"Yes, he's my minister. He knows all about me. He told me to do my
best, but if the time came when I just couldn't bear it another minute I
might go. He said _he_ couldn't help me run away, because--because----"
"Certaintly he couldn't!" said Martha.
"But he said, if ever I _had_ to do it, the Lord would raise up some one
who could. Mother's never liked me. I've not been happy a minute since
my father died. _He_ wasn't happy. He had no peace of his life. He
used to tell mother she'd get her come-uppance some day, and she's got
it now, for Buller, that's her second husband, he beats her. He's got
her money and mine too, what father left us, and he's afraid I'll law
him, now I'm of age and can. I tried to run off yesterday, but he
caught me and took away my clothes, and locked me in my room. I had
some money I'd got hold of. 'Twas my own--and when he caught me, and he
and mother stripped me and locked me up, I held on to it, all through,
though he beat me black and blue with his belt-strap."
She spread her poor little trembling palm, disclosing a fistful of
crumpled bills.
"See? And here's where he beat me--and _she_ stood by and let him!"
As she spoke, the girl drew back the coarse night-dress from her breast,
displaying shoulders and back seamed across with cruel wales.
Martha drew in her breath shudderingly, shielding her eyes with her
elbow in a quick, instinctive defensive gesture.
"I'd know you speak the truth without--_that_!" she said.
"After they left me, and locked me in--when I could _think_--I
remembered what Mr. Wedall said about the Lord raising up help for me,
and it made me mad, for there was no one to lift a hand for me. And
then, all at once, somehow, you came into my mind. I saw you help a dog
once, nobody else would touch. D'you remember? All the rest were
afraid. They said he might be mad. But you said, 'Of course he ain't
mad.' And you took him up, and took him home, and--you weren't afraid."
"No, I'm not afraid," said Martha.
"After you came into my mind I never rested till I found a way to get
out. I waited till everything was quiet. They'd gone to bed. Then I
managed it--through the window--down the grapevine trellis--I----"
Martha made her way to the corner cupboard. "I'll fix you up with arnica
an' water inside and out," she explained. "An', while I'm doin' it, you
tell me what you've planned."
"Nothing. I've planned nothing. Buller says I'm looney. Perhaps I am.
I can't seem to think."
"Have you got any folks anywheres? I mean, on your father's side?"
"I've an uncle. Father's brother. But he lives in Montreal."
"Montreal! Where would that be, I wonder?"
"In Canada. Up north."
Mrs. Slawson bound on her soothing compresses in silence. Suddenly she
paused, alert, listening. Then, quick as a flash, she caught her visitor
by the sleeve, drew her back in to the entry and pushed her into a small
closet under the stairs.
"Hush! I hear a horse. Don't you breathe till I come an' tell you."
A moment later she was lying in bed, as still as though she, like Sam,
were fast asleep and dreaming.
Presently Sam stirred, sat up drowsily, and listened.
"Say, mother, you asleep?"
No answer.
A voice from below in the garden called up hoarsely:
"Hullo, there!"
"What's wanted?" demanded Sam.
"I'm Buller, from Milby's Corners. My wife's daughter has wandered off
in the night. I'm out hunting for her, to take her home. She ain't all
there in the upper story. I thought, maybe, she'd come in here. The
last I saw of her, she was making this way. She's in her night-shift.
I could see her plain as day, far ahead of me."
Sam was so obviously but just-awakened, that Buller from Milby's Corners
turned his horse's head, as if to make a quick departure, when Mrs.
Slawson, yawning, leaned over the rail of the sleeping-porch and spoke.
"Say, wait a minute. The poor thing! Wanderin' about in the night,--an'
her light-headed--away from your pertectin' love an' care! Ain't it
awful! My husban' an' me'll get up, an' be dressed in no time, for we'd
like to help her, if we can, poor creature! In the meantime, seein' you
ain't found her here, I s'pose you'll be goin' further. Out in her
night-clo'es! My! I wonder---- Say, Sam--do _you_ see somethin' white
flitterin' along towards the south--down the valley road d'rection?
Seems to me _I_ do!"
Sam thought maybe he did.
Buller kicked a heel into his horse.
"G'long! I'm off down the valley road. I bet 'tis her. I'll have her
yet, the d--the poor dear!"
The instant he was gone, Martha dragged Sam into the house.
"Quick! Dress you! An' go down get the auta. I have the girl hid in
the entry closet. I'm goin' to take her out o' harm's way, which is
that brute beast's."
"But, Martha----" remonstrated Sam.
"Sam Slawson, do as I tell you! Or you'll have to _shove_ us into
Burbank in your present gob, which, believe _me_, it ain't bewitchin'.
You can take it from me, lad, I'm goin' to catch that north-bound
express that leaves Burbank at one o'clock this night, which, if we
don't make it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin'. So we _got_
to make it, or I'll know the reason why!"
Impelled by a motive power so irresistible, Sam dressed and went about
his business without venturing another word.
Martha clothed herself in the brief intervals when she was not attending
Ellen Hinckley, giving her bread to eat, milk to sip, enveloping her in
garments gathered from everywhere, anywhere, a conglomerate assortment
that would have been grotesque if it had not been touching.
"No one'll mind your looks," Martha reassured her. "Just you sit tight,
an' keep your own counsel, an' not a dog'll bark after you. Ma's veil
tied down over Cora's hat is quite stylish, an', be this an' be that,
you've got as good a motorin' costume as any. They all look like Sam
Hill. So now, I guess, we might be movin'!"
"It's a crazy scheme," Sam whispered in his wife's ear, as she bent to
him to deliver last instructions, while he was cranking up. "Suppose a
tire bursts?"
"It ain't goin' to," she assured him with perfect confidence.
Out of the gate they sped, then along the hard, white high-road. Even
Martha's garrulous tongue was stilled.
The world, bathed in this silver, ethereal light, seemed unfamiliar,
remote, the sky to have withdrawn, in infinite cool reaches, beyond the
burning little tragedy they were enacting. After a considerable period
of silence, Martha turned to ask Ellen Hinckley if she were comfortable.
The poor creature had fallen asleep, lulled by the motion of the car,
the soft night air, but more than all by the sense of blessed security
under Mrs. Slawson's protecting wing.
Martha was about to nudge Sam to look, when he turned a three-quarters
profile toward her.
"I hear something back of us. Can you see?"
"No. If I stir she'll wake. You don't think it's him?"
"It may be. Joe Harding's place is down the valley road. He has a car.
Buller mayn't suspect we're helping the girl, but when he didn't find
her in that direction, Harding may have offered to take a hand in the
game."
"Would any man o' conscience help a fella like Buller, who all the
neighborhood knows the life he's led this poor creature--him an' the
mother, which she's a disgrace to the name."
"No, but Harding ain't a man of conscience,--not so you'd notice it, as
you say. If Buller's out on the still-hunt, Harding'd join in for the
pleasure of the chase."
"Put on power," directed Martha.
Again that swift, silent progress through the night.
Once Sam whispered: "I guess we were stung. I can't hear anything back
of us any more, can you?"
"No," said Martha. "But stung or no stung, keep a-goin'. We ain't
takin' no risks."
Ellen Hinckley slept fitfully, but even in her waking moments she was
not aware of the dangers the others had feared.
"Let her rest," Martha meditated. "After she's made a clean getaway,
she'll have all that's comin' to her, in the line o' excitement an'
strain. I don't believe'm when he says she ain't all there in the upper
story. But that's not meanin' I think she's furnished as handsome as
some. She may have all her buttons, an' yet not be the brainiest party
I ever come in contract with. Why didn't she up an' open her mind an'
give Buller a piece o' it long ago? There's many things a married
woman's got to shoulder, God knows, but chas*tise*ment, hot off'n his
griddle, as you might say, not on your life, even a married woman
needn't stand, much less a unmarried maiden-girl. It ain't decent. If
a man oncet took the strap to me, I'd fix'm so's the doctor'd have to
hunt for the buckle o' his belt behind his internal workin's, in back
among his spine. An' I'd be proud o' the job."
When they were within about five miles of Burbank Sam gave a low
whistle.
"I was wonderin' if you heard it too," Martha responded promptly.
"Firstoff I thought 'twas my imagination, but it ain't. Somethin'
certaintly's follain' along in our tracks."
"The first was a false alarm. So may this be," said Sam.
"Sure. But, could you speed up some? Just for luck?"
Presently Martha heard another sound.
"Now, Ellen," she announced firmly, "you got to brace up. Cryin' won't
do you a mite o' good."
"He's following. I know it. He's got a car. He'll get me and take me
back and--_kill_ me!"
"He will if you don't do as I say. But not on your life he won't, if
you mind your aunt Martha. Firstoff, have you got your money safe an'
handy?"
"Yes. Here."
"That's right. See you don't lose it, when I assist you onto the train.
There mayn't be much time to spare, but if the brakeman's any good on
the catch, I'm up to handin'm a neat throw, an' between us you'll get
there!"
"But my ticket----"
"This is no time for thinkin' o' tickets. Let the conductor be glad if,
after the train is on its way, you got the price o' one o' them long,
floatin' streamer-effec's he carries in his vest-pocket, to amuse 'mself
punchin' holes in it."
They sped into Burbank under all the power Sam dared put on.
"Thank God!" sobbed Ellen Hinckley.
But when they reached the station, no train was in sight, the place was
virtually deserted.
Sam drew up beside the platform and, for a moment sat quite still,
evidently cogitating.
"No such thing! The train ain't gone!" said Martha, as if he had
maintained it had. "It's only five minutes to one."
"It might have been ahead of time."
"Did you ever know one was?" inquired his wife.
He got out and made his way to the waiting-room. A moment and he was
back.
"There's been delays back along the road. The train's two hours late.
It won't be here till three, or after."
"Well, what do you think o' that!" said Martha.
The next instant she was dragging Ellen Hinckley into the waiting-room,
through it, and on into the telegraph-operator's booth.
"Say, young fella," she addressed him bluntly, "this party here's in
danger of her life. Me an' my husban' is gettin' her out o' harm's way,
which he's hot on our track. He'll be along any minute. Think o' your
mother, if you ever had one. An if not, think o' some other female o'
the same sect, only younger. Lend a hand, anyhow, to help us out, will
you?"
The youth eyed Mrs. Slawson dubiously.
"How do I know----?" he began objecting.
"You don't. But, by the time I get through with you, you will. Only
this ain't the _time_, see? Come now, step lively, like they say in New
York. Put this party away, out o' sight. No matter how crampin' the
place. An' be quick about it!"
The young man gazed about his booth helplessly, shook his head, then got
upon his feet. He drew a key from his pocket, as if acting under
hypnotic suggestion.
"I'm taking your word for it," he grumbled. "If it gets me into
trouble----"
"_I'll_ get you out," answered Martha confidently.
Without further ado he led them through the waiting-room, unlocked the
baggage-room door and, in the semi-darkness, he and Martha walled their
captive in behind a barricade of freight and baggage.
"Try to be contented till train-time," Mrs. Slawson admonished Ellen.
"Don't you be scared. We won't forget you, nor we won't let your
stepfather get you, 'less it's over this young-man-here's dead body
an'----"
"Oh, I say!" objected the telegraph-operator plaintively.
Martha shook her head at him. "I only wanted to cheer her up," she
whispered, as they passed out into the waiting-room, he locking the door
behind them.
Sam came forward to meet her.
"I guess we had our scare for nothing," he observed. "If that'd been
Buller behind us, he'd have got here before now."
"Not if he'd had tire-troubles. But prob'ly you're right," said Martha.