The days which followed fulfilled all Mrs. Harrington's prophecies so
far as gaiety was concerned. One round of pleasure succeeded
another. The days were filled with picnics and rides and the
evenings with merry makings of all descriptions at all the houses in
the region round about Hawk Valley. There were not wanting many
young officers and others who were eager to teach the sweet young
stranger from the east to ride. Horses especially trained and
gentled for her use were brought as offerings at her shrine, and
flowers from near and far were sent to her. The Harrington children
were in danger of becoming chronic dyspeptics on the surplus of the
confections with which she was constantly supplied; and there was no
opportunity for her to become lonely or morbid as the summer days
sped by in a round of pleasure.
Yet through it all Jean moved, lovely and serene as a summer morning.
"She acts as if she had been in society for years," complained
Eleanor to her husband. "Nothing moves her out of her quiet dignity.
She doesn't gush or become enthusiastic at anybody. The sky and the
flowers and the children please her more than all the adulation she
receives. One would almost judge her engaged or married already. I
wonder if it can be there is a sweetheart at home that we don't know
about. I must write and ask mamma. I can't make it out. I thought
Captain Hawthorne would surely make an impression, he has such
charming manners, and is so deferential to women; but she looked at
him to-day with that sweet far-away expression, exactly as she might
have looked at her grandfather. Of course it made him desperately
determined to get her attention, but she never seemed to know nor
care. One would almost think it was a studied pose to get as many at
her feet as possible, if one didn't know Jean better."
"Did you ever think that perhaps her thoughts are with that scoundrel
Holt?" her husband asked.
"Nonsense!" said his wife sharply. "She never mentions him. She has
forgotten all about him. I think she was extremely annoyed at our
making so much of his bringing her home."
"Well, don't you be too sure. I wonder where the deuce he is. I'll
be willing to bet he's up to some mischief."'
"Don't worry," said his wife, "I'm only too glad he's taken himself
away. I hope he'll keep hidden until Jean is safely home again so we
won't be annoyed."
"I hope he'll come back and let us see what he's up to," growled her
husband as she left the room.
And at last one day shortly before Jean was to return to her father's
house, Holt came back.
With him appeared Scathlin, riding into town daily, side by side with
the younger man, on one of Holt's horses; looking older, with a
sheepish expression and a shifty eye that failed to meet men's gaze.
It was rumored that Holt had found him with a broken leg, nursed him
into strength again and brought him home. Those who knew Scathlin
felt that Holt's power over him was more than that of gratitude.
It happened that Jean was riding with the Captain one morning when
they came down to the post-office together, and the glad smile with
which she greeted Holt was followed by a frightened expression as she
recognized Scathlin. Her escort was so astonished at having to lift
his hat to Holt that he failed to notice her startled glance.
No one could have told by Holt's grave bow that he was meeting the
one of all the earth to him. Only the light in his eyes told of his
joy in seeing her once more, and reassured the girl as she glanced
from Scathlin back to his own face. It was Captain Hawthorne's
annoyed drawl that recalled her to the present out of the whirl of
joy that the sight of Holt brought.
"Where in the world did you ever meet that scoundrel that he should
presume to speak to you?"
A flush of indignation rose to her cheeks, her chin tilted just the
slightest bit haughtily, and her eyes held a dangerous light in them.
"Excuse me, Captain Hawthorne, Mr. Holt is my friend. He did me the
greatest service one can do for another. He saved my life."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Grayson, I didn't mean to offend you. That
alters the case of course. One is always grateful for one's life,
and may thank even a dog. You can afford to be generous, sometimes,
but have a care! You do not know Holt! It's the only good thing I
ever heard of him, that he saved your life. I would it had been my
privilege instead of his."
"Thank you, Captain Hawthorne," Jean spoke frigidly, "but you
misunderstand me. I am not speaking to Mr. Holt because I am
grateful or generous, but because I honor and trust him as a friend."
"You do not know him, Miss Grayson. He is not a man whom anyone
trusts."
"It is you who do not know him, Captain Hawthorne. I know him better
than you, and I trust him entirely. During our terrible experience
together at the time of the wreck I had ample opportunity to test Mr.
Holt, and I found him a gentleman and a true friend in every trying
situation."
And now indeed Jean's tone was unmistakable, and the alarmed Captain,
who had congratulated himself that he was making pretty good headway
with the fair lady, made hasty apologies.
"I beg your pardon, of course," he said humbly. "I'm sure I'm glad
to hear that he behaved decently. To tell you the truth I don't know
much personally about Holt. I've only taken what others say; and
I've always thought his reckless appearance bore out their
insinuations. Forgive me if I have annoyed you, and try to forget
what I've said. This day is perfect and the road is particularly
fine. Shall we try a gallop?"
Jean was glad of the relief from conversation, and kept her horse on
a wild gait the most of the way; for her mind was in a tumult. How
was she to get that paper to Holt and what should she say in
explanation of its being in her possession? The question had been
much in her mind during Holt's absence, and she had been unable to
decide just what she should do when he returned, but now it must be
decided at once, for there ought to be no delay about the paper. The
sinister look in the faded blue eye of Scathlin as he looked at her
made her fear to keep it in her possession any longer.
The ride at last was ended. It had not been a very great success
from the Captain's point of view and he went away dejected, while
Jean hurried to her room and tried to plan what to do. The sight of
Scathlin worried her. If the old man knew what papers the wallet had
contained he probably knew the significance of each. The
conversation she had overheard seemed to include him in the plot, if
plot there was, against Holt. Of course, since he had returned, he
would seek out the other two men and explain why he had sent the
wallet; and perhaps he had the other missing paper himself, the one
that contained valuable information about the location of ore. It
was even possible that he knew already that she, his unwilling
messenger, had the water contract. He must have known it was in the
wallet when he gave it to her and it would be entirely natural for
him to think she had taken it out. Something in the gleam of his eye
as he looked at her had made her tremble; and she longed to fly
straight to Holt and give him the paper frankly and openly, but it
was a matter that could not be handled openly, and she was not a
diplomat, therefore she trembled.
Finally, after careful thought, and much writing and tearing up of
what she had written she framed a brief note to Holt.
On the morning that she mailed it Scathlin happened to be in the
village.
Holt had gone away very early in the morning, on a matter of
business, leaving word that he might not return until the next day,
and Scathlin felt like a prisoner let out of jail. It was his first
opportunity to go about without Holt's eyes upon him. True, he was
under oath to do and not to do certain things, with penalty of a
judgment which he knew would not be light. Yet his natural cunning
found many ways to carry on his schemes without violating the letter
of his contract with Holt. He knew that Holt had brought him there
as a witness against his enemies in the case of the stolen papers--he
knew this, though Holt had said no word of it to him--and he knew
that Holt would watch him closely--that he probably had him under
espionage even during this brief absence; yet he longed to outwit his
keeper and get the better of him. If it only had not been for the
loss of that water contract his way would have been plain. He had
already managed an interview with Harrington and learned the facts
without revealing all the facts in his own possession. He professed
to Harrington that all the original papers were in the wallet when he
gave it to the girl, and that it had been his only hope of saving
them from Holt. That Holt had managed to save the girl and bring her
home only proved that he was as hard to get away from as the devil
himself. This explanation Scathlin devised while he listened to
Harrington's story, secretly realizing, with bitterness, his own
blunder in leaving the water contract in the wallet. His excuse was
that he had no time to take out another paper and secrete it safely
before Holt saw him.
Might and day Scathlin worried over that water contract, coming
always back to the conclusion that Holt must have it or know where it
was; and he had searched every available hiding place in Holt's house
for it, but failed as yet to discover it. When they met Jean riding,
the old man had noted carefully the expression on his companion's
face as he touched his hat to her, and the lighting up of the girl's
face. His keen little eyes searched, and found an idea.
Therefore, that first morning of his freedom from Holt, when he sat
on the curbstone with one of the men from the Divide, talking over
the latest cattle stealing, his eye took in with keen interest the
figure of Jean coming down the street accompanied by her little
niece, a bundle of letters in her hand to be mailed. He watched her
furtively as she passed him, though she did not see him, and as soon
as she was inside the post-office door he got up hurriedly and
followed her, professing that he had an errand.
He watched her slipping her letters one by one into the post box, and
kept his eye upon her as she turned and went out again.
He made a small purchase at the counter on the other side of the
post-office room, and went out, but an hour later, when he returned
that way, the postmaster leaned from his window and called him.
"Hey, there, Scathlin, goin' up home? Here's a letter fer Holt."
Scathlin, wary as any fox, concealed the start he almost gave, and
turned with indifference.
"'Spose I might's well take it," he said, and receiving the letter,
went on his way toward home.
The way was long and bright and hot, and Scathlin was not feeling up
to a hard walk yet after his weeks in bed; but he managed it in an
incredibly short space of time, and as he walked he studied that
letter.
It was dainty and white, the writing unmistakably feminine, and
mailed in Hawk Valley. Scathlin's imagination stirred within him,
and he was almost sure he needed to know what was in that letter. He
held it up to the light but nothing was revealed. He tried to pry
open a corner of the flap that was not closely sealed, and squint in,
but not a glimpse of writing was visible. He went home, laid it on
the desk in Holt's office and sat down to watch it and think. Then
just before the return for dinner of the other two men who were about
the place he quietly put it in his pocket. He preferred to think
about that letter awhile longer before any one else saw it. When
they came in Scathlin had the fire going and a fine steam ascending
from the tea-kettle, an unusual attention on his part toward other
members of his group, unless he was pressed to service.
But Scathlin had exhausted his capacity for work with putting on the
teakettle, for he sat dreamily meditating in a chair tilted back
against the wall, his feet on the rounds, a straw in his mouth, and
his eyes narrow and gleaming.
"Dear friend: I have something that I am sure belongs to you. Is it
safe for me to send it to you through the mail? I think it must be
valuable. Please let me know quickly for I am going home in a few
days."
Those were the magic words the steam had revealed to Scathlin, and on
which he meditated with his eyes half closed while his companions
scornfully cooked the corn bread and bacon and cursed him for a lazy
good-for-nothing. He continued his meditations unmoved until the men
had eaten and were gone on their way. When they were out of sight he
arose with alacrity and prepared a hasty meal, keeping his eye on the
clock. He ate hurriedly, cleaned and loaded a pistol which he took
from a hiding place behind a loose brick of the chimney, and went out
the back door toward the woods.
About the same time Jean Grayson mounted the pony that had been set
aside for her use while in Hawk Valley, and started out for her daily
call on an old lady who had taken a great fancy to her, because of
her likeness to a daughter long since dead. She was fond of the
sweet old lady, and found her quiet little home a refuge from the
round of society that sometimes became almost oppressive at her
sister's house. She had discovered that she could avoid certain
annoyingly frequent callers by being thus absent a little while, and
especially during the last two weeks she had made this pleasant
pilgrimage almost every day. Perhaps a part of the pleasantness of
the trip was in the fact that the road lay back of Holt's land, and
his house, though almost a mile from where she had to pass, was
plainly to be seen at one high point on the road, as it stood boldly
against the sky, its wide verandas shrouded in rose vines.
Jean never ventured on the road that led past the house itself, for
it was off the general highway; but she had often longed to see the
spot where he lived at closer range.
As she rode along she mused about the letter she had written and
whether that had been the right way and the only way to do about
getting the paper into the hands of its owner.
She had once heard a great speaker say that there was never a
situation where there was not a right thing to do next. She felt
sure she had done the right thing so far as her light showed her; and
yet she could not lay it aside and be at peace, but was in a tremor
of excitement awaiting Holt's reply.
As she reached the high point in the road she looked as usual off
toward the rose-vined dwelling, half hoping to see a sign of the
master of the house; but the vines lay shimmering in the sun of the
warm mid-day, and nothing seemed stirring about the place. She
walked the pony slowly along until the house was out of sight, and
the road entered the shady quiet where wooded land on either side hid
the glare of the afternoon. Just beyond the woods a few rods away
was the home of the old lady. It was early yet and Jean lingered,
the pony nothing loath to follow her will.
They had gone perhaps fifty feet into the shadow of the wooded road
when suddenly, out from behind a great tree with stocky, brushwood
growth around it, slunk forth Scathlin, close to the pony, and laid
hands upon his bridle.
"I beg pardon, Miss, but Mr. Holt sent me on a message," lied
Scathlin, shifting his eyes hastily from the clear ones that looked
in horror upon him.
Jean's heart was beating wildly, not reassured by his words.
"He said would you please give me the paper you had for him. It
would be safer for me to get it, as no one would suspect."
A great doubt seized Jean's soul. Holt had not sent this bad old
man. Hold could never trust such a man as this. But if he did trust
him, she did not.
"Did Mr. Holt send me a letter?" Jean looked keenly into the old
cunning face.
"Mr. Holt had to go away in a hurry and so he sent me," said Scathlin
glibly. "He didn't have no time to write letters. He said you
knowed me; that you'd seen me with him, an' you'd know 'twas all
right."
"Tell Mr. Holt, please," said Jean, making up her mind hurriedly,
"that there is nothing, and no message I can give to anyone. I wish
to speak with him. If that is not possible we will have to let the
matter pass."
She drew the rein and signed to her horse to go on, but Scathlin
jerked the birdie sharply:
"Not much, you don't go on," he threatened, "not till I get that
paper. I was sent here to get it and I mean to have it. You can't
come any of your pretty little tricks on me. I want that paper and I
mean to have it. Ef I can't get it one way I kin another!" His
voice and eyes were ominous, and Jean was so frightened that her
throat trembled and she could scarcely control her lips to speak.
"Of what paper are you speaking?"
"That there paper you wrote about in the letter. You know well
enough what I mean. You've got it about you now. I know you dassent
go off and leave it to home, where that fine brother-in-law of yours
could find it. Come, are you going to fork over, or do you want me
to search you for it? I'll find it quick enough."