Mary remained twenty minutes longer, and when she was going out at the
gate she met Doctor Harrison, who had just alighted from his buggy and
was hitching his horse to a portable strap and iron weight near the
fence. He doffed his straw hat and smiled from his genial, bearded,
middle-aged face and twinkling blue eyes.
"So you've turned nurse, have you?" he jested. "Well, I'm glad you came,
for more reasons than one."
"You think it was right, then?" she answered.
"Decidedly, Miss Mary. At such a time as this we should not listen to
gossip, but simply act humanely."
"I hardly knew what to do, for some persons thought that it would look
as if I--I admitted that my brothers were--"
"I know," the doctor broke in, "but, nevertheless, I'm glad you put that
aside. If I were on a jury--" He hesitated, as if he realized that he
was on ground forbidden by due courtesy to her feelings. "Well," he
started anew, "it can't possibly do any harm, and I am sure you will
feel all the better for it."
"What are the chances for his recovery?" Mary asked, with bated breath,
as she met his mild gaze with her steady eyes.
He looked toward the cottage door, placed his whip in the holder on the
dashboard of the buggy, and then slowly swept his eyes back to her face.
"I am sorry to say--to _have_ to say--that he is not doing so well. He
seems a little weaker. However, when he gets to Atlanta--I hope I am
not betraying secrets, but I met Albert Frazier just now and he told me
that you had about concluded arrangements to supply the money. He did
not say that he was telling me in confidence, but he may have meant it
that way. People often say things to doctors, you know, that they would
not make public, and if it _is_ a private matter--"
"It is not, Doctor. I know--at least, I think I know--where I can get
the money, and I shall not care who knows that it is from me. Tell me,
please, do you think it best to send Tobe to Atlanta?"
"It is the only thing to do," was the decided answer. "You see, here in
this small place we haven't the facilities, the surgical skill, the
equipment for such a critical operation, and the truth is we all of us
here balk at it. A doctor like Elliot can afford to take the risk, you
see. If he should fail, you know there would be no criticism, while if
one of us here were to do so we'd be thought--well, almost criminally
wrong."
Mary's face was brooded over now by a shadow. She shuddered; her eyes
held a tortured look. "So you think he ought to go at once?" she said.
"The sooner the better, Miss Mary," was the prompt answer. She gave him
her hand, and he wondered over the change in her mood as he lifted his
hat.
"I'll let you know very soon, Doctor," were her parting words. "Please
don't mention it, for the present, anyway. I think I know where I can
get the money that is needed."
Mary walked on, now toward the square. Her step was slow, her eyes were
on the ground.
"Oh God! how can I? And yet I must!" she groaned. "He means to make me
take the money; that is plain. He understands what it would mean, and so
do I; but, oh, I don't want to marry him. I'd rather die--I would, I
would, I would. And yet if I died--if I died--"
She had to pass through the square to get her horse, and she dreaded the
possible encounter again with Albert Frazier. She felt relieved, on
entering the square, to notice that he was not in sight. The plate-glass
window of the bank, with its gilt-lettered sign, caught her eye. Why not
try there to borrow the money, as a last resort? Perhaps the banker
would consider lending her the money on her own name. She had heard of
loans being made to women who had no security. Yes, she would try. It
would be a last effort, but she must make it.
Entering the little building, she went to the opening in the wire
netting and asked the cashier if Mr. Lingle were in. She was answered in
the affirmative and directed to a half-closed door bearing the words,
"The President's Office."
She opened the door without knocking, and saw the back and shaggy head
of a man of sixty, without his coat, his collar and necktie loose, his
sleeves rolled up, busy writing. Hearing her, he turned, suppressed a
frown of impatience, stood up and bowed. His face was round, beardless,
and reddish in tint.
"Oh, Miss Mary, how are you?" he asked, awkwardly extending a fat,
perspiring hand. "Want to see me, eh, personally? Well, I'm at your
service, though these are busy days for us. What can I do for you?"
Her voice seemed to have deserted her. She was conscious of the fear
that no words at all would come from her, and yet immediately she heard
herself speaking in a calm, steady tone. She was smiling, too, as if she
knew that what she was saying had a touch of absurdity in it.
"I've come to bore you," she said. "I need some money, not on my
father's account now, Mr. Lingle, for I know about his debt to you, but
for myself, this time. I have no security beyond my word and promise to
pay. It is a very serious matter, Mr. Lingle. You know about Tobe
Keith's condition and that he must be sent to Atlanta. No one else will
pay for it, and--"
"So you are going to mix yourself up in that mess, are you?" asked
Lingle, frowning till his shaggy iron-gray brows met and all but
overlapped. "If you were my daughter--Oh, what's the use? I'm not your
teacher, but if you were in my charge I'd make you stay out of this. I
know, I reckon, what's the matter. You feel responsible because your
brothers were held accountable; that's like a woman. But all that is
neither here nor there. I can't let you have any money at all. I'm going
to be plain. Maybe it will open your eyes a little to the facts. My dear
girl, I hold a mortgage on all the crops in the ground at your place, on
the very tools, cattle, hogs, and horses. Your father--I hate to say
it--but your father is as helpless in business matters as a new-born
baby. He belongs to the old order. He is up to his neck in debt to every
friend he has. I can't let him have any more money, and I can't let you
have any. I wouldn't let you have it for what you want it even if you
had good collateral to pin to your note. I couldn't conscientiously do
it, for it would be throwing it away. That drunken roustabout hasn't one
chance in a thousand to live, anyway, and the country would be better
off without his brand. As for your brothers--well, you'd better keep
them in the West. Men of your father's stamp don't have quite the
influence they used to have. Our courts are being criticized for their
lax methods so much that our judges and juries are becoming more careful
in administering justice. If Tobe Keith dies--well, your brothers had
better stay away, that's all."
"So there's no use asking you to--"
"No, Miss Mary, this bank can't mix up in such matters as that. Folks
from up-to-date towns are making fun of us, too. One drummer was telling
it around in Atlanta the other day that any stranger could cash a check
here by simply inviting us to take a drink or handing us a cheap cigar.
We are making new rules and sticking to them." With that the president
of the bank turned toward his desk and reached out for a sheet of paper
on which he had been writing.
"I thank you, Mr. Lingle," she faltered. "I am sure that you know best."
He held his paper in his left hand while he gave her his right, and made
a sort of scraping movement with his foot as he executed a bow.
As she went back into the main room she was conscious of the fear that
Albert Frazier might have discovered her presence at the bank and be
waiting for her outside. Why, she asked herself, was the thought
actually so terrifying? He might propose that he should have her horse
sent out and that he be allowed to drive her home. In that case it would
all be over. She would have to give the promise he had so long sought
and she had so long withheld. A thrill of relief went through her on
finding that he was not in sight anywhere about the busy square. She
walked rapidly now toward the livery-stable, still with the fear of
pursuit on her that was like the haunting dread of a nightmare. She was
soon in the saddle and galloping homeward. At the point where the
village street gave into the main country road she checked her speed.
What, after all, was she running from? If the thing was inevitable, what
was the use in putting it off? Was not the delay injurious to the end
she was seeking? Might not even another day count fatally against Tobe
Keith's recovery? Yes, the answer was yes, and nothing else. If it had
to be done, why wait longer? She actually tried to turn the head of her
horse toward the village, but the animal had scented home and the food
to be had there, and refused, allowing the taut rein to bend his neck
but not to guide his limbs. She finally came to regard it as an omen to
be obeyed and allowed him to gallop on toward the farm.
As she neared her home the sun's rays were dying out of the landscape
and the dusk was gathering. Coming to meet her from the house she saw
Charles, and she wondered what had happened, for he never left the field
before sundown; moreover, it struck her that he was walking rapidly, as
if to reach her before she got to the house. He could not be coming to
take the saddle from her horse, for Kenneth or Martin at the stable
could do that. She summoned a smile as she greeted him at the barn-yard
gate and he reached up to catch the bridle-rein. To her surprise he
failed to return it. She had never seen a graver expression on his face
as he held up his strong arms to help her down.
"What is the matter?" she asked, now alarmed.
"Don't get frightened," he said. "After all, it may amount to nothing,
but still, I had to reach you and put you on your guard. I was afraid
you might call out or whistle to your brothers, and that wouldn't do.
After you left, they were so quiet, and remained out of sight so
persistently, that, as the time passed, I became concerned about them.
Usually, you know, they steal out and go into the woods for recreation
or join me at my work. To-day they did not appear, so I went to the barn
about two hours ago. Fortunately I did not whistle, but went directly up
to them in the loft. They explained it. It seems that Kenneth had
observed a strange man moving stealthily in and out of the woods,
sometimes watching me, sometimes the house, and sometimes the barn."
"Oh!" and Mary went white from head to foot. "It is one of the sheriff's
men. Don't you think so?"
"I don't know. Kenneth says he got a good look at him and that he is
sure he is a stranger here. To be plain, Kenneth thinks that the sheriff
has sent for a detective and that the detective may suspect the thing we
are trying to hide--that the boys are not in the West, but here at
home."
Mary said nothing. The deepening pallor of her face rendered it grim and
firm, but it was none the less beautiful in its unwonted lines. He took
off the saddle, opened the gate, and turned the horse into the lot.
"When the boys hear the horse in the stall," he said, "they will know
you are back. Will it be necessary for you to go in to them? I mean--you
see, if the fellow is still watching; in that case he might draw
deductions from your being there. While if you go on to the house now--"
"I understand, and you are right," Mary said, with tight lips. "No, I'll
go to the house. It is awful--awful--awful!"
He closed the gate and walked by her side till they reached the path
leading down to the field. Here he turned to leave her.
"Where are you going?" The tone and words carried an almost desperate
appeal to him not to leave her. In her wonderful eyes something seemed
to burn not unlike the celestial resignation of the ancient saints
before approaching torture. But, withal, she seemed to want to lean on
him for moral or physical support.
"I think I'll go back to work," he answered. "It is still not quite time
for supper. Besides, from the field I can keep a better watch on the
woods while I appear to see nothing."
"Well, well, you are right," she said, sighing, "but please don't be
late, and tell me if you see anything."
As she was nearing the house she saw her father returning home by a
small private road which led to some of the farms north of his property.
"Where have you been?" she asked, as he joined her at the front gate,
gallantly opened it, and stood aside for her to enter before him.
"I went over to see Tankersley," was his answer. "I heard he had some
money he might lend, and--well, I thought maybe I'd get it and send it
to Tobe Keith. But as soon as the old miser heard what I wanted it for
he laughed and sneered in my face. He was very impudent. His standard is
money, and nothing higher. Of course, I couldn't afford to get angry
with a man so low bred, and I came away."
"I didn't know you had thought of raising money for Tobe," Mary said,
wistfully. "In fact, I thought you would oppose my trying to get it."
"I admit I did think we ought not to go that far at first," Rowland
said, as they reached the steps of the veranda, "but after you left this
morning I was talking to Mr. Brown. He is a most remarkable man in many
ways. He is quite a philosopher and has a wonderful vocabulary when he
gets to talking. He swept everything away except the fact of Tobe's life
being at stake, and the terrible consequences his death would have on
the--the future state of mind and ultimate character of the boys. I
confess he set me thinking. He had the courage to scold me pretty
sharply, too, about--well, about my inactivity just at this time. He
said I ought to lay everything aside and think more of you and my sons.
He is right. I don't know who he is or what sort of ancestors he had,
but he is a man of moral convictions, and I respect him. He is a
gentleman at bottom. He has met reverses and taken up this mode of life
through necessity. I told him I would try to get the money from old
Tankersley, and he seemed glad when I went away for that purpose."
They were on the veranda now. Mary could think only of the strange man
who had been seen about the premises, and she was trying to make up her
mind as to whether it would be expedient to mention it to her father
when she saw him looking down the road toward the village.
"That is Albert's horse," he said. "Yes, he is headed this way. That
means that he will stay all night again. I think I could get that money
from him, but I don't want to ask for more right now. He has done as
much as I could expect already. No, I'll not ask him for it. Besides, of
all the discourtesy known, to borrow money from a guest seems to me to
be the worst. He seems worried over what you intend to do in his case,"
and Rowland was smiling pointedly. "He says you won't say one thing or
another positively. He seemed to be hinting the other day that he'd like
for me to take a hand in it, but I'll never do that. You must be your
own judge. He is away beneath you in the matter of birth, but--"
"Father," Mary suddenly broke in, "you have not let him know that the
boys are in the barn, have you?"
"No, I never let on about that," Rowland said, wearily, his eyes on the
approaching horse and buggy. "I promised you I wouldn't, and, while I
saw no reason--"
"He mustn't know; he mustn't know!" Mary broke in again. "I can't tell
you now why, but he mustn't know that. He must not put up his horse,
either, unless the boys are warned. It is getting dark and they may not
see him coming. But keep him here, chat with him, and I'll slip to the
barn by the back way and warn the boys."
"Well, I'll do that," Rowland promised, "but hurry on back. I can't
entertain him. He comes to see you, not me. He is daft about
you--actually crazy. He'd give his right arm to have you agree to--"
But Mary had vanished into the hall and with lowered head was scudding
through the shrubbery to the barn. The buggy was stopping at the gate,
and Rowland went down the walk with a stately step to meet the
incongruous suitor for the hand of his daughter.