After Billy had listened a long time he took a single step to relieve
his cramped toes, which were numb with the tensity of his strained
position. Stealthily as he could he moved his shoe, but it seemed to
grind loudly upon the cement floor of the cellar, and he stopped frozen
in tensity again to listen. After a second he heard a low growl as if
someone outside the house were speaking. Then all was still. After a
time he heard the steps again, cautiously, walking over his head, and
his spine seemed to rise right up and lift him, as he stood trembling.
He wasn't a bit superstitious, Billy wasn't. He knew there was no
such thing as a ghost, and he wasn't going to be fooled by any noises
whatsoever, but anybody would admit it was an unpleasant position to be
in, pinned in a dark unfamiliar cellar without a flash light, and steps
coming overhead, where only a dead man or a doped man was supposed to
be. He cast one swift glance back at the cobwebby window through which
he had so recently arrived, and longed to be back again, out in the open
with the bells, the good bells sounding a call in his ears. If he were
out wouldn't he run? Wouldn't he even leave his old bicycle to any fate
and _run_? But no! He couldn't! He would have to come back inevitably.
Whoever was upstairs in that house alone and in peril he must save.
Suppose--!--His heart gave a great dry sob within him and he turned
away from the dusty exit that looked so little now and so inadequate for
sudden flight.
The steps went on overhead shuffling a little louder, as they seemed
further off. They were climbing the stair he believed. They wore rubber
heels! _Link_ had worn rubber heels! And Shorty's shoes were covered
with old overshoes! Had they come back, perhaps to hide from their
pursuers? His heart sank. If that were so he must get out somehow and go
after the police, but that should be his last resort. He didn't want
to get any one else in this scrape until he knew exactly what sort of a
scrape it was. It wasn't square to anybody--not square to the doped
man, not square to himself, not even square to Pat and the other two,
and--yes, he must own it,--not square to _Cart_. That was his first
consideration, Cart! He must find Cart. But first he must find out
somehow who that man was that had been kidnapped.
It seemed an age that he waited there in the cellar and everything so
still. Once he heard a door far up open, and little shuffling noises,
and by and by he could not stand it any longer. Getting down softly on
all fours, he crept slowly, noiselessly over to the cellar stairs, and
began climbing, stopping at every step to listen. His efforts were much
hampered by the milk bottle which kept dragging down to one side
and threatening to hit against the steps. But he felt that milk was
essential to his mission. He dared not go without it. The tools were
in his other pocket. They too kept catching in his sleeve as he moved
cautiously. At last he drew himself to the top step. There was a crack
of light under the door. Suppose it should be locked? He could saw out
a panel, but that would make a noise, and he still had the feeling that
someone was in that house. A cellar was not a nice place in which to
be trapped. One bottle of milk wouldn't keep him alive very long. The
haunted house was a great way from anywhere. Even the bells couldn't
call him from there, once anybody chose to fasten him in the cellar, and
find the loose window and fasten it up--!
Such thoughts poured a torrent of hot fire through his brain while his
cold fingers gripped the door knob, and slowly, fiercely, compellingly,
made it turn in its socket till its rusty old spring whined in
complaint, and then he held his breath to listen again. It seemed an
age before he dared put any weight upon that unlatched door to see if it
would move, and then he did it so cautiously that he was not sure it was
opening till a ray of light from a high little window shot into his eyes
and blinded him. He held the knob like a vise, and it was another age
before he dared slowly release the spring and relax his hand. Then he
looked around. He found himself in a kind of narrow butler's pantry with
a swinging door opposite him into the room at the back, and a narrow
passage leading around the corner next the door. He peeked cautiously,
blinkingly round the door jamb and saw the lower step of what must be
back stairs. There were no back stairs in Aunt Saxon's house, but before
his mother died Billy Gaston had lived in the city where they always had
back stairs. That door before him likely led to the dining-room. He took
a careful step, pushed the swing door half an inch and satisfied himself
that was the kitchen at the back. No one there. Another step or two
gave him the same assurance about the dining-room and no one there. He
surveyed the distance to the foot of the back stairs. It seemed long.
What he was afraid of was that light space at the foot of those stairs.
He was almost sure there was a hall straight through to the front door,
and he had a hunch that that front door was open. If he passed the steps
and anyone was there they would see him, and yet he wanted to get up
those stairs now, right away, before anything more happened. It was too
still up there to suit him. With trembling fingers he untied his shoe
strings, and slipped off his shoes, knotting the strings together and
slinging the shoes around his neck. He was taking no chances. He gripped
the revolver with one hand and stole out cautiously. When he reached
the end of the dining-room wall he applied an eye toward the opening of
light, and behold it was as he had suspected, a hall leading straight
through to the front door, and Shorty, with his full length profile cut
clear against the morning, standing on the upper step keeping lookout!
He dodged back and caught his breath, then made a noiseless dart toward
those stairs. If Shorty heard, or if he turned and saw anything he must
have thought it was the reported ghost walking, so silently and like a
breath passed Billy up the stair. But when he was come to the top, he
held his breath again, for now he could distinctly hear steps walking
about in the room close at hand, and peering up he saw the door was
open part way. He paused again to reconnoitre and his heart set up an
intolerable pounding in his breast.
He could dimly make out the back of a chair, and further against a patch
of light where the back window must be he could see the foot board of
a bed, the head of which must be against the opposite wall The door was
open about a third of the way. There was a key in the lock. Did that
mean that they locked the man in? It would be a great thing to get hold
of that key!
A moan in the direction of the bed startled him, and prodded his weary
mind. He gave a quick silent spring across in front of the door and
flattened himself against the wall. He knew he had made a slight noise
in his going, and he felt the stillness in the room behind the half open
door. Link had heard him. It was a long time before he dared stir again.
Link seemed to lay down something on the floor that sounded like a dish
and start toward the door. Billy felt the blood fly to the top of his
head. If Link came out he was caught. Where could he fly? Not down
stairs. Shorty was there, with a gun of course. Would it do to snap that
door shut and lock Link in with the prisoner? No telling what he might
do, and Shorty would come if there was an outcry. He waited in an agony
of suspense, but Link did not come out yet. Instead he tiptoed back to
the bed again, and seemed to be arranging some things out of a basket on
a little stand by the bed. Billy applied an eye to the crack of the door
and got a brief glimpse. Then cautiously he put out his stubby fingers
and grasped that key, firmly, gently; turning, slipping, little by
little, till he had it safe in his possession. Several times he thought
Link turned and looked toward the door. Once he almost dropped the key
as he was about to set it free from the lock, but his anxious fingers
were true to their trust, and the key was at last drawn back and safely
slid into Billy's pocket. Then he looked around for a place to hide.
There were rooms on the front, and a door was open. He could slide in
there and hide. It was dark, and there might be a closet. He cast one
eye through the door crack and beheld in the dim light Link bending over
the inert figure on the bed with a cup and spoon in his hand. Perhaps
they were giving him more dope! If he only could stop it somehow! The
man was doped enough, sleeping all that time! But now was the time for
him and the key to make an exit.
Slowly, cautiously he backed away from the door, down the hall and into
the next open door, groping his silent way toward a little half moon
in the shutter. He made a quick calculation, glanced about, did some
sleight of hand with the door till it swung noiselessly shut, and then
slipping back to the window he examined the catches. There was a pane of
glass gone, but it was not in the right place. If he only could manage
to slide the sash down. He turned the catch and applied a pressure to
the upper sash, but like most upper sashes it would not budge. If he
strained harder he might be able to move it but that would make a noise
and spoil his purpose. He looked wildly round the room, with a feeling
that something must help him, and suddenly he discovered that the upper
sash of the other window was pulled all the way down, and a sweet breath
of wild grape blossoms was being wafted to his heated forehead. With a
quick move he placed himself under this window, which he realized must
be almost over Shorty's head. It was but the work of an instant to grasp
Pat's gun and stick its nose well through the little half moon of an
opening in the shutter, pointed straight over Shorty's head into the
woods, and pull the trigger.
The report went rolling, reverberating down the valley from hill to hill
like a whole barrage it seemed to Billy; and perhaps to Shorty waiting
for his pard below, but at any rate before the echoes had ceased to roll
Shorty was no longer on the door step. He had vanished and was far away,
breaking through the underbrush, stumbling, and cutting himself, getting
up to stumble again, he hurled himself away from that haunted spot.
Ghosts were nothing to Shorty. He could match himself against a spirit
any day, but ghosts that could shoot were another matter, and he made
good his going without hesitation or needless waiting for his partner in
crime. He was never quite sure where that shot came from, whether from
high heaven or down beneath the earth.
As for Link, if he was giving more dope, he did not finish. He dropped
a cup in his hurry and darted like a winged thing to the head of the
stairs, where he took the flight at a slide and disappeared into the
woods without waiting for locks or keys or any such things.
“He seems a little nervous,” grinned Billy, who had climbed to the
window seat with one eye applied to the half moon, watching his victims
take their hurried leave. And lest they should dare to watch and return
before he was ready for them he sent another shot into the blue sky,
ricochetting along the hills; and still another, grimly, after an
interval.
Then swiftly turning he stole down the front stairs and took the key
from the lock, shut the door, pushing a big bolt on the inside. With
a hasty examination of the lower floor that satisfied him that he was
safely ensconced in his stronghold and would not be open to immediate
interruption he hurried upstairs again.
His first act was to open a window and throw back the shutters. The
morning sunlight leaped in like a friend, and a bird in a tree carolled
out gladly. Something in Billy's heart burst into a tear. A tear! Bah!
He brushed it away with his grimy hand and went over to the bed, rolling
the inert figure toward him till the face was in plain view. A sudden
fit of trembling took possession of him and he dropped nervelessly
beside the bed with his hands outstretched and uttered a sob ending in a
single syllable,
_“Cart!”_
For there on the bed still as the dead lay Mark Carter, his beloved
idol, and _he had helped to put him there!_
Thirty pieces of silver! And his dearest friend dead, perhaps! A Judas!
All his life he would be a Judas. He knew now why Judas hanged himself.
If Cart was dead he would have to hang himself! Here in this house of
death he must hang himself, like Judas, poor fool. And he would fling
that blood money back. Only, _Cart must not be dead!_ It would be hell
forever for Billy if Cart was dead. He _could not stand it!_
Billy sprang to his feet with tears raining down his cheeks, but his
tired dirty face looked beautiful in its anxiety. He tore open Mark
Carter's coat and vest, wrenched away collar, necktie and shirt, and
laid his face against the breast. It was warm! He struggled closer and
put his ear to the heart. It was beating!
He shook him gently and called,
“Cart! Cart! Oh, _Boy!”_ with sobs choking in his throat. And all
the while the little bird was singing in a tree enough to split his
feathered throat, and the sweet air full of wild grape was rushing into
the long closed room and driving out the musty air.
Billy laid Mark down gently on the dusty pillow and opened another
window. He stumbled over the cup and spoon, and a bottle fell from the
table and broke sending out a pungent odor. But Billy crept close to his
friend once more and began rubbing his hands and forehead and crooning
to him as he had once done to his dog when he suffered from a broken
leg. Nobody would have known Billy just then, as he stood crooning over
Mark.
Water! He looked around. A broken pitcher stood on the table half
filled. He tasted it dubiously. It was water, luke warm, but water! He
soused a towel he found on the washstand into it and slopped it over
Mark's face. He went through all the manoeuvres they use on the football
field when a man is knocked out, and then he bethought him of the milk.
Milk was an antidote for poisons. If he could get some down him!
Carefully he rinsed out a glass he found on the bureau and poured some
milk in it, crept on the bed and lifted Mark's head in his arms, put the
glass to his lips, and begged and pled, and finally succeeded in prying
the lips and getting a few drops down. Such joy as thrilled him when
Mark finally swallowed. But it was a long time, and Billy began to think
he must go for the doctor, leave his friend here at the mercy of who
would come and go after all. He had hoped he might keep his shame, and
Mark's capture from everybody, but what was that verse the teacher had
taught them once awhile ago? “Be sure your sin will find you out.” That
was true. He couldn't let Mark die. He must go for the doctor. Doc would
come, and he would keep his mouth shut, but Doc would _know_, and Billy
liked Doc. Well, he would have to get him! Mark would hate it so, too,
but Billy would have to!
It was just then that Mark drew a long deep breath of the sweet air,
sighed and drew another. Billy pressed the glass to his lips and Mark
opened his eyes, saw the boy, smiled, and said in a weak voice:
“Hullo, Billy, old boy, got knocked out, didn't I?” Then he closed his
eyes and seemed to go away again. But Billy, with wildly beating heart
poured some more milk and came closer:
“Drink this, Cart. It's good. Drink it. We gotta get them dirty bums,
Cart! Hurry up an' drink it!”
Billy understood his friend. Mark opened his eyes and roused a little.
Presently he drank some more, nearly a whole glass full and Billy took
heart of hope.
“Do ya think ya could get up now, Cart, ef I he'ped ya?” he asked
anxiously, “We gotta get after those guys ur they'll make a getaway.”
“Sure!” said Mark rousing again. “Go to it, Kid. I'm with you,” and he
tried to sit up. But his head reeled and he fell back. Billy's heart
sank. He must get him out of this house before the two keepers returned,
perhaps with Pat or some other partner in their crime. Patiently he
began again, and gradually by degrees he propped Mark up, fed him more
milk, and urged him to rise; fairly lifted him with his loving strength,
across the room, and finally, inch by inch down the stairs and out the
back door.
Billy felt a great thrill when he heard that door shut behind him and
knew his friend was out in the open again under God's sky. Nothing ever
quite discouraged Billy when he was out of doors. But it was a work of
time to get Mark across the clearing and down in the undergrowth out
of sight of the house, where the old bicycle lay. Once there Billy felt
like holding a Thanksgiving service. But Mark was very white and lay
back on the grass looking wholly unlike himself.
“Say, Cart,” said Billy after a brief silence of thought, “I gotta get
you on my machine. We gotta get down to Unity an' phone.”
“All right, old man, just as you say,” murmured Mark too dizzy to care.
So Billy with infinite tenderness, and much straining of his young
muscles got Mark up and managed to put him astride the wheel; but it
was tough going and slow, over rough places, among undergrowth, and
sometimes Billy had to stop for breath as he walked and pushed and held
his friend.
But Mark was coming to his own again, and by the time they reached a
road he was able to keep his balance, and know what he was doing. It was
high noon before they reached Unity and betook themselves to the drug
store. While Mark asked for medicine Billy hied him to a telephone
booth. His heart was beating wildly. He feared him much that Mark's car
was gone.
But the chief's voice answered him after a little waiting, and he
explained:
“Say, I'm the kid that phoned you early this morning. Didya get that
car aw'right?” Billy held his breath, his jaded eyes dropped shut with
anxiety and weariness. But the chief's voice answered promptly, “yes,
we got yer car all right, but didn't get the men. They beat it when they
heard us coming. What sort of men were they, do you know?”
“Aw, that's aw'right, Chief, I'll tell ya when I gi'down there. Can't
tell ya over the phone. Say, I'm Billy, Billy Gaston. You know me. Over
to Sab'th Valley. Yes. You seen me play on the team. Sure. Well, say
Chief, I'm here in Unity with the guy that owns the car. Mark Carter.
You know him. Sure! Mark! Well, he's all in, an' he wants his car to get
home. He's been up all night and he ain't fit to walk. He wants me to
come over and bring his car back to Unity fer him. I got my bike here,
See? Now, I ain't got a license of course, but I c'd bring his along.
That be aw'right Chief, just over to Unity? Aw'right, Chief? Thank ya,
Chief. Yas, I'm comin' right away. S'long!”
Billy saw Mark comfortably resting on a couch in the back room of the
drug store, where an old pal of his was clerk, and then stopping only
for an invigorating gulp or two of a chocolate ice cream soda, he
climbed on his old wheel and pedalled on his happy way to Economy. The
winds touched him pleasantly as he passed, the sunshine had a queer
reddish look to his feverish eyes, and the birds seemed to be singing in
the top of his head, but he was happy. He might go to sleep on the
way and roll off his wheel, but he should worry! Mark was safe. He had
almost sold him for thirty pieces of silver, but God had somehow been
good to him and Mark was alive. Now he would serve him all the rest of
his life,--Mark or God,--it seemed all one to him now somehow, so long
had he idealized his friend, so mixed were his ideas of theology.
But Billy did not go to sleep nor fall off his wheel, and in due time
he arrived in Economy and satisfied the Chief's curiosity with vague
answers, a vivid description of Link and Shorty, and the suggestion
that they might be found somewhere near the Haunted House on Stark's
mountain. He had heard them talking about going there, he said. He got
away without a mention of the real happening at Pleasant View or a
hint that he had had anything to do with the stealing of the car. Billy
somehow was gifted that way. He could shut his mouth always just in
time, and grin and give a turn to the subject that entirely changed
the current of thought, so he kept his own counsel. Not for his own
protection would he have kept back any necessary information, but for
Mark's sake. Yes--for Mark's sake--! Mark would not want it to be known.
It was in the early evening, and the sky was still touched by the after
glow of sunset, beneath the evening star, as Mark and Billy in the
reclaimed car, finally started from Unity for home.
In both their hearts was the thought of the bells that would be ringing
now in Sabbath Valley for the evening service, and of the one who would
be playing them, and each was trying to frame some excuse that would
explain his absence to her without really explaining _anything_.
And about this time the minister came forth from the parsonage,
much vexed in spirit by the appearance of the outlandish lady in her
outlandish car. She seemed to be insisting on remaining at the parsonage
as if it were a common hostelry, and he and his wife had much perplexity
to know just what to do. And now as he issued quietly forth from a side
door he could hear her lute-like voice laughing from his front porch,
and looking back furtively he saw to his horror that the lady, as well
as the gentleman, was smoking a cigarette!
He paused and tried to think just what would be the best way to meet
this situation, and while he hesitated his senior elder, a man of narrow
vision, hard judgments, yet staunch sincerity, approached him. The
minister had grown to expect something unpleasant whenever this man
sought him out, and to-night he shrank from the ordeal; but anything was
better than to have him see the visitor upon his front steps, so Severn
turned and hurried toward him cordially:
“Good evening, Harricutt. It's been a good day, hasn't it?” he said
grasping the wiry old hand:
“Not so pleasant as you'd think, Mr. Severn,” responded the hard old
voice harshly, “I've come on very unpleasant business. Very unpleasant
indeed; but the standard of the church must be kept up, and we must
act at once in this matter! It is most serious, most serious! I've just
called a meeting of the session to be held after church, and I've sent
out for this _Mark Carter_ to be present. He must answer for himself the
things that are being said about him, or his name must be stricken from
our church roll. Do you know what they are saying about him, Brother
Severn? Do you know what he's done?”
But the arrow had entered the soul of the minister and his voice was too
unsteady to respond, so the senior elder proceeded:
“He has been keeping company with a young woman of dissolute character,
and he has been to a place of public amusement with her and been seen
drinking with her. He affects dance halls, and is known to live a
worldly life. It is time he was cast out from our midst and become
anathema. And now, it is quite possible he may be tried for murder! Have
you heard what happened last night, Mr. Severn? Did you know that Mark
Carter, a member of _our church_, tried to _kill a man_ down at the Blue
Duck Tavern, and for jealousy about a girl of loose character? And now,
Brother Severn, what are we going to do about it?”
Said the minister, answering quietly, calmly:
“Brother Harricutt, we are not going to do anything about it just now.
We are going into the church to worship God. We will wait at least until
Mark Carter comes back and see what he has to say for himself.”
And about that minute, Mark, now thoroughly restored and driving
steadily along the road, turned to Billy and said quietly with a twinkle
in his eye:
“Kid, what made you put up that Detour?”
X
The service that evening had been one of peculiar tenderness. The
minister prayed so earnestly for the graces of forgiveness, loving
kindness and tender mercy, that several in the congregation began to
wonder who had been hard on his neighbor now. It was almost uncanny
sometimes how that minister spotted out the faults and petty differences
in his flock. Many examined their own hearts fearfully during the
prayer, but at its close the face of the senior Elder was stern and
severe as ever as he lifted his hymn book and began to turn the leaves
to the place.
Then the organ mellowed forth joyously:
“Give to the winds thy fears,
Trust and be undismayed,
God hears thy prayers and counts thy tears
God shall lift up thy head.”
Elder Harricutt would much rather it had been “God the All Terrible.”
His lips were pursed for battle. He knew the minister was going to be
soft hearted again, and it would fall to his lot to uphold the spotless
righteousness of the church. That had been his attitude ever since he
became a Christian. He had always been trying to find a flaw in
Mr. Severn's theology, but much to his astonishment and perhaps
disappointment, he had never yet been able to find a point on which
they disagreed theologically, when it came right down to old fashioned
religion, but he was always expecting that the next sermon would be the
one wherein the minister had broken loose from the old dyed-in-the-wool
creeds and joined himself to the new and advanced thinkers, than whom,
in his opinion, there were no lower on the face of God's earth. And yet
in spite of it all he loved the minister, and was his strong admirer and
loyal adherent, self-appointed mentor though he felt himself to be.
Over on the other side of the church Elder Duncannon, tall, gaunt,
hairy, with kind gray eyes and a large mouth, reminding slightly of
Abraham Lincoln, sang earnestly, through steel bowed spectacles adjusted
far out on the end of his nose. Behind him Lemuel Tipton, also an elder,
sandy, with cherry lips, apple cheeks and a fringe of grizzled red
hair under his chin, sang with his head thrown back, looking like a big
robin. The minister knew he could depend on those two. He scanned his
audience. The elders were all present. Gibson. He had a narrow forehead,
near-sighted eyes, and an inclination to take the opposite side from the
minister. His lips were thin, and he pursed them often, and believed
in efficiency and discipline. He would undoubtedly go with Harricutt.
Jones, the short fat one who owned the plush mills and hated boys. He
had taken sides against Mark about the memorial window. No hope from
him! Fowler, small, thin, gray, with a retreating chin, had once lived
next to Mrs. Carter and had a difference about some hens that strayed
away to lay. Harricutt likely had him all primed. Jones, Gibson,
Harricutt--three against three. Joyce's vote would decide it. Joyce
was a new man, owner of the canneries. He was a great stickler
for proprieties, yet he seemed to feel that a minister's word was
law--Well--! _God_ was still above--!
The benediction held a tenderness that fairly compelled the waiting
congregation to attend with their hearts.
* * * * *
“Let's go over there and hear that girl play,” suggested Laurie
suddenly, “Church is out and we'll make her play the bells. They're
simply _great_. She's some _player!”_
Opal leaned back in her chair and regarded him through the fringes of
her eyelashes, laughing a silvery peal that shivered into the reverence
of the benediction like a shower of icicles going down the back. Marilyn
heard and blended the Amen into the full organ to break the shock as the
startled congregation moved restlessly, with half unclosed eyes. Elder
Harricutt heard, shut his eyes tighter, and pressed severe lips together
with resistance. This doubtless was that woman they called Cherry. That
irreverent Mark Carter must be close at hand. And on the rose-vined
porch Laurence Shafton felt the sting of the laugh and drew himself
together:
“Oh, Laurie, Laurie!” she mocked, “You might as well be dead at Saybrook
Inn or imprisoned for killing a family as fall in love with that girl.
She isn't at all your kind. How would you look singing psalms? But come
on, I'm game! I can see how she'll hate me. Can you walk?”
They sauntered slowly over to the church in the fragrant darkness, he
leaning on a cane he had found by the door. The kindly, curious people
coming out eyed them interestedly, looking toward the two cars in front
of the parsonage, and wondered. It was a neighborhood where everybody
took a kindly interest in everybody else, and the minister belonged to
them all. Nothing went on at his house that they did not just love and
dote on.
“Seems to me that girl has an awful low-necked dress for Sunday night,”
said Mrs. Little to Mrs. Jones as they walked slowly down the street,
“Did you catch the flash of those diamonds on her neck and fingers?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Jones contemptuously, “paint on her face too, thick as
pie crust. I saw her come. She drove her own car and her dresses were
up to her knees, and such stockings! With stripes like lace in them!
And little slippers with heels like knitting needles! I declare, I don't
know what this generation is coming to! I'm glad my Nancy never wanted
to go away to boarding school. They say it's terrible, the boldness of
young girls nowadays.”
“Well, if you'd ask me, _I'd_ say she wasn't so very _young!”_ declared
Mrs. Little. “The light from the church door was full in her face when I
was coming down the steps, and she looked as if she'd cut her eye teeth
sometime past.”
“She had short hair,” said Mrs. Jones, “for she pulled off her hat and
ran her fingers through it just like a boy. I was cutting bread at the
pantry window when she drove up and I couldn't help seeing her.”
“Oh, when my sister was up in New York this spring she said she
saw several old gray-haired women with bobbed hair. She said it was
something terrible to see how the world had run to foolishness.”
“Well, I don'no as it's wicked to bob your hair,” said Mrs. Jones. “I
suppose it does save some time taking care of it if you have curly hair,
and it looks good on you, but mercy! It attracts so much attention.
Well, I'm glad we don't live in New York! I declare, every time I come
to church and hear Mr. Severn preach I just want to thank God that my
lines are cast in Sabbath Valley. But speaking of going to boarding
school, it didn't hurt Marilyn Severn to go. She's just as sweet and
unspoiled as when she went away.”
“Oh, _her!_ You _couldn't_ spoil her. She's all _spirit_. She's got both
her father's and mother's souls mixed up in her and you couldn't get
a better combination. I declare I often wonder the devil lets two such
good people live. I suppose he doesn't mind as long's he can confine 'em
to a little place among the hills. But my soul! If those two visitors
didn't need a sermon to-night I never saw folks that did. Do you know,
when that man came last night in a broken down car he swore so he woke
us all up, all around the neighborhood. If it had been anybody else in
town but Mr. Severn he'd been driven out or tarred and feathered.
Well, good-night. I guess you aren't afraid to walk the rest of the way
alone.”
Back in the church Marilyn had lingered at the organ, partly because
she dreaded going back to the house while the two strangers were there,
partly because it was only at the organ that she could seem to let her
soul give voice to the cry of its longing. All day she had prayed
while going quietly about her Sabbath duties. All day she steadily
held herself to the tasks that were usually her joy and delight, though
sometimes it seemed that she could not go on with them. Billy and Mark!
Where were they? What had their absence to do with one another? Somehow
it comforted her a little to think of them _both_ away, and then again
it disquieted her. Perhaps, oh, perhaps Mark had really changed as
people said he had. Perhaps he had taken Billy to a baseball game
somewhere. In New York or many other places that would not seem an
unusual thing, she knew, not so much out of the way. Even church members
were lenient about these things in the great world. It would not be
strange if Mark had grown lax. But here in Sabbath Valley public opinion
on the keeping of the Sabbath day was so strong that it meant a great
deal. It amounted to public disgrace to disregard the ordinary rules of
Sabbath; for in Sabbath Valley working and playing were alike laid aside
for the entire twenty-four hours, the housewives prepared their dinner
the day before, an unusually good one always, with some delectable
dessert that would keep on ice, and everything as in the olden time was
prepared in the home for a real keeping of a day of rest and enjoyment
of the Lord. Even the children had special pasttimes that belonged to
that day only, and Marilyn Severn still cherished a box of wonderful
stone blocks that had been her most precious possessions as a child,
and had been used for Sabbath amusement. With these blocks she built
temples, laid out cities, went through mimic battles of the Bible until
every story lived as real as if she had been there. There were three
tiny blocks, one a quarter of a cube which she always called Saul, and
two half the size that were David and Jonathan. So vivid and so happy
were those Sunday afternoons with mother and father and the blocks.
Sabbath devoted to the pursuance of heavenly things had meant real
joy to Marilyn. The calm and quiet of it were delight. It had been the
hardest thing about her years in the world that there seemed to be so
little Sabbath there. Only by going to her own room and fencing herself
away from her friends, could she get any semblance of what had been so
dear to her, that feeling of leisure to talk and think about Christ, her
dearest friend. I grant she was an unusual girl. There is now and then
an unusual girl. We do not always hear about them. They are not always
beautiful nor gifted. It chanced that Marilyn was all three.
So she sat and played at her dear organ, played sweet and tender hymns.
Played gentle, pleading, throbbing themes that almost spoke their words
out, as she saw Elder Harricutt leading his file of elders into the
session room which was just behind the organ. She knew that in all
probability there was to be a time of trial for her father, and that
some poor soul would be mauled over and ground up in the mill of
criticism, or else some of her father's dearest plans were to be held up
for an unsympathetic discussion. She thanked God for the strong homely
face of Elder Duncannon as he stalked behind the rest with a look of
uplift on his worn countenance, and she played on softly through another
hymn, until suddenly somehow, she became aware that the two strangers on
the parsonage porch had left their rockers and were coming slowly across
the lawn. The woman's hard silvery laugh rang out and jabbed into the
tender hymn she was playing, and she stopped short in the middle of a
phrase, as if the poor thing had been killed instantly. The organ seemed
to hold its breath, and the sudden silence almost made the little church
tremble.
She sat tense, listening, her fingers spread toward the stops to push
them in and close the organ and be gone before they arrived if they
contemplated coming in, for she had no mind to talk to them just now.
Then coldly, harshly out from the cessation of great sound came Elder
Harricutt's voice:
“But Brother Severn, supposing that it turns out that Mark Carter is a
murderer! You surely would not approve of keeping his name on the church
roll then, would you? It seems to me that in order to keep the garments
of the bride of Christ clean from soil we should anticipate such a
happening and show the world that we recognize the character of this
young man, and that we do not countenance such doings as she has been
guilty of. Now, last night, it is positively stated that he and this
person they call Cherry Penning were at the Blue Duck--!”
_Crash!_ The bells!
Lynn had heard so much through the open session-room door, had turned
a quick frightened glance and caught the glimpse of two people coming
slowly in at the open door of the church peering at her, had made one
quick motion which released the bells, and dashed into the first notes
that came to her mind, the old hymn, “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me, Let
Me Hide Myself in Thee!” But instead of playing it tenderly, grandly, as
she usually did, with all the sweetness of the years in which saints and
sinners have sung it and found refuge and comfort in its noble lines,
she plunged into it with a mad rush as if a soul in mortal peril were
rushing to the Refuge before the gates should be forever closed, or
before the enemy should snatch it from the haven. The first note boomed
forth so sharply, so suddenly, that Elder Harricutt jumped visibly from
his chair, and his gossipy little details were drowned in the great tone
that struck. Behind his hand, the troubled minister smiled in spite
of his worries, to think of the brave young soul behind those bells
defending her own.
Down the aisle just under the tower Opal Verrons paused for an instant
startled, thinking of prison walls, and of the dead man lying at
Saybrook Inn that night. Suddenly the words of the telegram flashed
across her: “What disposition do you want made of the body?” The body!
The _body!_ Oh! Her eyes grew wide with horror. She ought to answer that
telegram and give them his home address. But why should she? What had
she to do with him now? Dead. He was _Dead_. He had passed to another
world. She shuddered. She looked around and shrank back toward Shafton,
but Laurie was wrapt in the vision of Saint Cecilia seated at the organ
under the single electric light that the janitor had left burning over
her head. She resembled a saint with a halo more than ever, and his
easily excited senses were off chasing this new flower of fancy.
Behind the organ pipes the session sat with the reputation of a man in
their ruthless fingers, tossing it back and forth, and deliberating upon
their own damning phrases, while the minister sat with stern white face,
and sought to hold them from taking an action that might brand a human
soul forever. Marilyn needed no more than those harsh words to know that
her friend of the years was being weighed in the balance.
Many a Sabbath afternoon in his childhood had Mark Carter spent with her
playing the stone block play of David and Jonathan, and then eaten bread
and milk and apple sauce and sponge cake with her and heard the evening
prayers and songs and said good-night with a sweet look of the Heavenly
Father's child on his handsome little face. Many a time as an older
boy had he sung hymns with her and listened to her read the Bible, and
talked it over with her afterward. He had not been like that when she
went away. Could he so have changed? And Cherry Fenner! The little girl
who had been but ten years old when she went away to college, Cherry a
precocious little daughter of a tailor in Economy, who came over to take
music lessons from her. Cherry at the Blue Duck! And with Mark! Could it
be true? It could not be true! Not in the sense that Mr. Harricutt was
trying to make out. Mark might have been there, but never to do wrong.
The Blue Duck was a dance hall where liquor was sold on the quiet,
and where unspeakable things happened every little while. Oh, it was
outrageous! Her fingers made the bells crash out her horror and disgust,
and her appeal to a higher power to right this dreadful wrong. And then
a hopeless sick feeling came over her, a whirling dizzy sensation as if
she were going to faint, although she never fainted. She longed to drop
down upon the keys and wail her heart out, but she might not. Those
awful words or more like them were going on behind the organ there, and
the door was open--or even if the door was not open they could be heard,
for the room behind the organ was only screened by a heavy curtain!
Those two strangers must not hear! At all costs they must not hear a
thing like this! They did not know Mark Carter of course, but at any
rate they must not hear! It was like having him exposed in the public
square for insult. So she played on, growing steadier, and more
controlled. If only she could know the rest! Or if only she might steal
away then, and lie down and bear it alone for a little! So this was what
had given her father such a white drawn look during his sermon! She had
seen that hard old man go across the lawn to meet him, and this was what
he was bringing her father to bear!
But the music itself and the words of the grand old hymns she was
playing gradually crept into her soul and helped her, so that when the
lame stranger made at last his slow progress up to the choir loft and
stood beside her she was able to be coolly polite and explain briefly to
him how the organ controlled the action of the bells.
He listened to her, standing in open admiration, his handsome careless
face with its unmistakable look of self indulgence was lighted up with
genuine admiration for the beautiful girl who could play so well,
and could talk equally well about her instrument, quite as if it were
nothing at all out of the ordinary run of things that she were doing.
Opal, sitting in the front pew, where she had dropped to wait till her
escort should be satisfied, watched him at first discontentedly, turning
her eyes to the girl, half wondering, half sneering, till all at once
she perceived that the girl was not hearing the hot words of admiration
poured upon her, was not impressed in the least by the man, did not even
seem to know who he was--or care. How strange. What a very strange girl!
And really a beautiful girl, too, she saw, now that her natural jealousy
was for the moment averted. How extremely amusing. Laurie Shafton
interested in a girl who didn't care a row of pins about him. What a
shouting joke! She must take it back to his friends at the shore, who
would kid him unmercifully about it. The thing had never been known in
his life before. Perhaps, too, she would amuse herself a little, just as
a pastime, by opening the eyes of this village maiden to the opportunity
she was missing? Why not? Just on the verge of his departure perhaps.
And now, with tender touch, the music grew softer and dropped into the
sorrowful melody:
“The mistakes of my life have been many,
The sins of my heart have been more,
But I come as He has bidden.
And enter the open door.
I know I am weak and sinful,
It comes to me more and more
But since the dear Saviour has bid me come in
I'll enter the open door.”
It was one of the songs they used to sing together, Mark and she,
on Sunday afternoons just as the sun was dropping behind the western
mountain, and Marilyn played it till the bells seemed to echo out a
heart's repentance, and a great forgiveness to one far, far away.
At its first note the song was recognized by Mark Carter as he drove
along through the night and it thrilled him to his sad sick soul. It was
as if she had spoken to him, had swept his heart strings with her white
fingers, had given him her sweet wistful smile, and was calling to him
through the dark. As they came in sight of the church Billy pulled
his cap a little lower and tried to keep the choke out of his throat.
Somehow the long hours without sleep or food, the toil, the anxiety, the
reaction, had suddenly culminated in a great desire to cry. Yes, _cry_
just like a baby! Why, even when he was a baby he didn't cry, and now
here was this sickening gag in his throat, this smarting in his eyelids,
this sinking feeling. He cast an eye at Cart. Why, Cart looked that way
too. Cart was feeling it also. Then he wasn't ashamed. He gulped and
smudged his dirty hand across his smarting eyes, and got a long streak
of wet on the back of his hand which he hastily dried on the side of
his sweater, and so they sat, two still dark figures travelling along
quietly through the night, for Carter had shut off the engine and let
the natural incline of the road carry them down almost in front of the
church.
When they reached the church they saw a figure standing with a lifted
hand. The janitor, ordered by Harricutt to keep a watch.
The car stopped at once.
“Mark, they're wantin' ye in there,” he said with a flirt of his thumb
over his shoulder and a furtive glance behind, “Keep yer eyes peeled,
fer old Cutter-up is bossin' the job, an' _you know him!”_
Billy sat up and took notice.
Mark got out with a grave old look upon his face, and started up the
walk. Billy made a move to follow, hesitated, drew back, held himself in
readiness and watched, all his boy instincts and prejudices keen on the
trail again.
And so to the old sad song of his mistakes and sins Mark entered the
door of the sessions room where once he and Marilyn had gone one happy
summer morning to meet the session and confess their faith in Christ.
As he had passed the window by the organ loft he gave one look up where
Lynn's face was framed in the ivy of the window under the light. He
drank in the sight hungrily. But the next instant he caught the vision
of the young stranger standing with admiring eyes, saw Marilyn turn and
look up and answer him, but could not see how far away and sad her eyes.
And with this shadow upon his heart he passed in to that waiting group
of hard critical men, with the white faced minister in their midst, and
stood to meet their challenge.