Ann Boyd Part 20

"I want a word with you, Mr. Chester," she said, and she moved towards him, the revolver hanging at her side.

She heard him gasp, and he stood as if paralyzed in the moonbeams which fell through the open doorway and the side-lights of frosted gla.s.s.

"Who are you?" he managed to articulate.

"Oh, you know me, I reckon, Mr. Chester. I'm Ann Boyd. I want to see you on a little private business, just between you and me, you know. It needn't go any further."

"Oh, Ann Boyd!" he exclaimed, and the thought ran through his bewildered brain that she had mistaken him for his father, and that he was accidentally running upon evidence of an intercourse between the two that he had thought was a thing of the past. "But, Mrs. Boyd," he said, "you've made a mistake. My father is away; he left for Savannah-"

"I didn't want to see your father," Ann snarled, angrily. "My business is with you, my fine young man, and n.o.body else."

"Me?" he gasped, in growing surprise. "Me?"

"Yes, you. I've come back for Virginia Hemingway's shawl. She says you kept it. Just between you and me," she went on, "I don't intend to leave a thing like that in the hands of a man of your stamp to hold over the poor girl and intimidate her with."

"You say-you say-" He seemed unable to formulate expression for his abject astonishment, and he left the door and aimlessly moved to the railing of the stairs and stood facing her. His eyes now fell on the revolver in her hand, and the sight of it increased his wondering perturbation.

"I said I wanted her shawl," Ann repeated, firmly, "and I don't see no reason why I should stand here all night to get it. You know what you did with it. Hand it to me!"

"Her shawl?" he muttered, still staring at her wide-eyed and bewildered, and wondering if this might not be some trap the vindictive recluse was setting for him.

"Oh, I see," Ann laughed-"you think the poor, frail thing is still up there locked in that room; but she ain't. I saw her coming this way to-night, and, happening to know what you wanted her for, I come after her. You was busy with them galoots in the parlor, and I didn't care to bother you, so I went up and fetched her down without waiting to send in a card. She's in her bed by this time, poor little thing! And I come back for the shawl. I wasn't afraid of you, even without this gun that I found in your room. Thank G.o.d, the girl's as pure as she was the day she drew milk from her mother's breast, and I'll see to it that you won't never bother her again. This night you have sunk lower than man ever sunk-even them in your own family. You tried everything h.e.l.l could invent, and when you failed you went to heaven for your bribes. You knew how she loved her wretched old hag of a mammy and what she wanted the money for. Some sensible folks argue that there isn't no such place as a h.e.l.l. I tell you, Langdon Chester, there _is_ one, and it's full to running over-packed to the brink-with your sort. For your own low and selfish gratification you'd consign that beautiful flower of a girl to a long life of misery. You dirty scamp, I'm a good mind to-Look here, get me that shawl! You'll make me mad in a minute." She suddenly advanced towards him, the revolver raised half threateningly, and he shrank back in alarm.

"Don't, don't point that thing at me!" he cried. "I don't want trouble with you."

"Well, you get that shawl then, and be quick about it."

He put a foot on the lower step of the stairs. "It's up at the door of the room," he said, doggedly. "I dropped it there just for a joke. I was only teasing her. I-I know she's a good girl. She-she knew I was going to give it back to her. I was afraid she'd get frightened and run down before those men, and-"

"And your h.e.l.lish cake would be dough!" Ann sneered. "Oh, I see, but that isn't getting the shawl."

He took another slow step, his eyes upon her face, and paused.

"You are trying to make it out worse than it is," he said, at the end of his resources. "I promised to give her the money, which I had locked in the desk in the library for safe-keeping, and asked her to come get it.

She and I were on the steps when those men drove up. I begged her to run up-stairs to that room. I-I locked the door to-to keep them out more than for-for any other reason."

"Oh yes, I know you did, Langdon Chester, and you took her shawl for the same reason and made the poor, helpless, scared thing agree to wait for you. A good scamp pleases me powerful, but you are too good a sample for any use. Get the shawl."

"I don't want to be misunderstood," Chester said, in an all but conciliatory tone, as he took a slow, upward step.

"Well, you bet there's no danger of me not understanding you," Ann sneered. "Get that shawl."

Without another word he groped up the dark steps. Ann heard him walking about on the floor above, striking matches and uttering exclamations of anger. Presently she heard him coming. When half-way down the stairs he paused and threw the shawl to her.

"There it is," he said, sullenly. "Leave my revolver on the steps."

Ann caught the shawl, which, like some winged thing, swooped down through the darkness, and the next instant she had lowered the hammer of the revolver and laid it on the lowest step of the stairs.

"All right, it's an even swap," she chuckled-"your gun for our shawl.

Now go to your bed and sleep on this. It's my opinion that, bad as you are, young man, I've done you a favor to-night."

"There's one thing I'll try to find out," he summoned up retaliatory courage to say, "and that is why you are bothering yourself so much about the daughter of a woman you are doing all you can to injure."

Ann laughed from the door as she crossed the threshold, the shawl under her arm. "It will do you good to study on that problem," she said. "You find that out, and I'll pay you well for the answer. I don't know that myself."

From the window of his room above, Langdon watched her as she pa.s.sed through the gate and disappeared on the lonely road.

"She won't tell it," he decided. "She'll keep quiet, unless it is her plan to hold it over Jane Hemingway. That may be it-and yet if that is so, why didn't she-wait?"

XXIII

The sun had just risen the next morning, and its long, red streamers were kindling iridescent fires in the jewels of dew on the dying gra.s.s of the fields. White mists, like tenderly caressing clouds, hung along the rocky sides of the mountains. Ann Boyd, her eyes heavy from unwonted loss of sleep, was at the barn feeding her horses when she saw Virginia coming across the meadows. "She wants her shawl, poor thing!" Ann mused.

"I'll go get it."

She went back into the house and brought it out just as the beautiful girl reached the barn-yard fence and stood there wordless, timid, and staring. "You see, I kept my word," the elder woman said, with an effort at a smile. "Here is your shawl." Virginia reached out for it. She said nothing, simply folding the shawl on her arm and staring into Ann's eyes with a woe-begone expression. She had lost her usual color, and there were black rings round her wonderful eyes that gave them more depth and seeming mystery than ever.

"I hope your mother wasn't awake last night when you got back," Ann said.

"No, she wasn't-she was sound asleep," Virginia said, without change of expression. It was as if, in her utter depression, she had lost all individuality.

"Then she don't know," Ann put in.

"No, she don't suspect, Mrs. Boyd. If she did, she'd die, and so would I."

"Well, I don't see as she is likely to know-_ever_, as long as she lives," Ann said, in a crude attempt at comfort-giving.

"I fancied you'd _want_ her to know," said the girl, looking at Ann frankly. "After I thought it over, I came to the conclusion that maybe you did it all so you could tell her. I see no other reason for-for you being so-so good to-to me."

"Well, I don't know as I've been good to anybody." Ann's color was rising in spite of her cold exterior. "But we won't talk about that.

Though I'll tell you one thing, child, and that is that I'll never tell this to a living soul. n.o.body but you and me an' that trifling scamp will ever know it. Now, will _that_ do you any good? It's the same, you see, as if it had never really taken place."

"But it _did_ take place!" Virginia said, despondently.

"Oh yes, but you don't know when you are in luck," Ann said, grimly. "In things like that a miss is as good as a mile. Study my life awhile, and you'll fall down on your knees and thank G.o.d for His mercy. Huh, child, don't be silly! I know when a young and good-looking girl that has gone a step too far is fortunate. Look here-changing the subject-I saw your mammy standing in the back door just now. Does she know you left the house?"

"Yes, I came to look for the cow," said Virginia.

"Then she don't suspicion where you are at," said Ann. "Now, you see, she may have noticed that you walked off without a shawl, and you'd better not wear one home. Leave it with me and come over for it some time in the day when she won't miss you."

"I think I'd better take it back," Virginia replied. "She wears it herself sometimes and might miss it."

"Oh, I see!" Ann's brows ran together reflectively. "Well, I'll tell you. Tote it under your arm till you get near the house, and then drop it somewhere in the weeds or behind the ash-hopper, and go out and get it when she ain't looking."

"I'll do that, then," the girl said, wearily. "I was thinking, Mrs.

Boyd, that not once last night did I remember to thank you for-"