Although Henley, now grown oddly timid himself, made several efforts
within the next week to catch sight of Dixie, he failed signally. He
began by haunting the cow-lot at milking-time, but she did not come as
usual. From the front porch one evening he observed something that
explained this to him. It was the sight of little Joe driving the cow up
to the house instead of into the lot.
"She's milking up there to keep from meeting me," Henley said, his heart
growing heavy. "Maybe, after all, I've been hoping too much. Maybe she
sorter thought she'd like me well enough when I was bound to another,
like I was, but now she sees it different. Folks is likely to think
twice in a matter like this, for I mean business, an' she knows it. My
God, I may lose 'er--actually lose 'er, after all!"
For the next week Henley really suffered; the gravest doubts had beset
him; as close as Dixie had been to him, she now seemed farther away than
ever. He was constantly wavering between the hungry impulse to go
directly to her and the abiding fear that such an intrusion might offend
her beyond pardon.
One day, however, he felt that he could stand his suspense no longer. It
was the day his lawyer at Carlton had written him that he was a free
man. Surely, he argued, he would have the right to inform her of such an
important fact, after all that had passed between them, simply as a
friend, if nothing more. He left the store early in the afternoon, and
on his way home, and with a chill of doubt on him, he stopped at Dixie's
cottage.
Mrs. Hart was seated behind the vines on the little box-like porch, and
she rose at the click of the gate-latch and stood peering at him under
her thin hand.
"Oh, it's you, Alfred!" she cried, in pleased surprise. "I was just
wondering what had become of you. Did you want to see Dixie?"
"Yes, I thought I'd ask if she was about the house," Henley made reply,
in a jerky sort of fashion. "There is a little matter I wanted to speak
to her about."
"So the poor child is right, after all," the old woman sighed. "Well, I
reckon you must protect your own interests, Alfred, let the burden fall
where it may. She's done 'er best to pay out, an' if she can't do it,
why, she'll have to give in, that's all. She's undertaken too much,
anyway."
"I don't understand, Mrs. Hart." Henley was unable to follow her drift,
and, with his hat in hand and a puzzled expression on his face, he stood
silent.
"Why, for the last week, Alfred, Dixie hain't done a thing but fret and
worry about the money she owes you," Mrs. Hart explained, plaintively.
"Why, when you advanced the money to get her out of old Welborne's
clutch she was so happy she sung day and night, and me and her Aunt
Mandy thought the worst was over, because--well, because you seemed so
kind and friendly that we felt like you would not push her, that you'd
give her plenty o' time to make the payments. But now that her cotton
fell short of her expectations and the overflow killed half her
potato-crop she's all upset. She didn't say, in so many words, that you
was going to sue for your rights, but we couldn't, to save us, see what
she was so upset for, if you hadn't, at least, hinted about it. My
sister thought that maybe--that maybe, now that your wife's big fortune
had gone off in an unexpected direction, that you was obliged to raise
money to make good some investments that you made while you was counting
on things remaining the same. We couldn't talk it over with Dixie,
because she'd get out of patience every time we'd bring it up."
"You are quite mistaken, Mrs. Hart," Henley said, his face aglow from a
new light on the situation. "I don't want to collect any money from
Dixie. She can keep it as long as she wants it. If she thinks I want
that money, she is away off from the facts. Is she about the house?"
"No, she ain't," Mrs. Hart fairly gasped in relief. "Her and Joe went
down to the creek to fish. They are at the first bend; you can see the
spot from the gate. So that was a mistake! Well, I certainly am glad. I
reckon she just imagined it. She's acted funny for the last week,
anyway--sometimes just as happy and jolly as you please, and then
bringing up this money question--sayin' that she couldn't bear to be in
debt, and the like. She said if she could just sell the farm for
anything near its worth she'd do it and pay all she owes."
"She could easily sell it," Henley said, "but she won't have to do it to
pay me. I'll go down there, I believe, and see if they are having any
luck."
He walked away slowly, for the burden of doubt as to his chances was
still on him. From the bend of the road he looked across the level
pasture and hay-land to the green line of willows and canebrake that
marked the course of the stream. At first he saw nothing but his grazing
horses and mules, some of Dixie's sheep and lambs, and then he descried
a purplish blur against the living green, and recognized it as the
girl's sunbonnet, the back part of which was turned toward him. Across
the uneven ground, his feet retarded by creeping earth-vines and furrows
where grain had grown and ripened, he strode, his doubt and awkwardness
increasing with every step.
She saw him as he was nearing the grass-covered bank upon which she sat,
an open book in her lap. It was quite clear to him that she, too, was
embarrassed, for a violent color rose in her cheeks, and her glance
deliberately avoided his. She called out quite distinctly and
irrelevantly to Joe, who sat on a log which jutted out into the stream,
telling him to be careful and not fall in. Henley saw the boy shrug his
shoulders and heard him laugh contemptuously, as he whipped his rod and
line into the stream and reseated himself, his bare feet sinking into
the cooling water. "Why, it ain't up to my waist," he said. "I could
wade across."
"No, he's safe enough," Henley heard his coarse voice saying, as he
stood over her and looked down on her expressionless bonnet.
She looked up and pushed her bonnet back farther so that a wisp of her
beautiful hair was exposed to the sunlight against the shell-like
pinkness of her neck. "He hasn't caught a thing," she said; "but he's
had some bites that was just as much fun."
"I'm sorter tired," he ventured. "I've been on my feet all day, running
first one place and another. This is your picnic, and you are the boss.
I wonder if you'd care if I set down a minute."
"It may be my picnic, but it happens to be your ground," she laughed.
"There's a sign up at the fence that no trespassing is allowed, but me
and Joe neither one can read, and so we came right in and helped
ourselves."
He lowered himself to the grass at her feet, glad that he had it, and
yet almost afraid of the full view he now had of her face when he dared
to look directly at her. He leaned forward and began to pluck blades of
grass and twist them nervously in his fingers.
"You are powerful good to that boy," he said, after a silence through
which several kinds of thoughts percolated. "His own mammy couldn't
treat him better."
"I don't know whether I'm spoiling him or not." He detected a slight
quavering in her voice which was not exactly that of her usual
composure. "Some folks say I am. I know I can't bear to have him work
hard, although he is plumb well now. He had such a hard time under Sam
Pitman that, somehow, I want him to have a good, long vacation.
Alfred--" She raised her hand to her lips impulsively, colored
vexatiously, and then with a shrug, as if the familiar use of his name
were a matter that could not be remedied, she continued; "I started to
say that it makes me awful sad to think of the slavery that child went
through, short as it was. It might have made a scoundrel of him, in the
long-run, for he was getting hardened."
"And now he's just the reverse." Henley meant it as a tribute to her,
and it was as bold a compliment as he would have dared to pay her in the
dense anxiety through which he was groping. "He's a manly little chap,
and is sure to come out on top. I've been studying over it"--Henley was
growing a trifle bolder--his eyes met hers--"and I've wondered if you'd
get jealous if I said that I want to do something substantial for him.
He'll need good schooling, you know, and a lot o' things to start 'im
out fairly."
"You? Why, Al--why, surely you don't mean it--you don't mean _that_."
"Why, why not, Dixie--Miss Dixie?" he corrected, as his warm, anxious
gaze rested on her lowered lids, for she was turning the pages of the
arithmetic in her lap. "You see, I'm not exactly a poor man; the Lord
has been powerful good to me, and--and you see, now I'm all alone in the
world. I--I got news to-day about--about, well, I'm a free man now,
with no responsibilities on me, and--well, you see how it is."
"I don't know what to say about it--about Joe." She lowered her head
over the book. "It would be wrong for me to stand in his way, and I
won't. He was helpless on the world when I took him, and he is yet, for
I'm over head and ears in debt. I thought I could do wonders by buying
land on a credit, but I'm as near a bankrupt as could be possible. I'd
be down and out now if others got what was coming to them. As proud as I
am, and as hard as I've worked, I'm right now living on charity."
"Shucks! Don't be silly, Dixie!" burst from Henley's lips with
considerable warmth. "You sha'n't set here and talk such foolishness;
you've done more than thousands o' men could have done. You are a plumb
wonder."
"All you say don't alter facts," Dixie sighed. "I know that I've got a
big debt to pay, and it's got to be paid by fair means or foul. Let's
talk about something else. I've been setting here an hour trying to work
this example for Joe. It looks as easy as two and two make four, but it
ain't; it's simply terrible. Listen: 'Sixty is two-thirds of what
number?'"
"Let me see." And Henley crawled to her aide till he could see, as he
rested on his elbow, the page and the lines at which her finger pointed.
"That's easy enough, I reckon. 'Sixty is two-thirds of what number?'
Why, it's--" His eyes became fixed in vacancy, as he gazed at the blue
sky above the tree-tops, and then at the ground. "Why, it's a fool
thing--it must be a misprint. You often find mistakes like that in
school-books. I know my teacher used to write the correct thing on the
edge of the page."
"No, I reckon it's all right," Dixie argued. "It's a funny thing, for
every minute I seem to be on the point of catching it, and then it slips
away. You see, it has been so long since I went to school that I can't
remember how such sums are done."
"Well, I can work any sort o' example that I have use for in my
business," Henley defended himself as well as he could, "but the Lord
knows I never had any use for a--a thing as silly as that is on the very
face of it. Huh, I say--'Sixty is two-thirds of what number?' Why, the
fool don't even give the number he asks you to divide. How can you
divide a thing that hain't been seen, measured, or weighed? It is as
silly as asking how many inches long is two-thirds of a piece of string,
or how many bushels of wheat in two-thirds of a barn that's twice as big
as four-fifths of one that never was built."
Dixie laughed heartily. "It does seem that way, don't it? But, after
all, you do know that sixty must be two-thirds of _some_ number, for
every number is two-thirds of something, ain't it?"
"By gum, yes!" he exclaimed, with a start. "You are sure right. Ah, I
see now. By gosh, I've got it! No, it's gone already." He had reached
for her pencil and paper, but his hand fell idly on his knee. "Good
gracious! Some'n is dead wrong with me."
"I think it can be done," Dixie declared, her brow furrowed. "You see,
since sixty must be two-thirds of some number, I'm picking different
numbers and dividing by three and multiplying by two. The last trial I
made was one hundred, and I got sixty-six and two-thirds for the answer.
You see, that ain't so powerful far off."
"I see, I see," Henley cried, eagerly. "Now, what you want to do is to
keep getting lower and lower till you hit the nail on the head. I reckon
it's one o' them sums just got up to make the sprouting intellect hop
and skip about for practice. Suppose you try ninety-nine next? It's
better to go slow, and be sure, than to have to go back. Le'me see:
three into nine, three times and nothing to carry; three into nine
again--there, you've got thirty-three, and twice thirty-three are
sixty-six. See, we are still closer to the mark, for we have already
wiped off the two-thirds."
"We are warm!" Dixie cried, with the laugh of a child playing a game.
"Now let's try ninety-six."
Henley made a rapid calculation. "Sixty-four!" he cried out, gleefully.
"We are closer. Now let's take a stab at ninety-three." And he began to
figure, but she stopped him.
"My judgment is ninety," she said. "One-third of ninety is thirty and
twice thirty is--glory, Alfred, we've nailed it! We've got it--we've got
it! And we thought it couldn't possibly be done."
"That's so," he admitted. "But I'd hate to make a hoss-trade by such
figuring as that. The feller would back out or the hoss would git too
old."
The conversation languished. He had a feeling that she might object to
his closeness to her, and yet he hardly knew how to draw away without
attracting undue attention to the act, so he took the book into his
hands and began to look through it. And then he remembered what Mrs.
Hart had said about Dixie's desire to sell her farm, and a slow twinkle
of a set purpose began to burn in his eyes. "It might work," he said to
himself. "Anyways, that debt notion has got to be got out of the way or
I'll never make any progress.
"I was just wondering whether I oughtn't to give you a piece of advice,
in a business sort of a way," he said to her, his fingers rapidly
twirling the pages of the book. "You see, a feller that trades as much
as I do in all sorts of things is calculated to know the drift of the
market better, maybe, than a girl like you. You was speaking about how
you hated the idea of being in debt just now, and your mother says you
want to sell your farm--the fact is, I don't see why you don't sell it
and quit working like an ox in a yoke. It's plumb wrong; you oughtn't
to do it, that's all."
"Sell it? Why, Alfred," and she looked at him eagerly, "I'd only be too
glad to do it if I knew any one who would pay anything near its worth.
You see, it's cost me first and last something over two thousand
dollars, and if I could get that much--"
"That much!" he sniffed contemptuously. "Why, you'd be crazy to sell at
a figure like that. You see, I know the field pretty well. I rub against
moneyed men every day who are simply itching for something to invest in.
The most of 'em believe the new railroad will eventually strike Chester
on its way to hook on to the trunk-line through Tennessee and North
Carolina, and they are willing to bet on it. You know old Welborne
wanted your farm, and it nearly killed him to lose his hold on it.
But--while I ain't exactly free to use names--I know a man right now who
wants your property. He'd pay you three thousand dollars in cash right
down."
"Oh, Alfred, you don't mean it--surely you don't!"
"You say you'll take it," Henley laughed, though the edges of his mouth
were drawn tensely from some inner cause, "and I'll close the deal
before you can say Jack Robinson."
"Take it?" Dixie cried, and in her eagerness and gratitude she actually
laid her hand on his arm. "Oh, Alfred, if you'd only do that for me I'd
be the happiest girl in the world!"
"Well, it will be done to-morrow morning early," Henley said, a certain
purpose rendering his face rigid, his eyes fixed as if a great crisis
had arrived in his life. "The only thing is, that I'd naturally feel
like I'd be entitled to some commission--" He tried to smile into her
staring eyes, but failed. He caught hold of her hand and she seemed
wholly unconscious of the fact.
"Why, of course," she groped, "I'd be willing to pay all costs and
anything else you'd ask."
"There is only one thing I could want, or would ever care to have," he
swallowed, "and that is you, Dixie. You must be my wife. I'm free now.
Nothing stands between us. I want you, sweetheart--I want you!"
Their eyes met, volumes of tenderness sweeping to and fro between them.
A great light had taken possession of her face. He felt her lean against
him confidingly, and he put his arm around her and drew her head to his
shoulder, and then, with a boldness he would till now have ascribed only
to a god, he put his hand under her warm face, turned it upward and
kissed her on the lips. She nestled closer to him and shut her eyes,
remaining still and silent. He felt her warmth striking into his body.
For several minutes they sat thus, and then she opened her eyes and
smiled.
"Oh, Alfred, I'm so happy!" she said, softly.
"Well, maybe _I_ ain't," he said, huskily, and then he kissed her again.
"I'm so glad about the farm," she said. "I can come to you now freer. I
couldn't bear the idea of being in debt to the man _I_ was going to
marry. I've been independent so long that--that it actually hurt me. Are
you plumb sure you can sell it, Alfred--absolutely sure?"
"Absolutely," he answered. "The only thing that's bothering me is that
it's worth more."
"Never mind about that," she cried. "But tell me who is to take it,
Alfred?"
Their eyes met again steadily, a warm, confident, fearless smile lighted
up his face. He put his arm about her again, drew her close to him, and
held her cheek in his hand.
"There ain't but one man under God's eye that's got a right to own the
land you toiled on like you did," he said, "and that is the man that
worships every hair on your head and every drop of blood in your veins.
I'm the feller, Dixie."
"Oh, Alfred!" she cried out, but, seeing his eyes burning into hers, she
smiled, nestled closer into his arms, and said: "Well, what's the use?
My fight's over. I've got you, and nothing on earth can take you from
me."
THE END
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=Infelice.= By Augusta Evans Wilson.
=Lady Betty Across the Water.= By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
=Lady of the Mount, The.= By Frederic S. Isham.
=Lane That Had No Turning, The.= By Gilbert Parker.
=Langford of the Three Bars.= By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles.
=Last Trail, The.= By Zane Grey.
=Leavenworth Case, The.= By Anna Katharine Green.
=Lilac Sunbonnet, The.= By S. R. Crockett.
=Lin McLean.= By Owen Wister.
=Long Night, The.= By Stanley J. Weyman.
=Maid at Arms, The.= By Robert W. Chambers.