils were beginning to cut and slash, but he smiled at her as
he clasped her hand warmly, and asked of her health.
"I am well, thank you."
How cold she was! She remained standing, although there was another
chair a short distance away. She did not look at him. She knew that she
was hurting him, but she could not help it. She had wanted him so much
the past week, and he had not come. And she had had nothing to do but
think. Marston's awful words never left her mind, and the more she dwelt
upon them the more clearly she became convinced that the love of her
life was centered upon John Glenning. She _would not_ believe that which
she had heard, but he had told her he had sinned--back there in Jericho!
But he had also said that he had fought through and had come out clean!
She had sobbed half of one night through in her distress, and had waited
day by day for him to come. At last, on the very eve of the day he did
come, she had given orders that she would not see him. But the sound of
his voice had melted her resolve. She stood before him now, her heart
hardened in that strange way which all lovers have, and which must
forever remain inexplicable, seemingly as unresponsive as a being of
marble.
"Miss Dudley!--Miss Julia!" pleaded John, purposely throwing a note of
tenderness in his voice, "what is wrong? Can you not tell me? I should
be so glad to do--anything for you!"
A tremor shot over her. How strong and good his voice was!
"Father is unwell, that is all," she answered, in the same
expressionless voice.
"For how long? Is it--anything to cause you worry?"
"No."
Colder than ever was the monosyllable, and Julia felt herself growing
wickeder and wickeder, and she knew that directly she would be bad
enough not to respond in any wise to whatever he might say.
But John had had some experience in this game of love. So he promptly
did the very best thing possible; he withdrew. He deliberately picked up
his hat and walked to the door, where he stopped and turned.
"I suspect I had better go, Miss Dudley," he announced, in a most formal
voice.
"Very well--if you wish," she added, with the adroitness of her sex.
"I have reason to believe that I am an unwelcome guest this evening,"
replied Glenning. "Be pleased to tell Major Dudley that I inquired
after his health, and know that I am always at your service."
He bowed low, and without offering his hand in farewell--she making no
sign to give him hers--he went out.
Julia stood where he had so ceremoniously left her, amazement and anger
uniting on her face. Then tears began to race down her checks, and she
flew to the old sofa in the library to cry it out in the dark. She had
not counted on this. He was cruel; he cared nothing for her, as he had
led her to believe he did. When she went upstairs in response to her
father's ring, she felt that she had never been so totally miserable in
her life before.