The Hills of Refuge Part 47

"I think he went up-stairs," Martin said. "He may be tired. He has worked hard to-day."

"Tired!" repeated the grim listener, with a sardonic smile, as if the body counted when the soul of a man was being hounded to such a sinister doom. Mary was still on the veranda. What good could be done by his going to her? How could he act with her as if nothing new had happened when the claws of this unexpected monster were clutching his throat? He crept with the tread of a thief out into the hall and looked down the stairs. He could see Mary standing in the doorway. What was she thinking? How would she view the thing he now feared? He went back into his room and strode to and fro across the uncarpeted floor, his arms locked, his jaws clenched. Presently he heard the sound of hoofs and some one dismounted at the gate and strode up the walk to the steps.

Charles went to a window. A restive horse was pawing at the gate. The voice of one of the deputies came up from below:

"I happened to meet the sheriff over at Dodd's, Colonel. He said the bond would be all right, and he has ordered us away. Your man will have to appear in a few days, and you will be informed. He said to tell you that the bond would be drawed up for a thousand dollars and that the fellow would not be arrested yet a while. He said for me to say that you was taking a big risk, as he has fresh reasons for thinking that your man will never be able to show a clean record. He thinks if he had been able to do so he would have put it up before this, considering all that's happened."

Charles started to the stairs, but suddenly checked himself. What was there to say or do? And time to think and try to plan was what he needed. He went back to his room and sat down. He was aflame with the terrible shame of the thing. He heard Mary's subdued voice in conversation with her father and brothers, and the hoof-beats of the deputy's horse as he rode away toward the village. How could he face his friends down there with sealed lips when they were so valiantly and faithfully defending him out of sheer confidence in his veiled integrity? He decided that he would not join them. He sat in his unlighted room till he heard them saying good night to one another, and then he went to bed, but not to sleep. Through the long, warm night he struggled with his problem. Once he half thought he had solved it. He might now manage to escape. It would be leaving Rowland with the bond to pay, but he could perhaps get to William safely, secure the money, and return it. But could it be done? No, for the names of Charles Brown of Georgia and Charles Browne of Boston would be linked together by the detectives, published everywhere, and a renewed search for the bank defaulter would meet with success. No, there was nothing to do now but to wait--if a man of his temperament could wait with a sword like that hanging over him and all he loved.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

Charles and the boys were in the field the next morning. The sheer desperate movement of his limbs while at hard work had a tendency to throw off the mental pain that he was still laboring under. It was about ten o'clock, when, happening to glance toward the house, he saw the sheriff drive up in a two-seated trap and sit waiting at the gate. Then, to Charles's surprise, both Mary and her father came out, got into the trap, and were driven away toward the village. Kenneth had noticed it; he came across the cotton-rows and joined him.

"They've gone in to fix up that bond," he explained, in a tone of evident satisfaction. "Father is to sign it to-day in the office of the clerk of the court."

"But your sister?" and Charles wiped the perspiration from his brow and bewildered eyes.

"Oh, I think she went along as a witness to my father's signature, and also to see Tobe Keith and his mother. Brown, she doesn't believe you were connected with those circus men; neither does father. As for me and Martin, you know what we think."

"Thank you," Charles muttered. "It is kind of you all." His eyes were now on the trap and its inmates as they slowly ascended the sloping road half a mile distant. Mary sat with her father on the rear seat. Beyond them rose the rugged mountain, green as to foliage and brown and gray as to earth and stone. Above it all arched the blue sky, with here and there a creeping wisp of snow-white cloud. How incongruous it was! Here he was dodging imprisonment while this gentle family were espousing--blindly espousing his tottering cause. He drew a picture of himself running along the road after the trap, running faster than the horses, overtaking them and panting out a demand that the law should be allowed to take its course. But it was only a futile figment of a weary brain. He had uprooted a stalk of cotton, and he replaced it, raking out the mellow soil with his bare hands, packing it back on the roots, and bracing the plant between two of its neighbors by interlocking their pliant branches.

"Mary! Mary! Mary!" The balmy air, blown from the direction she was taking in his behalf, seemed to sing the name as from vibrant strings stretched from heaven to earth--from sh.o.r.es of matter to boundaries of infinite spirit. Again she was in his arms as she was that night in the darkened old parlor. Her pulsing lips were on his, her clinging arms about his neck. After that spiritual marriage, could heaven or h.e.l.l tear her from him? Could fate rob him of such a prize? Perhaps, for the prize could not be had at such a price. Mary, who had been a ready sacrifice herself, could not love one less worthy, and she would have to know the truth. He worked on--as a dying man he toiled on through the long, weary day.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

On reaching the town, Rowland and the sheriff stopped at the court-house and Mary went to the Keiths'. To her great delight, she saw Tobe out in the little yard, seated under an apple-tree. He got up at once, and with scarcely any limp at all came to meet her.

"Mother is not here," he said, as he shook hands. "It is kind of you to come, Miss Mary."

"I heard you were recovering," Mary returned, "and I was very glad. You know what it meant to me, Tobe?"

"Yes, I do, and that helped me pull through, I think, Miss Mary. Those boys are too young and thoughtless to shoulder a load like that would have been. We were all to blame."

"I hope we will have no trouble with the courts," Mary said. "What do you think about that, Tobe?"

He waved his hands lightly. "Nothing will be done," he answered. "The sheriff and three or four good lawyers told me so. They said it all depended on whether I'd press the charges, and I don't intend to, Miss Mary. I've had my lesson, and the boys have, too. I've cut liquor out and folks say they have, too."

She nodded. "Yes, they have changed remarkably. They are more serious, and they work every day."

Tobe was smiling significantly. For a moment he was silent; then he said: "Miss Mary, me and mother are powerfully bothered about a certain thing. We want to know who furnished the money that came to me that night. As soon as I heard, down in Atlanta, that the stranger that fetched it was a friend of that Mr. Brown on your place, and that Mr.

Brown was with him that night and kept back out of sight, why, we was sure that you sent the money, but we heard after we got back that you said you didn't."

"I didn't, Tobe," Mary declared. "I tried to raise it, but failed to get it in time. In fact, I was surprised to hear that you had received it."

"Then you can't tell us anything about that?" Tobe's face fell.

"I think I can, and I think I _ought_ to." Mary's color was slightly higher now. "Tobe, you see, since Mr. Brown came to us he has become warmly attached to my brothers, and he was greatly disturbed over the danger they and you were in. I have an idea that the stranger you saw was an old friend of his who came here to pay him some money he owed. I suppose that Mr. Brown did not want to get credit for what he did, and so he got his friend to hand you the money that night."

"Now I understand it better," Tobe smiled. "He must be a fine man, and I don't believe the reports the sheriff and his gang are circulating about him. They say he is in big trouble himself--in fact, that him and his friend belong to the bunch of circus outlaws that are wanted. The sheriff had the cheek to try to tie me up with it, because this money came as it did, but I laughed in his face. I told him he'd have to prove it, and he went off with a hangdog look on him."

"Mr. Brown is not guilty, but he is in trouble over it, Tobe," Mary sighed, as she turned to leave.

Tobe, his hat in his hand, went with her to the gate and opened it, with the unstudied grace of his cla.s.s. He stood bowing as she walked away toward the square. She was to meet her father at the hotel, and thither she went, vaguely depressed by the talk she had had concerning Charles.

She had reached the front of the hotel when she saw Sam Lee at a canvas-covered wagon belonging to a mountain farmer. The clerk was buying some produce for the hotel table and, seeing her, he left the farmer and came to her.

"I was on the lookout for you," he said, doffing his hat and bowing. "I heard you were around at Keith's. There is some lady friend of yours up in the parlor. She come in on the south-bound about half an hour ago.

She is powerful stylish-looking, and wanted to see about some conveyance out to your place, when I told her that you and your pa were in town.

She begged me to look you up, and I told her I would. She said she would wait in the parlor. She looks like she may be some of your Virginia kin.

I didn't ask her name, for there was no reason for it."

"I can't imagine who it can be," Mary answered. "Well, I'll go up. If you see my father, will you send him up, too, please?"

Mary went into the entrance-hall and up the stairs to the parlor at the end of the first flight. The door was open, and the big room, being somewhat shaded, appeared so dark after her walk in the glaring sunlight that she was at first unable to see distinctly. Presently, however, she became aware of a woman's figure rising from a sofa in a corner and approaching her.

"May I ask if this is Miss Rowland?" a sweet, tremulous voice inquired.

"Yes, I am Miss Rowland," Mary answered. "Are you the lady who wanted to see me?"

"Yes. I asked the clerk about you, and he said he would send you up here. Miss Rowland, I am a stranger, but it is imperative that I see you. There is, I believe, a gentleman working on your place whose name is Charles Browne."

Mary started, stared, and was silent. Her mind fairly whirled in confusion. Charles had hinted at troubles he had left behind him. How could she know that it would be wise for her to speak in any way of him and his affairs to a total stranger? She remained silent. She had drawn herself up to her full height; her head and neck were rigid, her hands clasped tightly before her.

"Oh, I see," the stranger went on. "You don't know me yet, and you are such a faithful friend to him that you don't want to risk the slightest misstep. Well, you are right, and I am wrong. I was in too great a hurry. I see now what I've got to do, Miss Rowland. I've got to convince you that I am his friend, and a faithful one, too."

Mary's perplexed face was still rigid and was growing even pale. Her eyes, more accustomed to the darkened room, were enabled now to get a clearer view of the visitor. She felt strangely drawn by the rather sad and pinched features, the yearning eyes, and the sweet, almost pathetic voice.

"Miss Rowland, I am Charlie's sister-in-law, Mrs. William Browne. I've come here from Boston to tell you and your father something that you ought to know, for, Miss Rowland, I know that Charlie loves you. It came to me through another, but when I saw you come in at that door I knew it to be the truth beyond doubt. You are beautiful, beautiful, and are so true to him that you stand there now, afraid that through me you may harm his interests."

"He has spoken to me of you," Mary said, "and of Ruth." Her hands went out impulsively and clasped those of Celeste. "You must pardon me, Mrs.

Browne, if--if I seem slow to--"

"I understand thoroughly," Celeste broke in. "I've come to bring you good, not bad news. My dear, Charlie is the n.o.blest man in all the world--yes, in all the world. Over a year ago his brother, my husband, committed a great offense against the law. On the verge of detection he was about to kill himself and leave me and Ruth under the stigma of it all. Charles sacrificed himself under a sacred agreement with my husband. He left Boston, pursued for a crime he had not committed, and disgraced for life. But the other day Michael, an old servant of ours, came back and told me about you and Charles--that Charles adored you, but was too honorable to think of marriage with you under the circ.u.mstances. Michael said Charlie was very unhappy. It made me so, for I wanted him and you to get your rights. I finally told my husband how I felt, and demanded that he do his duty. It drove him out of his mind temporarily. He is now in a sanatorium on the way to recovery. He has confessed everything to his uncle, whose influence at the bank has caused the dismissal of the charges, the financial loss having been made good. Moreover, explanations have been published in the Boston papers which clear Charlie's name in full."

"Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so glad!" Mary now fairly glowed. "You've come just in time to save him from grave trouble." And Mary went on to explain the situation. The two sat side by side on the sofa, holding each other's hands. Rowland found them there half an hour later, and heard the news. He made a most favorable impression on the Boston lady as he stood gravely listening to all she had to say, in the polished manner of the old regime. Then he told them both that he must see the sheriff at once and have the action against Charles suppressed.

In half an hour Rowland came back. Everything had been settled and the bond destroyed. Then he pressed Celeste to return home with him and his daughter, and Mary joined in the invitation. Celeste accepted with delight, for she was eager to see Charles as soon as possible, and Rowland went to order a carriage from the livery-stable. There was, however, a delay in securing a conveyance, and it was near sundown before they had started homeward.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII