HOW A DEBT WAS PAID.
On went the spirited mare to The Hall, skillfully avoiding obstructions,
and drew up at last before the big gate. She had not been gentle in her
approach, and old Isham was out in the night holding her bit and talking
to her before she realized that her coming had not been expected.
"De Lord bless yer, horse, whar you be'n an' what you done wid young
missus?" Mary was now out on the porch.
"What is it, Isham?"
"For Gawd's sake, come hyar, missy. Dis hyar fool horse done come erlong
back 'thout young missus, an' I spec' he done los' her out in de road
somewhar--" Mary caught sight of the dress and bonnet and greatly
alarmed drew them out. What could have happened? Why was Annie's bonnet
and clothing in the buggy? For an instant her heart stood still.
Her presence of mind soon returned. Her mother had retired, and so,
putting the maid on guard, she came out and with Isham beside her,
turned the horse's head back toward the city. But as mile after mile
passed nothing explained the mystery. There was no dark form by the
roadside. At no place did the intelligent animal scent blood and turn
aside. It was likely that Annie had gone to spend the night with a
friend, as she declared she would if the hour were too late to enter the
jail. But the clothing!
The girl drove within sight of the prison, but could not bring herself,
at that hour, to stop there. She passed on to Annie's friends. She had
not been there. She tried others with no better success. And now,
thoroughly convinced that something terrible had occurred, she drove on
to Ilexhurst. As the tired mare climbed the hill and Mary saw the light
shining from the upper window, she began to realize that the situation
was not very much improved. After all, Annie's disappearance might be
easily explained and how she would sneer at her readiness to run to Mr.
Morgan! It was the thought of a very young girl.
But it was too late to turn back. She drew rein before the iron gate and
boldly entered, leaving Isham with the vehicle. She rapidly traversed
the walk, ascended the steps and was reaching out for the knocker, when
the door was suddenly thrown open and a man ran violently against her.
She was almost hurled to the ground, but frightened as she was, it was
evident that the accidental meeting had affected the other more. He
staggered back into the hall and stood irresolute and white with terror.
She came forward amazed and only half believing the testimony of her
senses.
"Mr. Royson!" The man drew a deep breath and put his hand upon a chair,
nodding his head. He had for the moment lost the power of speech.
"What does it mean?" she asked. "Why are you--here? Where is Mr.
Morgan?" His ghastliness returned. He wavered above the chair and then
sank into it. Then he turned his face toward hers in silence. She read
something there, as in a book. She did not cry out, but went and caught
his arm and hung above him with white face. "You have not--oh, no, you
have not--" She could say no more. She caught his hand and looked dumbly
upon it. The man drew it away violently as the horror of memory came
upon him.
"Not that way!" he said.
"Ah, not that way! Speak to me, Mr. Royson--tell me you do not mean
it--he is not----" The whisper died out in that dim hall. He turned his
face away a moment and then looked back. Lifting his hand he pointed up
the stairway. She left him and staggered up the steps slowly, painfully,
holding by the rail; weighed upon by the horror above and the horror
below. Near the top she stopped and looked back; the man was watching
her as if fascinated. She went on; he arose and followed her. He found
her leaning against the door afraid to enter; her eyes riveted upon a
form stretched upon the bed, a cloth over its face; a strange sweet odor
in the air. He came and paused by her side, probably insane, for he was
smiling now.
"Behold the bridegroom," he said. "Go to him; he is not dead. He has
been waiting for you. Why are you so late?" She heard only two words
clearly. "Not dead!"
"Oh, no," he laughed; "not dead. He only sleeps, with a cloth and
chloroform upon his face. He is not dead!" With a movement swift as a
bounding deer, she sprang across the room, seized the cloth and hurled
it from the window. She added names that her maiden cheeks would have
paled at, and pressed her face to his, kissing the still and silent lips
and moaning piteously.
The man at the door drew away suddenly, went to the stairway and passed
down. No sound was heard now in the house except the moaning of the girl
upstairs. He put on a hat in the hall below, closed the door cautiously
and prepared to depart as he had come, when again he paused irresolute.
Then he drew from his pocket a crumpled paper and read it. And there,
under that one jet which fell upon him in the great hall, something was
born that night in the heart of Amos Royson--something that proved him
for the moment akin to the gods. The girl had glided down the steps and
was fleeing past him for succor. He caught her arm.
"Wait," he said gently. "I will help you!" She ceased to struggle and
looked appealingly into his face. "I have not much to say, but it is for
eternity. The man upstairs is now in no immediate danger. Mary, I have
loved you as I did not believe myself capable of loving anyone. It is
the glorious spot in the desert of my nature. I have been remorseless
with men; it all seemed war to me, a war of Ishmaelites--civilized war
is an absurdity. Had you found anything in me to love, I believe it
would have made me another man, but you did not. And none can blame you.
To-night, for every kind word you have spoken to Amos Royson, for the
note you sent him to-day, he will repay you a thousandfold. Come with
me." He half-lifted her up the steps and to the room of the sleeper.
Then wringing out wet towels he bathed the face and neck of the
unconscious man, rubbed the cold wrists and feet and forced cold water
into the mouth. It was a doubtful half-hour, but at last the sleeper
stirred and moaned. Then Royson paused.
"He will awaken presently. Give me half an hour to get into a batteau on
the river and then you may tell him all. That--" he said, after a pause,
looking out of the window, through which was coming the distant clamor
of bells--"that indicates that Annie has waked and screamed. And now
good-by. I could have taken your lover's life." He picked up the picture
from the table, kissed it once and passed out.
Mary was alone with her lover. Gradually under her hand consciousness
came back and he realized that the face in the light by him was not of
dreams but of life itself--that life which, but for her and the
gentleness of her woman's heart, would have passed out that night at
Ilexhurst.
And as he drifted back again into consciousness under the willows of the
creeping river a little boat drifted toward the sea.
Dawn was upon the eastern hills when Mary, with her rescued
sister-in-law, crept noiselessly into The Hall. It was in New York that
the latter read the account of her mortification. Norton was not there.
She had passed him in her flight.