The Hills of Refuge Part 24

"That if you accepted this offer it would be binding?" Charles threw into the gap.

It seemed to him that she flushed slightly. She was very erect, very stately. Somehow he thought of her as a captured young queen suffering under the indignities of her enemies. She made no answer, and, leaning toward her, he repeated his words even more earnestly and in greater agitation.

"Yes, as I look at it, the acceptance would bind me," she finally gave out. "I could not take the money otherwise, for I simply have no way of paying. He put it that way himself; that he was as much interested in my brothers as I, because, in a sense, they would be _his_ brothers."

Charles was pale; he was trembling; he knew that his voice was unsteady, for his whole being was surcharged with a pa.s.sion which his reason could not justify, and which his sheer helplessness only intensified.

"You must not accept his money; you must not bind yourself," he cried.

"Why?" she asked, with the half-eager look even a desperate woman may wear when facing the evidence of a man's growing pa.s.sion for her.

"Because you don't love him," was the reply which further fed her curiosity as to his trend of thought. "You couldn't love such a man. He is incapable of appreciating you. For two such persons to marry would be a crime against the holiest laws of the universe."

"I can't quite agree with you," she replied, as she slowly shook her proud head. "You see, Mr. Brown, there are things more important than even marriage. It is important that I save my brothers, for their own sakes. I don't count. If I should have to accept this money, it may save Tobe Keith and my dear boys." She laughed half-bitterly. "What would I care after that? Do you think I would begrudge the price? Never, and I'd be as true a wife as ever was bought in a slave-mart in the Orient.

Always--always after that I'd know positively that I'd accomplished some actual good in life."

"Never! never!" he cried. "It would be wrong unpardonably wrong!"

"How can you say that--you, of all men?" she suddenly demanded. "Didn't you intimate last night that by giving up your home and becoming a wanderer you had helped make others happy?"

"That was different," he flashed out. "I was a worthless drunkard, a disgrace to my home, relatives, and friends. I was compelled to leave, anyway. I could not have held my head up another day. But it is different with you. You have been nothing but a help and a blessing to your family and friends. You deserve all that life can possibly give to any one, and you must get your just dues."

She smiled and slowly shook her head. "You are a poor witness for your argument," she said. "When the time came you forgot yourself, and that really is the ideal course. You have intimated that the decision, whatever it was, has not made you unhappy, and I think it will be the same with me. Thousands of women have been contented after marriage with men they did not love very deeply. Women have even married for sordid reasons alone, and led normal lives afterward. Why should I not take the risk with such a motive as mine would be? No, if Albert Frazier is the means of saving Tobe Keith's life and restoring my brothers to me, I shall withhold nothing from him that I can give. Already he is working night and day to prevent their arrest. I couldn't bear to see them behind the bars of a jail. Kensy could stand it, but not my poor, sensitive, fanciful Martin. Let's not talk about it any more."

Tears were in her eyes, and her lips were twitching under a flood of emotion about to burst from its confines. Here the bell was rung for luncheon.

"You go on in," Mary said, huskily. "I am not a bit hungry. You will excuse me, won't you?" She turned toward the stairs to go up to her room, and, like a man walking in a dream, he went to his place at the table. What a mockery the act of eating seemed when his soul was in such turmoil! On his walk home he had felt very hungry, but his appet.i.te had left him. He ate perfunctorily, so much so that Aunt Zilla showed concern.

"What ails yer, sir?" she asked. "Yer ain't gwine ter mek yo'se'f sick, is yer? Dat strain, two trips in one, thoo all dat mud en' slush, was onreasonable, 'long wid no sleep."

He smiled up at her. His contact on a level with the lowest of mankind had broadened his sympathies for humble people, and he felt drawn to her, for her tone was unmistakably kind.

"No, I'm all right, Aunt Zilla," he answered.

She went to the kitchen for some hot waffles, and when she put them before him she said: "I'm gwine tell you some'n', Mr. Brown. I'm gwine ter tell you, 'kase you is er stranger in dis place en' orter know. I know nice white folks when I sees 'um, en' I know dey ain't nothin'

wrong 'bout you. I'm gwine tell you ter look out fer dis yer Frazier man. He won't do. He ain't de right stripe, en' ef we-all wasn't po' now he wouldn't be let in at de front do' er dis yer house. Bofe him en' his brother come fum low stock. Deir daddy was a overseer dat couldn't write his name. You kin tell what dis one is by de way he set at de table en'

handle his knife en' fork en' spout wid his loud mouf when Ma.r.s.e Andy is talkin'. Yes, I'm gwine tell you what I heard 'im say ter Ma.r.s.e Andy when dey was in de settin'-room des now. Ma.r.s.e Andy tol' 'im what you went to de mountains fer, en' he fairly ripped en' snorted. He was mad 'kase dey-all let you know de boys' hidin'-place. He said you couldn't be trusted; dat you had some secret reason fer helpin' out wid de boys.

He said de sheriff was on de lookout fer some house-breakers dat was wid de circus, en' done lef' it ter 'scape fum de law. De low rapscallion said he was bounden sh.o.r.e dat you was one of 'em. He said he was des lyin' low, right now, but dat befo' long when dey got de papers ter serve on you, dey was gwine arrest you."

Charles laughed softly. "Well, I am not a house-breaker, Aunt Zilla," he said. "I am not boasting of what I am. I make no claims of any sort, but I am not one of the men the Fraziers are looking for."

"Ma.r.s.e Andy tol' 'im dat," the woman went on, "but it des made 'im all de madder, en' he went on tryin' ter 'suade Ma.r.s.e Andy ter send you off.

Marster has ter take er lot off'n 'im 'kase he owes 'im some money, I hear 'um say. Dey was talkin' about you when young miss come in en' hear 'um."

"Oh, she heard!" Charles exclaimed. "I'm sorry she did."

"Huh! young miss don't believe it!" Zilla cried. "She tol' 'im so ter his face, en' was purty sharp erbout it, too. She woulder say mo' on de same line ef she wasn't afeard he'd turn erginst de boys. I seed she was good mad en' tryin' powerful hard ter hold in. She come in de kitchen while 'er pa en' Mr. Frazier was talkin' en' tol' me, she did, dat I mus' not listen ter anything he say erginst you. She say you is had trouble en' is all erlone in de world widout kin en' er home, but dat you was er honorable gen'man. Shucks! I already knowed dat. I knows white folks of de right stripe es soon as I see how dey handle black folks."

Charles thanked her warmly and left the table. The soil was too wet for working in the field, and he was about to sit down on the veranda when Mary suddenly came from the parlor and faced him.

She was smiling sweetly. "Do you know what you are going to do?" she demanded, playfully and yet firmly. "You are going right up to your room and take off those damp clothes. Then you are going to cover up in bed and take a good nap."

"Am I?" he retorted, and yet he was deeply touched. He was reminded of the days in his boyhood when his mother kept watch over his well-being, and of a later period when Celeste had nursed him after his unpardonable debauches. He had been a homeless wanderer for a long time, and here in this out-of-the-way place he was being treated kindly, almost lovably.

He told himself that he was unworthy of it, and yet it was sweet, so comforting that he hoped he would never lose it. He had made friends of the two boys, of the old, preoccupied gentleman, of the black serving-woman, and, above all, he had the friends.h.i.+p and grat.i.tude of the marvelous young creature before him.

"Yes," she persisted, "you must go; and don't wait, either. While you were walking your wet things were not so bad, but you are inactive now, and may take cold."

With a smile he obeyed her. In his room, as he undressed, he caught sight of the picture of Ruth on his bureau, and for a moment his eyes lingered on it. It was the only visible link between him and a life that was never to be his again, but he didn't care. How wonderful the new life was! How good to feel that he was helping that particular family to bear its troubles! What did his own amount to? Nothing at all. They had become non-existent.

He was about to lie down when he heard the sound of a horse's hoofs in the yard below, and, going to a window, he looked out. Mary was mounting the horse Zilla had led from the stables to the block at the gate. The girl had donned a black riding-skirt and she wore an attractive little cap; she took her place in the saddle very gracefully. In a moment she was galloping away toward the village. He surmised what it meant. She was going to get news of the wounded man's condition.

Charles knew there was no sleep for him. How could he sleep when his mind was in its present turmoil? It was impossible. He gave up the effort, and, dressing, went down-stairs.

CHAPTER XII

It was well for Charles's state of mind that he was unaware of what had happened at his home at the time of his disappearance and shortly afterward.

Two weeks from the day of the exposure of the affair at the bank, a personage of great importance in the estimation of the Brownes arrived from Europe. It was an uncle of William and Charles, an elderly man of considerable wealth, a childless widower, who, having long since retired from business, lived on a private income and traveled extensively, that he might pa.s.s the remainder of his days with less monotony than the quiet life of Boston afforded; he was a lonely old man who cared little for club life and had no tastes in art, music, or literature.

James Browne reached the home of his nephew one Sunday morning just as the little family were leaving the table. They were expecting him, but not quite so soon, for they had thought that he would stop as usual for a few days in New York, where he had landed.

He was tall and slender, with a pink complexion and rather long snow-white hair and beard. It was plain that he was angry, and it was evident in a moment that he had been so since he sailed from Southampton a week before. He shook hands with William perfunctorily and kissed Celeste and Ruth as if it were a mere matter of form which the relations.h.i.+p demanded. He was about to speak, when Celeste interrupted him by rising and leading the child to the door, where she was turned over to a maid.

"We think it best for her not to hear anything about her uncle," Celeste said. "She simply thinks he has gone away for a while. She was devoted to him."

"She may as well know," the old man retorted, gruffly. "She will hear it quickly enough. I heard it even in London. You see, my name was mentioned along with all the rest of you. The papers, even over there, had accounts of it. It was thought the scoundrel had sailed for England under an a.s.sumed name. My bankers asked for particulars. They are more blunt about such things over there than we are. Well, well! has he been caught yet?"

"No, not yet," William answered, and both Celeste and his uncle stared at him. His face was very rigid and had the bloodless look of a man who was in a low nervous condition.

"Where do they think he is?" the old man demanded.

"No one knows," William managed to say, "He has not been heard of since he left."

The elder Browne sniffed in disgust and stroked his beard with his carefully manicured fingers. William noticed that their nails glistened in the light from the window. He noticed the loose English cut of his uncle's tweed suit, and the quaint watch-fob which had been picked up somewhere abroad.

"Do you think he will be caught?" the old man went on.

"I don't know. I can't say," was William's slow reply. "The police have not--not consulted me as to that. The bank officials don't mention it, either. They are very considerate. In fact, they are very kind and anxious to have me feel--feel that they do not hold me responsible for what happened."

"I suppose so," the elder Browne said, promptly. "I read that you had made the loss good. Have you?"

"Half of it is paid already, and they know where the rest is coming from in a few days. They are well secured and satisfied."

"I was going to speak of that debt later," the old man said. "We are all one family, and a disgrace like this against our name and blood ought to be shouldered equally, as far as cost is concerned. William, I'm going to pay half of that shortage. I'll give my check for it to-morrow. I'll see Bradford in the morning. Do you know, I don't want the scamp brought back here. I think when the loss is paid the chase will let up. What is your idea?"