Alone in his cabin, Truedale was conscious of a sort of groundless
terror that angered him. The storm could not account for it--he had the
advantage of ignorance there! Certainly his last half-hour could not be
responsible for his sensations. He justified every minute of it by terms
as old as man's desires and his resentment of restrictions. "Our lives
are our own!" he muttered, setting to work to build a fire and to light
the lamp. "They will all come around to my way of seeing things when I
have made good and taken her back to them!"
Still this arguing brought no peace, and more and more Truedale found
himself relying upon Jim White's opinions. In that troubled hour the
sheriff stood like a rugged sign post in the path. One unflinching
finger pointed to the past; the other--to the future.
"Well! I've chosen," thought Truedale; "it's the new way and--thank
God!" But he felt that the future could be made possible or miserable by
Jim's favour or disapproval.
Having decided to follow upon White's counsel, Truedale mentally prayed
for his return, and at once. The fact was, Truedale was drugged and he
had just sense enough left to know it! He vaguely realized that the
half-hour with Nella-Rose had been a dangerous epoch in his life. He was
safe, thank heaven! but he dared not trust himself just now without a
stronger will to guide him!
While he busied himself at feeding the animals, preparing and clearing
away his own evening meal, he grew calmer. The storm was gaining in
fury--and he was thankful for it! He was shut away from possible
temptation; he even found it easy to think of Kendall and of Lynda, but
he utterly eliminated his uncle from his mind. Between him and old
William Truedale the gulf seemed to have become impassable!
And while Truedale sank into an unsafe mental calm, Nella-Rose pushed
her way into the teeth of the storm and laughed and chattered like a mad
and lost little nymph. Wind and rain always exhilarated her and the fury
of the elements, gaining force every minute, did not alarm her while the
memory of her great experience held sway over her. She shook her hair
back from her wide, vague eyes. She was undecided where to go for the
night--it did not matter greatly; to-morrow she would go again to
Truedale, or he would come to her. At last she settled upon seeking the
shelter of old Lois Ann, in Devil-may-come Hollow, and turned in that
direction.
It was eight o'clock then and Truedale, with his books and papers on
the table before him, declared: "I am quite all right now," and fell to
work upon the manuscript that earlier had engrossed him.
As the time sped by he was able to visualize the play; _he_ was sitting
in the audience--he beheld the changing scenes and the tense climax. He
even began to speculate upon the particular star that would be fitted
for the leading part. His one extravagance, in the past, had been
cut-rate seats in the best theatres.
Suddenly the mood passed and all at once Truedale realized that he was
tired--deadly tired. The perspiration stood on his forehead--he ached
from the strain of cramped muscles. Then he looked at his watch; it was
eleven o'clock! The stillness out of doors bespoke a sullen break in the
storm. A determined drip-drip from roof and trees was like the ticking
of a huge clock running down, but good for some time. The fire had died
out, not a bit of red showed in the ashes, but the room was hot, still.
Truedale decided to go to bed without it, and, having come to that
conclusion, he bent his head upon his folded arms and sank into a deep
sleep.
Suddenly he awoke. The room was cold and dark! The lamp had burned
itself out and the storm was again howling in its second attack. Chilled
and obsessed by an unnerving sense of danger, Truedale waited for--he
knew not what! Just then something pressed against his leg and he put
his hand down thinking one of the dogs was crouching close, but a
whispered "sh!" set every muscle tense.
"Nella-Rose?"
"Yes--but, oh! be mighty still. They may be here any minute."
"They? Who?"
"All of them. Jed Martin, my father, and the others--the ones who are
friends of--of--"
"Whom, Nella-Rose?"
"Burke Lawson! He's back--and they think--oh! they think they are on his
trail--here! I--I was trying to get away but the streams were swollen
and the big trees were bending and--and I hid behind a rock and--I
heard!
"First it was Jed and father; they said they were going to shoot--they'd
given up catching Burke alive! Then they went up-stream and the--the
others came--the friends, and they 'lowed that Burke was here and they
meant to get here before Jed and--and da some killing on their side.
I--I thought it was fun when they-all meant to take Burke alive, but
now--oh! now can't you see?--they'll shoot and find out afterward! They
may come any minute! I put the light out. Come, we must leave the cabin
empty-looking--like you had gone--and hide!"
The breathless whispering stopped and Truedale collected his senses in
the face of this real danger.
"But you--you must not be here, Nella-Rose!"
Every nerve was alert now. "This is pure madness. Great heavens! what
am I going to do with you?"
The seriousness of the situation overpowered him.
"Sh!" The warning was caused by the restlessness of the dogs outside.
Their quick ears were sensing danger or--the coming of their master!
Either possibility was equally alarming.
"Oh! you do not understand," Nella-Rose was pleading by his knee. "If
they-all see you, they will have you killed that minute. Burke is the
only one in their minds--they don't even know that you live; they're too
full of Burke, and if they see me--why--they'd kill you anyway."
"But what can I do with you?" That thought alone swayed Truedale.
Then Nella-Rose got upon her feet and stood close to him.
"I'm yours! I gave myself to you. You--you wanted me. Are you sorry?"
The simple pride and dignity went straight to Truedale's heart.
"It's because I want you so, little girl, that I must save you."
Somehow Nella-Rose seemed to have lost her fear of the oncoming raiders;
she spoke deliberately, and above a whisper:
"Save me?--from what?"
There were no words to convey to her his meaning. Truedale felt almost
ashamed to hold it in his own mind. They so inevitably belonged to each
other; why should they question?
"I--I shall not go away--again!"
"My darling, you must."
"Where?"
The word brought him to his senses--where, indeed? With the dark woods
full of armed men ready to fire at any moving thing in human shape, he
could not let her go! That conclusion reached, and all anchors cut, the
danger and need of the hour claimed him.
"Yes; you are mine!" he whispered, gathering her to him. "What does
anything matter but our safety to-night? To-morrow; well, to-morrow--"
"Sh!"
No ear but one trained to the secrets of the still places could have
detected a sound.
"They are coming! Yes, not the many--it is Jed! Come! While you slept I
carried a right many things to the rhododendron slick back of the house!
See, push over the chair--leave the door open like you'd gone away
before the storm."
Quickly and silently Nella-Rose suited action to word. Truedale watched
her like one bewitched. "Now!" She took him by the hand and the next
minute they were out on the wet, sodden leaves; the next they were
crouching close under the bushes where even the heavy rain had not
penetrated. Half-consciously Truedale recognized some of his property
near by--his clothing, two or three books, and--yes--it was his
manuscript! The white roll was safe! How she must have worked while he
slept.
Once only did she speak until danger was past. Nestling close in his
arms, her head upon his shoulder, she breathed:
"If they-all shoot, we'll die together!"
The unreality of the thing gradually wore upon Truedale's tense nerves.
If anything was going to happen he wanted it to happen! In another
half-hour he meant to put an end to the farce and move his belongings
back to the cabin and take Nella-Rose home. It was a nightmare--nothing
less!
"Sh!" and then the waiting was over. Two dark figures, guns ready, stole
from the woods behind White's cabin. Where were the dogs? Why did they
not speak out?--but the dogs were trained to be as silent as the men.
They were all part and parcel of the secret lawlessness of the hills. In
the dim light Truedale watched the shadowy forms enter Jim's unlocked
cabin and presently issue forth, evidently convinced that the prey was
not there--had not been there! Then as stealthy as Indians they made
their way to the other cabin--Truedale's late shelter. They kept to the
bushes and the edge of the woods--they were like creeping animals until
they reached the shack; then, standing erect and close, they went in the
doorway. So near was the hiding place of Truedale and his companion
that they could hear the oaths of the hunters as they became aware that
their quarry had escaped.
"He's been here, all right!" It was Jed Martin who spoke.
"I reckon he's caught on," Peter Greyson drawled, "he's makin' for Jim
White. White ain't more'n fifteen miles back; we can cut him off, Jed,
'fore he reaches safety--the skunk!"
Then the two emerged from the cabin and strode boldly away.
"The others!" whispered Truedale--"will they come?"
"Wait!"
There was a stir--a trampling--but apparently the newcomers did not see
Martin and Greyson. There was a crackling of underbrush by feet no
longer feeling need of caution, then another space of silence before
safety was made sure for the two in the bushes.
At last Truedale dared to speak.
"Nella-Rose!" He looked down at the face upon his breast. She was
asleep--deeply, exhaustedly asleep!
Truedale shifted his position. He was cramped and aching; still the even
breathing did not break. He laid her down gently and put a heavy coat
about her--one that earlier she had carried from the cabin in her effort
to save him. He went to the house and grimly set to work. First he
lighted a fire; then he righted the chairs and brought about some order
from the chaos. He was no longer afraid of any man on God's earth; even
Jim White was relegated to the non-essentials. Truedale was merely a
primitive creature caring for his own! There was no turning back now--no
waiting upon conventions. When he had made ready he was going out to
bring his own to her home!
The sullen, soggy night, with its bursts of fury and periods of calm,
had settled down, apparently, to a drenching, businesslike rain. The
natives knew how to estimate such weather. By daylight the streams would
be raging rivers on whose currents trees and animals would be carried
ruthlessly to the lowlands. Roads would be obliterated and human beings
would seek shelter wherever they could find it.
But Truedale was spared the worry this knowledge might have brought him.
He concentrated now upon the present and grimly accepted conditions as
they were. All power or inclination for struggle was past; the
inheritance of weakness which old William Truedale had feared and with
which Conning himself had so contended in his barren youth, asserted
itself and prepared to take unquestioningly what the present offered.
At that moment Truedale believed himself arbiter of his own fate and
Nella-Rose's. Conditions had forced him to this position and he was
ready to assume responsibility. There was no alternative; he must
accept things as they were and make them secure later on. For himself
the details of convention did not matter. He had always despised them.
In his youthful spiritual anarchy he had flouted them openly; they made
no claim upon his attention now, except where Nella-Rose was concerned.
Appearances were against him and her, but none but fools would allow
that to daunt them. He, Truedale, felt that no law of man was needed to
hold him to the course he had chosen, back on the day when he determined
to forsake the past and fling his fortunes in with the new. Never in his
life was Conning Truedale more sincere or, he believed, more wise, than
he was at that moment. And just then Nella-Rose appeared coming down the
rain-drenched path like a little ghost in the grim, gray dawn. She still
wore the heavy coat he had put about her, and her eyes were dreamy and
vague.
Truedale strode toward her and took her in his arms.
"My darling," he whispered, "are you able to come with me now--at
once--to the minister? It must be now, sweetheart--now!"
She looked at him like a child trying to understand his mood.
"Oh!" she said presently, "I 'most forgot. The minister has gone to a
burying back in the hills; he'll be gone a right long time. Bill Trim,
who carries all the news, told me to-day."
"Where is he, Nella-Rose?" Something seemed tightening around
Truedale's heart.
"Us-all don't know; he left it written on his door."
"Where is there another minister, Nella-Rose?"
"There is no other."
"This is absurd--of course there is another. We must start at once and
find him."
"Listen!" The face upon Truedale's breast was lifted. "You hear that?"
"Yes. What is it?" Truedale was alarmed.
"It means that the little streams are rivers; it means that the trails
are full of rocks and trees; it means"--the words sank to an awed
whisper--"it means that we must _fight_ for what we-all want to keep."
"Good God! Nella-Rose, but where can I take you?"
"There is no place--but here."
It seemed an hour that the silence lasted while Truedale faced this new
phase and came to his desperate conclusion.
Had any one suggested to him then that his decision was the decision of
weakness, or immemorial evil, he would have resented the thought with
bitterest scorn. Unknowingly he was being tempted by the devil in him,
and he fell; he had only himself to look to for salvation from his
mistaken impulses, and his best self, unprepared, was drugged by the
overpowering appeal that Nella-Rose made to his senses.
Standing with the girl in his arms; listening to the oncoming danger
which, he realized at last, might destroy him and her at any moment;
bereft of every one--everything that could have held them to the old
ideals; Truedale saw but one course--and took it.
"There is no place but here--no one but you and me!"
The soft tones penetrated to the troubled place where Truedale seemed to
stand alone making his last, losing fight.
"Then, by heaven!" he said, "let us accept it--you and I!"
He had crossed his Rubicon.
They ate, almost solemnly; they listened to that awful roar growing more
and more distinct and menacing. Nella-Rose was still and watchful, but
Truedale had never been more cruelly alive than he was then when, with
his wider knowledge, he realized the step he had taken. Whether it were
for life or death, he had blotted out effectually all that had gone to
the making of the man he once was. Whatever hope he might have had of
making Lynda Kendall and Brace understand, had things gone as he once
had planned, there was no hope now. No--he and Nella-Rose were alone and
helpless in the danger-haunted hills. He and she!
The sun made an effort to come forth later but the rush and roar of the
oncoming torrent seemed to daunt it. For an hour it struggled, then gave
up. But during that hour Truedale led Nella-Rose from the house.
Silently they made their way to a little hilltop from which they could
see an open space of dull, leaden sky. There Truedale took the girl's
hands in his and lifted his eyes while his benumbed soul sought whatever
God there might be.
"In Thy sight," he said slowly, deeply, "I take this woman for my wife.
Bless us; keep us; and"--after a pause--"deal Thou with me as I deal
with her."
Then the earnest eyes dropped to the frightened ones searching his face.
"You are mine!" Truedale spoke commandingly, with a force that never
before had marked him.
"Yes." The word was a faint, frightened whisper.
"My darling, kiss me!"
She kissed him with trembling lips.
"You love me?"
"I--I love you."
"You--you trust me?"
"I--oh! yes; yes."
"Then come, my doney-gal! For life or death, it is you and I, little
woman, from now on!"
Like a flash his gloom departed. He was gay, desperate, and free of all
hampering doubts. In such a mood Nella-Rose lost all fear of him and
walked by his side as complacently as if the one minister in her sordid
little world had with all his strange authority said his sacred "Amen"
over her.