Dolly Franklin woke soon after dawn. A moment later she stole to Ruth's
door and listened. There was no sound within, and, hoping that the
tranquil slumber still continued, the elder sister turned the
door-handle and looked in.
The window-curtains were drawn widely aside, as Ruth had arranged them
several hours before, in order to let in the moonlight; the clear
sunshine showed that the bed was tenantless, the room empty. Dolly
entered quickly, closing the door behind her. But there was no letter
bearing her name fastened to the pin-cushion or placed conspicuously on
the mantel-piece, as she had feared. The rings, watch, and purse lying
on the toilet-table next attracted her attention; she placed them in a
drawer and locked it, putting the key in her pocket. Then, with her
heart throbbing, she looked to see what clothes had been taken. "The
riding-habit and hat. She has gone to The Lodge! She has found out in
some way that he is staying there. Probably she is on Kentucky Belle."
After making sure that there were no other betrayals in Ruth's deserted
room, the elder sister returned to her own apartment and rang for her
English maid, Diana Pollikett. Diana was not yet up. As soon as
possible she came hurrying in, afraid that Miss Franklin was ill. "Call
Felicite," ordered Dolly. Then when the two returned together, the
sallow Frenchwoman muffled in a pink shawl, Dolly said: "Mrs. Chase has
gone off for an early ride. I dare say that she thought it would be
amusing to take me by surprise." And she laughed. But that there was
anger underneath her laugh was very evident. "Felicite, go down and see
if I am not right," she went on. "I think you will find that her horse
is gone."
Her acting was so perfect--the feigned mirth, with the deep annoyance
visible beneath it--that the two maids were secretly much entertained;
Mrs. Chase's escapade and her sharp-eyed sister's discomfiture were in
three minutes known to everybody in the house. "Your mademoiselle, she
tr'ry to keep _my_ young madame a _leetle_ too tight," commented
Felicite in confidence to Miss Pollikett.
Dolly, having set her story going, went through the form of eating her
breakfast. Then, as soon as she could, without seeming to be in too
great haste, she drove off in her own phaeton, playing to the end her
part of suppressed vexation.
She was on her way to The Lodge. It was a long drive, and the road was
rough; the gait of her old pony was never more than slow; but she had
not dared to take a faster horse, lest the unusual act should excite
surprise. "Oh, Prosper, _do_ go on!" she kept saying, pleadingly, to
the pony. But with all her effort it was two o'clock before she reached
Crumb's, Prosper's jog-trot being hardly faster than a walk.
As the farm-house at last came into sight, she brushed away her tears of
despair and summoned a smile. "My sister is here, or she has been here,
hasn't she?" she said, confidently, to Mrs. Crumb, who, at the sound of
the wheels, had come to the door.
"Yes, she's been yere. She's gone for a walk," Portia answered. "She
left her mare; but she wouldn't stop to eat anything, though she must
have quit town mortial early."
"Oh, she had breakfast before she started," lied Dolly, carelessly. "And
I have brought lunch with me; we are to eat it together. But I am very
late in getting here, my fat old pony is so slow! Which way has she
gone?"
"Straight down the road," replied Portia. "An' when you find her, I
reckon you'd both better be thinkin' of gettin' todes home befo' long.
For the fine weather's about broke; there's a change comin'."
"Down the road--yes," thought Dolly. "But as soon as she was out of
sight she went straight up the mountain! Oh, if I could only do it too!
It is _so_ much shorter." But as she feared her weak ankle might fail,
all she could do was to drive up by the new road, the road which
Nicholas Willoughby had built through the ravine below. She went on,
therefore; there were still three miles to cover before this new road
turned off.
It was the only well-made carriage-track in the county. First it
followed the ravine, crossing and recrossing the brook at its bottom;
then, leaving the gorge behind, it wound up the remainder of the ascent
in long zigzags like those of the Alpine passes. The breeze, which had
stirred the curtains of The Lodge when Ruth was standing in the thicket,
had now grown into a wind, and clouds were gathering. But Dolly noticed
nothing. Reaching the new road at last, she began the ascent.
When about a third of the way up, she thought she heard the sound of
wheels coming down. The zigzag next above hers was fringed with trees,
so that she could see nothing, but presently she distinguished the trot
of two horses. Was it Ruth with Walter Willoughby? Were they already
taking flight? Fiercely Dolly turned her phaeton straight across the
road to block the way. "She shall never pass me. I will drag her from
him!" The bend of the zigzag was at some distance; she waited,
motionless, listening to the wheels above as they came nearer and
nearer. Then round the curve into view swept a pair of horses and a
light carriage. The top of the carriage was down; she could see that it
held four persons; on the back seat was a portly man with gray hair, and
with him a comfortable-looking elderly lady; in front was a tall,
fair-haired girl, and by her side--Walter Willoughby.
In the first glance Dolly had recognized Walter's companions. And the
radiant face of Marion Barclay, so changed, so happy, told her all. She
drew her pony straight, and, turning out a little so as to make room,
she passed them with a bow, and even with a smile.
Walter seemed astonished to see her there. But he had time to do no more
than return her salutation, for he was driving at a sharp pace, and the
descent was steep. He looked back. But her pony was going steadily up
the zigzag, and presently turning the bend the phaeton disappeared.
"This road leads only to The Lodge; I cannot imagine why Miss Franklin
is going there now," he commented. "Or what she is doing here in any
case, so far from L'Hommedieu."
"L'Hommedieu? What is that? Oh yes, I remember; Anthony Etheridge told
me that the Franklins had a place with that name (Huguenot, isn't it?)
in the North Carolina mountains somewhere," remarked Mrs. Barclay. "What
has become, by-the-way, of the pretty sister who married your uncle's
partner, Horace Chase? She wasn't in Newport this summer. Is she
abroad?"
"No. But she is going soon," Walter answered. "My last letter from my
uncle mentioned that Chase was in New York, and that he had taken
passage for himself and his wife in the Cunarder of next Wednesday."
"Dear me! those clouds certainly look threatening," commented Mrs.
Barclay, forgetting the Chases, as a treeless space in front gave her
for a moment a wider view of the sky.
It was this change in the weather which had altered their plans.
Nicholas Willoughby's mountain perch, though an ideal spot when the sky
was blue, would be dreary enough in a long autumn storm; the Barclays
and their prospective son-in-law were therefore hastening back to the
lowlands.
Dolly reached the summit. And as the road brought her nearer to The
Lodge, she was assailed by sinister forebodings. The first enormous
relief which had filled her heart as she read the story told by the
carriage, was now darkened by dread of another sort. If Ruth too had
seen Marion, if Ruth too had comprehended all--where was she? From the
untroubled countenances of the descending party, Dolly was certain that
they, at least, had had no glimpse of Ruth; no, not even Walter. Dolly
believed that men were capable of every brutality. But Walter's
expression, when he returned her bow, had not been that of assumed
unconsciousness, or assumed anything; there was no mistaking it--he was
happy and contented; he looked as though he were enjoying the rapid
motion and his own skilful driving, but very decidedly also as though
all the rest of his attention was given to the girl by his side. "He has
not even seen her! And he cares nothing for her; it is all a mistake!
Now let me only find her and get her home, and no one shall _ever_
know!" Dolly had said to herself with inexpressible relief. But then had
followed fear: _could_ she find her?
When the chimneys of The Lodge came into sight she drove her pony into
the woods and tied him to a tree. Then she approached the house
cautiously, going through the forest and searching the carpet of fallen
leaves, trying to discover the imprint of footsteps. "If she came here
(and I _know_ she did), is there any place from which, herself
concealed, she could have had a glimpse of Marion? That thicket,
perhaps? It stretches almost to the veranda." And limping to this copse,
Dolly examined its outer edge closely, inch by inch. She found two
places where there was a track; evidently some one had entered at one of
the points, and penetrated to a certain distance; then had come out in a
straight line, backward. Dolly entered the thicket herself and followed
this track. It brought her to a spot whence she had a clear view of the
veranda. All signs of occupation were already gone; the chairs and
tables had been carried in, the windows had been closed and barred. "If
she stood here and saw them, and then if she moved backward and got
herself out," thought Dolly, "where did she go next?" When freed from
the thicket, she knelt down and looked along the surface of the ground,
her eyes on a level with it; she had seen the negroes find small
articles in that way--a button, or even a pin. After changing her place
two or three times, she thought she discerned a faint indication of
footsteps, and she followed this possible trail, keeping at some
distance from it at one side so that it should not be effaced, and every
now and then stooping to get another view of it, horizontally. For the
signs were so slight that it was difficult to see them--nothing but a
few leaves pressed down a little more than the others, here and there.
The trail led her to the edge of the plateau. And here at last was
something more definite--flattened herbage, and a small sapling bent
over the verge and broken, as though some one had borne a weight upon
it. "She let herself slip over the edge," thought Dolly. "She is down
there in the woods somewhere. Oh, how shall I find her!"
The October afternoon would be drawing to its close before long, and
this evening there would be no twilight, for black clouds were covering
the sky, and the wind was beginning to sway the boughs of the trees
above. In spite of her lameness, Dolly let herself down over the edge.
There was no time to lose; she must find her sister before dark.
The slope below was steep; she tried to check her sliding descent, but
she did not succeed in stopping herself until her clothes had been torn
and her body a good deal bruised. When at last her slide was arrested,
she began to search the ground for a second trail. But if there had been
one, the leaves obscured it; not only were they coming down in showers
from above, but the wind every now and then scooped up armfuls of those
already fallen, and whirled them round and round in eddying spirals.
Keeping the peeled sapling above her as her guide, Dolly began to
descend, going first to the right for several yards, then to the left,
and pausing at the end of each zigzag to examine the forest beyond. With
her crippled ankle her progress was slow. She lost sight, after a while,
of the sapling. But as she had what is called the sense of locality, she
was still able to keep pretty near the imaginary line which she was
trying to follow. For her theory was that Ruth had gone straight down;
that, once out of sight from that house, she had let herself go. Light
though she was on her feet, she must have ended by falling, and then, if
there was a second ledge below--"But I won't think of that!" Dolly said
to herself, desperately.
She was now so far from the house that she knew she could not be heard.
She therefore began to call "Ruth! Ruth!" But there was no reply. "I
will count, and every time I reach a hundred I will call. Oh why, just
this one day, should it grow dark so early, after weeks of the clearest
twilight?" Drops began to fall, and finally the rain came down in
torrents. She crouched beside a large tree, using its trunk as a
protection as much as she could. Her hat and jacket were soon wet
through, but she did not think of herself, she thought only of
Ruth--Ruth, who had been fading for months--Ruth, out in this storm.
"But I'll find her and take her back. And no one shall ever know,"
thought the elder sister, determinedly.
After what seemed a long time the rain grew less dense. The instant she
could see her way Dolly resumed her search. The ground was now wet, and
her skirts were soon stained as she moved haltingly back and forth,
holding on by the trees. "Ruth! Ruth?" At the end of half an hour, when
it was quite dark, she came to a hollow lined with bushes. She
hesitated, but her determination to make her search thorough over every
inch of the ground caused her to let herself down into it by sense of
feeling, holding on as well as she could by the bushes.
And there at the bottom was the body of her sister.
"O God, _don't_ let her be dead!" she cried, aloud. Drying the palm of
her hand, she unbuttoned the soaked riding-habit and felt for the heart.
At first there seemed to be no beating. Then she thought she perceived a
faint throb, but she could not be sure; perhaps it was only her intense
wish transferred to the place. Ruth's hat was gone, her hair and her
cold face were soaked. "If I could only _see_ her! Poor, poor little
girl!" said Dolly, sobbing aloud.
Presently it began to rain again with great violence; and then Dolly, in
a rage, seated herself on the soaked ground at the bottom of the hollow,
took her sister's lifeless form in her arms, and held it close. "She is
_not_ dead, for she isn't heavy; she is light. If she had been dead I
_couldn't_ have lifted her." She dried Ruth's face. She began to chafe
her temples and breast. After half an hour she thought she perceived
more warmth, and her cramped arm redoubled its effort. The rain was
coming down in sheets, but she did not mind it now, for she felt a
breath, a sigh. "Ruth, do you know me? It is Dolly; no one but Dolly."
Ruth's eyes opened, though Dolly could not see them. Then she said,
"Dolly, he loves some one else." That was all; she did not speak again.
The storm kept on, and they sat there together, motionless. Ruth's
clothes were so wet that they were like lead. At length the black cloud
from which that especial deluge had come moved away, and fitful
moonlight shone out. Now came the anxious moment: would Ruth be able to
walk?
At first it seemed as if she could not even rise, her whole body was so
stiff. She was also extremely weak; she had eaten nothing since the
night before, and the new life which had inspired her was utterly gone.
But Dolly, somehow, made herself firm as iron; standing, she lifted her
sister to her feet and held her upright until, little by little, she
regained breath enough to take one or two steps. Then slowly they
climbed from the hollow. With many pauses they went down the mountain;
from this point, fortunately, its slope was not quite so steep. How she
did it Dolly never knew, but the moment came at last when she saw a
lighted window, and made her way towards it. And the final moment also
came when she arrived at a door. Her arm was still supporting her pale
young sister, who leaned against her. Ruth had not spoken; she had moved
automatically; her senses were half torpid.
The lighted window was that of Portia Crumb. Portia had not gone to bed.
But she was not sitting up on their account; she supposed that they had
found shelter at one of several small houses that were scattered along
the river road in the direction which they had taken. She was sitting up
in order to minister to her "Dave." David Crumb's fits of drunkenness
generally lasted through two days. When he came to himself, his first
demand was for coffee, and his wife, who never could resist secretly
sympathizing a little with the relief which her surly husband was able
to obtain for a time from the grief which gnawed incessantly at her own
poor heart--his wife always remained within call to give him whatever he
needed. And, oddly enough, these vigils had become almost precious to
Portia. For occasionally at these moments David of his own accord would
talk of his lost boys--the only times he ever mentioned them or
permitted his wife to do so. And now and then he would allow her to read
her Bible to him, and even to sing a hymn perhaps, to which he would
contribute in snatches a growling repentant bass.
Portia's coffee-pot now stood on the hot coals of her kitchen fireplace;
she had been occupying the time in spinning, and in chanting softly to
herself, as the rain poured down outside:
[Illustration: musical notation:
Je -_ru_ -sa-lem, my hap-py _home_, Name ev-er de-ar tu
_me_, When _shell_ my la-ber-rs hev an end? Thy
joys when shell I see ? Thy-y joys when _shell-el_ I see?]
Then, hearing some one at the outer door, she had come to open it.
"Good Lors! Miss Dolly! Here!--lemme help you! Bring her right into the
kitchen, an' put her down on the mat clost to the fire till I get her
wet close off!"