Lynn Severn was restless as she sat on the porch in the cool dark
evening and heard unheeding the small village sounds that stole to her
ears. The laughter of two children playing hide and seek behind the
bushes across the way; the call of their mother summoning them to
bed. The tinkle of a piano down the street; the whine of a Victrola in
another home; the cry of a baby in pain; the murmur of talk on the porch
next door; the slamming of a door; the creak of a gate; footsteps going
down the brick pavement; the swinging to and fro of a hammock holding
happy lovers under the rose pergola at Joneses. She could identify
them all, and found her heart was listening for another sound, a smooth
running car that purred, coming down the street. But it did not come!
By and by she slipped out and into the church, opening one window to let
in the moonlight, and unlocking the organ by the sense of feeling. Her
fingers strayed along the keys in tender wandering melodies, but she
did not pull the stop that controlled the bells. She would have liked
to play those bells and call through them to Mark across the mountains
where he might be riding, call to tell him that she was waiting, call
to ask him why he was so strangely aloof, so silent, and pale in his
dignity; what had come between them, old friends of the years? She felt
she could say with the bells what her lips could never speak. But the
bells would cry her trouble to the villagers also, and she could not let
_them_ hear. So she played soft melodies of trust and hope and patience,
until her father came to find her, and linking his arm in hers walked
back with her through the moonlight, not asking anything, only seeming
to understand her mood. He was that way always. He could understand
without being told. Somehow she felt it and was comforted. He was that
way with everybody. It was what made him so beloved in his parish, which
comprised the whole Valley, that and his great sincerity and courage.
But always his sense of understanding seemed keenest with this
flower-faced girl of his. He seemed to have gone ahead of her way always
to see that all was right--or wrong--and then walked with her to be sure
she did not stumble or miss her way. He never attempted to reason her
out of herself, nor to minimize her trials, but was just there, a strong
hold when she needed it. She looked up with a smile and slipped her hand
in his. She understood his perfect sympathy, as if his own past youth
were touching hers and making her know that whatever it was she had to
face she would come through. He was like a symbol of God's strength to
her. Somehow the weight was lifted from her heart. They lingered on the
piazza together in the moonlight a few minutes, speaking quietly of
the morrow and its duties, then they went into the wide pleasant living
room, and sat down, mother and daughter near together, while the father
read a portion:
“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High
shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
“I will say of the Lord, he is my refuge and my fortress:
my God; in him will I trust.
“Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the
fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.
“He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his
wings shalt thou trust.”
The words seemed to fill the room with a sweet peace, and to draw the
hearts of the listeners as a Voice that is dear draws and soothes after
a day of separation and turmoil and distress.
They knelt and the minister's voice spoke familiarly to the Unseen
Presence, giving thanks for mercies received, mentioning little
throbbing personalities that belonged to them as a family and as
individuals, reminding one of what it must have been in the days before
Sin had come and Adam walked and talked with God in the cool of the
evening, and received instruction and strengthening straight from the
Source. One listening would instinctively have felt that here was the
secret of the great strength of Lynn Severn's life; the reason why
neither college nor the world had been able to lure her one iota from
her great and simple faith which she had brought with her from her
Valley home and taken back again unsullied. This family altar was the
heart of her home, and had brought her so near to God that she _knew_
what she had believed and could not be shaken from it by any flippant
words from lovely or wise lips that only knew the theory of her belief
and nothing of its spirit and tried to argue it away with a fine phrase
and a laugh.
So Lynn went up to her little white chamber that looked out upon the
quiet hills, knelt awhile beside the white bed in the moonlight, then
lay down and slept.
* * * * *
Out among the hills on the long smooth road in the white moonlight there
shot a car like a living thing gone crazy, blaring a whiter light than
the moonlight down the way, roaring and thundering as only a costly and
well groomed beast of a machine can roar and thunder when it is driven
by hot blood and a mad desire, stimulated by frequent applications from
a handy flask, and a will that has never known a curb.
He knew it was a mad thing he was doing, rushing across space through
the dark at the beck of a woman's smile, a woman who was another man's
wife, but a woman who had set on fire a whole circle of men of which
he was a part. He was riding against all caution to win a bet, riding
against time to get there before two other men who were riding as
hard from other directions to win the woman who belonged to an
absent husband, win her and run away with her if he could. It was the
culmination of a year of extravagances, the last cry in sensations, and
the telephone wires had been hot with daring, wild allurement, and mad
threat in several directions since late the night before.
The woman was in a great summer hotel where extravagances of all sorts
are in vogue, and it had been her latest game to call with her lute-like
voice over the phone to three of her men friends who had wooed her the
strongest, daring them all to come to her at once, promising to fly with
the one who reached her first, but if none reached her before morning
dawned she remained as she was and laughed at them all.
Laurence Shafton had closed with the challenge at once and given orders
for his car to be ready to start in ten minutes. From a southern
city about an equal distance from the lady, one Percy Emerson, of the
Wellington-Emersons, started about the same time, leaving a trail of
telegrams and phone messages to be sent after his departure. The third
man, Mortimer McMarter, a hot-headed, hot-blooded scot, had started with
the rest, for the lady knew her lovers well, and not one would refuse;
but he was lying dead at a wayside inn with his car a heap of litter
outside from having collided with a truck that was minding its own
business and giving plenty of room to any sane man. This one was not
sane. But of this happening not even the lady knew as yet, for Mortimer
McMarter was not one to leave tales behind him when he went out of life,
and the servants who had sent his messages were far away.
The clock in the car showed nearly twelve and the way was long ahead.
But he would make it before the dawn. He must. He stepped on the
accelerator and shot round a curve. A dizzy precipice yawned at his
side. He took another pull at the flask he carried and shot on wildly
through the night. Then suddenly he ground on his brakes, the machine
twisted and snarled like an angry beast and came to a stand almost into
the arms of a barricade across the road. The young man hurled out an
oath, and leaned forward to look, his eyes almost too blood-shot and
blurred to read:
“DETOUR to Sabbath Valley!”
He laughed aloud. “Sabbath Valley!” He swore and laughed again, then
looked down the way the rude arrow pointed, “Well, I like that! Sabbath
Valley. That'll be a good joke to tell, but I'll make it yet or land in
hell--!” He started his car and twisted it round to the rougher road,
feeling the grind of the broken glass that strewed the way. Billy had
done his work thoroughly, and anticipated well what would happen. But
those tires were costly affairs. They did not yield to the first cut
that came, and the expensive car built for racing on roads as smooth as
glass bumped and jogged down into the ruts and started toward Sabbath
Valley, with the driver pulling again at his almost empty flask, and
swaying giddily in his seat. Half a mile farther down the mountain, the
car gave a gasp, like the flitting soul of a dying lion, and came with
sudden grinding breaks to a dead stop in the heart of a deep wood.
Five minutes later another car, with a soft purring engine came up to
the Crossroads from Economy, slowed just a fraction as it crossed the
Highway, the driver looking keenly at the barricade, then stopping his
car with a sudden jerk and swinging out. He turned a pocket flash on
the big card board Billy had erected, its daubed letters still wet
and blurring into the pasteboard. He looked a bit quizzical over the
statement, “RODE FLOODED, BRIGE DOWN,” because he happened to know there
was no bridge and nothing to flood the road for several miles ahead. He
examined the barricade carefully, even down to the broken glass in the
road, then deliberately, swiftly, with his foot kicked away the glass,
cleared a width for his car, and jumping in backed up, turned and
started slowly down the condemned road to investigate. Something was
wrong down the highway, and the sooner it was set right the better.
There was one thing, he wished he had his gun with him, but then--! And
he swung on down for two miles, going faster and faster, seeing nothing
but white still road, and quiet sleeping trees, with looming mountains
against the sky everywhere. Then, suddenly, across the way in the blare
of his lights a white face flashed into view, and a body, lying full
across the road, with a bicycle flung to one side completing the block.
He brought his car to a quick stand and jumped out, but before he
could take one step or even stoop, someone caught him from behind, and
something big and dark and smothering was flung over his head. A heavy
blow seemed to send him whirling, whirling down into infinite space,
with a long tongue of living fire leaping up to greet him.
“Beat it, Kid, and keep yer face shut!” hissed Pat into Billy's ear, at
the same time stuffing a bill into his hand.
Billy had just sense enough left to follow the assisting kick and roll
himself out of the road, with a snatch at his machine which pulled it
down out of sight. He had a secret feeling that he was “yellow” after
all in spite of his efforts, letting a guy get taken this way without
even a chance to put up a fight. Where was that gun? He reached his hand
into his pocket and was steadied by the feeling of the cold steel. Then
he knew that the men were in the car and were about to start. They had
dumped the owner into the back seat and were going to carry him
off somewhere. What were they going to do? He must find out. He was
responsible. He hadn't meant to let anything like this happen. If
everything wasn't going to be on the square he might have to get into it
yet. He must stick around and see.
The men were having a whispered consultation over the car. They were
not used to that kind, but a car was a car. They tried to start it with
nervous glances down the road. It jerked and hissed and complained but
began to obey. The wheels were beginning to move. In a flash it would be
gone!
Billy scrambled noiselessly up the bank behind the car, his move well
covered by the noise of the engine. With a quick survey of the situation
he tucked himself hastily into the spare tire on the back, just as the
car gave a lurch and shot forward down across the tracks. He had all he
could do to maintain his position and worm himself into a firmer holding
for the first minute or two, and when he began to realize what he was
doing he found his heart beating like a young trip hammer. He slid a
groping hand into his pocket once more for reassurance. If anything
really happened he had the gun.
But his heart was heavy. Things had not gone right. He had planned to
carry this thing through as a large joke, and here he was mixed up in a
crooked deal if ever there was one. The worst of it was he wasn't out of
it yet. He wished he knew whose car this was and where they were bound
for. How about the license tag? Gripping his unstable seat he swayed
forward and tried to see it just below him. In the dim light it
looked like a New York license. It must be the guy they were after all
right,--they had telephoned about a New York man--yet--_Cart_ had a New
York license on his car! He was living in New York now,--and there must
be lots of other guys--!
A kind of sickening thud seemed to drop through his mind down to the
pit of his stomach as he tried to think it out. His eyes peered into
the night watching every familiar landmark--there was the old pine where
they always turned off to go fishing: and yes, they were turning _away_
from Economy road. Yes, they were going through Hackett's Pass. A chill
crept through his thin old sweater as the damp breath of ferns and rocks
struck against his face. His eyes shone grim and hard in the night,
suddenly grown old and stern. This was the kind of thing you read about
in novels. In spite of pricks of conscience his spirits rose. It was
great to be in it if it had to be. The consciousness of Sabbath Valley
bathed in peaceful moonlight, all asleep, of the minister and his
daughter, and Aunt Saxon, fell away; even the memory of bells that
called to righteousness--he was out in the night on a wild ride and his
soul thrilled to the measure of it. He fairly exulted as he reflected
that he might be called upon to do some great deed of valor--in fact
he felt he _must_ do a great deed of valor to retrieve his self respect
after having made that balk about the detour. How did that guy get
around the detour anyway? _Some guy!_
Hackett's Pass was far behind and the moon was going low when the car
stopped for a moment and a hurried consultation took place inside. Billy
couldn't hear all that was said, but he gathered that time was short and
the conspirators must be back at a certain place before morning. They
seemed somehow to have missed a trail that was to have cut the distance
greatly. Billy clung breathlessly to his cramped position and waited.
He hoped they wouldn't get out and try to find the way, for then some
of them might see him, and he was so stiff he was sure he would bungle
getting out of the way. But after a breathless moment the car started
on more slowly, and finally turned down a steep rough place, scarcely
a trail, into the deeper woods. For a long time they went along, slower
and slower, into the blackness of night it seemed. There was no moon,
and the men had turned off the lights. There was nothing but a pocket
flash which one of them carried, and turned on now and again to show
them the way. The engine too was muffled and went snuffing along through
the night like a blind thing that had been gagged. Billy began to wonder
if he would ever find his legs useful again. Sharp pains shot through
his joints, and he became aware of sleep dropping upon his straining
eyes like a sickening cloud. Yet he must keep awake.
He squirmed about and changed his position, staring into the darkness
and wondering if this journey was ever to end. Now they were bumping
down a bank, and slopping through water, not very deep, a small mountain
stream on one of the levels. He tried to think where it must be, but was
puzzled. They seemed to have traveled part of the way in curves. Twice
they stopped and backed up and seemed to be returning on their tracks.
They crossed and recrossed the little stream, and the driver was
cursing, and insisting on more light. At last they began climbing again
and the boy drew a breath of relief. He could tell better where he was
on the heights. He began to think of morning and Sabbath Valley bathed
in its Sabbath peace, with the bells chiming a call to worship--and _he
not there!_ Aunt Saxon would be _crazy!_ She would bawl him out! _He
should worry!_ and she would weep, pink weak tears from her old thin
eyes, that seemed to have never done much else but weep. The thought
turned and twisted in his soul like an ugly curved knife and made him
angry. Tears always made him angry. And Miss Lynn--she would watch for
him--! He had promised to be there! And she would not understand--and
there would come that grieved look in her eyes. She would think--Oh, she
would think he did not _want_ to come, and did not _mean_ to keep his
promise, and things like that--and she would have to think them! He
couldn't help it, could he? He _had_ to come along, didn't he?
In the midst of his miserable reflections the car stopped dead on a
level place and with a cold perspiration on his forehead Billy peered
around him. They must have reached the top of a ridge, for the sky was
visible with the morning star pinned against a luminous black. Against
it a blacker shape was visible, half hid in trees, a building of some
sort, solid, substantial, but deserted.
The men were getting out of the car. Billy gripped the gun and dropped
silently to the ground, sliding as stealthily into the shadows of the
trees as if he had been a snake.
Pat, stepped heavily to the ground and began to give directions in a low
growl. Billy crouched and listened.
“Let's get him shifted quick! We gotta beat it outta here! Link, it's up
to you an' Shorty to get this car over the state line before light, an'
you'll have to run me back to the Crossing first, so I can be at the
station in time for the early train. That'll be _going some!_”
“Well, I guess _anyhow not_,” said Link sullenly, “Whadda ya think we
are? Fools? Run you back to the Crossing in a pig's eye. You'll foot it
back if you get there, er come with us. We ain't gonta get caught with
this car on our hands. What we gonta do with it anyhow, when we get
crost the state line?”
“Why, you run it into the field off behind that row of alders. Sam's
got a man on the lookout. They'll have that little old car so she won't
recognize her best friend before you can count three, so you should
worry. And you'll run me back or you won't get the dough. See? _I'll_
see to that. Pat said I wasn't to run no risks fer not bein' back in
time. Now, shift that guy's feet out on my shoulder. Handle him quick.
Nope, he won't wake up fer two hours yet. I give him plenty of dope. Got
them bracelets tight on his feet? All right now. He's some hefty bird,
ain't he?”
They moved away in the direction of the building, carrying a long dark
shape between them, and Billy breathless in the bushes, watched, turning
rapid plans in his mind. Here he was in the midst of an automobile
getaway! Many the time he had gone with Mark and the Chief of Police
on a still hunt for car thieves, but this time he was of the party. His
loyal young heart boiled hot with rage, and he determined to do what he
could single-handed to stem the tide of crime. Just what he was going to
do he was undetermined. One, thing was certain, he must get the number
of that license tag. He looked toward the house.
The group had paused with their burden at the door and Pat had turned
on his pocket flash light for just an instant as they fumbled with an
ancient lock. In that instant the whole front of the old stone house was
lit up clearly, and Billy gasped. The _haunted house!_ The house on
the far mountain where a man had murdered his brother and then hanged
himself. It had stood empty and closed for years, ever since Billy could
remember, and was shunned and regarded with awe, and pointed out by
hunters as a local point of interest.
Billy regarded with contempt the superstition that hung around the
place, but he gasped when he saw where he was, for they must have come
twenty miles round about and it was at least ten across the mountains
by the short cut. Ten miles from home, and he had to foot it! If he had
only brought old trusty! No telling now whether he would ever see it
again. But what were bicycles at such a time as this!
The flash had gone out and the house was in darkness again, but he
could hear the grating of a rusty hinge as the door opened, and faint
footfalls of rubbered feet shuffled on a dusty floor. Now was his time!
He darted out to the back of the car, and stooping down with his face
close to the license, holding his old cap in one hand to shelter it
drew out his own pocket flash and turned it on the sign, registering the
number clearly on his alert young mind. The flash light was on its last
breath of battery, and blinked asthmatically, winking out into a thread
of red as the boy pressed it eagerly for one more look. He had been so
intent that he had not heard the rubbered feet till they were almost
upon him, and he had barely time to spring back into the bushes.
“Hist! What was that?” whispered Pat, and the three stopped motionless
in their tracks. Billy held his breath and touched the cold steel in his
pocket. Of course there was always the gun, but what was one gun against
three?
V
The whistle of the Cannery at Sabbath Valley blew a relief blast five
minutes ahead of midnight in deference to the church chimes, and the
night shift which had been working overtime on account of a consignment
of tomatoes that would not keep till Monday, poured joyously out into
the road and scattered to their various homes.
The outmost of these homegoers, Tom McMertrie and Jim Rafferty, who
lived at the other extreme of the village, came upon a crippled car,
coughing and crawling toward them in front of the Graveyard. Its driver,
much sobered by lack of stimulant, and frequent necessity for getting
out and pushing his car over hard bits of road, called to them noisily.
The two workmen, pleasant of mood, ready for a joke, not altogether
averse to helping if this proved to be “the right guy,” halted and
stepped into the road just to look the poor noble car over. It was the
lure of the fine machine.
“Met with an accident?” Jim remarked affably, as if it were something to
enjoy.
“Had toire thrubble?” added Tom, punching the collapsed tires.
The questions seemed to anger the driver, who demanded loftily:
“Where's your garage?”
“Garage? Oh, we haven't any garage,” said Jim pleasantly, with a mute
twinkle in his Irish eye.
“No garage? Haven't any garage! What town is this,--if you call it a
town?”
“Why, mon, this is Sawbeth Volley! Shorely ye've heard of Sawbeth
Volley!”
“No, I never heard of it!” said the stranger contemptuously, “but from
what I've seen of it so far I should say it ought to be called Hell's
Pit! Well, what do you do when you want your car fixed?”
“Well, we don't hoppen to hove a cyar,” said Tom with a meditative air,
stooping to examine the spokes of a wheel, “Boot, ef we hod mon, I'm
thenkin' we'd _fix_ it!”
Jim gave a flicker of a chuckle in his throat, but kept his outward
gravity. The stranger eyed the two malevolently, helplessly, and began
once more, holding his rage with a cold voice.
“Well, how much do you want to fix my car?” he asked, thrusting his hand
into his pocket and bringing out an affluent wallet.
The men straightened up and eyed him coldly. Jim turned indifferently
away and stepped back to the sidewalk. Tom lifted his chin and replied
kindly:
“Why, Mon, it's the _Sawbeth,_ didn't ye know? I'm s'proised at ye! It's
the Sawbeth, an' this is Sawbeth Volley! We don't wurruk on the Sawbeth
day in Sawbeth Volley. Whist! Hear thot, mon?”
He lifted his hand and from the stone belfry near-by came the solemn
tone of the chime, pealing out a full round of melody, and then tolling
solemnly twelve slow strokes. There was something almost uncanny
about it that held the stranger still, as if an unseen presence with
a convincing voice had been invoked. The young man sat under the spell
till the full complement of the ringing was finished, the workman with
his hand up holding attention, and Jim Rafferty quietly enjoying it all
from the curb stone.
When the last sweet resonance had died out, the Scotchman's hand went
slowly down, and the stranger burst forth with an oath:
“Well, can you tell me where I can go to get fixed up? I've wasted
enough time already.”
“I should say from whut I've seen of ye, mon, that yer roight in thot
statement, and if I was to advoise I'd say go right up to the parson,
His loight's still burnin' in the windo next beyant the tchurtch, so
ye'll not be disturbin' him. Not that he'd moind. He'll fix ye up ef
anybody cun; though I'm doubtin' yer in a bad wy, only wy ye tak it.
Good-night to ye, the winda wi' the leight, mon, roight next beyant the
tchurtch!”
The car began its coughing and spluttering, and slowly jerked itself
into motion, its driver going angrily on his unthankful way. The two
workmen watching him with amused expressions, waited in the shadow of a
tree till the car came to a stop again in front of the parsonage, and a
tall young fellow got out and looked toward the lighted window.
“Oh, boy! He's going in!” gasped Jim, slapping his companion silently on
the back. “Whatt'll Mr. Severn think, Tommy?”
“It'll do the fresh laddie gude,” quoth Tom, a trifle abashed but ready
to stand by his guns, “I'm thenkin' he's one of them what feels they
owns the airth, an' is bound to step on all worms of the dust whut comes
in thur wy. But Jim, mon, we better be steppin' on, fer tomorra's the
Sawbeth ya ken, an' it wuddent be gude for our souls if the parson shud
cum out to investigate.” Chuckling away into the silent street they
disappeared, while Laurence Shafton stalked angrily up the little path
and pounded loudly on the quaint knocker of the parsonage.
* * * * *
The minister was on his knees beside his desk, praying for the soul of
the wandering lad who had been dear to him for years. He had finished
his preparation for the coming day, and his heart was full of a great
longing. As he poured out his desire he forgot the hour and his need for
rest. It was often in such companionship he forgot all else. He was that
kind of a man.
But he came to his feet on the instant with the knock, and was ready
to go out on any errand of mercy that was needing him. It was not an
unusual thing for a knock to come interrupting his midnight devotions.
Sometimes the call would be to go far out on the mountain to some one
who was in distress, or dying.
The minister swung the door wide and peered into the night pleasantly
almost as if to welcome an unexpected guest. In the sudden flood of the
porch light his face was illumined, and behind him the pretty living
room gave a sweet homely setting. The stranger stood for an instant
blinking, half astonished; then the memory of his rendezvous at break of
day brought back his irritation at the delay.
“Are you Parsons?” he demanded, just as if “Parsons” were at fault that
he had not been on hand before.
“Parsons?” said Mr. Severn reflectively. “I don't recall anyone of that
name hereabouts. Perhaps you are on the wrong road. There is a Parsons
at Monopoly.”
“Parsons is the name. Aren't you Parsons? A couple of men down the road
said you were, and that you could fix me up. They said right next the
church and that your light was still burning.” The visitor's tone was
belligerent.
Severn's face cleared with a smile.
“Oh, they must have said 'Parson,' they often call me that. Come in.
What can I do for you?”
The young man eyed him coldly and made no move to enter.
“Parson or Parsons, it makes no difference does it? Mr. Parson, if
you're so particular then, come out and look at my car. It seems to be
in bad shape, and be quick about it. I've got over two hundred miles to
make before daybreak, so get a hustle on. I'll pay you well if you don't
waste any time.”
A queer look descended upon the minister in twinkles of amusement around
his eyes and lips much like the smile that Tom MacMertrie had worn, only
there was not a rag of hurt pride about it. With entire pleasantness he
said:
“Just wait a moment till I get a light.”
As he turned to go Shafton called after him:
“Oh, by the way, got anything to drink? I'm thirsty as the devil.”
Severn turned, instant hospitality in his face.
“What will you have? Water or milk? Plenty of both.”
He smiled and Shafton looked at him in haughty amazement.
“Man! I said I wanted something to _drink!_” he thundered, “but don't
stand there all night doddering. I've got to get started!”
A slight lifting of the chin, a trifle of steel in the kind eyes, a
shade of coolness in the voice, as the clear comprehension of heaven had
sifted the visitor, and the minister said, almost sternly:
“Oh, I see,” and disappeared through a swinging door into the pantry.
It was about this time that Lynn Severn awoke to near consciousness and
wondered what kind of a queer noisy guest her father had now.
The minister was gone sometime and the guest grew impatient, stamping
up and down the piazza and kicking a porch rocker out of his path. He
looked at his watch and frowned, wondering how near he was to the end of
his detour, and then he started in pursuit of his man, tramping through
the Severn house as if it were a public garage, and almost running into
the minister as he swung the door open. Severn was approaching with a
lighted lantern in one hand and a plate of brown bread and butter, with
a cup of steaming coffee in his other hand.
Laurence Shafton stopped abruptly, a curse on his lips, but something,
either the genial face of the minister, or the aroma of the coffee,
silenced him. And indeed there was something about Graham Severn that
was worth looking at. Tall and well built, with a face at once strong
and sweet, and with a certain luminousness about it that almost seemed
like transparency to let the spirit shine through, although there was
nothing frail about his well cut features.
Laurence Shafton, looking into the frank kind eyes of the minister
suddenly became aware that this man had taken a great deal of trouble
for him. He hadn't brought any liquor, probably because he did not know
enough of the world to understand what it was he wanted, or because he
was playing a joke. As he looked into those eyes and noted with his half
befuddled senses the twinkle playing at the corners he was not quite
sure but the joke was on himself. But however it was the coffee smelled
good and he took it and blundered out a brief “Thanks.”
Eating his brown bread and butter, the like of which had never entered
his pampered lips before, and taking great swoops of the hot strong
coffee he followed this strange new kind of a man out to the car in the
moonlight, paying little heed to the careful examination that ensued,
being so accustomed to ordering all his needs supplied and finding them
forthcoming without delay.
Finally the minister straightened up:
“I'm afraid you won't go many miles to-night. You've burned out your
bearings!”
“Hell!” remarked the young gentleman pausing before the last swallow of
coffee.
“Oh, you won't find it so bad as that, I imagine,” answered the steady
voice of the minister. “I can give you a bed and take care of you over
to-morrow, and perhaps Sandy McPherson can fix you up Monday, although I
doubt it. He'd have to make new bearings, or you'd have to send for some
to the factory.”
But Lawrence Shafton did not wait to hear the suggestions. He stormed
up and down the sidewalk in front of the parsonage and let forth such a
stream of choice language as had not been heard in that locality in many
a long year. The minister's voice, cool, stern, commanding, broke in
upon his ravings.
“I think that will be about all, sir!”
Laurence Shafton stopped and stared at the minister's lifted hand, not
because he was overawed, simply because never before in the whole of
his twenty-four years had any one dared lift voice to him in a tone of
command or reproof. He could not believe his ears, and his anger rose
hotly. He opened his mouth to tell this insignificant person who he was
and where to get off, and a few other common arguments of gentlemen of
his class, but the minister had a surprising height as he stood in the
moonlight, and there was that something strange and spiritual about him
that seemed to meet the intention and disarm it. His jaw dropped, and
he could not utter the words he had been about to speak. This was
insufferable--! But there was that raised hand. It seemed like some one
not of this world quite. He wasn't afraid, because it wasn't in him
to be afraid. That was his pose, not afraid of those he considered his
inferiors, and he did not consider that anyone was his superior. But
somehow this was something new in his experience. A man like this! It
was almost as if his mere being there demanded a certain homage. It was
queer. The young man passed a hand over his hot forehead and tried to
think. Then the minister's voice went calmly on. It was almost as if he
had not said that other at all. Perhaps he had not. Perhaps he dreamed
it or imagined it. Perhaps he had been taking too much liquor and this
was one of the symptoms--! Yet there still ringing in his ears--well
his soul anyway,--were those quiet words, “That will be about all, sir!”
Sternly. As if he had a _right_ to speak that way _to him_! To Laurence
Shafton, son of the great Wilson J. Shafton, of New York! He looked up
at the man again and found a sort of respect for him dawning in himself.
It was queer, but the man was--well, interesting. What was this he was
saying?
“I am sorry”--just as if he had never rebuked him at all, “I am sorry
that there seems to be no other way. If I had a car I would take you to
the nearest railway station, but there are no trains to-night, not even
twenty miles away until six in the morning. There are only four cars
owned in the village. Two are gone off on a summer trip, the third is
out of commission being repaired, and the fourth belongs to the doctor,
who happens to be away on the mountain to-night attending a dying man.
You see how it is.”
The young man opened his mouth to curse once more, and strangely enough
closed it again: Somehow cursing seemed to have lost its force.
“There is just one chance,” went on the minister thoughtfully, “that a
young man who was visiting his mother to-day may still be here. I can
call up and find out. He would take you I know.”
Almost humbly the great man's son followed the minister back to the
house and listened anxiously while he called a number on the telephone.
“Is that you Mrs. Carter? I'm sorry if I have disturbed you. What?
You hadn't gone to bed yet? Oh, waiting for Mark? Then he isn't there?
That's what I called up for. There is some one here in trouble, needing
to be taken to Monopoly. I was sure Mark would help him out if possible.
Yes, please, if he comes soon, ask him to call me. Just leave a note for
him, can't you? I wouldn't sit up. Mark will take good care of himself.
Yes, of course, that's the mother of it. Well, good-night, Mrs. Carter.”
The young man strode angrily out to the door, muttering--but no words
were distinct. He wanted to be away from the compelling calmness of
those eyes that seemed to search him through. He dashed out the screen
door, letting it slam behind him, and down the steps, intending
to _make_ his car go on at all odds until he reached another town
somewhere. It had gone so far, it could go on a little farther perhaps.
This country parson did not know about cars, how should he?
And then somewhere right on the top step he made a false step and
slipped, or was it his blindness of rage? He caught at the vines with
frantic hands, but as if they laughed at him they slipped from his
grasp. His feet clattered against the step trying for footing, but he
was too near the edge, and he went down straight into a little rocky
nook where ferns and violets were growing, and a sharp jagged rock stuck
up and bit him viciously as he slid and struggled for a firm footing
again. Then an ugly twist of his ankle, and he lay in a humiliating
heap in the shadow of the vines on the lawn, crying out and beginning to
curse with the pain that gripped him in sharp teeth, and stung through
his whole excitable inflamed being.
The minister was there almost at once, bending over him. Somehow he
felt as if he were in the power of somebody greater than he had ever met
before. It was almost like meeting God out on the road somewhere.
The minister stooped and picked him up, lightly, as if he had been a
feather, and carried him like a baby, thrown partly over his shoulder;
up the steps, and into that blasted house again. Into the bright
light that sickened him and made the pain leap up and bring a mighty
faintness.
He laid him almost tenderly upon a soft couch, and straightened the
pillows about him, seeming to know just how every bone felt, and how
every nerve quivered, and then he asked a few questions in a quiet
voice. “What happened? Was it your ankle? Here? Or _here?_ All right.
Just be patient a minute, I'll have you all fixed up. This was my job
over in France you know. No, don't move. It won't hurt long. It was
right here you said. Now, wait till I get my bottle of lotion.”
He was back in an instant with bandages, and bottle, and seemed to know
just how to get off a shoe with the least trouble.
An hour later the scion of a great New York family lay sleeping in
the minister's study, the old couch made up with cool sheets, and the
swollen ankle comfortably bandaged with cool wet cloths. Outside in the
moonlight the crippled car stood alone, and Sabbath Valley slept, while
the bells chimed out a single solemn stroke.