In the year of grace in which this story moved, the Macon fair began the
tenth day of July. All things were now leading up to it, for July had
come, and the days, while really long, passed quickly.
Glenning had a fearful task before him. Only once since that memorable
night when so many things had happened--when he had been almost scorned
by the girl he loved; when he had held a mob at bay and saved a
worthless scoundrel's life; when he had received a young lady caller in
his office at two o'clock in the morning; when he had walked home with
her to be ruthlessly wakened from his blissful love-dream--only once
since that night had he been able to get himself to that point of moral
courage which would enable him to make his confession, and plead his
cause unhampered and with a conscience at rest. And in that hour when
his soul was trembling on the verge of a full disclosure of all that had
passed during that hateful, bitter-sweet time in Jericho, an
interruption had come at the inopportune moment, and his chance went,
for when they were together again alone that very evening he knew that
it was impossible for him to speak. He knew, too, that possession and a
full reciprocity of affection would never be his until he had lain bare
that hidden portion of his life. He wanted to tell it; he wanted her to
know. It was not a desire for concealment which held his tongue. That
night when they stood in the wan moonlight by the portico steps, he had
forgotten the untold secret. He knew only that she was before him, very
close to him; that he had held her hand, had, for a few moments, pressed
her young body to his as they went down the steps at his office; knew
that she had filled him and thrilled him with a rare happiness, and that
life without her would be commonplace, sunless and dreary. Another
moment his consuming love would have been pouring from his lips in
fervent words of fire, when he heard that name which he had come to
hate--"Jericho!"
In the days which followed he fought with himself again, and some there
are who will know what this means, and others there are who will not.
But of all battles fought, surely this is the most terrible, when a man
fights himself. It was not the old struggle with which he had contended
night upon night after his arrival in Macon. That had been horrible, for
the devil and an angel had locked in his heart then, and their efforts
had torn him pitiably. But his angel had won in the end. The red-gold
hair and the eyes of wine came no more to make a picture of living
temptation above his pillow. They were banished. Now the same devil had
come again, and the same angel, and it was all to do over again. This
time the devil told him to keep his mouth shut, or tell only a part of
the truth, since he had already been fool enough to say that something
had occurred back in Jericho. The angel bade him lay the whole story
bare; this was the only honourable course. John was aware that the
outcome of this fight must be decided by his attitude. The combatant to
which he lent his aid would overcome the other. And while he knew
perfectly well what he should do, the devil pulled steadily the other
way, whispering all the time that to speak the truth would mean total
loss, and that a partial falsehood, at least, would be excusable,
considering all that was at stake.
The new doctor's leisure hours were getting less frequent now. His
remarkable success in treating the Scribbenses had all at once lifted
him on a wave of popularity. Then, too, the story of how he had whipped
Devil Marston in fair fight had gone abroad some way, and this, coupled
to his defense of the jail, had thrown him in the full glare of the
lime-light, and had also raised him on a sort of pedestal for the good
people of Macon. They had never had anyone in their quiet community who
could "do things" before. They began to hold him in a kind of awe, and
to honour him in every way they could. Some of the most substantial
recognition came from the wealthy population, who sent for him when
illness required the presence of a physician. Glenning began to realize
that his position was secure and his future assured.
One day Dillard joined him on the street, and accompanied him to his
office. He was worried, as usual. He preceded his opening remark by
shaking his head solemnly.
"It's no use, Glenning; it's no use."
Delivering this characteristic speech in a despondent tone, he walked to
the window, and looked out.
"What's no use?" came the sharp, quick question, charged with
irrepressible vim and a trace of nervousness.
"He won't do it! He won't do it!" was the still doleful reply.
"Stop your riddles and talk sense!" snapped John.
Dillard turned at this.
"I told you we'd catch Marston in some crooked work, but I've changed my
mind. He's a sly fox. He's scented something. I've watched him all
right, and he's been straight as a shingle."
"I don't see that it matters now," replied John, coolly, busy at his
desk.
"Why?"
"We don't want to ruin him just for the fun of it, do we? It was to help
the Dudleys we planned his downfall. That necessity is removed now. Of
course he should be punished for holding that dividend back, but that
alone hardly merits the penitentiary, especially since our little plan
about the insurance worked. They're easy now, but we must see that no
more tricks like that are played at the bank. Marston's behaving very
well now. At least he has quit annoying our friends."
"You're a devilish funny fellow!" commented Dillard.
"And I want him to be on hand at the races," continued John. "He has
entered the pick of his stables. Two of them--the best he has--go
against The Prince. The colt will win. I want Marston to see him win. I
want him to see a Dudley horse walk away from the fastest thing in a
Marston stable!"
He swung around in his chair with flashing eyes.
"You're pretty confident, aren't you?"
"No more than I have cause to be."
"Do you know the private record of that big black, Imperial Don?"
"No, and I don't care to. I don't care if it's two minutes flat! I tell
you, Tom Dillard, there's nothing on four legs that can outrun The
Prince! It is uncanny! Have you ever seen him go with a loosened rein?
It takes your breath away to watch him! Peter is going to work him out
this afternoon at the track. Miss Dudley and I are going. When you come
back you will understand what I mean when I say this colt was born of
the wind and the lightning!"
Dillard flushed at the mention of Julia's name and looked embarrassed.
John wondered. Had the poor fellow cast his die, and lost? His own
uncertain position brought a warm feeling of sympathy to his heart, but
he could say nothing personal.
"I don't suspect I can come," answered Dillard, in a changed voice, and
John no longer doubted it was all over with his friend. "But I hope
you're right. It would give me a lot of pleasure to see the Dudleys win
over Marston."
"There are plenty of people around here who will enjoy that pleasure,"
muttered Glenning, turning to his writing materials.
"I'll be on hand at the race, anyway," said Dillard, walking to the
door, "and I'll keep on watching Marston."
John's engagement with Julia was at five in the afternoon. The days were
extremely hot, and it had not been thought wise to allow the colt his
exercise until the sun had declined somewhat. The Prince was green. He
was young. Conditions which older and hardened horses might not feel
would likely affect him seriously. He had been sheltered and pampered
since earliest colthood. Really he had not been given a chance to prove
what was in him. The run this afternoon was a part of the process of
hardening. The race wherein his name made one was to be a mighty game
for blood and brawn. It was no place for a weakling.
Old Peter, sly and wise with his many years, years which had been given
almost entirely to learning lore about horses, and acquainting himself
with their moods and disposition--Old Peter knew all this, and he was
making ready. With all his enthusiasm and confidence, he knew there was
scant hope of his beloved colt winning in three straight heats. The race
might be drawn out to four or five, or even six or eight, and then the
horse with the greatest endurance would be the horse to win. But Peter
knew what he knew. He knew that The Prince's sire, and his grandsire,
had been noted for their staying qualities, and though the colt was
slender of barrel and limb, yet hidden somewhere within that
satin-smooth skin was power to go indefinitely.
Glenning presented himself at Julia's door promptly. She received him
cordially, but with a sort of maidenly reserve which he had noticed ever
since that night when she had almost asked him to lift the veil which
hid his past. She was not quite as open and free as upon former
occasions. Her appearance was charming, as usual. She disdained
ornaments, a small cluster of some delicate flowers or a single blossom
which had mayhap struck her fancy, being the only attempt she ever made
to adorn herself beyond the delightfully simple costumes, which were
always graceful and airy. Today she came to John swinging by its ribbons
her hat--a boy's broad-brimmed straw--and wearing a gingham dress,
belted at the waist and becomingly ruffled.
The man's heart surged as his eyes beheld her.
"Oh, let's walk!" she exclaimed, as she caught sight of a horse and
buggy on the driveway.
"Certainly, if you wish. But the roads are dusty; even driving is
unpleasant."
He tried to speak naturally, but invisible fingers had him by the
throat, and his words were strained.
She flashed a quick glance at him.
"That's one reason why I proposed walking--because of the dusty roads.
We'll go through, you know. Back through the garden, over a sparsely
wooded upland, and down to the track. You did not know we were so near,
did you?"
"No; but that will be fine. Is the Major in the library? I should like
to pay my respects, if nothing more than to greet him."
"Yes; walk in. He's reading, and seems much improved. He'll be glad to
see you."
Major Dudley looked up from his book as they appeared for a moment in
the doorway, side by side. He smiled, and essayed to rise. Then John was
at his side, gently pressing him back into his chair.
"Sit still, I beg you!" he said, taking the thin, soft hand of the old
aristocrat. "I've only a moment, for Miss Dudley has promised to go with
me to the track, and we mustn't delay. I'm glad to see you looking so
well, Major."
"My health seems excellent, suh! But I cannot undergo any exertion. My
haht is gettin' a little tahed, it seems, but it's been workin' long
enough to deserve a rest. Won't you take a chair, suh?"
"Another time, thank you. The Prince is in fine trim, I believe?"
"Great colt, suh! Peter reports his condition puhfect."
"You have no apprehension in regard to the race?"
The old gentleman's eyes shot fire under their gray brows, and his body
became more erect.
"I'm as satisfied he'll win as I am the sun will rise tuhmorrow!"
"Good! I share your belief to the full. Let me say good-bye now. The sun
will not last much over an hour."
A minute later Julia and John were passing through the garden, side by
side.
"Of course you read in the paper about Uncle Arthur's death?" she said.
John flushed guiltily, and he gave her a covert look. Her face was a
little shadowed, and very sweet.
"Yes," he answered, seeking vainly in his mind for an excuse to change
the subject.
"It was all very queer," she resumed, puckering her brow and shaking her
head slowly. "The letter from the lawyer was so formal, and was not
explicit. We have feared there was some mistake, as we have not heard
from Uncle Arthur for so many years. Father wrote to the lawyer asking
for further details, but has heard nothing from him."
"It was queer," admitted Glenning, feeling the weight of his duplicity,
while his conscience writhed as though a white hot iron had touched it.
"It saddened us so much to think that he was coming back to us, and did
not live to get home. Wasn't it dreadful?"
"Indeed it was."
John drew a long breath, and fidgeted inwardly. They had reached the
stone fence bounding the garden, and he seized his chance.
"Let me help you over!" he cried, leaping to the flat top of the fence
and extending his hand.
She took it, and allowed herself to be drawn up. Then he descended and
swung her to the ground with her hands in his. A gently sloping,
slightly wooded hill stretched up before them, and as they began the
leisurely ascent she spoke again.
"You know that local news comes to us rather slowly, and we have just
learned of what you did to Mr. Marston--that day."
Her voice was low, and she did not look at him.
John's face darkened, but he did not answer on the moment.
"I felt that I should speak to you," went on Julia; "it was because of
me you did it. You were very brave."
Her face was aflame now.
"Yes," he replied. "The cur had mistreated you in some way, and I could
not stand it!"
Here was his chance to go ahead and tell her all, for there was no
possibility of interruption. But he did not speak. Why, he could not
say. They walked on in silence. Soon they were going down a rain-washed
hill-side where it was necessary he should assist her. He offered her
his hand without speaking, and she took it dumbly. So they reached the
level again, and went towards the fair ground, now only a short distance
off. They halted in front of the grandstand. Several horses were on the
track, but their eyes were quickly drawn to the lithe, graceful figure
of The Prince. He had just come from the track stables, and was walking
down the home stretch with a withered, monkey-like figure perched upon
his back. Uncle Peter saw the twain, and guided the colt up to the low
fence enclosing the track.
"Well, Uncle Peter, are we too late?" asked Glenning.
The old fellow removed his tattered hat, and bowed.
"No, suh. I had jes' rid 'im out de stall. I gwi' limber 'im up
treckly."
"How is he running?" queried Julia, anxiously.
"Lak a skeered dawg, young missus!"
"What horses are those over yonder?"
"Couple o' plugs dat Deb'l Marston sont out hyar!" he replied,
contemptuously. "I'll go by dem lak dey's hitched to a pos'!"
"Are you sleeping with this horse every night, as I suggested you
should?" asked John.
"Yes, suh! Him 'n' me, we bunks tuhgedder, 'n' he has de bes' bed, too!"
"He will bear close watching, and as the time draws nearer for the race
you must be doubly careful."
"Dat I will, suh--doctuh. Yo' may 'pen' on me. Now 'bout dis heah hoss
I'm a-settin' straddle uv." He fairly choked with pride and emotion as
he moved his bony hand up the richly maned neck caressingly. "Dis hoss
am de none-sich hoss, whut means dar ain't anudder'n lak 'im nowhahs. He
runs lak a pig'n fly, goin' home. 'N' he's had de bes' o' kyar!
Fo't-night, come tuhmorrer, I's been out hyar, rain ur shine, 'n' I rub
dis hoss twel he shine lak a new stove. I feed 'im de right numbah yeahs
o' cawn; de right size bunch o' hay. Den I gits on 'im 'n' rides 'im
roun' dis track twel he drips lather lak soap-suds. A man frum town
stood right dar whah you is dis minute de udder day, 'n' he tol' me dat
he couldn't see 'im w'en he passed--he wuz dat fas'. Den I rub 'im dry
'n' put on de blanket, 'n' mek he bed, 'n' lock de do' 'n' we bofe go
'sleep. 'N' dat w'at I gwi' do twel de day come w'en he win de race! 'N'
he gwi' _win_, simply 'kase he can't lose!"
He stopped for breath, and the knotty hand which rested on the colt's
neck trembled. His recital had moved him, for it was truly a matter of
life and death to him.
John took out his watch.
"If you will pardon the suggestion, Miss Julia, I will say that we had
better let Uncle Peter have The Prince go. It will be dark soon."
"Certainly. Ride him around the track, Uncle Peter. Let us see what
there is in him!"
"So please yo', young missus, hit bein' de bes' way, I'll staht 'im out
roun' de track, 'n' let 'im lope easy-lak de fus' time roun'. Den, w'en
he git soop'le up de fus' time roun', I gwi' _run 'im_! Yo' watch, young
missus--I say I gwi' _run 'im_!"
His wrinkled face irradiated with a great joy, Uncle Peter gathered up
the reins and clenched the slender body with his knees. Gracefully and
slowly The Prince swung around the oval enclosure, revealing such
marvelous freedom from exertion, such spontaneity of action, that the
faces of the two spectators standing in the shadow of the grandstand
expressed almost amazement. John shifted his position a little nearer to
Julia--he wanted so much to take her hand--and they watched in silence.
The small figure on The Prince's back was humped over after the approved
attitude of a jockey, and was rising and falling with each long
undulation as though part of the animal he rode. The twain by the fence
kept silent. Back on the grandstand was a small group of men, also
watching The Prince. Julia's heart swelled with pride as her own brave
colt came down the stretch towards them, gradually increasing his
speed. He flashed past them with the lithe movements of one of the
feline tribe, and as his nose was set to the next half mile he began to
let himself out. His rider did not carry a whip. A slow slackening of
the tightly-held reins was all that was necessary for quicker action.
The Prince was born to run; to be held back was galling and unnatural.
Rapidly and more rapidly his feet rose and fell, his movements as
regular as the mechanism of a clock. Faster and faster he went, each
prodigious leap increasing his momentum. When he swung into the home
stretch the second time he was coming beautifully, and with a degree of
swiftness which dumfounded both the girl and the man. Like an autumn
leaf torn from a tree and whirled away on a cyclone, The Prince went by
his group of friends.
"Splendid!" muttered John Glenning, intense pleasure showing on his
face.
The girl turned to him with eyes which almost hurt.
"Can Marston's entries _possibly_ beat him?" she implored, impetuously
raising her hand to his arm, but refraining from laying it there.
"Nothing that runs on four feet can beat him!" declared John,
enthusiastically. "And I, like you, have seen horses run ever since I
was big enough to know what a horse was. Ah! he is a noble animal--and
how gracefully he runs! No wonder you love him, and I congratulate you
on possessing him!"
Her lips parted for a quick reply, but she stopped and gazed down the
track instead, where The Prince and his rider had at last come to a
halt. She had started to say what was in her heart, to tell him that he
had saved the colt for her twice, and that she would never forget it.
Then that awful barrier had thrust itself before her eyes; that strange
barrier of his terrible silence. She could not be free with him; she
could not be as she was in the first days when they had met. Then she
could say all she wished to say, but that was before she had awakened;
before new thoughts and feelings and vague, unguessed desires had
blossomed in her soul, at times almost drugging her with their subtle
perfume. It was so different now. The world had changed. She had burst
the chrysalis of girlhood, and her woman's nature was surging up in her,
dominant, primordial, searching, calling, demanding its own! It gave her
pain. She knew that with that hidden past cleared away, and the love
words on his lips, she would have come to his arms with a sigh of
content, and found rest, and peace, and joy. How he had proven himself!
He was a man; gentle, strong, modest, brave. He was the incarnated hero
of her girl dreams, standing this moment by her side--and yet how far
away he was! Why would he not come closer! Surely he knew she would
forgive and offer him the sweet haven of her arms, the solace of her
lips and the caresses of her hands! Surely he loved her, for he was not
deceitful, and that night, that awful, blissful night he had taken her
to him and shielded her and led her home, and had plead with her for
some tenderness. She could not give it then, though her heart was aching
with love. She could not give it now, unless he would unseal his lips,
and lay bare the hidden years. It was the test, and she knew it. She
acknowledged it with inward fear, and her soul quaked. She could do
nothing but wait. Hers was the bitter part; the hard portion. To
wait--wait--and daily place a restraining hand upon her love; to crush
it down into submission hour after hour as it rose up and demanded its
own. How long? How long? Already it seemed ages, and his presence had
come to bring suffering.
Twilight was stealing over the earth. A gentle breeze came up from the
south, laden with the scents of late summer. Peter was bringing The
Prince back for an opinion of the colt's performance.
"You have done well with him, Peter," said Julia. "I shall tell father
how nicely you ride him, and of his remarkable speed. He will be
pleased. Good-bye. Take good care of him."
Glenning felt that he should add a word, but somehow it wouldn't come.
Julia's voice had sounded unfamiliar to his ears. He had been keenly
conscious of the swift change in her after the horse had passed. He had
seen her start to speak, then close her lips, and he had wondered what
the unuttered words could have been. Then he grew troubled as he stood
silently by her side, watching her averted face. A shadow had fallen
upon it, blotting out the bright expression of joy. He saw it change as
a sun-kissed landscape might when a cloud veils the sun. Her sweet mouth
had relaxed into a pathetic little droop; the rich undercolour had
receded from her cheeks; her eyes had shaped themselves to a look of
weary sadness. Even her rounded, pliant figure seemed to lose part of
its grace, and to sag of its own weight. He saw the breeze lifting the
little curls upon her neck and ruffling the waving hair behind her ears.
Then suddenly that which had been slumbering in him woke. It woke with a
thrust like a keen knife-blade, sending a sharp quiver of pain
throughout his body. Up, up it fought its way, ruthlessly tearing a path
for its progress, and a voice spoke in his soul. It was his conscience
which he had numbed, and smothered, and choked, free at last, and with a
merciless goad in its hand. He saw how wrong he had been. He saw that,
physically brave as he knew himself to be, morally he had been a coward!
He had let her suffer--her, whom he told himself he loved! He had weakly
remained negative, drifting with the days, when a positive course was
the only one consistent with honour. He had shielded his own feelings,
and sacrificed hers. He had dwelt in guilty security, and had stretched
her, sinless, upon the altar! How sordid, and cruel, and selfish he had
been! How he would have condemned this policy in anyone else!
Slowly they walked homeward through the magic afterglow. The light
faded, and grew dimmer and dimmer, and the stars came out. Neither said
a word. From the wooded upland the country about looked phantom-like,
unreal. Far off a dog barked. Nearer at hand, in the branches of one of
the oak trees about them, a screech-owl stirred, and babbled its harsh
call. Away in the hollow where the race track lay a light gleamed at
the stables. The twigs cracked under their feet, and the dry leaves
rustled as they passed among them. It grew darker. Julia caught the toe
of her boot on something, and lurched forward. John grasped her by the
arm, and quickly righted her. How good it was to feel his strong fingers
drawing her away from harm! Then he took her hand without speaking, and
thus they went on.
Later they stood at the portico steps.
"I have been a coward!" he said, abruptly, "and there is nothing I have
shunned more all my life. I have been unfair to you, and if it is not
too late I want to set myself right. Perhaps it is weakness to tell you
that I have tried--but I have. The strength is mine now, and it will not
desert me. Will you see me tomorrow night, and hear my story?"
The "yes" which came from her lips was faint indeed, but he heard, and
pressed her hand in farewell.