Helpless, she turned in sickening doubt, to feel that her limbs were

limp in the agony of fear. She heard the thunder of the man-eating

stallion's hoofs just behind her and she butted blindly, as she sank

down, into some one who held bravely her hand as she fell, and the

next instant she heard a thundering report and smelt a foul blast of

gunpowder. She looked up in time to see the great horse pitch back on

his haunches, rear, quiver a moment and strike desperately at the air

with his front feet and fall almost upon her.

When she revived, the stable boy stood near by the dead stallion,

pale with fright and wonder. A half-grown boy stood by her, holding

her hand.

"You are all right now," he said quietly as he helped her to arise.

In his right hand he held a pistol and the foul smoke still oozed up

from the nipple where the exploded cap lay shattered, under the

hammer.

He was perfectly cool--even haughtily so. He scarcely looked at Helen

nor at Jim, who kept saying nervously:

"You've killed him--you've killed him--what will Mr. Travis say?"

The boy laughed an ironical laugh. Then he walked up and examined the

shot he had made. Squarely between the great eyes the ball had gone,

and scarcely had the glaring, frenzied eye-balls of the man-eater

been fixed in the rigid stare of death. He put his fingers on it, and

turning, said:

"A good shot, running--and at twenty paces!"

Then he stood up proudly, and his blue eyes flashed defiance as he

said:

"And what will Mr. Travis say? Well, tell him first of all that this

man-eating stallion of his caught the bullet I had intended for his

woman-eating master--this being my birth-day. And tell him, if he

asks you who I am, that last week I was James Adams, but now I am

James Travis. He will understand."

He came over to Helen gallantly--his blue eyes shining through a

smile which now lurked in them:

"This is Miss Conway, isn't it? I will see you out of this."

Then, taking her hand as if she had been his big sister, he led her

along the path to the road and to safety.

CHAPTER X

MARRIED IN GOD'S SIGHT

Night--for night and death, are they not one? A farm cabin in a

little valley beyond the mountain. An Indian Summer night in

November, but a little fire is pleasant, throwing its cheerful light

on a room rough from puncheon floor to axe-hewn rafters, but

cleanly-tidy in its very roughness. It looked sinewy, strong, honest,

good-natured. There was roughness, but it was the roughness of

strength. Knots of character told of the suffering, struggles and

privations of the sturdy trees in the forest, of seams twisted by the

tempests; rifts from the mountain rocks; fibre, steel-chilled by the

terrible, silent cold of winter stars.

And now plank and beam and rafter and roof made into a home, humble

and honest, and giving it all back again under the warm light of the

hearth-stone.

On a bed, white and beautifully clean, lay a fragile creature,

terribly white herself, save where red live coals gleamed in her

cheeks beneath the bright, blazing, fever-fire burning in her eyes

above.

She coughed and smiled and lay still, smiling.

She smiled because a little one--a tiny, sickly little girl--had come

up to the bed and patted her cheek and said: "Little mother--little

mother!"

There were four other children in the room, and they sat around in

all the solemn, awe-stricken sorrow of death, seen for the first

time.

Then a man in an invalid chair, helpless and with a broken spine,

spoke, as if thinking aloud:

"She's all the mother the little 'uns ever had, Bishop--'pears like

it's cruel for God to take her from them."

"God's cruelty is our crown," said the old man--"we'll understand it

by and by."

Then the beautiful woman who had come over the mountain arose from

the seat by the fireside, and came to the bed. She took the little

one in her arms and petted and soothed her.

The child looked at her timidly in childish astonishment. She was not

used to such a beautiful woman holding her--so proud and fine--from a

world that she knew was not her world.

"May I give you some nourishment now, Maggie?"

The girl shook her head.

"No--no--Miss Alice," and then she smiled so brightly and cheerfully

that the little one in Alice Westmore's arms clapped her hands and

laughed: "Little mother--be up, well, to-morrow."

Little Mother turned her eyes on the child quickly, smiled and nodded

approval. But there were tears--tears which the little one did not

understand.

An hour went by--the wind had ceased, and with it the rain. The

children were asleep in bed; the father in his chair.

A cold sweat had broken out on the dying girl's forehead and she

breathed with a terrible effort. And in it all the two watchers

beside the bed saw that there was an agony there but not the fear of

death. She kept trying to bite her nails nervously and saying:

"There is only-- ... one thing-- ... one ... thing...."

"Tell me, Maggie," said the old man, bending low and soothing her

forehead with his hands, "tell us what's pesterin' you--maybe it

hadn't oughter be. You mustn't worry now--God'll make everything

right--to them that loves him even to the happy death. You'll die

happy an' be happy with him forever. The little 'uns an' the father,

you know they're fixed here--in this nice home an' the farm--so don't

worry."

"That's it!.... Oh, that's it!.... I got it that way-- ... all for

them ... but it's that that hurts now...."

He bent down over her: "Tell us, child--me an' Miss Alice--tell us

what's pesterin' you. You mustn't die this way--you who've got such a

right to be happy."

The hectic spark burned to white heat in her cheek. She bit her nails,

she picked at the cover, she looked toward the bed and asked feebly:

"Are they asleep? Can I talk to you two?"

The old man nodded. Alice soothed her brow.

Then she beckoned to the old preacher, who knelt by her side, and he

put his arms around her neck and raised her on the pillow. And his

ear was close to her lips, for she could scarcely talk, and Alice

Westmore knelt and listened, too. She listened, but with a griping,

strained heartache,--listened to a dying confession from the pale

lips, and the truth for the first time came to Alice Westmore, and

kneeling, she could not rise, but bent again her head and heard the

pitiful, dying confession. As she listened to the broken, gasping

words, heard the heart-breaking secret come out of the ruins of its

wrecked home, her love, her temptation, her ignorance in wondering if

she were really married by the laws of love, and then the great

martyrdom of it all--giving her life, her all, that the others might

live--a terrible tightening gathered around Alice Westmore's heart,

her head fell with the flooding tears and she knelt sobbing, her

bloodless fingers clutching the bed of the dying girl.

"Don't cry," said Maggie. "I should be the one to weep, ... only I am so

happy ... to think ... I am loved by the noblest, best, of men, ... an'

I love him so, ... only he ain't here; ... but I wouldn't have him see

me die. Now--now ... what I want to know, Bishop, ..." she tried to

rise. She seemed to be passing away. The old man caught her and held her

in his arms.

Her eyes opened: "I--is--" she went on, in the agony of it all with the

same breath, "am ... am I married ... in God's sight ... as well as

his--"

The old man held her tenderly as if she were a child. He smiled calmly,

sweetly, into her eyes as he said:

"You believed it an' you loved only him, Maggie--poor chile!"

"Oh, yes--yes--" she smiled, "an' now--even now I love him up--right

up--as you see ... to the door, ... to the shadow, ... to the valley

of the shadow...."

"And it went for these, for these"--he said looking around at the

room.

"For them--my little ones--they had no mother, you kno'--an' Daddy's

back. Oh, I didn't mind the work, ... the mill that has killed ...

killed me, ... but, ... but was I"--her voice rose to a shrill cry of

agony--"am I married in God's sight?"

Alice quivered in the beauty of the answer which came back from the old

man's lips:

"As sure as God lives, you were--there now--sleep and rest; it is all

right, child."

Then a sweet calmness settled over her face, and with it a smile of

exquisite happiness.

She fell back on her pillow: "In God's sight ... married ... married ...

my--Oh, I have never said it before ... but now, ... can't I?"

The Bishop nodded, smiling.

"My husband, ... my husband, ... dear heart, ... Good-bye...."

She tried to reach under her pillow to draw out something, and then

she smiled and died.

When Alice Westmore dressed her for burial an hour afterwards, her

heart was shaken with a bitterness it had never known before--a

bitterness which in a man would have been a vengeance. For there was

the smile still on the dead face, carried into the presence of God.

Under the dead girl's pillow lay the picture of Richard Travis.

The next day Alice sent the picture to Richard Travis, and with it a

note.

"_It is your's_," she wrote calmly, terribly calm--"_from the girl

who died believing she was your wife. I am helping bury her to-day.

And you need not come to Westmoreland to-morrow night, nor next week,

nor ever again._"

And Richard Travis, when he read it, turned white to his hard,

bitter, cruel lips, the first time in all his life.

For he knew that now he had no more chance to recall the living than

he had to recall the dead.

CHAPTER XI

THE QUEEN IS DEAD--LONG LIVE THE QUEEN

All that week at the mill, Richard Travis had been making

preparations for his trip to Boston. Regularly twice, and often three

times a year, he had made the same journey, where his report to the

directors was received and discussed. After that, there were always

two weeks of theatres, operas, wine-suppers and dissipations of other

kinds--though never of the grossest sort--for even in sin there is

refinement, and Richard Travis was by instinct and inheritance

refined.

He was not conscious--and who of his class ever are?--of the effects

of the life he was leading--the tightening of this chain of immoral

habits, the searing of what conscience he had, the freezing of all

that was generous and good within him.

Once his nature had been as a lake in midsummer, its surface

shimmering in the sunlight, reflecting something of the beauty that

came to it. Now, cold, sordid, callous, it lay incased in winter ice

and neither could the sunlight go in nor its reflection go out. It

slept on in coarse opaqueness, covered with an impenetrable crust

which he himself did not understand.

"But," said the old Bishop more than once, "God can touch him and he

will thaw like a spring day. There is somethin' great in Richard

Travis if he can only be touched."

But vice cannot reason. Immorality cannot deduce. Only the moral

ponders deeply and knows both the premises and the conclusions,

because only the moral thinks.

Vice, like the poisonous talons of a bird of prey, while it buries

its nails in the flesh of its victim, carries also the narcotic which

soothes as it kills.

And Richard Travis had arrived at this stage. At first it had been

with him any woman, so there was a romance--and hence Maggie. But he

had tired of these, and now it was the woman beautiful as Helen, or

the woman pure and lovely as Alice Westmore.

What a tribute to purity, that impurity worships it the more as

itself sinks lower in the slime of things. It is the poignancy of the

meteorite, which, falling from a star, hisses out its life in the

mud.

The woman pure--Alice--the very thought of her sent him farther into

the mud, knowing she could not be his. She alone whom he had wanted

to wed all his life, the goal of his love's ambition, the one woman

in the world he had never doubted would one day be his wife.

Her note to him--"_Never ... never ... again_"--he kept reading it

over, stunned, and pale, with the truth of it. In his blindness it

had never occurred to him that Alice Westmore and Maggie would ever

meet. In his blindness--for Wrong, daring as a snake, which, however

alert and far-seeing it may be in the hey-day of its spring, sees

less clearly as the Summer advances, until, in the August of its

infamy, it ceases to see altogether and becomes an easy victim for

all things with hoofs.

Then, the poignant reawakening. Now he lay in the mud and above him

still shone the star.

The star--his star! And how it hurt him! It was the breaking of a

link in the chain of his life.

Twice had he written to her. But each time his notes came back

unopened. Twice had he gone to Westmoreland to see her. Mrs. Westmore

met him at the door, cordial, sympathetic, but with a nervous jerk in

the little metallic laugh. His first glance at her told him she knew

everything--and yet, knew nothing. Alice was locked in her room and

would not see him.

"But, oh, Richard," and again she laughed her little insincere,

unstable, society laugh, beginning with brave frankness in one corner

of her mouth and ending in a hypocritical wave of forgetfulness

before it had time to finish the circle, but fluttering out into a

cynical twitching of a thing which might have been a smile or a

sneer--

"True love--you know--dear Richard--you must remember the old

saying."

She pressed his hand sympathetically. The mouth said nothing, but the

hand said plainly: "Do not despair--I am working for a home at The

Gaffs."

He pitied her, for there was misery in her eyes and in her laugh and

in the very touch of her hand. Misery and insincerity, and that

terrible mental state when weakness is roped up between the two and

knows, for once in its life, that it has no strength at all.

And she pitied him, for never before on any human face had she seen

the terrible irony of agony. Agony she had often seen--but not this

irony of it--this agony that saw all its life's happiness blasted and

knew it deserved it.

Richard Travis, when he left Westmoreland, knew that he left it

forever.

"The Queen is dead--long live the Queen," he said bitterly.

And then there happened what always happens to the thing in the

mud--he sank deeper--desperately deeper.

Now--now he would have Helen Conway. He would have her and own her,

body and soul. He would take her away--as he had planned, and keep

her away. That was easy, too--too far away for the whisper of it ever

to come back. If he failed in that he would marry her. She was

beautiful--and with a little more age and education she would grace

The Gaffs. So he might marry her and set her up, a queen over their

heads.

This was his determination when he went to the mill the first of the

week. All the week he watched her, talked with her, was pleasant,

gallant and agreeable. But he soon saw that Helen was not the same.

There was not the dull wistful resignation in her look, and despair

had given way to a cheerfulness he could not understand. There was a

brightness in her eyes which made her more beautiful.

The unconscious grip which the shamelessness of it all had over him

was evidenced in what he did. He confided his plans to Jud Carpenter,

and set him to work to discover the cause.

"See what's wrong," he said significantly. "I am going to take that

girl North with me, and away from here. After that it is no affair of

yours."

"Anything wrong?" He had reached the point of his moral degradation

when right for Helen meant wrong for him.

Jud, with a characteristic shrewdness, put his finger quickly on the

spot.

Edward Conway was sober. Clay saw her daily.

"But jes' wait till I see him ag'in--down there. I'll make him drunk

enough. Then you'll see a change in the Queen--hey?"

And he laughed knowingly. With a little more bitterness she would go

to the end of the world with him.

It was that day he held her hands in the old familiar way, but when

he would kiss her at the gate she still fled, crimson, away.

The next morning Clay Westmore walked with her to the mill, and

Travis lilted his eyebrows haughtily:

"If anything of that kind happens," he said to himself, "nothing can

save me."

He watched her closely--how beautiful she looked that day--how

regally beautiful! She had come wearing the blue silk gown, with the

lace and beads which had been her mother's. In sheer delight Travis

kept slipping to the drawing-in room door to watch her work. Her

posture, beautifully Greek, before the machine, so natural that it

looked not unlike a harp in her hand; her half-bent head and graceful

neck, the flushed face and eyes, the whole picture was like a Titian,

rich in color and life.

And she saw him and looked up smiling.

It was not the smile of happiness. He did not know it because, being

blind, he could not know. It was the happiness of work--achievement.

He came in smiling. "Why are you so much happier than last week?"

"Would you really like to know?" she said, looking him frankly in the

eyes.

He touched her hair playfully. She moved her head and shook it

warningly.

"It is because I am at work and father is trying so hard to reform."

"I thought maybe it was because you had found out how much I love

you."

It was his old, stereotyped, brazen way, but she did not know it and

blushed prettily.

"You are kind, Mr. Travis, but--but that mustn't be thought of.

Please, but I wish you wouldn't talk that way."

"Why, it is true, my queen--of The Gaffs?" he said smiling.

She began to work again.

He came over to her and bent low:

"You know I am to take you Monday night"--

Her hands flew very rapidly--her cheeks mantled into a rich glow. One

of the threads snapped. She stopped, confused.

Travis glanced around. No one was near. He bent and kissed her hair:

"My queen," he whispered, "my beautiful queen."

Then he walked quickly out. He went to his office, but he still saw

the beautiful picture. It thrilled him and then there swept up over

him another picture, and he cried savagely to himself:

"I'll make her sorry. She shall bow to that fine thing yet--my

queen."

Nor would it leave him that day, and into the night he dreamed of

her, and it was the same Titian picture in a background of red

sunset. And her machine was a harp she was playing. He wakened and

smiled:

"Am I falling in love with that girl? That will spoil it all."

He watched her closely the next day, for it puzzled him to know why

she had changed so rapidly in her manner toward him. He had ridden to

Millwood to bring her to the mill, himself; and he had some exquisite

roses for her--clipped in the hot-house by his own hands. It was with

an unmistakable twitch of jealousy that he learned that Clay Westmore

had already come by and gone with her.

"I know what it is now," he said to Jud Carpenter at the mill that

morning; "she is half in love with that slow, studious fellow."

Jud laughed: "Say, excuse me, sah--but hanged if you ain't got all

the symptoms, y'self, boss?"

Travis flushed:

"Oh, when I start out to do a thing I want to do it--and I'm going to

take her with me, or die trying."

Jud laughed again: "Leave it to me--I'll fix the goggle-eyed fellow."

That night when the door bell rang at Westmoreland, Jud Carpenter was

ushered into Clay's workshop. He sat down and looked through his

shaggy eyebrows at the lint and dust and specimens of ore. Then he

spat on the floor disgustedly.

"Sorry to disturb you, but be you a surveyor also?"

The big bowed glasses looked at him quietly and nodded affirmatively.

"Wal, then," went on Jud, "I come to git you to do a job of surveying

for the mill. It's a lot of timber land on the other side of the

mountain--some twenty miles off. The Company's bought five thousand

acres of wood and they want it surveyed. What'll you charge?"

Clay thought a moment: "Going and coming, on horse-back--it will take

me a week," said Clay thoughtfully. "I shall charge a hundred

dollars."

"An' will you go right away--to-morrow mornin'?"

Clay nodded.

"Here's fifty of it," said Jud--"the Company is in a hurry. We want

the survey by this day week. Let me see, this is Sat'dy--I'll come

next Sat'dy night."

Clay's face flushed. Never before had he made a hundred dollars in a

week.

"I'll go at once."

"To-morrow at daylight?" asked Jud, rising.

Clay looked at him curiously. There was something in the tone of the

man that struck him as peculiar, but Jud went on in an easy way.

"You see we must have it quick. All our winter wood to run the mill

is there an' we can't start into cordin' till it's surveyed an' the

deed's passed. Sorry to hurry you"--

Clay promised to start at daylight and Jud left.

He looked at his watch. It was late. He would like to tell Helen

about it--he said aloud: "Making a hundred dollars a week. If I could

only keep up that--I'd--I'd--"

He blushed. And then he turned quietly and went to bed. And that was

why Helen wondered the next day and the next, and all the next week

why she did not see Clay, why he did not come, nor write, nor send

her a message. And wondering the pang of it went into her hardening

heart.

CHAPTER XII

IN THYSELF THERE IS WEAKNESS

It was the middle of Saturday afternoon, and all the week Edward

Conway had fought against the terrible thirst which was in him. Not

since Monday morning had he touched whiskey at all, and now he walked

the streets of the little town saying over and over to himself: "I am

a Conway again."

He had come to town to see Jud Carpenter about the house which had

been promised him--for he could not expect to hold Millwood much

longer. With his soberness some of his old dignity and manhood

returned, and when Carpenter saw him, the Whipper-in knew

instinctively what had happened.

He watched Edward Conway closely--the clear eye, the haughty turn of

his head, the quiet, commanding way of the man sober; and the

Whipper-in frowned as he said to himself:

"If he keeps this up I'll have it to do all over."

And yet, as he looked at him, Jud Carpenter took it all in--the

weakness that was still there, the terrible, restless thirst which

now made him nervous, irritable, and turned his soul into a very

tumult of dissatisfaction.

Carpenter, even as he talked to him, could see the fight which was

going on; and now and then, in spite of it and his determination, he

saw that the reformed drunkard was looking wistfully toward the

bar-room of Billy Buch.

And so, as Jud talked to Edward Conway about the house, he led him

along toward the bar-room. All the time he was complimenting him on

his improved health, and telling how, with help from the mill, he

would soon be on his feet again.

At the bar door he halted:

"Let us set down here an' res', Majah, sah, it's a good place on this

little porch. Have somethin'? Billy's got a mighty fine bran' of old

Tennessee whiskey in there."

Jud watched him as he spoke and saw the fire of expectancy burn in

his despairing eyes.

"No--no--Carpenter--no--I am obliged to you--but I have sworn never

to touch another drop of it. I'll just rest here with you." He threw

up his head and Jud Carpenter saw how eagerly he inhaled the odor

which came out of the door. He saw the quivering lips, the tense

straining of the throat, the wavering eyes which told how sorely he

was tempted.

It was cool, but the sweat stood in drops on Edward Conway's temple.

He gulped, but swallowed only a dry lump, which immediately sprang

back into his throat again and burned as a ball of fire.

"No--no--Carpenter," he kept saying in a dazed, abstracted

way--"no--no--not any more for me. I've promised--I've promised."

And yet even while saying it his eyes were saying: "For God's

sake--bring it to me--quick--quick."

Jud arose and went into the bar and whispered to Billy Buch. Then he

came back and sat down and talked of other things. But all the time

he was watching Edward Conway--the yearning look--turned half

pleadingly to the bar--the gulpings which swallowed nothing.

Presently Jud looked up. He heard the tinkle of glasses, and Billy

Buch stood before them with two long toddies on a silver waiter. The

ice tinkled and glittered in the deep glasses--the cherries and

pineapple gleamed amid it and the whiskey--the rich red whiskey!

"My treat--an' no charges, gentlemen! Compliments of Billy Buch."

Conway looked at the tempting glass for a moment in the terrible

agony of indecision. Then remorse, fear, shame, frenzy, seized him:

"No--no--I've sworn off, Billy--I'll swear I have. My God, but I'm a

Conway again"--and before the words were fairly out of his mouth he

had seized the glass and swallowed the contents.

It was nearly dark when Helen, quitting the mill immediately on its

closing, slipped out of a side door to escape Richard Travis and

almost ran home across the fields. Never had she been so full of her

life, her plans for the future, her hopes, her pride to think her

father would be himself again.

"For if he will," she whispered, "all else good will follow."

Just at the gate she stopped and almost fell in the agony of it all.

Her father lay on the dry grass by the roadside, unable to walk.

She knelt by his side and wept. Her heart then and there gave up--her

soul quit in the fight she was making.

With bitterness which was desperate she went to the spring and

brought water and bathed his face. Then when he was sufficiently

himself to walk, she led him, staggering, in, and up the steps.

Jud Carpenter reached the mill an hour after dark: He sought out

Richard Travis and chuckled, saying nothing.

Travis was busy with his books, and when he had finished he turned

and smiled at the man.

"Tell me what it is?"

"Oh, I fixed him, that's all."

Then he laughed:

"He was sober this morning an' was in a fair way to knock our plans

sky high--as to the gal, you kno'. Reformed this mornin', but you'll

find him good and drunk to-night."

"Oh," said Travis, knitting his brows thoughtfully.

"Did you notice how much brighter, an' sech, she's been for a day or

two?" asked Jud.

"I notice that she has shunned me all day"--said Travis--"as if I

were poison."

"She'll not shun you to-morrow," laughed Jud. "She is your's--for a

woman desperate is a woman lost--" and he chuckled again as he went

out.

CHAPTER XIII

HIMSELF AGAIN

Never had the two old servants been so happy as they were that night

after their rescue. At first they looked on it as a miracle, in which

the spirits of their young master and his body-servant, their only

son, had come back to earth to rescue them, and for a while their

prayers and exhortations took on the uncanny tone of superstition.

But after they had heard them talk in the old natural way and seen

Captain Tom walking in the living flesh, they became satisfied that

it was indeed their young master whom they had supposed to be dead.

Jack Bracken, with all the tenderness of one speaking to little

children, explained it all to them--how he had himself carried

Captain Tom off the battle-field of Franklin; how he had cared for

him since--even to the present time; how Ephraim would not desert his

young master, but had stayed with them, as cook and house boy. And

how Captain Tom had now become well again.

Jack was careful not to go too much into details--especially Ephraim

having lived for two years within a few miles of his parents and not

making himself known! The truth was, as Jack knew, Ephraim had become

infatuated with the free-booting life of Jack Bracken. He had gone

with him on many a raid, and gold came too easy that way to dig it

out of the soil, as in a cotton field.

The old people supposed all this happened far away, and in another

country, and that they had all come home as soon as they could.

With this they were happy.

"And now," added Jack, "we are going to hide with you a week or so,

until Captain Tom can lay his plans."

"Thank God--thank God!"--said Uncle Bisco, and he would feel of his

young master and say: "Jes' lak he allus wus, only his hair is a

leetle gray. An' in the same uniform he rid off in--the same gran'

clothes."

Captain Tom laughed: "No, not the same, but like them. You see, I

reported at Washington and explained it to the Secretary of War,

Jack. It seems that Mr. Lincoln had been kind enough to write a

personal letter about me to my grandfather,--they were old friends.

It was a peculiar scene--my interview with the Secretary. My

grandfather had filed this letter at the War Department before he

died, and my return to life was a matter of interest and wonder to

them. And so I am still Captain of Artillery," he smiled.

In the little cabin the old servants gave him the best room, cleanly

and sweet with an old-fashioned feather-bed and counterpane. Jack

Bracken had a cot by his bed, and on the wall was a picture of Miss

Alice.

Long into the night they talked, the young man asking them many

questions and chief of all, of Alice. They could see that he was

thinking of her, and often he would stop before the picture and look

at it and fall into a reverie.

"It seems to me but yesterday," he said, "since I left her and went

off to the war. She is not to know that I am here--not yet. You must

hide me if she runs in," he smiled. "I must see her first in my own

way."

He noticed Jack Bracken's cot by his bedside and smiled.

"You see, I have been takin' keer of you so long," said Jack after

the old servants had left them to themselves, "that I can't git out

of the habit. I thought you wus never comin' home."

"It's good we came when we did, Jack."

"You ought to have let me shoot."

The young Captain shook his head: "O Jack--Jack, I've seen murder

enough--it seems but yesterday since I was at Franklin."

"Do you know who's at the head of all this?" asked Jack. "It's

Richard Travis."

"The Bishop told me all, Jack--and about my grandfather's will. But I

shall divide it with him--it is not fair."

Jack watched the strong, tall man, as he walked to and fro in the

room, and a proud smile spread over the outlaw's face.

"What a man you are--what a man you are, Cap'n Tom!"

"It's good to be one's self again, Jack. How can I ever repay you for

what you have done for me?"

"You've paid it long ago--long ago. Where would Jack Bracken have

been if you hadn't risked yo' life to cut me down, when the rope"--

Captain Tom put his hand on Jack's shoulder affectionately: "We'll

forget all those horrible things--and that war, which was hell,

indeed. Jack--Jack--there is a new life ahead for us both," he said,

smiling happily.

"For you--yes--but not for me"--and he shook his head.

"Do you remember little Jack, Cap'n Tom--him that died? I seem to

think mo' of him now than ever--"

"It is strange, Jack--but I do distinctly; an' our home in the cave,

an' the beautiful room we had, an' the rock portico overlaid with

wild honeysuckle and Jackson vines overlooking the grand river."

"Jack, do you know we must go there this week and see it again? I

have plans to carry out before making my identity known."

An hour afterwards the old servants heard Captain Tom step out into

the yard. It was then past midnight--the most memorable night of all

their lives. Neither of the old servants could sleep, for hearing

Ephraim talk, and that lusty darkey had sadly mixed his imagination

and his facts.

The old man went out: "Don't be uneasy," said Captain Tom. "I am

going to saddle John Paul Jones and ride over the scenes of my youth.

They might see me by daylight, and the moonlight is so beautiful

to-night. I long to see The Gaffs, and Westmoreland, my grandfather's

grave," and then in a tenderer tone--"and my father's; he lies buried

in the flag I love."

He smiled sadly and went out.

John Paul Jones had been comfortably housed in the little stable

nearby. He nickered affectionately as his master came up and led him

out.

The young officer stood a few moments looking at the splendid horse,

and with the look came a flood of memories so painful that he bowed

his head in the saddle.

When he looked up Jack Bracken stood by his side: "I don't much like

this, Cap'n Tom. Not to-night, after all we've done to them. They've

got out spies now--I know them; a lot of negroes calling themselves

Union League, but secretly waylaying, burning and killing all who

differ with them in politics. They've made the Klu-Klux a necessity.

Now, I don't want you to turn me into a Klu-Klux to-night."

"Ah, they would not harm me, Jack, not me, after all I have suffered.

It has all been so hazy," he went on, as if trying to recall it all,

"so hazy until now. Now, how clear it all is! Here is the creek,

yonder the mountain, and over beyond that the village. And yonder is

Westmoreland. I remember it all--so distinctly. And after Franklin,

my God, it was so hazy, with something pressing me down as if I were

under a house which had fallen on me and pinned me to the ground. But

now, O God, I thank Thee that I am a man again!"

Jack went back into the cabin.

Captain Tom stood drinking it all in--the moonlight, on the roof of

Westmoreland, shining through the trees. Then he thought of what the

old Bishop had told him of Alice, the great pressure brought to bear

on her to marry Richard Travis, and of her devotion to the memory of

her first love.

"And for her love and her constancy, oh, God, I thank Thee most of

all," he said, looking upward at the stars.

He mounted his horse and rode slowly out into the night, a commanding

figure, for the horse and rider were one, and John Paul Jones tossed

his head as if to show his joy, tossed his head proudly and was in

for a gallop.

Captain Tom's pistols were buckled to his side, for he had had

experience enough in the early part of the night to show him the

unsettled state of affairs still existing in the country under negro

domination.

There were no lights at Westmoreland, but he knew which was Alice's

room, and in the shadow of a tree he stopped and looked long at the

window. Oh, to tear down the barriers which separated him from her! To

see her once more--she the beautiful and true--her hair--her eyes, and

to place again the kiss of a new betrothal on her lips, the memory of

which, in all his sorrows and afflictions, had never left him. And now

they told him she was more beautiful than ever. Twelve years--twelve

years out of his life--years of forgetfulness--and yet it seemed but a

few months since he had bade Alice good-bye--here--here under the

crepe-myrtle tree where he now stood. He knelt and kissed the holy sod.

A wave of triumphant happiness came over him. He arose and threw

passionate kisses toward her window. Then he mounted and rode off.

At The Gaffs he looked long and earnestly. He imagined he saw the old

Colonel, his grandfather, sitting in his accustomed place on the front

porch, his feet propped on the balcony, his favorite hound by his side.

Long he gazed, looking at every familiar place of his youth. He knew now

that every foot of it would be his. He had no bitterness in his heart.

Not he, for in the love and constancy of Alice Westmore all such things

seemed unspeakable insignificance to the glory of that.

In the old family cemetery, which lay hid among the cedars on the hill,

he stood bare-headed before the grave of his grandsire and silently the

tears fell:

"My noble old grandsire," he murmured, "if the spirits of the dead

look down on the living, tell me I have not proved unworthy. It was

his flag--my father's, and he lies by you wrapped in it. Tell me I

have not been unworthy the same, for I have suffered."

And from the silent stars, as he looked up, there fell on him a

benediction of peace.

Then he drew himself up proudly and gave each grave a military

salute, mounted and rode away.

CHAPTER XIV

THE JOY OF THE MORNING

All the week, since the scene at Maggie's deathbed, Alice Westmore

had remained at home, while strange, bitter feelings, such as she had

never felt before, surged in her heart. Her brother was away, and

this gave her more freedom to do as she wished--to remain in her

room--and her mother's presence now was not altogether the solace her

heart craved.

Of the utmost purity of thought herself, Alice Westmore had never

even permitted herself to harbor anything reflecting on the character

of those she trusted; and in the generosity of her nature, she

considered all her friends trustworthy. Thinking no evil, she knew

none; nor would she permit any idle gossip to be repeated before her.

In her case her unsuspecting nature was strengthened by her

environment, living as she was with her mother and brother only.

It is true that she had heard faint rumors of Richard Travis's life;

but the full impurity of it had never been realized by her until she

saw Maggie die. Then Richard Travis went, not only out of her life,

but out of her very thoughts. She remembered him only as she did some

evil character read of in fiction or history. Perhaps in this she was

more severe than necessary--since the pendulum of anger swings

always farthest in the first full stroke of indignation. And then the

surprise of it--the shock of it! Never had she gone through a week so

full of unhappiness, since it had come to her, years before, that Tom

Travis had been killed at Franklin.

Her mother's entreaties--tears, even--affected her now no more than

the cries of a spoiled child.

"Oh, Alice," she said one night when she had been explaining and

apologizing for Richard Travis--"you should know now, child, really,

you ought to know by now, that all men may not have been created

alike, but they are all alike."

"I do not believe it," said Alice with feeling--"I never want to

believe it--I never shall believe it."

"My darling," said the mother, laying her face against Alice's, "I

have reared you too far from the world."

But for once in her life Mrs. Westmore knew that her daughter, who

had heretofore been willing to sacrifice everything for her mother's

comfort, now halted before such a chasm as this, as stubborn and

instinctively as a wild doe in her flight before a precipice.

Twice Alice knew that Richard Travis had called; and she went to her

room and locked the door. She did not wish even to think of him; for

when she did it was not Richard Travis she saw, but Maggie dying,

with the picture of him under her pillow.

She devised many plans for herself, but go away she must, perhaps to

teach.

In the midst of her perplexity there came to her Saturday afternoon

a curiously worded note, from the old Cottontown preacher, telling

her not to forget now that he had returned and that Sunday School

lessons at Uncle Bisco's were in order. He closed with a remark

which, read between the lines, she saw was intended to warn and

prepare her for something unexpected, the greatest good news, as he

said, of her life. Then he quoted:

"_And Moses stretched forth his hand over the sea, and the sea

returned to his strength when the morning appeared._"

There was but one great good news that Alice Westmore cared for, and,

strange to say, all the week she had been thinking of it. It came

about involuntarily, as she compared men with one another.

It came as the tide comes back to the ocean, as the stars come with

the night. She tried to smother it, but it would not be smothered. At

last she resigned herself to the wretchedness of it--as one when,

despairing of throwing off a mood, gives way to it and lets it eat

its own heart out.

She could scarcely wait until night. Her heart beat at intervals, in

agitated fierceness, and flushes of red went through her cheek all

the afternoon, at the thought in her heart that at times choked her.

Then came the kindly old man himself, his face radiant with a look

she had not seen on a face for many weeks. After the week she had

been through, this itself was a comfort. She met him with feigned

calmness and a little laugh.

"You promised to tell me where you had been, Bishop, all these

weeks. It must have made you very, very happy."

"I'll tell you down at the cabin, if you'll dress yo' very pretties'.

There's friends of yo's down there you ain't seen in a long

time--that's mighty anxious to see you."

"Oh, I do indeed feel ashamed of myself for having neglected the old

servants so long; but you cannot know what has been on my mind. Yes,

I will go with you directly."

The old man looked at her admiringly when she was ready to go--at the

dainty gown of white, the splendid hair of dark auburn crowning her

head, the big wistful eyes, the refined face. Upon him had devolved

the duty of preparing Alice Westmore for what she would see in the

cabin, and never did he enter more fully into the sacredness of such

an occasion.

And now, when she was ready and stood before him in all her superb

womanhood, a basket of dainties on her arm for the old servants, he

spoke very solemnly as he handed her an ambrotype set in a large gold

breast-pin.

"You'll need this to set you off--around yo' neck."

At sight of it all the color left her cheeks.

"Why, it is mine--I gave it to--to--Tom. He took it to the war with

him. Where"--A sob leaped into her throat and stopped her.

"On my journey," said the old man quickly, "I heard somethin' of

Cap'n Tom. You must prepare yo'se'f for good news."

Her heart jumped and the blood surged back again, and she grew weak,

but the old man laughed his cheery laugh, and, pretending to clap her

playfully on the shoulder, he held her firmly with his great iron

hand, as he saw the blood go out of her cheeks, leaving them as white

as white roses:

"Down there," he added, "I'll tell you all. But God is good--God is

good."

Bewildered, pale, and with throbbing heart, she let him take her

basket and lead her down the well-beaten path. She could not speak,

for something, somehow, said to her that Captain Tom Travis was alive

and that she would see him--next week perhaps--next month or year--it

mattered not so that she would see him. And yet--and yet--O all these

years--all these years! She kept saying over the words of the old

Bishop, as one numbed, and unable to think, keeps repeating the last

thing that enters the mind. Trembling, white, her knees weak beneath

her, she followed saying:

"God is good--oh, Bishop--tell me--why--why--why--"

"Because Cap'n Tom is not dead, Miss Alice, he is alive and well."

They had reached the large oak which shadowed the little cabin. She

stopped suddenly in the agony of happiness, and the strong old man,

who had been watching her, turned and caught her with a firm grasp,

while the stars danced frantically above her. And half-unconscious

she felt another one come to his aid, one who took her in his arms

and kissed her lips and her eyes ... and carried her into the bright

fire-lighted cabin, ... carried her in strength and happiness that

made her lay her cheek against his, ... and there were tears on it,

and somehow she lay as if she were a child in his arms, ... a child

again and she was happy, ... and there were silence and sweet dreams

and the long-dead smell of the crepe-myrtle.... She did not remember

again until she sat up on the cot in the clean little cabin, and Tom

Travis, tall and in the splendor of manhood, sat holding her hands

and stroking her hair and whispering: "_Alice, my darling--it is all

well--and I have come back for you, at last!_"

And the old servants stood around smiling and happy, but so silent

and composed that she knew that they had been schooled to it, and a

big man, who seemed to watch Captain Tom as a big dog would his

master, kept blowing his nose and walking around the room. And by the

fire sat the old Cottontown preacher, his back turned to them and

saying just loud enough to be heard: "_The Lord is my shepherd, I

shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, ... he

restoreth my soul-- ... my cup runneth over...._"

And then sillily, as Alice thought, she threw her arms around the

neck of the man she loved and burst into the tears which brought the

sweetness of assurance, the calmness of a reality that meant

happiness.

And for an hour she sobbed, her arms there, and he holding her tight

to his breast and talking in the old way, natural and soothing and

reassuring and taking from her heart all fear and the shock of it,

until at last it all seemed natural and not a dream, ... and the

sweetness of it all was like the light which cometh with the joy of

the morning.

CHAPTER XV

THE TOUCH OF GOD

The news of Captain Tom's return spread quickly. By noon it was known

throughout the Tennessee Valley.

The sensational features of it required prompt action on his and

Alice's part, and their decision was quickly made: they would be

married that Sunday afternoon in the little church on the mountain

side and by the old man who had done so much to make their happiness

possible.

For once in its history the little church could not hold the people

who came to witness this romantic marriage, and far down the mountain

side they stood to see the bride and groom pass by. Many remembered

the groom, all had heard of him,--his devotion to his country's flag;

to the memory of his father; his gallantry, his heroism, his

martyrdom, dying (as they supposed) rather than turn his guns on his

brave old grandsire. And now to come back to life again--to win the

woman he loved and who had loved him all these years! Besides, there

was no one in the Tennessee Valley considered more beautiful than the

bride, and they loved her as if she had been an angel of light.

And never had she appeared more lovely.

A stillness swept over the crowd when the carriage drove up to the

little church, and when the tall, handsome man in the uniform of a

captain of artillery lifted Alice out with the tenderness of all

lovers in his touch and the strength of a strong lover, with a lily

in his hand, the crowd, knowing his history, could not refrain from

cheering. He lifted his cap and threw back his iron-gray hair,

showing a head proud and tender and on his face such a smile as

lovers only wear. Then he led her in,--pale and tearful.

The little church had been prettily decorated that Sabbath morning,

and when the old preacher came forward and called them to him, he

said the simple words which made them man and wife, and as he blessed

them, praying, a mocking-bird, perched on a limb near the window,

sang a soft low melody as if one singer wished to compliment another.

They went out hand in hand, and when they reached the door, the sun

which had been hid burst out as a benediction upon them.

Among the guests one man had stepped in unnoticed and unseen. Why he

came he could not tell, for never before did he have any desire to go

to the little church.

It was midnight when the news came to him that Tom Travis had

returned as from the dead. It was Jud Carpenter who had awakened him

that Saturday night to whisper at the bedside the startling news.

But Travis only yawned from his sleep and said: "I've been expecting

it all the time--go somewhere and go to bed."

After Carpenter had gone, he arose, stricken with a feeling he could

not describe, but had often seen in race horses running desperately

until within fifty yards of the wire, and then suddenly--quitting. He

had almost reached his goal--but now one week had done all this.

Alice--gone, and The Gaffs--he must divide that with his cousin--for

his grandfather had left no will.

Divide The Gaffs with Tom Travis?--He would as soon think of dividing

Alice's love with him. In the soul of Richard Travis there was no

such word as division.

In the selfishness of his life, it had ever been all or nothing.

All night he thought, he walked the halls of the old house, he ran

over a hundred solutions of it in his mind. And still there was no

solution that satisfied him, that seemed natural. It seemed that his

mind, which had heretofore worked so unerringly, deducing things so

naturally, now balked before an abyss that was bridgeless. Heretofore

he had looked into the future with the bold, true sweep of an eagle

peering from its mountain home above the clouds into the far

distance, his eyes unclouded by the mist, which cut off the vision of

mortals below. But now he was the blindest of the blind. He seemed to

stop as before a wall--a chasm which ended everything--a chasm, on

the opposite wall of which was printed: Thus far and no farther.

Think as he would, he could not think beyond it. His life seemed to

stop there. After it, he was nothing.

Our minds, our souls--are like the sun, which shines very plainly as

it moves across the sky of our life of things--showing them in all

distinctness and clearness; so that we see things as they happen to

us with our eyes of daylight. But as the sun throws its dim twilight

shadows even beyond our earth, so do the souls of men of great mind

and imagination see, faintly, beyond their own lives, and into the

shadow of things.

To-night that mysterious sight came to Richard Travis, as it comes in

the great crises of life and death, to every strong man, and he saw

dimly, ghostily, into the shadow; and the shadow stopped at the

terrible abyss which now barred his ken; and he felt, with the keen

insight of the dying eagle on the peak, that the thing was death.

In the first streak of light, he was rudely awakened to it. For there

on the rug, as naturally as if asleep, lay the only thing he now

loved in the world, the old setter, whose life had passed out in

slumber.

All animals have the dying instinct. Man, the highest, has it the

clearest. And Travis remembered that the old dog had come to his bed,

in the middle of the night, and laid his large beautiful head on his

master's breast, and in the dim light of the smouldering fire had

said good-bye to Richard Travis as plainly as ever human being said

it. And now on the rug, before the dead gray ashes of the night, he

had found the old dog forever asleep, naturally and in great peace.

His heart sank as he thought of the farewell of the night before, and

bitterness came, and sitting down on the rug by the side of the dead

dog he stroked for the last time the grand old silken head, so calm

and poised, for the little world it had been bred for, and ran his

palm over the long strong nose that had never lied to the scent of

the covey. His lips tightened and he said: "O God, I am dying myself,

and there is not a living being whom I can crawl up to, and lay my

head on its breast and know it loves and pities me, as I love you,

old friend."

The thought gripped his throat, and as he thought of the sweetness

and nobility of this dumb thing, his gentleness, faithfulness and

devotion, the sureness of his life in filling the mission he came

for, he wept tears so strange to his cheek that they scalded as they

flowed, and he bowed his head and said: "Gladstone, Gladstone,

good-bye--true to your breeding, you were what your master never

was--a gentleman."

And the old housekeeper found this strong man, who had never wept in

his life, crying over the old dead setter on the rug.

And the same feeling, the second sight--the presentiment--the

terrible balking of his mind that had always seen so clearly, ever

into the future, held him as in a vise all the morning and moved him

in a strange mysterious way to go to the church and see the woman he

had loved all his life, the being whose very look uplifted him, and

whose smile could make him a hero or a martyr, married to the man who

came home to take her, and half of his all.

Numbed, hardened, speechless, and yet with that terrible presentiment

of the abyss before him, he had stood and seen Alice Westmore made

the wife of another.

He remembered first how quickly he had caught the text of the old

man; indeed, it seemed to him now that everything he heard struck

into him like a brand of fire--for never had life appeared to him as

it did to-day.

"_For the hand of God hath touched me--_" he kept repeating over and

over--repeating and then cursing himself for repeating it--for

remembering it.

And still it stayed there all day--the unbidden ghost-guest of his

soul.

And everything the old preacher said went searing into his quivering

soul, and all the time he kept looking--looking at the woman he loved

and seeing her giving her love, her life, with a happy smile, to

another. And all the time he stood wondering why he came to see it,

why he felt as he did, why things hurt him that way, why he acted so

weakly, why his conscience had awakened at last, why life hurt him

so--life that he had played with as an edged tool--why he could not

get away from himself and his memory, but ran always into it, and why

at last with a shudder, why did nothing seem to be beyond the wall?

He saw her go off, the wife of another. He saw their

happiness--unconscious even that he lived, and he cursed himself and

kept saying: "_The hand of God hath touched me._"

Then he laughed at himself for being silly.

He rode home, but it was not home. Nothing was itself--not even he.

In the watches of one night his life had been changed and the light

had gone out.

When night came it was worse. He mounted his horse and rode--where?

And he could no more help it than he could cease to breathe.

He did not guide the saddle mare, she went herself through wood

sombre and dark with shadows, through cedar trees, dwarfed, and

making pungent the night air with aromatic breath; through old sedge

fields, garish in the faint light; up, up the mountain, over it; and

at last the mare stopped and stood silently by a newly made grave,

while Richard Travis, with strained hard mouth and wet eyes, knelt

and, knowing that no hand in the world cared to feel his repentant

face in it, he buried it in the new made sod as he cried:

"Maggie--Maggie--forgive me, for the hand of God hath touched me!"

And it soothed him, for he knew that if she were alive he might have

lain his head there--on her breast.

CHAPTER XVI

MAMMY MARIA

That Monday was a memorable day for Helen Conway. She went to the

mill with less bitterness than ever before--the sting of it all was

gone--for she felt that she was helpless to the fate that was

hers--that she was powerless in the hands of Richard Travis:

"_I will come for you Monday night. I will take you away from here.

You shall belong to me forever--My Queen!_"

These words had rung in her ears all Saturday night, when, after

coming home, she had found her father fallen by the wayside.

In the night she had lain awake and wondered. She did not know where

she was going--she did not care. She did not even blush at the

thought of it. She was hardened, steeled. She knew not whether it

meant wife or mistress. She knew only that, as she supposed, God had

placed upon her more than she could bear.

"If my life is wrecked," she said as she lay awake that Sunday

night--"God himself will do it. Who took my mother before I knew her

influence? Who made me as I am and gave me poverty with this fatal

beauty--poverty and a drunken father and this terrible temptation?"

"Oh, if I only had her, Mammy--negro that she is."

Lily was asleep with one arm around her sister's neck.

"What will become of Lily, in the mill, too?" She bent and kissed

her, and she saw that the little one, though asleep, had tears in her

own eyes.

Young as she was, Helen's mind was maturer than might have been

supposed. And the problem which confronted her she saw very clearly,

although she was unable to solve it. The problem was not new, indeed,

it has been Despair's conundrum since the world began: Whose fault

that my life has been as it is? In her despair, doubting, she cried:

"Is there really a God, as Mammy Maria told me? Does He interpose in

our lives, or are we rushed along by the great moral and physical

laws, which govern the universe; and if by chance we fail to

harmonize with them, be crushed for our ignorance--our ignorance

which is not of our own making?"

"By chance--by chance," she repeated, "but if there be great fixed

laws, how can there be any--chance?"

The thought was hopeless. She turned in her despair and hid her face.

And then out of the darkness came the strong fine face of Clay

Westmore--and his words: "We must all work--it is life's badge of

nobility."

How clearly and calmly they came to her. And then her heart

fluttered. Suppose Clay loved her--suppose this was her solution? He

had never pressed his love on her. Did he think a woman could be

loved that way--scientifically--as coal and iron are discovered?

She finally slept, her arms around her little sister. But the last

recollection she had was Clay's fine face smiling at her through the

darkness and saying: "We must all work--it is life's badge of

nobility."

It was Monday morning, and she would take Lily with her to the mill;

for the child's work at the spinning frames was to begin that day.

There was no alternative. Again the great unknown law rushed her

along. Her father had signed them both, and in a few days their home

would be sold.

They were late at the mill, but the little one, as she trudged along

by the side of her sister, was happier than she had been since her

old nurse had left. It was great fun for her, this going to the mill

with her big sister.

The mill had been throbbing and humming long before they reached it.

Helen turned Lily over to the floor manager, after kissing her

good-bye, and bade her do as she was told. Twice again she kissed

her, and then with a sob hurried away to her own room.

Travis was awaiting her in the hall. She turned pale and then crimson

when she saw him. And yet, when she ventured to look at him as she

was passing, she was stopped with the change which lay on his face.

It was a sad smile he gave her, sad but determined. And in the

courtly bow was such a look of tenderness that with fluttering heart

and a strange new feeling of upliftedness--a confidence in him for

the first time, she stopped and gave him her hand with a grateful

smile. It was a simple act and so pretty that the sadness went from

Travis' face as he said:

"I was not going to stop you--this is kind of you. Saturday, I

thought you feared me."

"Yes," she smiled, "but not now--not when you look like that."

"Have I changed so much since then?" and he looked at her curiously.

"There is something in your face I never saw before. It made me

stop."

"I am glad it was there, then," he said simply, "for I wished you to

stop, though I did not want to say so."

"Saturday you would have said so," she replied with simple frankness.

He came closer to her with equal frankness, and yet with a tenderness

which thrilled her he said:

"Perhaps I was not so sure Saturday of many things that I am positive

of to-day."

"Of what?" she asked flushing.

He smiled again, but it was not the old smile which had set her to

trembling with a flurry of doubt and shame. It was the smile of

respect. Then it left him, and in its stead flashed instantly the old

conquering light when he said:

"To-night, you know, you will be mine!"

The change of it all, the shock of it, numbed her. She tried to

smile, but it was the lifeless curl of her lips instead--and the look

she gave him--of resignation, of acquiescence, of despair--he had

seen it once before, in the beautiful eyes of the first young doe

that fell to his rifle. She was not dead when he bounded to the spot

where she lay--and she gave him that look.

Edward Conway watched his two daughters go out of the gate on their

way to the mill, sitting with his feet propped up, and drunker than

he had been for weeks. But indistinct as things were, the poignancy

of it went through him, and he groaned. In a dazed sort of way he

knew it was the last of all his dreams of respectability, that from

now on there was nothing for him and his but degradation and a lower

place in life. To do him justice, he did not care so much for

himself; already he felt that he himself was doomed, that he could

never expect to shake off the terrible habit which had grown to be

part of his life,--unless, he thought, unless, as the Bishop had

said--by the blow of God. He paled to think what that might mean. God

had so many ways of striking blows unknown to man. But for his

daughters--he loved them, drunkard though he was. He was proud of

their breeding, their beauty, their name. If he could only go and

give them a chance--if the blow would only fall and take him!

The sun was warm. He grew sleepy. He remembered afterwards that he

fell out of his chair and that he could not arise.... It was a nice

place to sleep anyway.... A staggering hound, with scurviness and

sores, came up the steps, then on the porch, and licked his face....

When he awoke some one was bathing his face with cold water from the

spring. He was perfectly sober and he knew it was nearly noon. Then

he heard the person say: "I guess you are all right now, Marse Ned,

an' I'm thinkin' it's the last drink you'll ever take outen that

jug."

His astonishment in recognizing that the voice was the voice of Mammy

Maria did not keep him from looking up regretfully at sight of the

precious broken jug and the strong odor of whiskey pervading the air.

How delightful the odor was!

He sat up amazed, blinking stupidly.

"Aunt Maria--in heaven's name--where?"

"Never mind, Marse Ned--jes' you git into the buggy now an' I'll take

you home. You see, I've moved everything this mohnin' whilst you

slept. The last load is gone to our new home."

"What?" he exclaimed--"where?" He looked around--the home was empty.

"I thort it time to wake you up," she went on, "an' besides I wanter

talk to you about my babies.

"You'll onderstan' all that when you see the home I've bought for

us"--she said simply. "We're gwine to it now. Git in the buggy"--and

she helped him to arise.

Then Edward Conway guessed, and he was silent, and without a word the

old woman drove him out of the dilapidated gate of Millwood toward

the town.

"Mammy," he began as if he were a boy again--"Mammy," and then he

burst into tears.

"Don't cry, chile," said the old woman--"it's all behind us now. I

saved the money years ago, when we all wus flush--an' you gave me so

much when you had an' wus so kind to me, Marse Ned. I saved it. We're

gwine to reform now an' quit drinkin'. We'se gwine to remove to

another spot in the garden of the Lord, but the Lord is gwine with us

an' He is the tower of strength--the tower of strength to them that

trust Him--Amen. But I must have my babies--that's part of the

barg'in. No mill for them--oh, Marse Ned, to think that whilst I was

off, fixin' our home so nice to s'prize you all--wuckin' my fingers

off to git the home ready--you let them devils get my babies! Git up

heah"--and she rapped the horse down the back with the lines. "Hurry

up--I'm gwine after 'em es soon es I git home."

Conway could only bow his head and weep.

It was nearly noon when a large coal-black woman, her head tied up

with an immaculately white handkerchief, with a white apron to match

over her new calico gown, walked into the mill door. She passed

through Kingsley's office, without giving him the courtesy of a nod,

holding her head high and looking straight before her. A black

thunder-cloud of indignation sat upon her brow, and her large black

eyes were lit up with a sarcastic light.

Before Kingsley could collect his thoughts she had passed into the

big door of the main room, amid the whirl and hum of the machinery,

and walking straight to one of the spinning frames, she stooped and

gathered into her arms the beautiful, fair-skinned little girl who

was trying in vain to learn the tiresome lesson of piecing the

ever-breaking threads of the bewildering, whirling bobbins.

The child was taken so by surprise that she screamed in fright--not

being able to hear the footfall or the voice of her who had so

suddenly folded her in her arms and showered kisses on her face and

hair. Then, seeing the face, she shouted:

"It's Mammy Maria--oh, it's my mammy!" and she threw her arms around

the old woman's neck and clung there.

"Mammy's baby--did you think old Mammy dun run off an' lef' her

baby?"

But Lily could only sob for joy.

Then the floor manager came hurriedly over--for the entire force of

the mill had ceased to work, gazing at the strange scene. In vain he

gesticulated his protests--the big fat colored woman walked proudly

past him with Lily in her arms.

In Kingsley's office she stopped to get Lily's bonnet, while the

little girl still clung to her neck, sobbing.

Kingsley stood taking in the scene in astonishment. He adjusted his

eye glasses several times, lilting them with the most pronounced

sarcastic lilt of which he was capable.

He stepped around and around the desk in agitated briskness.

He cleared his throat and jerked his pant legs up and down. And all

the time the fat old woman stood looking at him, with the

thunder-cloud on her brow and unexpressed scorn struggling for speech

in her eyes.

"Ah-hem--ah-ha--Aunt Maria" for Kingsley had caught on to the better

class of Southern ways--"inform me--ah, what does all this mean?"

The old woman drew herself up proudly and replied with freezing

politeness:

"I beg yo' pardon, sah--but I was not awares that I had any nephew

in the mill, or was related to anybody in here, sah. I hav'nt my

visitin' cyard with me, but if I had 'em heah you'd find my

entitlements, on readin', was somethin' lak this: _Miss Maria Conway,

of Zion!_"

Kingsley flushed, rebuked. Then he adjusted his glasses again with

agitated nervous attempts at a lilt. Then he struck his level and

fell back on his natural instinct, unmixed, with attempts at being

what he was not:

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Conway"--

"Git my entitlements right, please sah. I'm the only old maid lady of

color you ever seed or ever will see again. Niggahs, these days, lak

birds, all git 'em a mate some way--but I'm Miss Conway of Zion."

"Ah, beg pardon, Miss Conway--Miss Conway of Zion. And where, pray,

is that city, Miss Conway? I may have to have an officer communicate

with you."

"With pleasure, sah--It's a pleasure for me to he'p people find a

place dey'd never find without help--no--not whilst they're a-workin'

the life out of innocent tots an' babes--"

Kingsley flushed hot, angered:

"What do you mean, old woman?"

"The ole woman means," she said, looking him steadily in the eye,

"that you are dealin' in chile slavery, law or no law; that you're

down heah preachin' one thing for niggahs an' practisin' another for

yo' own race; that yo' hair frizzles on yo' head at tho'rt of niggah

slavery, whilst all the time you are enslavin' the po' little whites

that's got yo' own blood in their veins. An' now you wanter know what

I come for? I come for my chile!"

Kingsley was too dumfounded to speak. In all his life never had his

hypocrisy been knocked to pieces so completely.

"What does all this mean?" asked Jud Carpenter rushing hastily into

the room.

"Come on baby," said the old woman as she started toward the door.

"I've got a home for us, an' whilst old mammy can take in washin'

you'll not wuck yo' life out with these people."

Jud broke in harshly: "Come, ole 'oman,--you put that child down.

You've got nothin' to support her with."

She turned on him quickly: "I've got mo' silver tied up in ole socks

that the Conways give me in slavery days when they had it by the

bushel, than sech as you ever seed. Got nothin'? Jus' you come over

and see the little home I've got fixed up for Marse Ned an' the

babies. Got nothin'? See these arms? Do you think they have forgot

how to cook an' wash? Come on, baby--we'll be gwine home--Miss

Helen'll come later."

"Put her down, old woman," said Carpenter sternly. "You can't take

her--she's bound to the mill."

"Oh, I can't?" said the old woman as she walked out with Lily--"Can't

take her. Well, jes' look at me an' see. This is what I calls Zion,

an' the Lam' an' the wolves had better stay right where they are,"

she remarked dryly, as she walked off carrying Lily in her arms.

Down through a pretty part of the town, away from Cottontown, she led

the little girl, laughing now and chatting by the old woman's side,

a bird freed from a cage.

"And you'll bring sister Helen, too?" asked Lily.

"That I will, pet,--she'll be home to-night."

"Oh, Mammy, it's so good to have you again--so good, and I thought

you never would come."

They walked away from Cottontown and past pretty houses. In a quiet

street, with oaks and elms shading it, she entered a yard in which

stood a pretty and nicely painted cottage. Lily clapped her hands

with laughter when she found all her old things there--even her pet

dolls to welcome her--all in the cunningest and quaintest room

imaginable. The next room was her father's, and Mammy's room was next

to hers and Helen's. She ran out only to run into her father's arms.

Small as she was, she saw that he was sober. He took her on his lap

and kissed her.

"My little one," he said--"my little one"--

"Mammy," asked the little girl as the old woman came out--"how did

you get all this?"

"Been savin' it all my life, chile--all the money yo' blessed mother

give me an' all I earned sence I was free. I laid it up for a rainy

day an' now, bless God, it's not only rainin' but sleetin' an' cold

an' snowin' besides, an' so I went to the old socks. It's you all's,

an' all paid fur, an' old mammy to wait on you. I'm gwine to go after

Miss Helen before the mill closes, else she'll be gwine back to

Millwood, knowin' nothin' of all this surprise for her. No,

sah,--nary one of yo' mother's chillun shall ever wuck in a mill."

Conway bowed his head. Then he drew Lily to him as he knelt and

said: "Oh, God help me--make me a man, make me a Conway again."

It was his first prayer in years--the beginning of his reformation.

And every reformation began with a prayer.

CHAPTER XVII

THE DOUBLE THAT DIED

Two hours before the mill closed Richard Travis came hurriedly into

the mill office. There had been business engagements to be attended

to in the town before leaving that night for the North, and he had

been absent from the mill all day. Now everything was ready even to

his packed trunk--all except Helen.

"He's come for her," said Jud to himself as he walked over to the

superintendent's desk.

Then amid the hum and the roar of the mill he bent his head and the

two whispered low and earnestly together. As Jud talked in excited

whispers, Travis lit a cigar and listened coolly--to Jud's

astonishment--even cynically.

"An' what you reckin' she done--the ole 'oman? Tuck the little gyrl

right out of my han's an' kerried her home--marched off as proud as

ole Queen Victory."

"Home? What home?" asked Travis.

"An' that's the mischief of it," went on Jud. "I thort she was lyin'

about the home, an' I stepped down there at noon an' I hope I may die

to-night if she ain't got 'em all fixed up as snug as can be, an' the

Major is there as sober es a jedge, an' lookin' like a gentleman an'

actin' like a Conway. Say, but you watch yo' han'. That's blood that

won't stan' monkeyin' with when it's in its right mind. An' the

little home the ole 'oman's got, she bought it with her own money,

been savin' it all her life an' now"--

"What did you say to her this morning?" asked Travis.

"Oh, I cussed her out good--the old black"--

A peculiar light flashed in Richard Travis' eyes. Never before had

the Whipper-in seen it. It was as if he had looked up and seen a halo

around the moon.

"To do grand things--to do grand things--like that--negro that she

is! No--no--of course you did not understand. Our moral sense is

gone--we mill people. It is atrophied--yours and mine and all of

us--the soul has gone and mine? My God, why did you give it back to

me now--this ghost soul that has come to me with burning breath?"

Jud Carpenter listened in amazement and looked at him suspiciously.

He came closer to see if he could smell whiskey on his breath, but

Travis looked at him calmly as he went on: "Why, yes, of course you

cursed her--how could you understand? How could you know--you, born

soulless, know that you had witnessed something which, what does the

old preacher call him--the man Jesus Christ--something He would have

stopped and blessed her for. A slave and she saved it for her master.

A negro and she loved little children where we people of much

intellect and a higher civilization and Christianity--eh, Jud,

Christians"--and he laughed so strangely that Jud took a turn around

the room watching Travis out of the corner of his eyes.

"Oh--and you cursed her!"

Jud nodded. "An' to-morrow I'll go an' fetch the little 'un back. Why

she's signed--she's our'n for five years."

Travis turned quickly and Jud dodged under the same strange light

that showed again in his eyes. Then he laid his hand on Jud's arm and

said simply: "No--no--you will not!"

Jud looked at him in open astonishment.

Travis puffed at his cigar as he said:

"Don't study me too closely. Things have happened--have happened, I

tell you--my God! we are all double--that is if we are anything--two

halves to us--and my half--my other half, got lost till the other

night and left this aching, pitiful, womanly thing behind, that

bleeds to the touch and has tears. Why, man, I am either an angel, a

devil, or both. Don't you go there and touch that little child, nor

thrust your damned moral Caliban monstrosity into that sweet isle,

nor break up with your seared conscience the glory of that unselfish

act. If you do I'll kill you, Jud Carpenter--I'll kill you!"

Jud turned and walked to the water bucket, took a drink and squirted

it through his teeth.

He was working for thinking time: "He's crazy--he's sho' crazy--" he

said to himself. Coming back, he said:

"Pardon me, Mr. Travis--but the oldes' gyrl--what--what about her,

you know?"

"She's mine, isn't she? I've won her--outgeneraled the others--by

brains and courage. She should belong to my harem--to my band--as

the stallion of the plains when he beats off with tooth and hoof and

neck of thunder his rival, and takes his mares."

Jud nodded, looking at him quizzically.

"Well, what about it?" asked Travis.

"Nothin'--only this"--then he lowered his voice as he came

nearer--"the ole 'oman will be after her in an hour--an' she'll take

her--tell her all. Maybe you'll see somethin' to remind you of Jesus

Christ in that."

Travis smiled.

"Well," went on Jud, "you'd better take her now--while the whole

thing has played into yo' hands; but she--the oldes' gyrl--she don't

know the ole 'oman's come back an' made her a home; that her father

is sober an' there with her little sister, that Clay is away an'

ain't deserted her. She don't know anything, an' when you set her out

in that empty house, deserted, her folks all deserted her, as she'll

think, don't you know she'll go to the end of the worl' with you?"

"Well?" asked Travis as he smiled calmly.

"Well, take her and thank Jud Carpenter for the Queen of the

Valley--eh?" and he laughed and tried to nudge Travis familiarly, but

the latter moved away.

"I'll take her," at last he said.

"She'll go to The Gaffs with you"--went on Jud. "There she's safe.

Then to-night you can drive her to the train at Lenox, as we told

Biggers."

He came over and whispered in Travis's ear.

"That worked out beautifully," said Travis after a while, "but I'll

not trust her to you or to Charley Biggers. I'll take her

myself--she's mine--Richard Travis's--mine--mine! I who have been

buffeted and abused by Fate, given all on earth I do not want, and

denied the one thing I'd die for; I'll show them who they are up

against. I'll take her, and they may talk and rave and shoot and be

damned!"

His old bitterness was returning. His face flushed:

"That's the way you love to hear me talk, isn't it--to go on and say

I'll take her and do as I please with her, and if it pleases me to

marry her I'll set her up over them all--heh?"

Jud nodded.

"That's one of me," said Travis--"the old one. This is the new." And

he opened the back of his watch where a tiny lock of Alice Westmore's

auburn hair lay: "Oh, if I were only worthy to kiss it!"

He walked into the mill and down to the little room where Helen sat.

He stood a while at the door and watched her--the poise of the

beautiful head, the cheeks flushed with the good working blood that

now flowed through them, the hair falling with slight disorder, a

stray lock of it dashed across her forehead and setting off the rest

of it, darker and deeper, as a cloudlet, inlaid with gold, the sunset

of her cheeks.

His were the eyes of a connoisseur when it came to women, and as he

looked he knew that every line of her was faultless; the hands

slender and beautifully high-born; the fingers tapering with that

artistic slope of the tips, all so plainly visible now that they were

at work. One foot was thrust out, slender with curved and high

instep. He flushed with pride of her--his eyes brightened and he

smiled in the old ironical way, a smile of dare-doing, of victory.

He walked in briskly and with a business-like, forward alertness. She

looked up, paled, then flushed.

"Oh, I was hoping so you had forgotten," she said tremblingly.

He smiled kindly: "I never forget."

She put up one hand to her cheek and rested her head on it a moment

in thought.

He came up and stood deferentially by her side, looking down on her,

on her beautiful head. She half crouched, expecting to hear something

banteringly complimentary; bold, commonplace--to feel even the touch

of his sensual hand on her hair, on her cheek and _My Queen--my

Queen!_

After a while she looked up, surprised. The excitement in her

eyes--the half-doubting--half-yielding fight there, of ambition, and

doubt, and the stubborn wrong of it all, of her hard lot and bitter

life, of the hidden splendor that might lie beyond, and yet the

terrible doubt, the fear that it might end in a living death--these,

fighting there, lit up her eyes as candles at an altar of love. Then

the very difference of his attitude, as he stood there, struck

her,--the beautiful dignity of his face, his smile. She saw in an

instant that sensualism had vanished--there was something spiritual

which she had never seen before. A wave of trust, in her utter

helplessness, a feeling of respect, of admiration, swept over her.

She arose quickly, wondering at her own decision.

He bowed low, and there was a ringing sweetness in his voice as he

said: "I have come for you, Helen--if you wish to go."

"I will go, Richard Travis, for I know now you will do me no harm."

"Do you think you could learn to love me?"

She met his eyes steadily, bravely: "That was never in the bargain.

That is another thing. This is barter and trade--the last ditch

rather than starvation, death. This is the surrender of the earthen

fort, the other the glory of the ladder leading to the skies.

Understand me, you have not asked for that--it is with me and God,

who made me and gave it. Let it stay there and go back to him. You

offer me bread"--

"But may it not turn into a stone, an exquisite, pure diamond?" he

asked.

She looked at him sadly. She shook her head.

"Diamonds are not made in a day."

The light Jud Carpenter saw flashed in his eyes: "I have read of one

somewhere who turned water into wine--and that was as difficult."

"If--if--" she said gently--"if you had always been this--if you

would always be this"--

"A woman knows a man as a rose knows light," he said simply--"as a

star knows the sun. But we men--being the sun and the star, we are

blinded by our own light. Come, you may trust me, Sweet Rose."

She put her hand in his. He took it half way to his mouth.

"Don't," she said--"please--that is the old way."

He lowered it gently, reverently, and they walked out.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE DYING LION

"Lily has been taken home," he said as she walked out with him. "She

is safe and will be cared for--so will be your father. I will explain

it to you as we drive to Millwood."

She wondered, but her cheeks now burned so that all her thoughts

began to flow back upon herself as a tide, flowing inland, and

forgetting the sea of things. Her heart beat faster--she felt

guilty--of what, she could not say.

Perhaps the guilt of the sea for being found on the land.

The common mill girls--were they not all looking at her, were they

not all wondering, did they not all despise her, her who by birth and

breeding should be above them? Her lips tightened at the thought--she

who was above them--now--now--they to be above her--poor-born and

common as they were--if--if--he betrayed her.

He handed her quietly--reverently even, into the buggy, and the

trotters whirled her away; but not before she thought she saw the

mill girls peeping at her through the windows, and nodding their

heads at each other, and some of them smiling disdainfully. And yet

when she looked closely there was no one at the windows.

The wind blew cool. Travis glanced at her dress, her poorly protected

shoulders.

"I am afraid you will be too cold after coming from a warm mill and

going with the speed we go."

He reached under the seat and drew out a light overcoat. He threw it

gently over her shoulders, driving, in his masterful way, with the

reins in one hand.

He did not speak again until he reached Millwood.

The gate was down, bits of strewn paper, straw and all the debris of

things having been moved, were there. The house was dark and empty,

and Helen uttered a surprised cry:

"Why, what does all this mean? Oh, has anything happened to them?"

She clung in pallor to Travis's arm.

"Be calm," he said, "I will explain. They are all safe. They have

moved. Let us go in, a moment."

He drew the mares under a shed and hitched them, throwing blankets

over them and unchecking their heads. Then he lifted her out. How

strong he was, and how like a limp lily she felt in the grasp of his

hands.

The moon flashed out now and then from clouds scurrying fast, adding

a ghostliness to the fading light, in which the deserted house stood

out amid shadowy trees and weeds tall and dried. The rotten steps and

balcony, even the broken bottles and pieces of crockery shone bright

in the fading light. Tears started to her eyes:

"Nothing is here--nothing!"

Travis caught her hand in the dark and she clung to him. A hound

stepped out from under the steps and licked her other hand. She

jumped and gave a little shriek. Then, when she understood, she

stroked the poor thing's head, its eyes staring hungrily in the dim

light.

She followed Travis up the steps. Within, he struck a match, and she

saw the emptiness of it all--the broken plastering and the paper torn

off in spots, a dirty, littered floor, and an old sofa and a few

other things left, too worthless to be moved.

She held up bravely, but tears were running down her cheeks. Travis

struck another match to light a lamp which had been forgotten and

left on the mantel. He attempted to light it, but something huge and

black swept by and extinguished it. Helen shrieked again, and coming

up timidly seized his arm in the dark. He could feel her heart

beating excitedly against it.

He struck another match.

"Don't be uneasy, it is nothing but an owl."

The light was turned up and showed an owl sitting on the top of an

old tester that had formerly been the canopy of her grandmother's

bed.

The owl stared stupidly at them--turning its head solemnly.

Helen laughed hysterically.

"Now, sit down on the old sofa," he said. "There is much to say to

you. We are now on the verge of a tragedy or a farce, or--"

"Sometimes plays end well, where all are happy, do they not?" she

asked, smiling hysterically and sitting by him, but looking at the

uncanny owl beyond. She was silent, then:

"Oh, I--I--don't you think I am entitled now--to have something end

happily--now--once--in my life?"

He pitied her and was silent.

"Tell me," she said after a while, "you have moved father and Lily

to--to--one of the Cottontown cottages?"

He arose: "In a little while I will tell you, but now we must have

something to eat first--you see I had this lunch fixed for our

journey." He went out, over to his lap-robe and cushion, and brought

a basket and placed it on an old table.

"You may begin now and be my housekeeper," he smiled. "Isn't it time

you were learning? I daresay I'll not find you a novice, though."

She flushed and smiled. She arose gracefully, and her pretty hands

soon had the lunch spread, Travis helping her awkwardly.

It was a pretty picture, he thought--her flushed girlish face, yet

matronly ways. He watched her slyly, with a sad joyousness in his

eyes, drinking it in, as one who had hungered long for contentment

and peace, such as this.

She had forgotten everything else in the housekeeping. She even

laughed some at his awkwardness and scolded him playfully, for,

man-like, forgetting a knife and fork. It was growing chilly, and

while she set the lunch he went out and brought in some wood. Soon a

fine oak fire burned in the fireplace.

They sat at the old table at last, side by side, and ate the

delightful lunch. Under the influence of the bottle of claret, from

The Gaffs cellar, her courage came and her animation was beautiful to

him--something that seemed more of girlhood than womanhood. He drank

it all in--hungry--heart-hungry for comfort and love; and she saw and

understood.

Never had he enjoyed a lunch so much. Never had he seen so beautiful

a picture!

When it was over he lit a cigar, and the fine odor filled the old

room.

Then very quietly he told her the story of Mammy Maria's return, of

the little home she had prepared for them; of her coming that day to

the mill and taking Lily, and that even now, doubtless, she was there

looking for the elder sister.

She did not show any surprise--only tears came slowly: "Do you know

that I felt that something of this kind would happen? Dear

Mammy--dear, dear Mammy Maria! She will care for Lily and father."

She could stand it no longer. She burst into childish tears and,

kneeling, she put her beautiful head on Travis's lap as innocently as

if it were her old nurse's, and she, a child, seeking consolation.

He stroked her hair, her cheek, gently. He felt his lids grow moist

and a tenderness he never had known came over him.

"I have told you this for a purpose," he whispered in her ear--"I

will take you to them, now."

She raised her wet eyes--flushed. He watched her closely to see signs

of any battle there. And then his heart gave a great leap and surged

madly as she said calmly: "No--no--it is too late--too late--now.

I--could--never explain. I will go with you, Richard Travis, to the

end of the world."

He sat very still and looked at her kneeling there as a child would,

both hands clasped around his knee, and looking into his eyes with

hers, gray-brown and gloriously bright. They were calm--so calm, and

determined and innocent. They thrilled him with their trust and the

royal beauty of her faith. There came to him an upliftedness that

shook him.

"To the end of the world," he said--"ah, you have said so much--so

much more than I could ever deserve."

"I have stood it all as long as I could. My father's drunkenness, I

could stand that, and Mammy's forsaking us, as I thought--that, too.

When the glory of work, of earning my own living opened itself to

me,--Oh, I grasped it and was happy to think that I could support

them! That's why your temptation--why--I--"

He winced and was silent.

"They were nothing," she went on, "but to be forgotten, forsaken

by--by--"

"Clay?" he helped her say.

"Oh," she flushed--"yes,--that was part of it, and then to see--to

see--you so different--with this strange look on you--something which

says so plainly to me that--that--oh, forgive me, but do you know I

seem to see you dying--dying all the time, and now you are so

changed--indeed--oh please understand me--I feel differently toward

you--as I would toward one dying for sympathy and love."

She hid her face again. He felt his face grow hot. He sat perfectly

still, listening. At last she said:

"When I came here to-night and saw it all--empty--I thought: 'This

means I am deserted by all--he has brought me here to see it--to know

it. What can I do but go with him? It is all that is left. Did I make

myself? Did I give myself this fatal beauty--for you say I am

beautiful. And did I make you with your strength--your conquering

strength, and--Oh, could I overcome my environment?' But now--now--it

is different--and if I am lost, Richard Travis--it will be your

fault--yours and God's."

He stroked her hair. He was pale and that strange light which Jud

Carpenter had seen in his eyes that afternoon blazed now with a

nervous flash.

"That is my story," she cried. "It is now too late even for God to

come and tell me through you--now since we--you and I--oh, how can I

say it--you have taken me this way--you, so strong and brave

and--grand--"

He flushed hot with shame. He put his hand gently over her mouth.

"Hush--hush--child--my God--you hurt me--shame me--you know not what

you say."

"I can understand all--but one thing," she went on after a while.

"Why have you brought me to this--here--at night alone with you--to

tell me this--to make me--me--oh, change in my feelings--to you? Oh,

must I say it?" she cried--"tell you the truth--that--that--now since

I see you as you are--I--I,--I am willing to go!"

"Hush, Helen, my child, my God--don't crush me--don't--listen,

child--listen! I am a villain--a doubly-dyed, infamous one--when you

hear"--

She shook her head and put one of her pretty hands over his mouth.

"Let me tell you all, first. Let me finish. After all this, why have

you brought me here to tell me this, when all you had to do was to

keep silent a few more hours--take me on to the station, as you

said--and--and--"

"I will tell you," he said gently. "Yes, you have asked the question

needed to be explained. Now hear from my own lips my infamy--not all

of it, God knows--that would take the night; but this peculiar part

of it. Do you know why I love to stroke your hair, why I love to

touch it, to touch you, to look into your eyes; why I should love,

next to one thing of all earth, to take you in my arms and smother

you--kill you with kisses--your hair, your eyes, your mouth?"

She hid her face, crimson.

"Did no one tell you, ever tell you--how much you look like your

cousin"--he stopped--he could not say the word, but she guessed.

White with shame, she sprang up from him, startled, hurt. Her heart

tightened into a painful thing which pricked her.

"Then--then--it is not I--but my Cousin Alice--oh--I--yes--I did

hear--I should have known"--it came from her slowly and with a

quivering tremor.

He seized her hands and drew her back down by him on the sofa.

"When I started into this with you I was dead--dead. My soul was

withered within me. All women were my playthings--all but one. She

was my Queen--my wife that was to be. I was dead, my God--how dead I

was! I now see with a clearness that is killing me; a clearness as of

one waking from sleep and feeling, in the first wave of conscience,

that inconceivable tenderness which hurts so--hurts because it is

tender and before the old hard consciousness of material things come

again to toughen. How dead I was, you may know when I say that all

this web now around you--from your entrance into the mill till

now--here to-night--in my power--body and soul--that it was all to

gratify this dead sea fruit of my soul, this thing in me I cannot

understand, making me conquer women all my life for--oh, as a lion

would, to kill, though not hungry, and then lie by them, dying, and

watch them,--dead! Then this same God--if any there be--He who you

say put more on you than you could bear--He struck me, as,

well--no--He did not strike--but ground me, ground me into dust--took

her out of my life and then laid my soul before me so naked that the

very sunlight scorches it. What was it the old preacher said--that

'touch of God' business? 'Touch--'" he laughed, "not touch, but blow,

I say--a blow that ground me into star-dust and flung me into space,

my heart a burning comet and my soul the tail of it, dissolving

before my very eyes. What then can I, a lion, dying, care for the doe

that crosses my path? The beautiful doe, beautiful even as you are.

Do you understand me, child?"

She scarcely knew what she did. She remembered only the terrible

empty room. The owl uncannily turning its head here and there and

staring at her with its eyes, yellow in the firelight.

She dropped on the floor by him and clung again to his knees, her

head in his lap in pity for him.

"That is the story of the dying lion," he said after a while. "The

lion who worked all his cunning and skill and courage to get the

beautiful doe in his power, only to find he was dying--dying and

could not eat. Could you love a dying lion, child?" he asked

abruptly--"tell me truly, for as you speak so will I act--would make

you queen of all the desert."

She raised her eyes to his. They were wet with tears. He had touched

the pity in them. She saw him as she had never seen him before. All

her fear of him vanished, and she was held by the cords of a strange

fascination. She knew not what she did. The owl looked at her

queerly, and she almost sobbed it out, hysterically:

"Oh, I could--love--you--you--who are so strong and who

suffer--suffer so"--

"You could love me?" he asked. "Then, then I would marry you

to-night--now--if--if--that uncovering--that touch--had not been put

upon me to do nobler things than to gratify my own passion, had not

shown me the other half which all these years has been dead--my

double." He was silent.

"And so I sent to-day," he began after a while, "for a friend of

yours, one with whom you can be happier than--the dying lion. He has

been out of the county--sent out--it was part of the plan, part of

the snare of the lion and his whelp. And so I sent for him this

morning, feeling the death blow, you know. I sent him an urgent

message, to meet you here at nine." He glanced at his watch. "It is

past that now, but he had far to ride. He will come, I hope--ah,

listen!"

They heard the steps of a rider coming up the gravel walk.

"It is he," said Travis calmly--"Clay."

She sprang up quickly, half defiantly. The old Conway spirit flashed

in her eyes and she came to him tall and splendid and with half a

look of protest, half command, and yet in it begging, pleading,

yearning for--she knew not what.

"Why--why--did you? Oh, you do not know! You do not

understand--love--love--can it be won this way--apprenticed,

bargained--given away?"

"You must go with him, he loves you. He will make you happy. I am

dying--is not part of me already dead?"

For answer she came to him, closer, and stood by him as one who in

war stands by a comrade shot through and ready to fall.

He put his arms around her and drew her to him closer, and she did

not resist--but as a child would, hers also she wound around his neck

and whispered:

"My lion! Oh, kill me--kill me--let me die with you!"

"Child--my precious one--my--oh, God, and you--forgive me this. But

let me kiss you once and dream--dream it is she"--

She felt his kisses on her hair, her eyes.

"Good-bye--Alice--Alice--good-bye--forever--"

He released her, but she clung to him sobbing. Her head lay on his

breast, and she shook in the agony of it all.

"You will forgive me, some day--when you know--how I loved her," he

gasped, white and with a bitter light in his face.

She looked up: "I would die," she said simply, "for a love like

that."

They heard the steps of a man approaching the house. She sat down on

the old sofa pale, trembling and with bitterness in her heart.

Travis walked to the door and opened it:

"Come in, Clay," he said quietly. "I am glad that my man found you.

We have been waiting for you."

"I finished that survey and came as fast as I could. Your man rode on

to The Gaffs, but I came here as you wrote me to do," and Clay came

in quietly, speaking as he walked to the fire.

CHAPTER XIX

FACE TO FACE WITH DEATH

He came in as naturally as if the house were still inhabited, though

he saw the emptiness of it all, and guessed the cause. But when he

saw Helen, a flushed surprise beamed through his eyes and he gave her

his hand.

"Helen!--why, this is unexpected--quite unusual, I must say."

She did not speak, as she gave him her hand, but smiled sadly. It

meant: "Mr. Travis will tell you all. I know nothing. It is all his

planning."

Clay sat down in an old chair by the fire and warmed his hands,

looking thoughtfully at the two, now and then, and wonderingly. He

was not surprised when Travis said:

"I sent for you hurriedly, as one who I knew was a friend of Miss

Conway. A crisis has arisen in her affairs to-day in which it is

necessary for her friends to act."

"Why, yes, I suppose I can guess," said Clay thoughtfully and

watching Helen closely all the while as he glanced around the empty

room. "I was only waiting. Why, you see--"

Helen flushed scarlet and looked appealingly at Travis. But he broke

in on Clay without noticing her.

"Yes, I knew you were only waiting. I think I understand you, but you

know the trouble with nearly every good intention is that it waits

too long."

Clay reddened.

Helen arose and, coming over, stood by Travis, her face pale, her

eyes shining. "I beg--I entreat--please, say no more. Clay," she said

turning on him with flushed face, "I did not know you were coming. I

did not know where you were. Like all the others, I supposed you too

had--had deserted me."

"Why, I was sent off in a hurry to--" he started.

"Mr. Travis told me to-night," she interrupted. "I understand now.

But really, it makes no difference to me now. Since--since--"

"Now look here," broke in Travis with feigned lightness,--"I am not

going to let you two lovers misunderstand each other. I have planned

it all out and I want you both to make me happy by listening to one

older, one who admires you both and sincerely wishes to see you

happy. Things have happened at your house," he said addressing

Clay--"things which will surprise you when you reach home--things

that affect you and me and Miss Conway. Now I know that you love her,

and have loved her a long time, and that only--"

"Only our poverty," said Clay thankfully to Travis for breaking the

ice for him.

Helen stood up quickly--a smile on her lips: "Don't you both think

that before this bargain and sale goes further you had better get the

consent of the one to be sold?" She turned to Clay.

"Don't you think you have queer ideas of love--of winning a woman's

love--in this way? And you"--she said turning to Travis--"Oh you

_know_ better."

Travis arose with a smile half joyous, half serious, and Clay was so

embarrassed that he mopped his brow as if he were plowing in the sun.

"Why, really, Helen--I--you know--I have spoken to you--you know, and

but for my--"

"Poverty"--said Helen taking up the word--"And what were poverty to

me, if I loved a man? I'd love him the more for it. If he were dying

broken-hearted, wrecked--even in disgrace,--"

Travis flushed and looked at her admiringly, while the joyous light

flashed yet deeper in his eyes.

"Come," he said. "I have arranged all. I am not going to give you

young people an excuse to defer your happiness longer." He turned to

Clay: "I shall show you something which you have been on the track of

for some time. I have my lantern in the buggy, and we will have to

walk a mile or more. But it is pleasant to-night, and the walk will

do us all good. Come."

They both arose wonderingly--Helen came over and put her hand on his

arm: "I will go," she whispered, "if there be no more of that talk."

He smiled. "You must do as I say. Am I not now your guardian? Bring

your leathern sack with your hammer and geological tools," he

remarked to Clay.

Clay arose hastily, and they went out of the old house and across the

fields. Past the boundaries of Millwood they walked, Travis silently

leading, and Clay following with Helen, who could not speak, so

momentous it all seemed. She saw only Travis's fine square

shoulders, and erect, sinewy form, going before them, into the night

of shadows, of trees, of rocks, of the great peak of the mountain,

silent and dark.

He did not speak. He walked in silent thought. They passed the

boundary line of Millwood, and then down a slight ravine he led them

to the ragged, flinty hill, on which the old preacher's cabin stood

on their right.

"Now," he said stopping--"if I am correct, Clay, this hill is the old

Bishop's," pointing to his right where the cabin stood, "and over

here is what is left of Westmoreland. This gulch divides them. This

range really runs into Westmoreland," he said with a sweep of his

hand toward it. "Get your bearings," he smiled to Clay, "for I want

you to tell whose fortune this is."

He lit his lantern and walking forward struck away some weeds and

vines which partially concealed the mouth of a small opening in the

hillside caused by a landslide. It was difficult going at first, but

as they went further the opening grew larger, and as the light

flashed on its walls, Clay stopped in admiration and shouted:

"Look--look--there it is!"

Before them running right and left--for the cave had split it in two,

lay the solid vein of coal, shining in the light, and throwing back

splinters of ebony, to Clay more beautiful than gold.