Something like joy came into Madelon's face. "Then we will save him,
you and I!" she cried out. "We will save him together! He shall not
be hung! He shall be set free! They shall let him out of jail to-day,
and put me there instead. We will save him! He would not own that I
was guilty and he innocent; Lot would not own it, nor my brother
Richard, but now--we will save him--now!"
"How?" asked Dorothy, feebly.
"He will own it to you. Burr will own it to you if you go and plead
with him. He can't help owning it to you. And then you shall go to
Lot, and when you ask him for your sake, that you may marry Burr, if
he knows Burr has told you, and does not care about me, he will
speak. He will be sure to speak for you. Come!"
Dorothy raised herself on one elbow and stared at Madelon, her yellow
hair falling about her fair startled face. "Where?" said she.
"With me to New Salem."
"To New Salem?"
"Yes, to New Salem--to see Burr."
"But I am ill, and the doctor has bid me stay in bed. I have been ill
ever since the ball with a headache and fever."
"You talk about headache and fever when Burr is there in prison! I
tell you if my two feet were cut off I would walk to him on the
stumps to set him free!"
"How can I go?" said Dorothy. Her blue eyes kindled a little under
Madelon's fiery zeal.
"We will take your father's horse and sleigh."
"But the horse is gone lame, and has not been used for a month."
"I will get one from Dexter Beers at the tavern," said Madelon,
promptly. "I will lead him over here and harness him into the
sleigh."
"My father will not let me go," said Dorothy.
"He is a minister of the gospel--he will let his daughter go to save
a life."
"I tell you he will not," said Dorothy. "I know my father better than
you. He will not let me go out when I am ill. It is freezing cold,
too. If I go I must go without his knowledge and consent."
"I am going without my father's," said Madelon, shortly, "and I go at
a greater cost than that, too."
"It's the second time I have deceived and disobeyed my father in a
week's time," Dorothy said.
"You talk about your father when it is Burr--Burr--that's at stake!"
Madelon cried out. "What is your father to Burr if you love him? That
ought to go before anything else. It says so in your Bible--it says
so in your Bible, Dorothy Fair!"
Dorothy, with her innocent, frightened eyes fixed upon the other
girl's passionate face, as if she were being led by her into unknown
paths, put back the coverlet and thrust one little white foot out of
bed. Then swiftly the black woman, who had entered the room, backed
against the door as stiffly as a sentinel, darted forward, and would
have thrust her mistress into bed again, making uncouth protests the
while, had not Dorothy motioned her away with a gentle dignity, which
was hers for use when she chose.
"Go down-stairs, if you please," said she, "and see if my father is
in his study. If he is in there, and busy over his sermon, go to the
barn, and drag out the sleigh for us."
Dorothy, white and fair as an angel, in her straight linen nightgown,
stood out on the floor, in front of her great black guardian, who
made again as though she would seize her and force her back, and
pleaded with her in a thick drone, like an anxious bee, not to go.
"Do as I bid you!" said Dorothy, and glided past her to her dimity
dressing-table, and began combing out her yellow hair.
The black woman went out, muttering.
"If my father is in his study on the north side of the house, and
busy over his sermon, we can get away; otherwise we cannot," said
Dorothy, combing the thick tress over her shoulder.
Madelon went to a south window of the room and looked out. She could
see the barn, and across the road, farther down, the tavern. She
watched while Dorothy bound up her hair, and soon she saw the black
woman run, with a low crouch of her great body like a stealthy
animal, across the yard.
"Your father is in his study," Madelon said, quickly. "I will go over
to the tavern for a horse if yours is too lame."
"He can scarce stand," said Dorothy. Her soft voice trembled; she
trembled all over--then was still with nervous rigors. Bright pink
spots were on her cheeks. A certain girlish daring was there in this
gentle maiden for youthful love and pleasure, else she had not stolen
away that night to the ball, but very little for tragic enterprise.
And, moreover, her fine sense of decorum and womanly pride had always
served her mainly in the place of courage, which she lacked.
Sorely afraid was Dorothy Fair, if the truth were told, to go with
this passionate girl, who had declared to her face she had done
murder, to visit a man who she still half believed, with her helpless
tenacity of thought, was a murderer also. The love she had hitherto
felt for him was eclipsed by terror at the new image of him which her
fearful fancy had conjured up and could not yet dismiss, in spite of
Madelon's assurances. She was, too, really ill, and her delicate
nerves were still awry from the shock they had received the night of
the ball. Parson Fair had been sternly indignant, and his daughter
had quailed before him, and then had come the news concerning Burr.
Sage tea, and hot foot-baths, and the doctor's nostrums had not cured
her yet. Her very spirit trembled and fluttered at this undertaking;
but she could not withstand this fierce and ardent girl who upbraided
her with the cowardice and distrust of her love. Instinctively she
tried to raise her sentiment to the standard of the other's and
believe in Burr.
Madelon paused a second as she went out, and gave a strange,
scrutinizing glance at her.
"Why do you not wear your blue-silk quilted hood with the swan's-down
trimming?" said she. "It becomes you, and it is warm over your ears."
"Yes, I will," said Dorothy, looking at her wonderingly.
Madelon went softly out of the house, and ran across and down the
road to the tavern. Dexter Beers, the landlord, was just going around
the wide sweep of drive to the stable with a meal-sack over his
shoulder. No one else was in sight; it was so cold there were no
loafers about. Madelon ran after him, and overtook him before he
reached the stable door.
"Can you let me take a horse?" said she, abruptly.
Dexter Beers looked slowly around at her with a quick roll of a black
eye in a massive face. He had an enormous bulk, which he moved about
with painful sidewise motions. His voice was husky.
"What d'ye want a horse for?" said he.
"I want it to put in Parson Fair's sleigh."
"What for?"
"To take Dorothy to ride."
"Parson's horse lame yet?"
Madelon nodded.
"Where's yours?"
"I can't have him."
Dexter Beers still moved on with curious lateral twirls of his
shoulders and heaves of his great chest, with its row of shining
waistcoat buttons.
"Pooty cold day for a sleigh-ride," he observed, with a great steam
of breath.
"I'll pay you well for the horse," said Madelon, in a hard voice. She
followed him into the stable. He heaved the meal-sack from his
shoulder to the floor with a grunt. Another man came forward with a
peck measure in his hand. He was young, with a frosty yellow
mustache. He had gone to school with Madelon and knew her well, but
he looked at her with uncouth shyness without speaking. Then he began
unfastening the mouth of the sack.
Madelon stepped forward impatiently towards the horse-stalls. There
were the relay of coach-horses, great grays and bays, champing their
feed, getting ready for their sure-footed rushes over the mountain
roads when the coaches came in. She passed them by with sharp
glances.
A man whose face was purplish red with cold was out in the rear of
the stable, rubbing down a restive bay with loud "whoas," and now and
then a stronger word and a hard twitch at the halter. He looked
curiously at Madelon as she walked up to one of the stalls.
"Better look out for them heels!" he called out, as she drew nearer.
She paid no heed, but went straight into the stall, untied the horse,
and began to back him out. "Hi, there!" the man shouted, and Dexter
Beers and the young man came hurrying up. "Better look out for that
gal--I believe she's gone crazy!" he called out. "I can't leave this
darned beast--she'll get kicked to death if she don't look out. That
old white won't stan' a woman in the stall. Whoa, there! whoa, darn
ye! Stan' still!"
"Hullo, what ye doin' of?" demanded Dexter Beers, coming up.
Madelon calmly backed the horse out of his stall. "I want to hire
this horse," said she, holding his halter with a firm hand.
"That horse?"
"Yes. I'll pay you whatever you ask."
Dexter Beers stared at her and the horse dubiously. "Jest as soon set
a woman to drivin' the devil as that old white," volunteered the man
who was cleaning the bay. The young man stood gaping with wonder.
"Can I have this horse or not?" demanded Madelon. Her black eyes
flashed imperiously at Dexter Beers. Her small brown hand held the
halter of the old white with a grasp like steel.
"Dunno 'bout your drivin' that horse," said Dexter Beers. "'Fraid
you'll get run away with. Better take another."
"Isn't this horse the fastest you've got on a short stretch?"
"S'pose he is, but I dunno 'bout a woman's drivin' of him."
Madelon looked as if she were half minded to spring upon the back of
the old white and settle the matter summarily. She fairly quivered
with impatience.
"A woman who can drive David Hautville's roan can drive this horse,
and you know it," said she. She moved forward as she spoke, leading
the high-stepping old white, and Dexter Beers stood aside.
"Well, David Hautville's roan is nigh a match for this one," he
grunted, hesitatingly, "but then ye know your own better. Hadn't ye
better--"
But the old white was out of the stable at a trot, with Madelon
running alongside.
"Don't ye want a man to hitch him up?" Dexter Beers called after her;
but she was out of hearing.
"If the gal's ekal to drivin' that horse, she's ekal to hitchin' of
him up," said the man who was cleaning the bay. "If a gal wants to
drive, let her hitch. Ye'd better let a woman go the whole figger
when she gits started, just as ye'd better give an ugly cuss of a
horse his head up hill an' down. It takes the mischief out of 'em
quicker'n anything. Let her go it, Dexter--don't ye fret."
"I don't want her breakin' any of the parson's daughter's bones with
none of my horses," said Dexter Beers, uneasily. "Wonder where the
parson is?"
"Let 'em go it! They won't git smashed up, I guess," said the other.
"I've seen that gal of Hautville's with that mare of his'n. She kin
drive most anythin' short of the devil, an' old white's got sense
enough to know when he's well driv, ugly's he is. He wa'n't on the
track for nothin'. He ain't no wuss, if he's as bad, as that roan
mare. Let 'em _go_ it!"
"Wonder what's to pay?" said the young man, who had not spoken
before.
"Dunno," said Dexter Beers. "Somethin's to pay--that girl acted
queer."
"S'pose she takes it hard 'bout Burr Gordon. He used to fool 'round
her, I've heerd, afore he went courtin' the parson's gal."
"Dunno--queer she's so thick with the parson's gal all of a sudden."
"Lord, I wouldn't tech a gal that could git the upperhand of a horse
like that roan mare with a ten-foot pole," half soliloquized the man
at work over the bay. "Wouldn't have her if she owned half the
township, an' went down on her knees to me--darned if I would. Don't
want no woman that kin make horse-flesh like that knuckle under.
Guess a man wouldn't have much show; hev to take his porridge 'bout
the way she wanted to make it. Whoa, there! stan' still, can't ye?
Darned if I want nothin' to do with sech woman folks or sech horses
as ye be."
Dexter Beers moved laboriously out to the stable door and peered
after Madelon, but she had disappeared in Parson Fair's yard. The
white horse had gone up the road at a brisk trot, but she had easily
kept pace with him. She also harnessed him into the sleigh with no
difficulty. The animal seemed docile, and as if he were to belie his
hard reputation. There was, however, a proud and nervous cant to his
old white head, and he set his jaw stiffly against his bit.
Dorothy came out in her quilted silk pelisse and her blue hood edged
with swan's-down, and got into the sleigh. The black woman was
keeping watch at the parson's study door the while, but he never
swerved from his hard application of the doctrines. The sleigh
slipped noiselessly out of the yard and up the road, for Madelon had
not put on the bells. The old white went rather stiffly and steadily
for the first quarter-mile; then he made a leap forward with a great
lift of his lean white flanks, and they flew.
Dorothy gave a terrified gasp. "Don't be frightened," Madelon said.
"It's the horse that used to beat everything in the county. He's old
now, but when he gets warmed up he's the fastest horse around for a
short stretch. He can't hold out long, but while he does he goes; and
I want to get a good start. I want to strike the New Salem road as
soon as I can."
Madelon had a growing fear lest Eugene might have freed himself, and
might ride the roan across by a shorter cut, and so intercept her at
the turn into the New Salem road. He might easily suspect her of
attempting to see Burr again. If she passed the turn first she could
probably escape him if her horse held out; and, indeed, he might not
think she had gone that way if he did not see her.
Dorothy held fast to the side of the sleigh, which seemed to rise
from the track as they sped on. "Don't be frightened," Madelon said
again. "This is the only horse in town that can beat my father's on a
short stretch, and I don't know that he can always, but I don't think
he has been used, and father's was ridden hard yesterday. I can
manage this one in harness better than I can father's. Don't be
frightened." But Dorothy's face grew pale as the swan's-down around
it, and her great blue eyes were fixed fearfully upon the bounding
heels and flanks of the old white race-horse.
Madelon strained her eyes ahead as they neared the turn of the New
Salem road. There was nobody in sight. Then she glanced across the
fields at the right. Suddenly she swung out the reins over the back
of the old white, and hallooed, and stood up in the sleigh.
Dorothy screamed faintly. "Sit still and hold on!" Madelon shouted.
Dorothy shut her eyes. It seemed to her she was being hurled through
space. Her slender body swung to and fro against the sleigh as she
clung frantically to it.
Eugene Hautville, on the roan, was coming at a mad run across the
open field on the right towards the turn of the road. It seemed for a
second as if Madelon would reach it before he did; but they met
there, and the roan reared to a stop in the narrow road directly in
front of the old white, who plunged furiously.
"Look out there!" shouted Eugene, as the sleigh tilted on the
snow-crust. The old white's temper was up at this sudden check, but
the woman behind him had a stronger will than he. She brought him to
a straining halt, and then she spoke to her brother.
"You let us pass!" she said, sternly.
"Where are you going?" he demanded. He looked uneasily at Dorothy as
he spoke. It was easy enough to see that she was a restraint upon
him, and that fair, timid face in its blue hood held his indignation
well in check.
"We are going to New Salem," replied Madelon. "Let us pass."
"I want to know what you are going for," said Eugene; and he tried to
speak with fire, but he still looked furtively at Dorothy.
Nobody had ever suspected how that lovely face of hers had been in
his dreams, unless it had been for a time Dorothy herself. Nobody had
noticed in meeting, of a Sabbath day long since, when Dorothy had
first returned from her Boston school, sundry glances which had
passed between a pair of soft blue eyes in the parson's pew and a
pair of fiery black ones in the singing-seats.
Dorothy, half guiltily in those days, had arranged her curls and tied
on her Sunday bonnets with a view to Eugene Hautville's eyes; and
always, when she returned from meeting, had gone straight to her
looking-glass, to be sure that she had looked fair in them. But
nobody had ever known, and scarcely she herself.
She had come to think later that she had perhaps been mistaken, for
never had Eugene made other advances to her than by those ardent
glances; and Burr had come, and she had turned to him, and thought of
Eugene Hautville only when he crossed her way, and then with a
mixture of pique and shame. Never by any chance did her eyes meet his
nowadays of a Sabbath day, and she listened coldly to his sweet tenor
in the hymns. Now, suddenly, she looked straight up in his face and
met his eyes, and a pink flush came into her white cheeks.
"Please to let us pass," she said, in her gentle tone, which had yet
a tincture of command in it. Any woman as fair as she, who has a
right understanding of her looking-glass, has, however soft she may
be, the instincts of a queen within her. She felt a proud resentment
for her own old folly and for Eugene's old slighting of her, and
indignation at his present attitude as she looked up at him with
sudden daring.
Eugene threw back his head haughtily. "She wants to see Burr Gordon,"
he thought, and would have died rather than let her think he would
stand in the way of it. He jerked the roan aside, and seemed as if he
would have been flung into the way-side bushes with her curving
plunge.
"Pass, if you wish," he said, with a graceful bend in his saddle, and
was past them, riding the other way towards the village.