LOVE TO THE RESCUE
A clerk brought the morning mail, and as Alexander Bancroft took the
handful of letters, his eye caught the handwriting of Rutherford
Jenkins. Apprehension seized him. Had that creature found some new screw
he could turn? His hand trembled as he tore open the envelope. For a
moment he felt distinct relief when he found nothing more than a demand
for additional money. Jenkins reminded him that the first of August was
approaching, and added that he was obliged to ask for double the amount
he had previously received on the first of the month. The feeling of
thankfulness that the letter contained nothing worse passed quickly, as
he realized that he would be afraid to refuse the demand, that he would
not dare to refuse anything Jenkins might ask. The full weight of his
chains was upon him, and he swore between set teeth as he tore the
letter angrily into bits and dashed them into the waste-basket.
Impotent rebellion was still smouldering in his eyes when a knock came
at his door and Dellmey Baxter entered. The Congressman's round, smooth
face was beaming and his fat hand grasped Bancroft's with hearty
greeting. But the droop of his left eyelid was marked and his gray eyes
were cold and hard. They had a prolonged conference about the various
enterprises in which they were jointly interested, and about the
progress and prospects of Baxter's campaign in the southern part of the
Territory, where Bancroft was his chief lieutenant.
"I tell you, Aleck, you're handling it fine," said Baxter finally, with
friendly enthusiasm. "You're bringing Silverside and the whole south
right into line in great shape! I'm free to say, Aleck, that you're
doing better for me than I could do for myself. You have a remarkable
knack for handling people, and everybody has confidence in you. We've
got the party in this Territory where we want it now, and if I decide to
quit Congress after another term or two, as it's likely I shall, I'll
see to it, Aleck, that you step into my shoes if you want to." He went
on to ask what certain of his supporters and his opponents were doing,
and presently inquired:
"And your young friend Conrad--does he still think I have horns and
hoofs? He came to see me in Santa Fe recently, and apologized for having
accused me of being at the bottom of that Mexican's attack on him. From
what he said to me," the Congressman went on, regarding Bancroft
attentively, "I think it's likely the greaser will get the worst of it
if he keeps up that racket."
The banker moved uneasily, then took cigars from the box on top of his
desk. "By the way, Aleck," said Baxter carelessly between whiffs of
smoke, "you've been around this Territory considerably and mixed with
mining men a good deal." His cold eyes were watching his companion from
under their shaggy brows. "Do you remember ever running across a chap
named Delafield?"
The time had been when Bancroft could hear that name without the quiver
of a lash or the tremble of a nerve. But those days of cool self-control
and impassive seeming had gone by. For many weeks he had been on the
rack of constant apprehension, the nervous strain of conflicting
emotions concerning Conrad had been great, and recently the fear of
sudden exposure had grown into a secret, abiding terror. He started,
dropped his cigar, and his face paled.
"Delafield?" he repeated in a low voice. "I do not remember the
name--and I have a pretty good memory for names, too." The desire seized
him to know whether Baxter was speaking out of knowledge or ignorance.
"What about him?" he went on. "Is he supposed to be living here?"
"I don't know much about it," Baxter rejoined, "but I believe the people
who are trying to locate him make the guess that he is. A party asked me
about him not long ago, but I wasn't able to place the name, although it
has a familiar sound. I told him it wasn't any use looking for his man
under that name--it's too easy to pick up a new one out here for anybody
to keep an old one that's got dirty."
When the door closed upon the portly figure and cherubic smile of the
Congressman, Bancroft sat still and stared dully at the wall. "Dell
knows," was the conviction that had gone straight to his wretched heart.
"Dell knows. He knows the whole story. And now I've got to do whatever
he says." Apprehension leaped quickly forward. If Baxter knew, was the
story out? Was it already going from mouth to mouth? Second thought
brought reassurance. No; for in that case Baxter would not have so
discreetly veiled his hint. But how had he found out? Could Jenkins--no,
not likely, for Jenkins was making too good a thing out of it as a
secret. Baxter said Conrad had been to see him--then did Curtis know by
this time? His heart took quick alarm, and he had a moment of
desperation. Then he recalled the young man's repeated declaration that
he meant to lose no time in facing Delafield after learning the man's
identity. He soon decided that a little time was still left to him
before that encounter could take place and--Gonzalez was yet at the
ranch. Doubtless Conrad had talked with Baxter about the case, perhaps
told him of his own search and asked for information about the men he
suspected. Finally, knowing well the Congressman's mental habits, he
came to the conclusion that Baxter had put things together and made a
shrewd guess.
"But he knows, all right," Bancroft owned to himself in impotent anger,
"and that means another chain on me." Another obstacle had risen in his
path that would have to be overcome, one way or another, before he could
reach that longed-for security. A little before, safety had seemed so
near, and now it was further away than ever! He should have to fight for
it, that was plain--and fight he would, to the last inch, Conrad and
Jenkins and Baxter. They had pushed him to the wall, but that should not
be the end. He would not let them wreck everything if--no matter now
what he might have to do to protect himself.
He spent an anxious forenoon, unable to keep his mind off his own
troubles and impending dangers, thinking and scheming, trying to work
out effective means of defence and counter-attack. When he left the bank
for luncheon at home, it was with a lively sense of how restful and
pleasing he should find its atmosphere of love, respect, and confidence.
He bought a box of candy for Lucy and a magazine for Louise, and
hastened up the hill.
Never before had home seemed to him so delightful. Lucy was gay of
spirit, piquant, rosy of cheek and bright of eye, lovingly solicitous
for his comfort. Louise was paler than usual, with a touch of
wistfulness in her manner. Lucy explained that she had a bad headache,
and they agreed that it was probably due to the day's peculiar
atmospheric conditions. It was hot and still; a thin, gray, luminous
haze veiled the sky and made the sunshine, usually clear and white, look
palely yellow; the air was charged with electricity, whose jangling
effect upon the nerves only the soundest could withstand. Louise said
she felt it acutely. As always, she was gentle and sympathetic, and
Bancroft felt her influence at once. Her presence never failed to
soothe, tranquillize, and encourage him.
She saw the anxiety in his eyes, and at once divined a new cause for
trouble. With renewed alarm and indignation in her heart her thoughts
turned to Conrad. Had there been some new development? The fires of love
and solicitude for her friend and of hatred for his enemy were burning
brightly in her secret thoughts and shone now and then in her eyes.
Bancroft caught their glow, and his heart rose to be warmed in it. What
a sweet woman she was, how adorable! His arms ached with the longing to
enfold her and press her dearness to his breast. But no!--with such
dangers thickening about him, he must not think of it. It angered him
the more that he must thus repress the feeling which was struggling to
make itself understood, which he felt certain she would welcome. For
half an hour after luncheon they lingered on the veranda. As if drawn
irresistibly by secret cords of feeling, Bancroft and Miss Dent kept
constantly near each other; once, when she accidentally touched his
hand, his fingers closed quickly upon hers in a moment's warm grasp.
After he had gone, Louise walked restlessly up and down, her nerves
strung to the highest tension by her love and anxiety for Bancroft and
her hatred of Conrad. Her headache grew rapidly worse, and her heart was
beating like a trip-hammer. She and Lucy agreed that the electrical
condition of the atmosphere had become more trying. The sunshine, too,
was more dingily yellowish. They noticed that heavy, dark clouds, like
huge, sleeping beasts, were lying behind the summits of the Mogollon
Mountains.
"My head is throbbing so I can hardly see," said Louise finally, "and I
think I'll go to my room, pull down the shades, and lie down for a
while. No; thank you, dear, you can't do anything. Just leave me alone
for an hour or two in the quiet and the dark."
Lucy sat on the veranda with the magazine and the box of candy her
father had brought; but one lay unopened in her lap and the other
untouched on the table beside her, while her eyes wandered across the
tree-embowered streets of the town and far over the plain, where, beyond
the horizon, were the green groves of the Socorro Springs ranch.
"I've got to do it," she whispered to herself, decision in her wrinkling
brow. "There's no other way, and I must. Daddy is looking wretched--I've
never seen him look so anxious and disturbed as he does to-day. I've got
to do it, right away."
She had not seen Curtis Conrad since the barbecue. Daily had she watched
for him, hoping always to see him climbing the hill, longing greatly to
look upon his face, and feeling that she must reveal her secret and so
put an end, as she firmly believed she could, to her father's trouble.
But he came not; instead, Homer's visits increased in length and
frequency, and she, still hurt and angered by the memory of Curtis's
attentions to Mrs. Ned Castleton at the barbecue, recklessly continued
her flirtation with Homer, plunging him more and more deeply in love.
She did all this without thought of what was going on in Homer's breast,
wishing only to dull the pain in her own aching heart. Finally, when she
realized what was happening, she changed her demeanor in sudden
girl-panic, only to precipitate the young man's proposal, by which she
had been both surprised and vexed.
She was quite sure, by this time, that Curtis Conrad did not care for
her at all, and she had ceased expecting him to come to their house. Yet
she never went out upon the veranda without letting her eyes wander
wishfully down the street. They were there now, scanning the long, steep
hill. But they saw only a little, bare-legged Mexican boy toiling slowly
up the grade. No, she decided, only one thing was left for her to do:
she would have to write and ask him to come and see her. Her heart
rebelled at first, and she unconsciously tossed her head and her eyes
flashed. "But it's for daddy," she presently told herself, "and there's
no other way. I've got to do it." Of course, it would be a humiliation;
but so was the whole hateful business, and what was one little thing
more or less?
Looking toward the street again she saw that the little Mexican lad was
coming to her gate. His baggy, ragged overalls were held by a single
strap over his shoulder, and his small, brown face, under his miniature,
torn sombrero, was hot and dirty. He peered at her through the palings,
and she exclaimed, "Why, it's little Pablo Melgares!" She went down to
the gate, saying in Spanish, "Do you want anything, Pablo?"
Gravely and silently he gave her a letter he had been carrying in his
hat. Although she had seen the handwriting but once before, her heart
leaped and a delicious thrill ran through her veins as she read the
address.
"Is there an answer?" she asked, tremulously.
"_Si, senorita_," said the boy.
"Then you sit down here on the steps and eat candy until I come back,"
she said as she poured the contents of her box into the child's
sombrero.
She ran lightly up the stairs to her room and closed the door before
opening the note. It said only:
"Will you go to ride with me this afternoon up the canyon? I have
something particular I want to say. Please send me word by the boy
if I may come up at once."
She devoured it with shining eyes, and pressed it to her face, her lips,
her heart. Her woman's instinct divined what the "something particular"
must be, and she laughed softly and joyously, while the color mounted to
her brow. But presently, as she donned her riding habit, her look grew
serious and grave. For a few minutes she had forgotten what it was she
had to do.
"I must tell him," she thought, "and then that will be the end of
everything." The brown eyes filled with tears, and she choked back a
little sob. "But I've got to do it," she repeated with determination.
"He won't love me then, but poor daddy will be safe. And I wouldn't
marry him anyway, because I'm not going to marry anybody. I won't let
him say anything to me about--about anything; I'll tell him about daddy
before he has a chance. But I won't have to tell him right away--when we
are coming back, maybe." Her fingers were busy with her collar in front
of the mirror. "Dear me, I'm dreadfully tanned! But he told me once he
liked the healthy brown skins the girls all get down here. No; I shall
not let him have the least idea that I care anything about him; but--"
and the smiles and dimples were chasing each other across her face as
she started down the stairs. On her way she slipped softly into Miss
Dent's darkened room. Louise was awake, and Lucy stood beside her bed,
stroking her forehead with affectionate fingers.
"Poor Dearie! Can't I do something for you before I go out? Do you think
you can sleep? Then you won't mind my going, will you? Mr. Conrad has
come to take me to ride. We are going up the canyon. Wasn't it jolly of
him to think of it this stupid, yellow afternoon?"
"Yes; certainly, dear, I'm glad you're going, and I hope you'll have a
delightful ride. Don Homer is always so thoughtful."
Lucy was settling her hat in front of the mirror. "Oh, it isn't Don
Homer! It's his brother."
Miss Dent started up. "Curtis Conrad! You're not going with him!"
Lucy looked at her with surprise. "Why, yes, Dearie. Why not?"
"Lucy, darling! You must not go!"
Louise was sitting up now, her hands at her temples. Lucy bent over her
with an arm about her neck. "You surprise me very much, Dearie. I
thought you liked him."
"Yes; of course. But you must not go with him this afternoon. It will
not do."
The girl sat down on the bed beside her. "But I've said I would, Dearie,
and he's already here, waiting for me with the horses. And I must go,
Dearie. It would be awfully rude and horrid to try to get out of it
now."
Sudden apprehension filled Miss Dent's mind. It was not like Lucy to
hold so persistently to anything that was against her wish. Her intense
feeling against Curtis Conrad swept over her excited, tingling nerves
and filled her mind with the conviction that she must keep Lucy away
from him. Things jigged and swam before her eyes, as her thoughts
whirled dizzily through her brain. "Lucy, dear child!" she exclaimed, "I
wish you would not go. Indeed, you must not go!"
Lucy arose, clad in a new womanly dignity that sent a half-realized
dismay through the turmoil of Miss Dent's mind. Vaguely, with an aching
sense of loss, she felt that Lucy had become a woman who would
henceforth direct her life for herself. With her hands holding her
throbbing head, through which excruciating pains were darting, Louise
strove to steady her thoughts.
"I don't understand," said Lucy, gently, "why you speak in this way, or
why you wish me to be rude to Mr. Conrad. If there is any good reason
why I should not go to ride with him this afternoon, and you will tell
me what it is, so that I can judge for myself, I can beg him to excuse
me, because you are not well--and--ask him to stay to dinner instead."
New alarm seized Miss Dent. In her excitement she tried to rise, only to
drop back trembling upon the bed. For the moment her one thought was
that this man must be kept out of the house. "Lucy," she pleaded,
despair in her voice, "you do not understand. He is not our friend now.
He is your father's enemy--and is trying to kill him."
She stopped in sudden panic at having said so much, and Lucy started
back amazed.
"Oh, Dearie--you don't know, do you--and daddy--you don't know about
daddy?"
Louise looked up, her face white and drawn, astonishment veiling the
pain in her eyes.
"Lucy, Lucy! Do you know--about your father--and this man--and yet you
will go with him?"
Lucy's curly head was high as she answered deliberately: "Yes, Dearie! I
am going so that I can save daddy from any further trouble. I shall tell
Mr. Conrad who daddy is."
Miss Dent gasped and her mouth worked for a moment before she could
speak. "Oh, child, you don't know what you are doing! I beg of you,
Lucy, don't go--don't do it! If you love me, if you love your father,
don't tell him! He will kill--"
The girl drew herself up proudly. "Indeed, Dearie, you don't know Curtis
Conrad as well as I do, if you think he will do the least thing to hurt
daddy, after he knows. That's why I'm going to tell him--to save daddy.
I love him, Dearie, but I shall not let him know that I do. And I want
to hear him say, just once, that he loves me--and then I shall tell
him--who I am and who daddy is." She turned half away, then rushed back
to throw her arms around her friend's neck. "Darling Dearie, I know I am
hurting you! But won't you trust me about this, and love me just the
same? I know I am doing the best thing for daddy--and--after to-day,
I'm never going to see Curtis Conrad again!"
Louise fell back, exhausted, as Lucy kissed her forehead and ran from
the room.