clearness, doing their best to replace the light of the little moon
which had gone to rest early, like most young things. Under the forest
cover the starlight did not penetrate, and the darkness was illumined
by the yellow flare of the torches. The fall of feet on crackling
twigs, and the slapping of smitten shrub-leaves broke the thick silence
that falls on the earth with night.
To Pink Pressley, crouching at the entrance of his cave, the sound of
approaching steps was a threat. He had put out his fire as soon as he
heard the dogs on the other end of the ridge, and for two hours he had
followed the course of the hunt by their barking and the cries of the
men. He guessed it to be what it was,--a 'possum-hunt,--yet suspicion
born of guilt hinted always at such a hunt as an excuse for a raid upon
his still.
On the other hand, the party was coming from the north, and might be
made up of men from Asheville. In that case, since, perhaps, they did
not know the mountain, it was quite possible that they would turn back
before they reached his hiding-place. At any rate, he determined to
stay where he was, and run the risk of detection. If it should prove to
be a raid, he was not averse to exchanging shots with the revenue men.
The thought of it filled him with a fierce joy. Three times they had
destroyed his whole plant, and this time he meant to fight for it.
He took down the boards that filled the cave's mouth, and pulled the
bushes more carefully before it. The dogs would find and reveal him as
quickly with one arrangement as the other, and he had no desire to
undergo a siege shut up in that hole, when he might burst out and
defend himself with some enjoyment.
Screened by his net-work of bushes, he listened keenly to every sound.
A misgiving seized him that Bud had betrayed him, and he cursed him in
a whisper. Yarebrough had told him in the afternoon that his baby was
ill, and that he could not leave Melissa alone with her that night; but
he had confessed at the same time, with his usual lack of reticence,
that the Baron had "been a-talkin'" to him, and Pink suspected that the
baby's illness was a fabrication to excuse his non-appearance at the
still, and possibly his treachery. Pressley's judgment of his partner's
honor was based on his own, and he felt in his pocket to make sure of
the safety there of a letter whose crackle sounded pleasantly in his
ears.
"'Twon' do to give him too much rope," he muttered.
Nearer came the soft scampering of dogs and the trampling of men, and
the torches' glow warming the unlighted forest. Pressley hoped that
they might pass along the mountain's side below him, or on top of the
ledge that roofed his cavern, but there always was danger from the
dogs. Even as he thought it, one padded along the shelf of rock that
lay like a step before his door, and stopped short with a growl. He was
so near that Pink struck him with the butt of his revolver, and sent
him off with a paw uplifted in pain.
The man leaned out from his shelter and stared towards the right,
whence the lights were coming. Then he looked straight ahead for a
moment, down the mountain, under the leafy tops, and wished it were all
over and he knew how it had come out.
When he looked back the foremost men were in view, a group of three or
four, with their dogs following at heel soberly enough. Their torches
flung grotesque shadows on the trees, and distorted their figures into
uncouth semblances. He could not recognize them, yet they seemed
familiar. Those two in front--was it----? Yes, by God! Like a fiend he
sprang from his lair and rushed at von Rittenheim, as if from the very
bowels of the rock. His face glared, malignant, in the unsteady light.
"So you did squeal on me, you damned German!" he yelled. "Take that and
that and that." He fired three times full at von Rittenheim's face.
With the third shot another rang in unison, and Pressley fell, twisted
and snarling, on the stone before his still.
Bob Morgan's hand, holding the smoking pistol, fell to his side.
"Are you all right, von Rittenheim?" he asked; then added, weakly, "I
reckon you'll have to carry me down, boys. He's touched me." And he
staggered into Friedrich's arms.
He had been walking a stride higher up the hill-side than von
Rittenheim, and, flinging himself from his greater elevation between
the German and his assailant, he had received the bullets meant for
Friedrich's head lower in his own body.
XXIV
"Fought the Fight"
Bob lay white and still upon his bed, breathing painfully. Two of
Pink's bullets had torn their way through his lungs, and the third had
splintered his collar-bone. A surgeon had come out from Asheville, and,
after examining the wounds, had sent for help. When the second
physician arrived, they had probed and prodded the inert body, while
Dr. Morgan, with an ever-growing fear clutching at his heart,
administered the chloroform with a steady hand. Outside the door Mrs.
Morgan had knelt against the wall, tearless, and without a word of
prayer.
Now it was over, and there was no hope, only waiting for the end,--the
waiting that saps courage from the heart of the onlooker, and makes
endurance seem a thing impossible; the torture of seeing suffering that
is not to be relieved; suffering that seems all unnecessary, since
death is to be the issue after all.
Bob had asked for Sydney as soon as he came out of the chloroform, and
she had responded at once.
"You won't leave me, dear?" he had questioned, when he opened his eyes
from the drowsiness that the opiate forced upon him, and saw her
sitting beside him.
"No, Bob; I'll stay as long as you want me."
He had smiled feebly at her.
"It won't be very long."
A glimmer in his eyes showed that he understood the possible
impertinent interpretation of his speech.
"You won't mind letting me hold your hand, Sydney, will you?" he had
said, in his hoarse, weak voice. "It's one of the perquisites of dying.
Tuck your fingers in there, dear. Those doctors have strapped me up so
I can't move my arm."
So she sat with her hand in his, and her eyes looking out across the
meadows to Buck Mountain, while Bob dozed and woke and dozed again,
always smiling happily at her when he found her still beside him, and
pressing her fingers in his weak grasp.
As the sun sank towards the west he roused from his stupefied slumber,
and spoke with growing clearness.
"It's mighty good of you to stay here, Sydney. I'm selfish to ask you,
but I haven't seen you much lately, I've been so busy with the crops."
"You've never failed me, Bob dear. It's my turn now."
"It's just because I'm weak, I suppose, but I want a little flattery.
Don't you think I've done pretty well about--drinking?"
"You've been wonderful, Bob. I honor and respect you more than I can
say. You feel that, don't you?"
"Thank you, dear. You know I did it for you? Oh, I told her all about
it," as Sydney glanced towards the corner where Mrs. Morgan, worn out
with grief, was sleeping behind a screen. "I've been a little more
hopeful about you lately, since--well----"
He paused, not liking to finish his sentence "since the Baroness came,"
for it suggested implications too delicate for utterance.
"But I always knew, really, that you couldn't care for me in that way.
It was a temporary deceit, the way you can make yourself believe for a
few minutes that you haven't a toothache, and then it jumps on you
again."
"Dear old Bob."
Sydney bent forward and kissed him. Over his face spread a radiance of
unexpected happiness.
"Oh, Sydney, you darling! I say, Sydney, if you wouldn't think that I'm
taking advantage of my condition--would you mind--_would_ you do that
again?"
She kissed him again, gladly, willingly, and he sank happily to sleep.
When he woke once more he asked for von Rittenheim.
"He's down-stairs. He's been waiting all day hoping you'd want to see
him."
Sydney summoned Friedrich. He uttered an exclamation of sorrow as he
saw the big black eyes looking from their hollows, and the white face
of the man so suddenly brought to this pass from the full tide of
strength.
"For-r my sake!" he groaned. "How with all my soul I wish it were I!"
He took Bob's other hand--Sydney had resumed her old position--and
tried to command his voice. It was Bob who spoke first:
"What about Pressley?"
Von Rittenheim looked questioningly at Sydney, who nodded.
"He's dead, Bob."
A ray from the setting sun found its way to the bed and lighted up the
dying man's face.
"Kind of sudden for him, too," he mused. "Did he live any time at all?"
"No. Your bullet went through his heart. He must have died instantly."
"It's a mighty serious thing to do, to kill a man. I never realized
before how serious it was. But I'm not sorry."
"You saved my life, Bob. I can't talk about it. Only, I'd give it
gladly, gladly, to keep you, old man."
He bent his head with a sob.
"Never mind that, Baron. I suspect Yarebrough'll be all the better for
not having Pink to lead him into mischief."
"It has saved him from a heavy punishment. They found in Pr-ressley's
pocket a letter offering to turn State's evidence."
"That would have sent Bud to jail and freed himself, wouldn't it?"
asked Sydney.
"Yes. He must have been afraid of betrayal."
"No," cried the girl; "I'm sure he planned the whole thing to spite
Melissa. I heard him threatening her one day. He said he'd make her
sorry she ever married Bud."
"I think you're right, Sydney," said Bob. "He was working Bud all
summer, I'm confident, with the purpose of betraying him at the end."
He sank a little into the pillow, and Sydney gave von Rittenheim a
glance of dismissal.
"You're tired, dear," she said to Bob.
"A little. I think I'll take a nap. Oh, Baron, I almost forgot. I was
in Asheville a few days ago,--Monday, Tuesday,--I don't know when," he
went on, weakly, "and I met a man who said he thought he knew you. He's
at the hotel,--a German."
"Did he tell you his name?"
"I can't remember. Something long. He said if you were Friedrich von
Rittenheim from the Black Forest that he knew you well, and would you
look him up? You will, won't you?"
"Yes, I will."
"If you don't, he'll think I've broken my promise."
"I will. He shall know that you told me. Good-by, Bob, good-by."
But Bob was asleep and did not answer.
It was with the ebbing of the night and the coming of the dawn that
Bob's soul went out,--went out in stress and travail.
When the struggle was over, Sydney left the old doctor and his wife
kneeling side by side at the edge of the bed, and crept down-stairs.
Von Rittenheim was sitting before the fire, his head buried in his
hands. He sprang to meet her as she entered.
"Is he----? Has he----?"
The girl nodded.
"Just now."
Suddenly she threw her arms over her head and broke into stifled sobs.
Friedrich was torn with distress. He drew her to the fire, and
established her in a big chair, wrapping her warmly in a rug from the
couch. Somewhere he found a glass of wine, and made her take it. Then
he knelt beside her, rubbing the fingers that were cold and cramped
from Bob's long clasp, and talking softly to her as to a child.
God alone knows the force he put upon himself not to take her in his
arms and comfort her on his breast; not to pour into her ears the words
that were burning his heart out. Drops of moisture stood on his
forehead as he resisted the temptation that was the stronger because he
felt that she returned his love, and that these forbidden words would
be her greatest comfort. But Sydney was not insensible of their subtle,
unspoken sympathy, and at last yielded to the solace of warmth and the
consciousness of being cared for, and, exhausted, closed her eyes in
sleep.
Friedrich stirred the fire and watched its light play on the face of
the woman he loved, and gave himself up to wonder and longing and
regret.
* * * * *
Unless it had been that of Dr. Morgan himself, no other death in all
the country round could have touched so nearly so many hearts. Around
the grave, lined with the glistening laurel-leaves of victory, stood
old and young, rich and poor, men and women, and even little children.
There were those who had come because he was the Doctor's son; there
were those who had been with him on many a gay excursion; there were
those who had experienced his tenderness and loving-kindness. Old man
Johnson, from over the river, who had walked eight painful miles, laid
the first shovelful of earth into the grave. Patton McRae helped to
cover his life-long friend. The negroes from the farm sobbed audibly as
they worked. A tramp came into the graveyard from the road and asked
whose buryin' it was. They told him, and he swore softly, and begged to
be allowed to help. John Wendell yielded his shovel to Hamp Pinner, and
he to Colonel Huger.
Then the women came forward and covered the mound with boughs of green,
and clusters of flowers, and sprays of bright leaves, and Sydney laid
about the whole grave a garland of feathery aster and delicate fern.
Through the quiet came a sweet, sonorous voice reading the words of the
hymn,--
"Love's redeeming work is done,
Fought the fight, the victory won."
Out of the church-yard, side by side, with bowed heads, walked Bud
Yarebrough and Friedrich von Rittenheim,--the man whose fragile honor
had been preserved by Bob's act, and the man whose life he had given
his own to save.
XXV
Carl von Sternburg
Mrs. Morgan and the Doctor had insisted upon giving to von Rittenheim
Gray Eagle and Bob's buggy. They could have done nothing kinder or more
tactful, for Friedrich was apprehensive even of their seeing him for
whom their son had given his life, and their insistence upon his
accepting this remembrance of their dead boy proved their feeling
towards him more cogently than any words.
It was the good gray horse that he was driving towards Asheville a few
days after the funeral, on his way to fulfil his promise to Bob to hunt
up the German who had claimed acquaintance with him.
As he travelled on, he thought of the two notable journeys which he had
made on this same highway,--the heart-chilling ride through the
penetrating morning mist at the head of the men who had arrested him,
and the wild flight through the darkness to secure the surgeon for poor
Bob. Between the two had intervened a lifetime of experience. He had
been branded a criminal, and had rehabilitated himself; he had knocked
at the door of death, and been refused; he had lost his confidence in
man's honesty, and had regained a fuller faith in his goodness; he had
watched the slow blossoming of the tender flower of love's hope within
his heart, and he had seen it overshadowed by the stouter growth of
loyalty to his word.
Of his future, in so far as it might have to do with Sydney, he did not
allow himself to think. There was no shaft of light lying upon that
road. But a clear and steady, though not far-reaching flame illumined
the present, for he felt sure now that she loved him, and that gave him
a certain happiness. It was like having a beautiful secret,--a secret
whose delight would be doubled if it might be shared with the world,
but nevertheless a secret which gave joy in mere solitary
contemplation.
_Hilda_ was a subject which forced itself with increasing potency
upon his mind. After the first shock of her sudden coming had passed,
he had been touched by her turning to him in her loneliness. That
Sydney's withdrawal from him lay at Hilda's charge he could not fail to
see, and he blamed himself for the occasional repulsion against his
sister-in-law with which the situation filled him. She was so sweet, so
childlike, so full of trust in him, so regretful for her mistakes of
the past, so reticent as to Maximilian's ill-behavior. Her whole
conduct won his respect and confidence, even while he felt himself
subtly encompassed by the seine of her entire reliance upon the keeping
of his oath. That she expected him to marry her he did not formally
concede to himself, but he was quite sure that she did not expect him
to marry any one else.
His errands done,--a commission for Mrs. Morgan and some business for
the firm,--he betook himself to the hotel and asked for the register.
He was running over the names when he heard some one behind him saying,
in German,--
"It _is_ my von Rittenheim! It is my dear Friedrich!" and "dear
Friedrich" and a somewhat stout young man a few years younger than he
flung themselves into each other's arms, and kissed both cheeks after
the manner of their race, while the clerk turned to his safe to conceal
the grin that inwreathed his countenance.
"Von Sternburg! What in the world brought you here?"
"Baedeker. This scenery is among the things a globe-trotter has to
see."
"Shall you stay long?"
"I go to Florida day after to-morrow. Come on to the veranda and tell
me about yourself."
"If I can stop asking questions long enough!"
It was while they were talking and smoking in the sunshine with the
glorious western range spread before them, that von Sternburg said,--
"And poor old Max is dead."
He knocked the ash from his cigar with his little finger, and glanced
at Friedrich, who was non-committal.
"Yes," was all he said.
"I suppose they've never found any trace of the she-devil, have they?"
Friedrich sat up with a jerk and stared at von Sternburg.
"She-devil? What she-devil?"
"What she-devil? Why, the Baroness, of course. Max's wife."
"No trace of Hilda? She-devil? What are you talking about?"
"Do you mean to say that you don't know about Maximilian's death?"
"I know he shot himself."
"And you don't know why?"
"I had not heard from Max for six months before he died. I did not know
of his death until several months after it occurred!"
"That was strange! Your man of business did not write you?"
"It was my fault. I hadn't sent him my address for a long time. When I
did there was a reason for his not writing at once."
"Who is he?"
"Stapfer."
"I knew it!"
Von Sternburg slapped his knee.
"Stapfer was crazy over her, and she had some reason for your not
knowing."
"_She!_ Are you talking about my sister-in-law?"
"Oh, you needn't put on any dignity over her. She isn't worth it,
though I suppose you don't know that as well as you will in a few
minutes."
Friedrich passed his hand over his face.
"I can't understand it. You say Stapfer was in love with Hilda?"
"And she made use of him, just as she did of Moller and von Hatfeldt
and everybody else who came near her. She overreached herself about von
Hillern, though."
"It seems treachery to listen to you, von Sternburg."
"Treachery! Why, my dear boy----"
Von Sternburg ended his sentence with an expressive gesture.
"And Max--did he know?"
"Why, that's what killed him, man! Haven't you kept in touch with
anybody in the Fatherland who would write you any news?"
"I haven't received a letter from a soul except Max and Stapfer since I
came to America."
Von Sternburg gave a whistle of surprise.
"Then you don't even know how Max improved? Everybody thought when he
married Hilda von Arnim that he did it merely for the pleasure of
cutting you out. Forgive my speaking so plainly."
He laid a deprecating hand on von Rittenheim's knee. Friedrich nodded
silently.
"I haven't a doubt in the world that that was his chief motive then.
But after you left he fell a victim to the charm that she seems to
exert over everybody who doesn't know her tricks--you must let me go on
now," he said, quickly, in response to a motion of von Rittenheim's,
"or I can't establish my case. He fell madly in love with her, and it
made another man of him."
"There was much good in Max."
"Well hidden all through his youth, you must allow. He gave up
drinking----"
"Not entirely?"
"He drank only what a gentleman takes for dinner."
"He was not intoxicated when he sh--when he died?"
"I know for a fact that he was not drunk once during the whole last
year of his life."
"You know? How do you know? Forgive me, Carl," as a look of annoyance
clouded von Sternburg's face, "but every proof is important to me."
"I was living at our Schloss--at my father's. I saw Maximilian nearly
every day. We were together constantly."
"Extraordinary!" murmured Friedrich. "Did this wonderful change extend
to his money affairs?"
"Well, you know Max could use any amount of money, and you couldn't
expect him to become an economist at one shot. Then he always spent a
great deal on his wife; he was continually sending to Paris for
something for her."
Friedrich scowled thoughtfully.
"Still he paid all his old debts out of his Aunt Brigitta's legacy, and
didn't make any new ones."
"That means more for Max than it would for most people."
"He told me that he could not have afforded to keep up the Schloss
without your help, but aside from the expenses of the house he had
plenty, plenty."
"And Hilda?"
"Oh, the Baroness is a millionaire. Her aunt in Heidelberg died more
than a year ago and left her all her fortune. Max never got a pfennig
of it though, even in a Christmas-gift."
There flashed across Friedrich's mental view his cabin, differing in no
respect from those of the "mountain whites," his neighbors. Then a
picture of a little figure with white neck and arms shining through the
filmy blackness of her gown, shrinking into an arm-chair, and saying,
"I always had enough for my needs, even when----"
"Was he kind to her?"
"Kind? I tell you he loved her with the most unselfish devotion. It was
his dearest wish to live a life so correct that she might be proud of
him. You couldn't expect more than that, could you?"
"Not from Maximilian," admitted von Rittenheim. "Perhaps the very
intensity of his love may have made him exacting towards her?"
"My dear fellow, she paid no more attention to him and his wishes than
if he were the lowest servant on the estate. She had a constant flock
of men hanging about, with whom she flirted desperately, entirely
regardless of Max's feelings. I must say he bore it like an angel! Why,
if my wife--well, never mind, I haven't one yet. She made herself
conspicuous with Moller--Colonel Moller, you know, before von Hatfeldt
killed himself on her account."
"The Graf's son?" Friedrich was startled.
"The second son. He took poison and told his father why. The old man
went to Max about it."
"Poor old Max!"
"What could he do? When he charged her with it there's nothing so sweet
and gentle on earth as that girl! What had she done? Nothing at all,
but torment a poor fellow until his nerves and will were wrecked. How
could she be responsible for that?"
Friedrich saw before him John Wendell, haggard and sneering, saying to
him something so insulting that Sydney had grown white, and Bob had
raised a threatening arm.
"But, as I said, she overreached herself with von Hillern. Fortunately
for him he was in love with some one else, which was his safeguard, but
he was willing enough to singe his wings, and the Baroness was
determined to make him give up his marriage, as a sign that he loved
her."
Von Rittenheim stared at the mountains and thought of Sydney. Von
Sternburg continued,--
"Maximilian was fully alive to everything that went on, and he was
beside himself with distress. Apart from the pain of his own unrequited
love, he was acutely anxious over the gossip about her."
"Von Hillern is an old friend of our family."
"Exactly. I think Max blamed him very little, but it preyed on his
mind."
"You think it became unhinged?"
"I think so. Indeed, I'm almost sure of it. He hadn't the constitution
to endure any mental anxiety."
"I suppose he shot himself in a fit of alienation."
"He shot himself because his wife refused to give up her affair with
von Hillern. Whether it was mania, or a passing craze of jealousy, I
don't pretend to say."
"How do you know it wasn't on account of financial troubles?"
"I was there in the next room at the time."
Von Rittenheim leaned forward and fixed his eyes on von Sternburg's
face with keen anxiety.
"You heard him?"
"I had gone to ask Max to ride with me. The servant who opened the door
said he dared not announce me to the Baron; that he was storming about
in his dressing-room. I ran up-stairs and into Max's room, which was
empty, but I heard his voice in the Baroness's room, which adjoined
it."
"You understood what he said?"
"Perfectly. It seemed to be the end of a long argument. He cried,
'Hilda, will you or will you not give up von Hillern?'"
"And she said?"
"'I have told you repeatedly, Max, that I will not.' Then he seemed to
go wild, and cried, 'Give him up! Give him up!'"
Von Rittenheim paled. He never moved his eyes from his friend's face.