BENEATH a big oak Pole stood holding his bridle-rein and waiting, his
earnest gaze on the long road leading to Jeff Wade's farm. Suddenly he
descried a cloud of dust far ahead, and chuckled.
“He's certainly on time,” he mused. “He must 'a' had his hoss already
hitched out in the thicket. Mel made good time, too. The dern scamp
wants to see bloodshed. Mel's that sort. By gum! that hain't Wade; it's
Mel hisse'f, an' he's certainly layin' the lash to his animal.”
In a gallop, Jones bore down on him, riding as recklessly as a cowboy,
his broad hat in one hand, a heavy switch in the other. He drew rein
when he recognized Baker.
“Did you deliver that message?” Pole questioned.
“Oh yes, I finally got him alone; his wife seems to suspicion some'n,
and she stuck to 'im like a leech. She's a jealous woman, Pole, an' I
don't know but what she kinder thought Jeff was up to some o' his old
shines. She's in a family-way, an' a little more cranky than common. He
was a sorter tough nut before he married, you know, an' a man like that
will do to watch.”
“Well, what did he say?” Pole asked, as indifferently as his impatience
would allow.
“Why, he said, 'All hunkeydory.' The spring plan ketched him jest right.
He said that _one_ thing--o' bloodyin' up the main street in town--had
bothered him more than anything else. He admired it in Floyd, too. Jeff
said: 'By gum! fer a town dude, that feller's got more backbone than I
expected.. He's a foe wuth meetin', an' I reckon killin' 'im won't be
sech a terrible disgrace as I was afeard it mought be.'”
“But whar are you headin' fer in sech a rush?” Pole asked.
Jones laughed slyly as he put his hat carefully on his shaggy head and
pressed the broad brims up on the sides and to a point in front. “Why,
Pole,” he answered, “to tell you the truth, I am headed fer that thar
spring. I'm goin' to acknowledge to you that, as long as I've lived in
this world, I hain't never been on hand at a shootin'-scrape. Mighty
nigh every man I know has seed oodlin's of 'em, but my luck's been agin
me. I was too young to be in the war, an' about the most excitin' thing
I ever attended was a chicken-fight, and so I determined to see this
through. I know a big rock jest above the spring, and I'm a-goin' to git
thar in plenty o' time. You let me git kivered all but my eyes, an' I'll
run the resk o' gettin' hit from thar up. Whar _you_ makin' fer, Pole?”
“Me? Oh, I'm on the way home, Mel. I seed the biggest rattlesnake run
across this road jest now I ever laid eyes on. I got down to settle his
hash, but I didn't have anything to hit 'im with, an' I'm done stompin'
on them fellers sence Tobe Baker, my cousin, over at Hillbend, got
bliffed in the knee-j'int.”
“Well, so long,” Jones laughed. “I'll hunt rattlesnakes some other time.
Are you plumb shore you hain't got the jimmies ag'in, Pole? Take my
advice an' don't tell anybody about seein' snakes; it sets folks to
thinkin'. Why, I seed you once in broad daylight when you swore black
spiders was playin' sweepstakes on yore shirt-front.”
“So long, Mel,” Pole smiled. He made a fair pretence at getting ready to
mount as Jones galloped away in a cloud of dust. The rider was scarcely
out of sight when a pair of fine black horses drawing a buggy came into
view. The vehicle contained Captain Duncan and his daughter Evelyn. She
was a delicate, rather pretty girl of nineteen or twenty, and she nodded
haughtily to Pole as her father stopped his horses.
“You are sure that thing's off, are you, Baker?” the planter said, with
a genial smile.
“Oh yes, captain.” Pole had his eyes on the young lady and had taken off
his hat, and stood awkwardly swinging it against the baggy knees of his
rough trousers.
“Well, I'm very glad,” Duncan said. “I heard you'd told some of the
crowd back at the store that it had been settled, but I didn't know
whether the report was reliable or not.”
Pole's glance shifted between plain truth and Evelyn Duncan's refined
face for a moment, and then he nodded. “Oh yes, it was all a mistake,
captain. Reports get out, you know; and nothin' hain't as bad as gossip
is after it's crawled through a hundred mouths an' over a hundred
envious tongues.”
“Well, I'm glad, as I say,” the planter said, and he jerked his reins
and spoke to his horses.
As he whirled away, Pole growled. “Derned ef I hain't a-makin' a regular
sign-post out o' myself,” he mused, “an' lyin' to beat the Dutch. Ef
that blasted fool don't hurry on purty soon I'll--but thar he is now,
comin' on with a swoop. His hoss is about to run from under 'im, his dem
legs is so long. Now, looky' here, Pole Baker, Esquire, hog-thief
an' liar, you are up agin about the most serious proposition you ever
tackled, an' ef you don't mind what you are about you'll have cold feet
inside o' ten minutes by the clock. You've set in to carry this thing
through or die in the attempt, an' time's precious. The fust thing is
to stop the blamed whelp; you cayn't reason with a man that's flyin'
through the air like he's shot out of a gun, an' Jeff Wade's a-goin' to
be the devil to halt. He's got the smell o' blood, an' that works on a
mad man jest like it does on a bloodhound--he's a-goin' to run some'n
down. The only thing in God's world that'll stop a man in that fix is to
insult 'im, an' I reckon I'll have that to do in this case.”
Jeff Wade was riding rapidly. Just before he reached Pole he drew out
his big, silver, open-faced watch and looked at it. He wore no coat and
had on a gray flannel-shirt, open at the neck. Round his waist he wore
a wide leather belt, from which, on his right side, protruded the
glittering butt of a revolver of unusual size and length of barrel.
Suddenly Pole led his own horse round until the animal stood directly
across the narrow road, rendering it impossible for the approaching
rider to pass at the speed he was going.
“Hold on thar, Jeff!” Pole held up his hand. “Whar away? The mail-hack
hain't in yet. I've jest left town.”
“I hain't goin' after no mail!” Wade said, his lips tight, a fixed stare
in his big, earnest eyes. “I'm headed fer Price's Spring. I'm goin'
to put a few holes in that thar Nelson Floyd, ef I git the drap on him
'fore he does on me.”
“Huh!” Pole ejaculated; “no, you hain't a-goin' to see him, nuther--that
is, not till me'n you've had a talk, Jeff Wade. You seem in a hurry, but
thar's a matter betwixt me an' you that's got to be attended to.”
“What the hell d' you mean?” Wade demanded, a stare of irritated
astonishment dawning in his eyes.
“Why, I mean that Nelson Floyd is a friend o' mine, an' he ain't a-goin'
to be shot down like a dog by a man that could hit a nickel a hundred
yards away nine times out o' ten. You an' me's face to face, an' I
reckon chances 'ud be somewhar about equal. I hain't a brag shot, but I
could hit a pouch as big as yourn is, at close range, about as easy as
you could me.”
“You--you--by God! do you mean to take this matter up?”
Jeff Wade slid off his horse and stood facing Pole.
“Yes, I do, Jeff--that is, unless you'll listen to common-sense. That's
what I'm here fer. I'm a-goin' to stuff reason into you ef I have to
make a hole to put it in at. You are a-goin' entirely too fast to live
in an enlightened Christian age, an' I'm here to call a halt. I've
got some things to tell you. They are a-goin' to hurt like pullin'
eye-teeth, an' you may draw yore gun before I'm through, but I'm goin'
to make a try at it.”
“What the hell do you--”
“Hold on, hold on, hold on, Jeff!” Pole raised a warning hand. “Keep
that paw off'n that cannon in yore belt or thar'll be a war right here
before you hear my proclamation of the terms we kin both live under.
Jeff, I am yore neighbor an' friend I love you mighty nigh like a
brother, but I'm here to tell you that, with all yore grit an' good
qualities, you are makin' a bellowin' jackass o' yourself. An' ef I let
you put through yore present plans, you'll weep in repentance fer it
till you are let down in yore soggy grave. Thar's two sides to every
question, an' you are lookin' only at yore side o' this un. You cayn't
tell how sorry I am about havin' to take this step. I've been a friend
to yore entire family--to yore brothers, an' yore old daddy, when he was
alive. I mighty nigh swore a lie down in Atlanta to keep _him_ out o'
limbo, when he was arrested fer moon-shinin'.”
“I know all that!” growled Wade; “but, damn it, you--”
“Hold yore taters, now, an' listen. You mought as well take yore mind
off'n that spring. You hain't a-goin' to git at Nelson Floyd without you
walk over my dead body--an' thar's no efs an' an's about that. You try
to mount that hoss, an' I'll kill you ef it's in my power. I say I've
got some'n to tell you that you'll wish you'd listened to. I know some'n
about Minnie that will put a new color on this whole nasty business; an'
when you know it, ef you kill Nelson Floyd in cold blood the law will
jerk that stiff neck o' your'n--jerk it till it's limber.”
“You say you know some'n about Minnie?” The gaunt hand which till now
had hovered over the butt of the big revolver hung straight down. Wade
stood staring, his lip hanging loose, a sudden droop of indecision upon
him.
“I know this much, Jeff,” Pole said, less sharply, “I know you are
not on the track o' the fust offender in that matter, an' when I prove
_that_ to you I don't believe you'll look at it the same.”
“You say--you say--”
“Listen now, Jeff, an' don't fly off the handle at a well-wisher sayin'
what he thinks has to be said in justice to all concerned. The truth is,
you never seed Minnie like other folks has all along. You seed 'er grow
up an' she was yore pet. To you she was a regular angel, but other
folks has knowed all along, Jeff, that she was born with a sorter light
nature. Women folks, with the'r keen eyes, has knowed that ever since
she got out o' short dresses. Even yore own wife has said behind yore
back a heap on this line that she was afeard to say to your face. Not
a soul has dared to talk plain to you, an' even _I_ wouldn't do it now
except in this case o' life an' death.”
Wade shook back his long, coarse hair. He was panting like a tired dog.
“I don't believe a damn word of what you are a-sayin,” he muttered, “an'
I'll make you prove it, by God, or I'll have yore lifeblood!”
“Listen to me, Jeff,” Pole said, gently. “I'm not goin' to threaten any
more. Believe me or not, _but listen_. You remember when Thad Pelham
went off to Mexico a year or so ago?”
Wade made no reply, but there was a look of groping comprehension in his
great, blearing eyes.
“I see you remember that,” Pole went on. “Well, you know, too, that he
was goin' with Minnie a lot about that time--takin' her buggy-ridin' an'
to meet-in'. He was a devil in pants, Jeff--his whole family was bad.
The men in it would refuse the last call to go in at the gate o' heaven
ef a designin' woman was winkin' at 'em on the outside. Well, Thad
started fer Mexico one day, an' at the same time Minnie went on a visit
to yore brother Joe in Calhoun.”
“She went thar a year ago,” Wade put in, “fer I bought 'er ticket myself
at Darley.”
“She told _you_ she went to Calhoun.” Pole's eyes were mercifully
averted. “Jeff, I met her an' Thad down in Atlanta.”
Wade caught his breath. He shook from head to foot as with a chill.
“You say--Pole, you say--”
“Yes, I met 'em comin' out o' the Globe Hotel--that little resort jest
off'n Decatur Street. They was comin' out o' the side-door, an' me an'
them met face to face. Minnie, she turned as white as a sheet, but Thad
sorter laughed like it was a good joke, an' winked at me. I bowed to 'em
an' passed on, but I seed 'em lookin' back, an' then they motioned to me
to stop, an' they come to me. Minnie set in to cryin' an' begun tellin'
me not to take the news back home--that her an' Thad loved each other
so much she jest _had_ to play the trick on you an' go as fur as Atlanta
with 'im. She said he was comin' back after he got located, an' that
they was goin' to git decently married an' so on. An' that devilish
Thad smiled an' sorter pulled his cheek down from his left eye an' said,
'Yes, Pole, we are a-goin' to git married. That is, when the proper
times comes.'”
A sigh escaped Jeff Wade's tense lips.
“Are you plumb shore the two done wrong down thar, Baker?” he asked.
Pole pulled his mustache and looked at the ground. A smile dawned and
died on his face.
“Well, I reckon they wasn't down thar to attend a Sunday-school
convention, Jeff. They didn't have that look to me. But I was so worried
fer fear I mought be doin' a woman injustice in my mind, that, after
they left me, to make sure, I went in the office o' the hotel. The clerk
was standin' thar doin' nothin', an' so I axed 'im who that young couple
was that had jest gone out, an' he laughed an' said they was a newly
married pair from up in the mountains--'Mr. an' Mrs. Sam Buncombe,' an'
he showed me whar Thad had writ the names in his scrawlin' hand-write
on the book. The clerk said that fer a freshly linked couple they headed
off any he'd ever had in his bridal-chamber. He said they was orderin'
some sort o' drink every minute in the day, an' that they made so much
racket overhead that he had to stop 'em several times. He said
they danced jigs an' sung nigger songs. He said he'd never married
hisse'f--that he'd always been afeard to make the riffle, but that ef
he could be shore matrimony was like that, that he'd find him a consort
'fore sundown or break his neck tryin'.”
Suddenly Wade put out his hand and laid it heavily on Pole's shoulder.
“Looky' here, Baker,” he said, “if you are lying to me, I--”
“Hold on, _hold on_, Jeff Wade!” Pole broke in sternly. “When you use
words like them don't you look serious! So fur, this has been a friendly
talk, man to man, as I see it; but you begin to intimate that I'm
a liar, an' I'll try my best to make you chaw the statement. You're
excited, but you must watch whar yore a-walkin'.”
“Well, I want the truth, by God, _I want the truth!_”
“Well, you are a-gittin' it, with the measure runnin' over,” Pole said,
“an' that ought to satisfy any reasonable man.”
“So you think, then, that Nelson Floyd never done any--any o' the things
folks says he did--that trip to the circus at Darley, when Minnie said
she was stayin' all night with the Halsey gals over the mountains--that
was just report?”
“Well, I ain't here to say that, _nuther_,” said Pole, most
diplomatically. “Nelson Floyd ain't any more'n human, Jeff. His wings
hain't sprouted--at least, they ain't big enough to show through his
clothes. He's like you used to be before you married an' quit the turf,
only--ef I'm any judge--you was a hundred times wuss. Ef all the men
concerned in this county was after you like you are after Nelson Floyd,
they'd be on yore track wuss'n a pack o' yelpin' wolves.”
“Oh, hell! let up on me an' what I've done! I kin take care o' myself,”
Wade snarled.
“All right, Jeff,” Pole laughed. “I was only drappin' them hints on my
way to my point. Well, Minnie she come back from Atlanta, an' fer three
whole days she looked to me like she missed Thad, but she got to goin'
with the Thornton boys, an' then Nelson Floyd run across her track. I
ain't here to make excuses fer 'im, but she was every bit as much to
blame as he was. He's been around some, an' has enough sense to git
in out o' the rain, an' I reckon he had his fun, or he wouldn't be
a-settin' at Price's Spring waitin' to meet death at the end o' that gun
o' yourn.”
Jeff Wade turned an undecided, wavering glance upon the towering
mountain on his right. He drew a deep breath and seemed about to speak,
but checked himself.
“But la me! what a stark, ravin' fool you was about to make o' yoreself,
Jeff!” Pole went on. “You started to do this thing to-day on yore
sister's account, when by doin' it you would bust up her home an' make
the rest of her life miserable.”
“You mean--”
“I mean that Joe Mitchell, that's been dead-stuck on Minnie sence she
was a little gal, set up to her an' proposed marriage. They got engaged,
an' then every old snaggle-toothed busybody in these mountains set in to
try to bust it up by totin' tales about Floyd an' others to 'im. As fast
as one would come, Minnie'd kill it, an' show Joe what a foolish thing
it was to listen to gossip, an' Joe finally told 'em all to go to hell,
an' they was married, an' moved on his farm in Texas. From all accounts,
they are doin' well an' are happy, but, la me! they wouldn't be that
away long ef you'd 'a' shot Nelson Floyd this mornin'.”
“You say they wouldn't, Pole?”
“Huh, I reckon _you_ wouldn't dance a jig an' sing hallelujah ef you was
to pick up a newspaper this mornin' an' read in type a foot long that
yore wife's brother, in another state, had laid a man out stiff as a
board fer some'n' that had tuck place sometime back betwixt the man an'
her.”
“Huh!” Wade's glance was now on Pole's face. “Huh, I reckon you are
right, Pole. I reckon you are right. I wasn't thinkin' about that.”
“Thar was _another_ duty you wasn't a-thinkin' about, too,” Pole said.
“An' that is yore duty to yore wife an' childern that would be throwed
helpless on the world ef this thing had 'a' tuck place to-day.”
“Well, I don't see _that_, anyway,” said Wade, dejectedly.
“Well, I do, Jeff. You see, ef you'd 'a' gone on an' killed Floyd,
after I halted you, I'd 'a' been a witness agin you, an' I'd 'a' had to
testify that I told you, in so many words, whar the _rale_ blame laid,
an' no jury alive would 'a' spared yore neck.”
“I reckon that's so,” Wade admitted. “Well, I guess I'll go back, Pole;
I won't go any furder with it. I promise you not to molest that scamp.
I'll not trade any more at his shebang, an' I'll avoid 'im all I kin,
but I'll not kill 'im as I intended.”
“Now you're a-talkin' with a clear head an' a clean tongue.” Pole drew a
breath of relief, and stood silent as Wade pulled his horse around, put
his foot into the heavy, wooden stirrup, and mounted. Pole said nothing
until Wade had slowly ridden several paces homeward, then he called out
to him and beckoned him back, going to meet him, leading his horse.
“I jest thought o' some'n' else, Jeff--some'n' I want to say fer myself.
I reckon I won't sleep sound to-night or think of anything the rest o'
the day ef I don't git it off my mind.”
“What's that, Pole?”
“Why, I don't feel right about callin' you to halt so rough jest now,
an' talkin' about shootin' holes in you an' the like, fer I hain't
nothin' agin you, Jeff. In fact, I'm yore friend now more than I ever
was in all my life. I feel fer you _way down inside o' me_. That look on
yore face cuts me as keen as a knife. I--I reckon, Jeff, you sorter feel
like--like yore little sister's dead, don't you?”
The rough face looking down from the horse filled. “Like she was dead
an' buried, Pole,” Wade answered.
“Well, Jeff”--Pole's voice was husky--“don't you ever think o' what
I said awhile ago about shootin'. Jeff, I jest did that to git yore
attention. You mought a-blazed away at me, but I'll be danged ef I
believe I could 'a' cocked or pulled trigger on you to 'a' saved my soul
from hell.”
“Same here, old neighbor,” said Wade, as he wiped his eyes on his
shirt-sleeve. “I wouldn't 'a' tuck them words from no other man on the
face o' God's green globe.”
When Wade had ridden slowly away, Pole mounted his own horse.
“Now I'll go tell Nelson that the danger is over,” he said. Suddenly,
however, he reined his horse in and sat looking thoughtfully at the
ground.
“No, I won't,” he finally decided. “He kin set thar an' wonder what's
up. It won't hurt him to be in doubt, dab blame his hot-blooded skin.
Thar I was in a hair's-breadth of eternity, about to leave a sweet wife
an' kids to starvation an' tumble in a bloody grave, jest beca'se a rich
chap like he is had to have his dirty bout. No, Nelsy, my boy, you look
old Death in the eye fer awhile; it won't do you no harm. Maybe it'll
cool you off a little.”
And Pole Baker rode to the thicket where he had hidden his bag of
corn-meal that' morning and took it home.
X
HAT afternoon, for Cynthia Porter, dragged slowly along. The quilt was
finished, duly admired, and laid away. The visiting girls put on their
sun-bonnets about four o'clock and went home. No further news had come
from the village in regard to the impending duel, and each girl hurried
away in the fluttering hope that she would be the first to hear of the
outcome.
Fifty times during the remainder of the afternoon Cynthia went to the
front-door to see if any one was passing from whom she might hear what
had happened, but the road leading by the house was not a main-travelled
one, and she saw only the shadows fall in advance of the long twilight
and heard the dismal lowing of the cows as they swaggered homeward from
the pasture. Then it was night, and with the darkness a great weight
descended on her young heart that nothing could lift.
The simple supper was over by eight o'clock. Her father and mother
retired to their room, and she went, perforce, to hers. Outside
the still night, with its pitiless moonlight, seemed to be a vast,
breathless thing under the awful consciousness of tragedy, deeper than
the mere mystery of the grave. Dead! Nelson Floyd dead! How impossible a
thing it seemed, and yet how could it be otherwise? She threw herself
on her bed without undressing, and lay there staring at her flickering
tallow-dip and its yellow, beckoning ghost in her tilted mirror.
Suddenly she heard a step in the hall. It was a faint, shuffling one,
accompanied by the soft slurring of a hand cautiously sliding along
the wall. The girl sat up on the bed wonderingly, and then the door was
softly opened and her grandmother came in, and with bent form advanced
to her.
“Sh!” the old woman said, raising a warning hand. “I don't want your ma
and pa to know I came here, darling. They wouldn't understand it. But I
had to come; I couldn't sleep.”
“Oh, granny, you oughtn't to be up this way!” exclaimed Cynthia. “You
know it is long past your bedtime.”
“I know that, honey, I know that,” said the old woman; “but to be late
once in a while won't hurt me. Besides, as I said, I couldn't sleep,
anyway, and so I came in to you. I knew you were wide awake--I felt
that. You see, honey, your ma can't keep anything--even anything she
wants to be silent on has to come out, sooner or later, and I discovered
what was the matter with you this morning. You see, darling, knowing
what your trouble was, old granny felt that it was her duty to try to
comfort you all she could.”
“Oh, granny, granny!” cried the girl, covering her face with her hands.
“The trouble is, I don't know what to say,” continued the old woman;
“but I thought I'd tell you what pride will do sometimes, when anybody
calls in its aid. If--if what they all think is so--if the young man
_has_ really lost his life in--in a matter of such a questionable
nature, then your womanly pride ought to back you up considerably. I
have never alluded to it, Cynthia, for I haven't been much of a hand to
encourage ideas of superiority in one person over another, but away back
in the history of the Radcliffes and the Cuylers and the Prestons, who
were our kin in Virginia, I've been told that the women were beautiful,
and great belles in the society at Richmond, before and, after the
Revolution. Why, honey, I can remember my grandmother telling us
children about being at big balls and dinners where George Washington
was entertained, and lords and ladies of the old country.
I was too young to understand what it meant, but I remember she told us
about the great droves of negroes her father owned, and the carriages
and silver, and the big grants of land from the king to him. One of her
uncles was a royal governor, whose wife was a lady of high title. I was
talking to Colonel Price about a month ago at the veteran's meeting at
Cohutta Springs, and he said he had run across a family history about
the Radcliffes where it said all of them came down from the crowned
heads of England. I believe he was right, putting all I remember to
what he said, and, lying in bed just now, it struck me that maybe one
of those ladies away back there would not let a tear drop from her proud
eyes over--over a young man who had met with misfortune as a consequence
of bad conduct. Ever since you were a little girl I have been proud
of your looks, honey. You have fine, delicate features; your hands are
small and taper to the end of the fingers, and your ankles are slender
like a fine-blooded race-horse, and your feet have high insteps and
are pretty in shape. We are poor; we have been so such a long time that
almost all record of the old wealth and power has passed out of our
memory, but a few generations of poverty won't kill well-grounded pride
and dignity.”
“Oh, granny, granny, you needn't talk to me so,” Cynthia said, calmly.
“I know what you mean, and you sha'n't be ashamed of me. I promise you
that.”
“I believe you, Cynthia, for you are showing self-respect right now. Go
to bed, dear, and take your mind off of it. I'm going now. Good-night.”
“Good-night, granny.” Cynthia stood up, and with her arms around the
frail, bowed old woman, she tenderly kissed her on the brow and led her
to the door.
“Pride!” she muttered, as the old woman's steps rang in the corridor.
“Pride is only a word. _This! this!_”--she struck her breast--“is my
soul under a knife. Why did I sit still while she was talking and not
tell her that he was _good--good_--as good a man as ever drew human
breath? Why didn't I tell her what Pole Baker's wife told me about his
carrying food at midnight on his shoulder (through the swamp, wet to his
waist) to her and the children, when Pole was off on a spree--making her
swear almost on a Bible that she never would tell? And why didn't I tell
her what Mrs. Baker said about his sitting down on the children's bed
when they were asleep and talking so beautifully about their futures,
and all the sadness of his own childhood and his anxiety to know who
and what he was? What if he _did_ meet that Minnie Wade, and she and
he--_Oh, my God!_” She stood staring at her pale face in her mirror, and
then tottered back to the bed and sank upon it, sitting erect, her tense
hands clutching her knees, as if for support against some invisible
torrent that was sweeping her away. “Dead--oh! and for _that_
reason--he, Nelson Floyd!”
Suddenly a sound fell on her ears. She sprang to her feet, straining
her hearing to catch a repetition of it, her eyes wide, the blood of
new life bounding in her veins. There it was again, the soft, mellow,
insistent call of the whippoorwill from down by the grape-arbor. For a
moment she stood still, crying to herself with an inward voice that had
no sound: “Alive! Alive! Alive!” Then blowing out her candle, she sprang
to the door of her chamber, and opened it, and passed on to the outer
one, that was never locked, and which opened on the front porch. But
there, with her hand on the knob, she paused, clutching it tightly,
but not turning the bolt. Alive; yes, alive, but why? how could it be
unless--unless he had killed Jeff Wade? Ah, that was it--red-handed,
and fleeing from the arm of the law of man and God, he had come to
say good-bye. A memory of her past determination never to meet him
clandestinely flashed through her brain, but it was like overhead
lightning that touches nothing, only warns man of its power and dies
away. She turned the bolt and passed out into the night, running, it
seemed, almost with the dragging feet of one in a nightmare, towards the
trysting-place.
“Ah, here you are!” Nelson Floyd stood in the door-way of the little
arbor, his arms outstretched. She allowed him to catch her cold,
bloodless hands and lead her to the rustic seat within.
They sat down together. She felt his strong arm encompass her but had
not the strength or will to resist. He pressed his cheek down on her
cold brow, then his lips, and clasped one of her hands with his big warm
one. Still she could not put him off. It was like a perplexing dream.
There was the horror, and yet here was vague reassurance that at once
inspired hope and benumbed her.
“What's the matter, little girl?” he asked, tenderly. “I declare you are
quivering all over.”
She sat up. Pushing him back from her, and twisting her hand from his
grasp, she looked straight into his eyes.
“Jeff Wade!” she gasped. “Jeff Wade!--have you--did you--”
“Oh, I _see!_” he laughed, awkwardly. “I might have known you would
hear about that. But never mind, little girl, the whole of it was
gossip--there was nothing in it!”
“You mean--oh, Nelson, you say that you and he did not--”
“Not a bit of it,” he laughed again, mechanically. “Everybody in town
this morning was declaring that Jeff Wade was going to kill me on sight,
but it wasn't true. I haven't seen him to-day.”
“Oh, Nelson, I heard that he'd actually killed you.”
“Killed me? Oh, that's a good joke!” he laughed. “But you must promise
me never again to pay any attention to such stuff. The idea! Why,
Cynthia, don't you know better than to believe everything that comes by
word of mouth in this section? I'll bet somebody started that who really
wanted me out of the way. I've got enemies, I know that.” She drew
herself still farther from him, eying him half suspiciously through the
darkness. Her lips were parted; she was getting her breath rapidly, like
a feverish child.
“But he was mad at you, I know that. You need not tell me an untruth.”
“A man is almost justifiable,” he laughed, “when he wants to keep such
dirty stuff from young, refined ears like yours. Let's not talk of it
any more, little girl. Why spoil this delightful meeting with thoughts
of such things? You have no idea how much I've wanted to see you.”
“Then”--she put out her cold hand to the latticework and drew herself
up--“why did you whistle for me? You said you'd--you'd call me if
you--you really needed me badly.”
“Well, that's what I did to-night, I assure you,” he laughed. “I felt
like I just _had_ to see you and talk with you. You see, I knew this
thing would finally get to you, and that you would worry and perhaps
lose sleep over it. I knew when you saw me with a whole skin and solid
bones that you'd--”
“You flattered yourself that I'd care! Huh, I see! I suppose I'd hate to
see _any one_ shot down in cold blood at a moment's notice like that.”
He caught her hand and laughingly attempted to draw her to him again,
but she remained leaning against the door-frame.
“You are not going to be mad at me,” he said, pleadingly, “now, are
you?”
“No, but I'm going into the house I told you I'd not meet you here after
all the others have gone to bed, when you whistled as you would to your
dog, and I want you to know I would not have come if I had not been
over-excited. Good-night.”
“Wait a moment. I really did want to see you particularly, Cynthia--to
make an engagement. The young folks are all going over to Pine Grove
next Sunday afternoon to attend meeting, and I want to take you in my
new buggy behind my Kentucky horse.”
“You couldn't wait till to-morrow to ask me,” she said, interrogatively.
“No, I couldn't wait till to-morrow, for that long, slim 'sky-pilot'
will run over before breakfast to ask you to go with him. I know that.
But can I count on you?”
She hesitated for a moment, then she said, simply: “Yes, I'll go with
you; but I shall leave you now. Good-night.”
“Good-night, then. Well, I'll see you Sunday--I guess that will have to
do.”