"I guess you were right when you said you were not expecting me down to meet the boat, Barry," she interrupted, looking straight before her.

"Well, didn't I tell you how happy it made me?"

"If you had thought there was any chance of me coming down to meet you, you wouldn't have taken so much to drink," she went on, a little catch in her voice.

Whereupon he protested vigorously that he had not tasted a drop,—except one small dram the captain had given him early that morning when he complained of a chill.

"Why, you're drunk right now," she said miserably. "Oh, Barry, won't you ever—"

"Drunk? I'm as sober as the day I was born," he retorted, squaring his shoulders. "Look at me,—look me in the eye, Viola. Oh, well, if you WON'T look you won't, that's all. And if I'm as drunk as you imagine I am I should think you'd be ashamed to be seen in my company." She did not respond to this, so, with a sneering laugh, he continued: "Suppose I have had a little too much,—who's the cause of it? You! You drive me to it, you do. The last couple of weeks you've been throwing up all my faults to me, tormenting me till I'm nearly crazy with uncertainty. First you say you'll have me, that you'll do anything I wish, and then, just as I begin to feel that everything's all right, you up and say you're not sure whether you care for me or not and you're going to obey your mother in every—And, say, that reminds me. Unless I am very much mistaken, I think I'll soon have a way to bring your mother to time. She won't—"

He brought himself up with a jerk, realizing that his loose tongue was running away with his wits. She was looking at him with startled, inquiring eyes.

"What do you mean by that, Barry Lapelle?" she asked, and he was quick to detect the uneasiness in her manner.

He affected a grin of derision. "I'm going to put my case in the hands of Kenny Gwynne, the rising young barrister. With him on our side, my dear, I guess we'll bring her to time. All he has to do is to stand up to her and say he isn't going to put up with any more nonsense, and she'll see the light of wisdom. If he thinks it's all right for you to marry me, I guess that will end the matter. He's the head of the family, isn't he?"

This hastily conceived explanation of his luckless remark succeeded in deceiving her. She stared at him in distress.

"Oh, Barry, you—you surely can't be thinking of asking Kenneth to intercede—"

"Why not? He doesn't see any reason why we shouldn't be married, my dear. In fact, he told me so a few days ago. He—"

"I don't believe it," she cried.

"You don't?" he exclaimed sharply.

"No, I don't," she repeated.

"Has he been talking to you about me?" he demanded, an ugly gleam flashing into his eyes.

"He has never said a word against you,—not one. But I don't believe you when you say he told you that we ought to get married." She felt her cheeks grow hot. She had turned her face away from him.

"I'm a liar, am I?" he snarled.

"I—I don't believe he ever said it," she said stubbornly.

"Well,—you're right," he admitted, after a moment's hesitation. "Not in so many words. But he did say to me that he had told you he saw no reason why you shouldn't marry me if you wanted to. Did he ever tell you that?"

She remembered only too well the aggravating encounter in the thicket path.

"Yes, he did," she replied, lifting her head defiantly. "And," she added, "I hated him for it. I hate him more and more every time I think of it. He—he was perfectly abominable."

"Well, you're—you're damned complimentary," he grated, his face expressing the utmost bewilderment.

She walked on for eight or ten paces before speaking again. Her head was lowered. She knew that he was glaring at the wing of the bonnet which shielded her whitening cheek. Suddenly she turned to him.

"Barry, let's sit down on that log over there for a few minutes. There is something I've got to say to you,—and I'm sorry. You must not be angry with me. Won't you come over there with me,—and listen to what I have to tell you?"

He hung back for a moment, his intuition grasping at something vague and yet strangely definite.

"You—you are going to tell me it's all over between us, Viola?" he ventured, going white to the lips. He was as sober now as though he had never touched liquor in his life.

"Come and sit down," she said gently, even compassionately.

He followed her in silence to the log she had indicated, a few rods back from the roadside at the edge of the clearing. He sat down beside her and waited for her to speak, and as she remained speechless, evidently in distress, his lips curled in a smile of reviving confidence. He watched the quick rise and fall of her bosom, exulting in her difficulty. Birds were piping among the fresh green twigs overhead. The air was redolent of the soft fragrance of May: the smell of the soil, the subtle perfume of unborn flowers, the tang of the journeying breeze, the spice of sap-sweating trees. The radiance of a warm, gracious sun lay soft upon the land.

At last she spoke, not tremulously as he had expected but with a firmness that boded ill for his composure.

"Barry," she began, still staring straight ahead, "I don't know just how to begin. It is awfully hard to—to say what I feel I must say. Perhaps I should have waited till—well, till you were home for a little while,—before doing what I have made up my mind to do. But I thought it right to have it over with as soon as possible."

She paused for a moment and then resolutely faced him. He saw the pain in her dark, troubled eyes, and the shadow of an appealing smile on her lips. His face hardened.

"So," she went on unflinchingly, "I came down to the landing to meet you in case you were on the Paul Revere. I cannot marry you, Barry. I—I don't love you as I should. I thought I did but—but—well, that's all. I don't know what has happened to make me see things so differently, but whatever it is I know now that I was mistaken,—oh, so terribly mistaken. I know I am hurting you, Barry,—and you have a right to despise me. I—I somehow hope you will,—because I deserve it."

He smiled indulgently. "I hope you don't think I am taking this seriously. This isn't the first time I've heard you take on like—"

"But I mean it this time, Barry,—I do truly and honestly," she cried. "I know I've played hot and cold with you,—and that's just the point. It proves that I never really cared for you in—in that way—down in my soul, I mean. I am sure of it now. I have been dreadfully unhappy about it,—because, Barry dear, I can't bear to hurt you. We are not suited to each other. We think differently about a great many things. We—"

"Look here," he exclaimed roughly, no longer able to disguise his anger; "you've got to stop this everlasting—"

"Let go of my arm, Barry Lapelle!" she cried. "Don't you dare lay your hand on me like that!"

He loosened his grip on her arm and drew back sulkily. "Ah,—I didn't mean to hurt you and you know it. I wouldn't hurt you for anything in the world. I'm sorry if I was rough with—"

"I don't blame you," she broke in, contritely. "I guess it would serve me right if you beat me black and blue."

"What I was going to say," he growled, controlling himself with difficulty, "is this: if you think I'm going to take this as final, you're very much mistaken. You'll get over this, just as you've gotten over your peevishness before. I've spoiled you, that's the truth of the matter. I always give in to you—"

"I tell you I am in earnest," she cried hotly. "This is for good and all,—and you make me furious when you talk like that. I am doing my best to be kind and considerate, so you'd better be careful, Barry Lapelle, not to say too much."

He looked into her flaming eyes for a moment and then muttered slowly, wonderingly: "By heaven, Viola, I believe you DO mean it. You—you are actually throwing me over,—giving me the mitten?"

"I can't help it, Barry," she insisted. "Something,—I don't know what,—has come over me. Nothing seems to be the same as it used to be. I only know that I cannot bear the thought of—why, Barry dear, for the past three or four nights I've lain awake for hours thinking of the awful consequences if we had succeeded in making our escape that night, and had been married as we planned. How terrible it would have been if I had found out too late that I did not love you,—and we were tied to each other for life. For your sake as well as my own, Barry. Can you imagine anything more horrible than to be married to a woman who—who didn't love you?"

"Yes," he snapped, "I can. It's worse a thousand times over not to be married to the girl you love,—and to see her married to some one else. That would be hell,—hell, do you understand?"

She drew a little away from him. "But not the hell it would be for me when I found out—too late. Won't you understand, Barry? Can't you see how terrible it would be?"

"Say, when did you get this idea into your head?" he demanded harshly. "What put it there? You were loving me hard enough a while ago,—couldn't get along without me, you claimed. Now you're singing another tune. Look here! Is—is there some one else?"

"You know there isn't," she cried indignantly. "Who else could there be? Don't be foolish, Barry."

"By God, if some one else has cut me out, I'll—I'll—"

"There is no one else, I tell you! I don't love anybody,—I swear it."

He eyed her narrowly. "Has Kenny Gwynne anything to do with all this?"

She started. "Kenny? Why,—no,—of course not. What on earth could he have to do with my loving or not loving you?"

"It would be just like him to turn you against me because he thinks I'm not fit to—Say, if I find out that he's been sticking his nose into my affairs, I'll make it so hot for him,—brother or no brother,—that he'll wish he'd never been born. Wait a minute! I'll tell you what I think of him while I'm about it—and you can run and tell him as quick as you please. He's a G— d—— snake in the grass, that's what he is. He's a conceited, sanctimonious, white-livered—"

"Stop that!" she cried, springing to her feet, white with fury, her eyes blazing. "You are forgetting yourself, Barry Lapelle. Not another word! How dare you speak like that about my brother?"

He sat staring up at her in a sort of stupefaction.

"How dare you?" she repeated furiously.

He found his voice. "You weren't sticking up for him this time last week," he sneered. "You were hating him like poison. Has the old woman had a change of heart, too? Is she letting him sit in her lap so's she can feed him with a spoon when he's hungry and—"

"I wouldn't marry you if you were the only man in the world, Barry Lapelle," said she, her voice low with passion.

She whirled and walked rapidly away from him, her head in the air, her hands clenched. Leaping to his feet, he started after her, calling:

"Wait a minute, Viola! Can't you see I'm almost out of my head over what you've—Oh, well, go it! I'm not going to CRAWL after you! But let me tell you one thing, my girl. You'll be talking out of the other side of your mouth before you're much older. You'll be down on your knees—"

"Don't you follow me another step!" she cried over her shoulder.

He was not more than two yards behind her when she uttered this withering command. He stopped short in his tracks.

"Well, this is a hell of a way to treat a gentleman!" he shouted, hoarse with fury.



CHAPTER XVI

CONCERNING TEMPESTS AND INDIANS

Shortly after dark that evening, the tall, swarthy man who had come up on the Paul Revere sauntered slowly up and down that part of Main Street facing the Court House. Ostensibly he was inspecting store windows along the way, but in reality he was on the lookout for a man he had agreed to meet at a point just above the tavern,—a casual meeting, it was to appear, and between two strangers. Barry Lapelle came out of the tavern at the stroke of eight and walked eastward a few paces, halting at the dark open lot between Johnson's place and Smith's store beyond. The swarthy man approached slowly, unconcernedly. He accosted Lapelle, inquiring:

"Is that the tavern, Mister?"

"Yes," replied Barry, needlessly pointing down the street. "Well?"

"It's her," said the stranger. "I had a good look at her 'long about five o'clock from the woods across from her house. She's a heap sight older but I knowed her all right."

"You are sure?"

"Sure as my name is—"

"Sh!"

"Course I'm sure. She was Owen Carter's widder. He was killt by a tree fallin' on him. Oh, I got a good memory. I can't afford to have a bad one. I remember her as plain as if it wuz yestiday." He pointed off in a westerly direction for the benefit of a passerby. "Thank ye, mister. You say it's not more'n six mile out yan way?" Lowering his voice, he went on: "A feller wouldn't be likely to fergit a woman like her. Gosh, I used to wish—but wishin' don't count fer much in this world."

"Get on with it. We can't stand here talking all night."

"Well, she's the woman that run off with Bob Gwynne. There ain't no doubt about it. Everybody knowed it. I wuz there at the time, workin' fer Ed Peters. He left his wife an' a little boy. His wife was a daughter of ole Squire Blythe,—damn his heart! He had me hoss-whipped in public fer—well, fer some triflin' thing I done. Seems to me Mrs. Carter had a little baby girl. Maybe not. I ain't much of a hand fer noticin' babies."

"You are sure,—absolutely positive about all this?" whispered Lapelle intensely.

"You bet yer boots I am."

"She ran off with a married man?"

"She did. A feller by the name o' Gwynne, as I said afore,—Bob Gwynne. An' I want to tell you, he got out o' that town jest in time or I'd have slit his gizzard fer him. He had me arrested fer stealin' a saddle an' bridle. He never WOULD have got away ef I hadn't been locked up in Jim Hatcher's smokehouse with two men settin' outside with guns fer a solid month, keepin' watch on me day an' night. I wuz—"

"That's all for to-night," snapped Barry impatiently. "You get out of town at once. Mart will be waiting for you down below Granny Neff's cabin,—this side of the tanyard,—as arranged."

"What about that other business? Mart'll want to know when we're to—"

"He knows. The Paul Revere goes south day after to-morrow morning. If the plans are changed before that time, I'll get word to him. It may not be necessary to do anything at all. You've given me information that may bring the old woman to her senses."

"Them two fellers that come up on the boat to-day. Air you sure you c'n—"

"That's all for to-night," interrupted Barry, and strode off up the street, leaving Jasper Suggs, sometime Simon Braley of the loathsome Girty stock, to wend his lonely way out into a silence as black as the depths of his own benighted soul.

The night was sultry. Up in the marshy fastnesses of Lake Stansbury all the frogs in the universe seemed to have congregated for a grand festival of song. The treble of baby frogs, the diapason of ancient frogs, the lusty alto of frogs in the prime of life, were united in an unbroken, penetrating chant to the starless sky. The melancholy hoot of the owl, the blithesome chirp of the cricket, even the hideous yawp of the roaming loon, were lost in the din and clatter of Lake Stansbury's mighty chorus.

There was promise of storm in the lifeless air. Zachariah, resting his elbows on the fence, confided this prognostication to an almost invisible Hattie on the opposite side of the barrier between two back yards.

"Ah allus covers my haid up wid de blanket—an' de bolster—an' de piller when hit's astormin'," said Hattie, in an awed undertone. "An' Ah squeals lak a pig ev' time hit claps."

"Shucks, gal!" scoffed Zachariah. "What yo' all so skeert o' lightnin' fo'? Why, good lan' o' Goshen, Ah hain't no mo' askeert o' storms dan Ah is ob—ob YOU!" He chuckled rather timorously after blurting out this inspired and (to him) audacious remark. To his relief and astonishment, Hattie was not offended.

"Ah bet yo' all hain't see no setch thunderstorms as we has 'round dis yere neck o' de woods," said she, with conviction. "Ah bet yo' be skeert ef you—"

"Don' yo' talk to me, gal," boasted Zachariah. "Wuzzin Ah in de wustest storm dis yere valley has seed sence dat ole Noah he climb up in dat ole ark an' sez, 'Lan' sakes, Ah wonder ef Ah done gone an' fergit anyt'ing.' Yes, MA'AM,—dat evenin' out to Marse Striker's—dat wuz a storm, gal. Wuz Ah skeert? No, SUH! Ah stup right out in de middle of it, lightnin' strikin' all 'round an' de thunder so turrible Marse Kenneth an' ever'body ailse wuz awonderin' ef de good Lord could hear 'em prayin' fo' mercy. Yas, suh—yas, SUH! Dat's de gospel trufe. An' me right out dere in dat ole barnyard doin' de chores fo' ole Mis' Striker. Marse Kenneth he stick his haid out'n de winder an' yell, 'Zachariah, yo' come right in heah dis minnit! Yo' heah me? Wha' yo' all doin' out dere in dat hell-fire an' brimstone? Ah knows yo' is de bravest nigger in all dis world, but fo' mah sake, Zachariah, won't yo' PLEASE come in?' Well, suh, jes' den Ah happens to look up from what Ah wuz doin' an' sees a streak o' lightnin' comin' straight to'ards de cabin. So Ah yells fo' him to pull his haid in mighty quick, an' shore 'nuff he got it in jes' in de nick o' time. Dat streak o' lightnin' went right pass de winder an' hit de groun'. Den hit sort o' bounce up in de air an' lep right over mah haid an' hitten a tree—"

"Wuz hit rainin' all dis time?"

"Rainin'? Mah lan', gal, course hit wuz rainin'," replied Zachariah, somewhat testily. "Hitten a tree not more'n ten foot from where Ah wuz—"

"Hain't yo' all got no sense at all, nigger?" demanded Hattie, witheringly. "Don' yo' know 'nough to go in out'n de rain?"

Zachariah was flabbergasted. Here was a bolt from a supposedly clear and tranquil sky; it flattened him out as no stroke of lightning could ever have done. For once in his life he was rendered speechless.

Hattie, who had got religion on several unforgettable occasions and was at this very time on the point of returning to the spiritual fold which she had more or less secretly abandoned at the behest of the flesh, regarded this as an excellent opportunity to re-establish herself as a disciple of salvation.

"An' what's more, nigger," she went on severely, "ef de good Lord ever cotch setch a monst'ous liar as yo' is out in a hurricane lak what yo' all sez it wuz, dere wouldn't be no use buryin' what wuz lef' of yo'. 'Cause why, 'cause yo' jes' gwine to be a lil black cinder no bigger'n a chinkapin. I knows all about how brave yo' wuz out to Marse Striker's. Miss Violy she done tell how yo' all snuck under de table an' prayed an' carried on somefin' scan'lous."

Zachariah, though crushed, made a noble effort to extricate himself from the ruins. "Ah lak to know what Miss Violy knows about me on dat yere occasion. Yas, suh,—dat's what Ah lak to know. She never lay eyes on me dat night. 'Ca'se why? 'Ca'se I wuz out in de barnlot all de time. She done got me contwisted wid dat other fool nigger, dat's what she done."

"What other fool nigger?"

"Didden she tell yo' all about dat nigger we fotch along up from Craffordsville to—"

"Yas, suh, she done tole all about dat Craffordsville nigger, ef dat's de one yo' means."

Zachariah was staggered. "She—she tole yo' about—about dat Craffordsville nigger?"

"Yas, suh,—she did. Miss Violy she say he wuz de han'somest boy she ever did see,—great big strappin' boy wid de grandest eyes an'—"

"Dat's enough,—dat'll do," exclaimed Zachariah in considerable heat. "Marse Kenneth he got to change his tune, dat's all I got to say. He say Ah am de biggest liar in dis yere land,—but, by golly, he ain' ever heared about dis yere gal Hattie. No, SUH! When Ah lies, Ah lies about SOMEFIN', but when yo' lies, yo' jes' lies about NUFFIN',—'ca'se why? 'Ca'se dat Craffordsville nigger he ain' nuffin'. Yo' ought to be 'shamed o' yo'self, nigger, makin' out Miss Violy to be a liar lak dat,—an' her bein' de fines' lady in—"

"Go on 'way wid yo', nigger," retorted Hattie airily. "Don' yo' come aroun' heah no mo' makin' out how brave yo' is,—'ca'se Ah knows a brave nigger when Ah sees one, lemme tell yo' dat, Mistah Zachariah Whatever-yo'-name is."

Silence followed this Parthian shot. Zachariah, being a true philosopher, rested his case without further argument. He appeared to have given himself up to reflection. Presently Hattie, tempering her voice with honey, remarked:

"Ah suttinly is mighty glad yo' is come up yere to live, Zachariah."

"Look here, gal,—don' yo' go countin' on me too much," said he, suspiciously. "Ah got all Ah c'n do 'tendin' to mah own wo'k 'thout comin' over yander an' hulpin' yo'—"

"Lan's sakes, man, 'tain't mah look-out ef yo' come over yere an' tote mah clo'se-basket an' ev'thing 'round fo' me,—no, suh! Ah ain' nev' ast yo', has Ah? All Ah does is to hole Cato so he won't chaw yo' laig off when yo' come botherin' me to please 'low yo' to hulp me,—das all Ah do. An' lemme tell yo', nigger, dat ain' no easy job. 'Ca'se ef dere's one t'ing Cato do enjoy hit's dark meat,—yas, suh, hit's come so he won't even look at light meat no mo', he so sick o' feedin' off'n dese yere white shin-bones."

"Well, den, why is yo' glad Ah come up yere to live?" demanded Zachariah defensively.

"'Ca'se o' dis yere ole Black Hawk."

"Ah don' know nuffin' 'bout no ole Black Hawk."

"Yo' all gwine to know 'bout him mighty quick," said she solemnly. "He's on de rampage. Scalpin' an' burnin' white folks at de stake an' des wallerin' in blood. Yas, suh,—Ah suttinly ain't gwine feel so skeert o' dat ole Black Hawk 'long as yo' is livin' right nex' do', Zachariah."

"Wha' yo' all talkin' about?"

"Marse Joe,—he de sheriff dis yere county,—he done tole ole Mis' Gwyn dis evenin' all de news 'bout dat ole Black Hawk. Yas, suh,—ole Black Hawk he on de warpath. All de Injuns in dis yere—"

"Injuns?" gulped Zachariah.

"Dey all got dere warpaint on an' dere tommyhawks—"

"How come Marse Kenneth he don' know nuffin' 'bout all dis?" demanded Zachariah, taking a step or two backward and glancing anxiously over one shoulder, then the other. "He a lawyer. How come he don' know nuffin' 'bout—Say, how close dat ole sheriff say dem Injuns is?"

"Dat's what I can't make out, Zachariah. He talk so kind o' low an' me lettin' de dishpan drop right in de middle—"

"Ah guess Ah better go right straight in de house an' tell Marse Kenneth 'bout dis," hastily announced Zachariah. Then he bethought himself to add: "'Ca'se me an' him got a lot to do ef dese here Injuns come 'roun' us lookin' fo' trouble, Yas, suh! Ah got to git de guns an' pistols an' huntin' knives all ready fo'—"

The words froze on his lips. A low, blood-curdling moan that seemed to end in a gasp,—or even a death-rattle,—fell upon the ears of the two negroes. It was close at hand,—not more than twenty feet away. This was succeeded, after a few seconds of intense stillness—(notwithstanding the uproarious frogs!)—by a hair-raising screech from Hattie. An instant later she was scuttling for her own kitchen door, emitting inarticulate cries of terror.

As for Zachariah? His course was a true one so far as direction was concerned. Blind instinct located the back door for him and he made a bee-line toward it regardless of all that lay between. First he encountered a tree-stump. This he succeeded in passing without the slightest deviation from the chosen route. Scrambling frantically to his feet after landing with a mighty grunt some two yards beyond the obstacle, he dashed onward, tearing his way through a patch of gooseberry bushes, coming almost immediately into contact with the wood-pile. Here he was momentarily retarded in his flight. There was a great scattering of stove-wood and chips, accompanied by suppressed howls, and then he was on his feet again. Almost simultaneously the heavy oak door received and withstood the impact of his flying body; a desperate clawing at the latch, the spasmodic squeak of rusty hinges, a resounding slam, the jar of a bolt being shot into place,—and Zachariah vociferously at prayer in a sanctuary behind the kitchen stove.



CHAPTER XVII

REVELATIONS

That sepulchral groan had issued not from a mortal in the agony of impending death but from the smiling red lips of Viola Gwyn. The grewsome "death-rattle" was the result of the means she took to suppress a shriek of laughter by frantically clapping both hands to her convulsed mouth.

For some time she had been standing at the fence, her elbows on the top rail, gazing pensively at the light in Kenny's window. A clump of honeysuckle bushes was between her and the unsuspecting servants. At first she had paid little or no attention to the gabble of the darkies, her thoughts being centred on her own serious affairs. She had been considerably shaken and distressed by the unpleasant experience of the early afternoon. Somehow she longed to take her troubles to Kenneth, to rid herself of them in the comfort of his approbation, to be reassured by his brotherly counsel. She knew he was sitting beside the table in the cosy sitting-room, poring over one of his incomprehensible law books. How jolly, how consoling to her own agitated mind, if she could only be there in the same room with him, quiet as a mouse so as not to disturb his profound studies, and reposing in that comfortable new rocker on the opposite side of the table where she could watch the studious frown on his brow while she waited patiently for him to lay aside the book.

Indeed, she had come out of the house animated by a sudden impulse to pay him a brief, surreptitious visit; then to run back home before she was missed by her mother. This impulse was attended by a singularly delightful sensation of guilt. She had never been over to see him at night. In fact, it had never occurred to her to do such a thing before. But even as she started forth from the house, a strange timidity assailed her. It halted her impetuous footsteps, turned them irresolutely aside, and led her not to the gate but to the barrier fence. She could not explain, even to herself, the queer, half-frightened thumping of her heart, nor the amazing shyness, nor the ridiculous feeling that it would be improper for her to be alone with him at night.

But why, she argued,—why should it be improper? What could be wrong in going to see her own brother? What difference did it make whether it was night or day? Still the doubt persisted,—a nagging yet agreeable doubt that made her all the more eager to defy its feeble authority. First she sought to justify her inclination by reminding herself that her mother had never by word or look signified the slightest opposition to her intimacy with Kenneth. This attitude of resignation on her mother's part, however, was a constant thorn in her side, a prick to her conscience. It caused her many a pang.

Then she called to mind certain of her girl friends who had brothers, —one in particular who declared that she had slept in the same bed with her brother up to the time she was fourteen years old. She felt herself turn scarlet. That was really quite dreadful, even though the cabin in which her friend dwelt was very tiny and there were six children in the family. She had bitterly envied certain others, those who told of the jolly good times they had had with their brothers, the fun they had in quarrelling and the way they teased the boys when they first began "going out" with the girls.

What fun to have had a brother when she was little,—a brother to play with! Kenny was so unreal. He was not like a brother at all. He was no different from other men,—she did not believe she could ever get used to thinking of him as a brother,—even a half-brother. This very thought was in her mind,—perhaps it was an ever-present thought,—as she stood gazing shyly at his window.

She wanted to tell him about her break with Barry. Somehow,—although she was not quite conscious of it,—she longed to have him pat her on the shoulder, or clasp her hands in his, and tell her she had done the right thing and he was glad. The corners of her mouth were drooping a little.

But the pensive droop slowly disappeared as she harkened to the valiant words of Zachariah. It was not until Kenny's servant lifted his voice in praise of his own deeds at Phineas Striker's that she became acutely aware of the close proximity of the speakers. Gradually she surrendered to the spirits of mirth and mischief. The result of her awesome moan,—even though it narrowly escaped ending in a shriek of laughter,—has already been revealed. The manner of Zachariah's flight sobered her instantly. Too late she regretted the experiment.

"Oh, goodness!" she murmured, blanching. "The poor fellow has hurt himself—"

The slamming of the door behind Zachariah was reassuring. At any rate he was alive and far too sprightly to have suffered a broken leg or a cracked skull. A few seconds later she saw Kenny's shadow flit hurriedly past the window as he dashed toward the kitchen. For some time she stood perfectly still, listening to the confused jumble of voices in the house across the way, debating whether she should hurry over to explain,—and perhaps to assist in dressing poor Zachariah's cuts and bruises. Suddenly she decided; and, without thought of her garments, she scrambled hastily over the fence. Just as her feet touched the ground, the front door of Kenneth's house flew open and a figure, briefly revealed by the light from within, rushed out into the yard and was swallowed up by the darkness. She whirled and started to climb back over into her own yard, giggling hysterically. She heard the rush of feet through the weeds and shrubbery. They halted abruptly, and then:

"Stop where you are, damn you! I've got you covered and, so help me God, I'll put a bullet through—"

"Kenny! Kenny!" she cried out. "It's I—Viola!"

There was a moment's silence.

"My God! You? Viola?" came in suppressed, horrified tones from the darkness. "Drop down,—drop to the ground! They may begin firing at me. You—"

"Firing at you?" she cried, shakily. "What on earth are you talking about? There's—there's no one here. I am all alone. I did it. I'm the ghost. It was all in fun. I didn't dream—"

"Do as I tell you!" he called out sharply. "There is a pack of ruffians—"

"Pack your granny!" she cried, with a shrill laugh. "I tell you I am all alone. My goodness, what on earth did Zachariah think was after him? A regiment of soldiers?"

As he came quickly toward her she shrank back, seized by a strange, inexplicable panic. He loomed above her in the darkness as she half-crouched against the fence. For a few seconds he stood looking down at her, breathing sharply. She heard something drop at his feet, and then both his hands gripped her shoulders, drawing her roughly up to him.

"Oh-h! Wh-what are you doing?" she gasped as his arm went around her. That arm of steel drew her so close and held her so tightly to his breast that she could feel the tremendous thumping of his heart. She felt herself trembling—trembling all over; the light in the window up beyond seemed to draw nearer, swelling to vast proportions as it bore down upon her. She closed her eyes. What was happening to her,—what was causing this strange languor, this queer sensation as of falling?

As abruptly as he had clasped her to him, he released her, springing back with a muttered execration. She tottered dizzily, and involuntarily reached out to clutch his arm for support. He shook her hand off.

"What is the matter, Kenny?" she murmured, hazily.

He did not answer. He leaned heavily against the fence, his head on his arm. She did not move for many seconds. Then he heard her gasp,—a gasp of actual terror.

"Who are you?" she whispered tensely. "You are not my brother. You are not the real Kenneth Gwynne! Who are you?" She waited for the answer that did not come. Then as she drew farther away from him: "You are an impostor. You have deceived us. You have come here representing yourself to be—to be my brother,—and you are not—you are not! I know it—oh, I know it now. You are—"

This aroused him. "What is that you are saying?" he cried out, fighting to pull his disordered wits together. "Not your brother? Impostor? What are you saying, Viola?"

"I want the truth," she cried. "Are you what you claim to be?"

"Of course I am," he answered, stridently. "I am Kenneth Gwynne. Your brother. Have you lost your senses?"

"Then, why—" she began huskily. "Why did you—Oh, Kenny, I don't know what I am saying," she murmured piteously. "I—I don't know what has come over me. Something—something—Oh, I don't know what made me feel—I mean, what made me say that to you. You are Kenneth Gwynne. You are my half-brother. You are not—" "There, there!" he interrupted, his voice shaking a little. "You were frightened. I came so near to shooting—Yes, that is it. And I was so happy, so relieved that I—I almost ate you alive,—my little sister. God, what a horrible thing it would have been if I had—fired and the bullet had—"

She interrupted him, speaking rapidly, breathlessly in her effort to regain command of herself. "But you didn't—you didn't, you see,—so what is the use of worrying about it now?" She laughed jerkily. "But, my goodness, it is a good lesson for me! I'll never try to scare anybody else again as I did poor Zachariah."

He stooped and, feeling among the weeds, recovered not one but both of the long duelling pistols.

"I was after bigger game than you," he muttered. "Here are my pistols,—all primed and ready for business."

She stretched out her hand and touched one of the weapons. "Ready for what business?" she inquired. "What did you mean by a pack of ruffians?" As he did not answer at once, she went on to explain what had actually occurred, ending with, "I suppose Zachariah ran in and told you that old Black Hawk and his warriors were attacking the town."

"I couldn't get much out of him, he was so excited. But I was mortally afraid they had stolen a march on us, and you were already in their hands. You see, Isaac Stain was to have kept me informed and we were to have laid a trap for them. Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed in sudden consternation. "I am letting the cat out of the bag."

"Will you please tell me what you are talking about, Kenneth Gwynne?" she said impatiently.

He came to a quick decision. "Yes, I will tell you everything. I guess I was a fool not to have told you before,—you and your mother. There is a plot afoot, Viola, to abduct you. Stain got wind of it, through—well, he got wind of it. He came to me with the story. I don't suppose you will believe me,—and you will probably despise me for what I am about to say,—but the man you love and expect to marry is behind the scheme. I mean Barry Lapelle. He—"

"When did you hear of this?" she interrupted quickly. "After the Revere came in?"

"More than a week ago. He came home on the Revere to-day. His plan is to—"

"I know. I saw him. We quarrelled. It is all over between us, Kenny. He was furious. I thought he may have—but you say you knew of this a week ago? I don't—I can't understand it. A week ago there was no heed of—of carrying me off against my will."

"It is all over between you?" he cried, and he could not disguise the joy in his voice. "You have ended it, Viola?"

"Yes,—it is all over," she said stiffly. "I am not going to marry him. I was coming over to tell you. But—go on. What is this cock-and-bull story about abducting me? Goodness, I am beginning to feel like a girl in a story-book."

"It is no laughing matter," he said, a little gruffly. "Does it look like it when I come rushing out here with two loaded pistols and come near to shooting you? Come up to the house. We will talk it all over, and then,—" he hesitated for a moment,—"then I'll go over and see your mother."

He took her arm and led her up to the house. As they entered the front door, Zachariah's groans fell upon their ears. She looked at Kenny in alarm, and for the first time realized that he was without coat or waistcoat. His hair was tousled in evidence of his studious application to the open law books that lay on the floor.

"He must be quite badly hurt," she cried miserably. "Oh, I'm SO sorry."

Kenny went to the kitchen door. "Zachariah! Stop that groaning. You're not hurt. Here! What are you doing with that rifle?"

"Ah was jes' co-comin' out, Marse Kenny, fo' to he'p yo' kill—yas, suh! Ah was—" The remainder was lost as Kenneth deliberately closed the door behind him and walked over to the negro, who was squatting in a corner with a rifle in his hands. Viola, left alone, crossed to the window and looked out. She was pale and anxious. Her wide, alarmed eyes tried to pierce the darkness outside. Suddenly she started back, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

"Oh, my soul!" she murmured. "They could have shot him dead. He could not have seen them." She felt herself turn faint. Then a thrill of exaltation swept over her and she turned quickly toward the kitchen door, her eyes glowing. "And he was not afraid! He ran out to face them alone. He thought they were out there,—he risked being shot to save me from—"

The door opened and Kenneth came swiftly into the room. He stopped short, staring at her radiant face.

"Oh, Kenny, you—you really believed they were out there,—a crowd of them,—trying to carry me off? Why,—why, that was the bravest thing a man—"

"Shucks!" he scoffed. "My tragedy turns out to be the most uproarious farce. I've never seen a funnier one in the theatre. But there is a serious side to it, Viola. Sit down for a minute or two, and I'll tell you. Zachariah is all right. Barked his shins a little, that's all."

At the conclusion of his short, unembellished recital, he said:

"There is nothing for you to be worried about. They cannot carry out the plot. We are all forewarned now. I should have told you all this before, but I was afraid you would think I was trying to blacken Lapelle. I wanted to catch him red-handed, as the saying is. Isaac Stain is coming in to sleep here to-morrow night, and Zachariah, for all his fear of ghosts and lightning, is not afraid of men. We will be ready for them if they come,—so don't you worry."

There was a puzzled frown in her eyes. "I don't see why he should have planned this a week ago, Kenny. I had told him I would marry him. There must be something back of all this."

"Do you know anything about a friend of his who is going to be married soon? He spoke to me about it the other day, and asked if a parent could legally deprive a daughter of a share in her deceased father's—"

"Why,—that's me, Kenny," she cried excitedly. "I told him that mother would disinherit me entirely if I married him without her consent."

A light broke over him. "By jingo!" he cried. "I am beginning to see. Why, it's as plain as day to me now. The beastly scoundrel!"

"What do you mean?"

"Could your mother very well carry out her threat if he made off with you by force and compelled you to marry him, whether or no?"

She stiffened. "I would never,—never consent, Kenny. I would die first."

"I suppose you imagine there could be no worse fate than that?" he said, pity in his eyes.

She looked puzzled for a moment and then grasped his meaning. Her face blanched.

"I said I would die first," she repeated in a low, steady voice.

"Well," he cried, starting up briskly from his chair, "I guess we'd better hurry if we want to catch your mother before she goes to bed. And that reminds me, Viola,—I would like to speak with her alone. You see," he went on lamely, "you see, we're not friends and I don't know how she will receive me."

She nodded her head without speaking and together they left the house.



CHAPTER XVIII

RACHEL DELIVERS A MESSAGE

Rachel was standing on her porch as they came up the walk. The light through the open door at her back revealed her tall, motionless figure but not her face which was in shadow.

"Kenneth wants to talk to you about something very important," said Viola unevenly, as they drew near.

The woman on the porch did not speak until they paused at the bottom of the steps.

"Have you been over at his house, Viola?" she asked levelly.

"Yes, mother."

After a moment's hesitation: "Come in, Kenneth." She stood aside to let Viola pass. Kenneth, who had hastily donned his coat, followed the two women into the house. There was a light in the parlor. "Will you sit down, or do you prefer to remain standing in my house, Kenneth Gwynne?"

He bowed stiffly, indicating a chair with a gesture. "Will you be seated first, madam?"

His sophomoric dignity drew a faint, ironic smile to her lips. "Thank you," she said calmly, and seated herself on the little horsehair sofa. If there was any uneasiness in the look she sent from one to the other of the young people it was not noticeable. "Hattie came in a little while ago," she said, "scared out of her wits. I suspected that you were up to one of your pranks, Viola. I do wish you would stop frightening the girl."

"Kenneth will tell you what happened," said the girl, hurriedly. "He wants to see you alone. I am going upstairs."

She left the room, closing the door behind her. Neither spoke until they heard her footsteps on the floor overhead.

"Well, what have you been telling her?" asked Rachel, leaning forward, her eyes narrowing.

He drew a chair up close to the sofa and sat down. "Nothing that she should not know," he answered. "I will first tell you what happened a little while ago, and then—the rest of it. There is evil afoot. I have been wrong, I realize, in not warning you and Viola."

She listened intently to the end; not once did she interrupt him, but as he proceeded to unfold the meagre details of the plot as presented to him by Isaac Stain, her brow darkened and her fingers began to work nervously, restlessly in her lap. His account of the frightening of Zachariah and its immediate results took up but little time. He was careful to avoid any mention of that stirring scene at the fence, its effect upon the startled girl, or how near he was to betraying the great secret.

Rachel Gwyn's eyes never left his face during the whole of the unbroken recital. Toward the end he had the disconcerting impression that she was reading his turbulent thoughts, that she was successfully searching his soul.

"That's the story as it came to me," he concluded. "I deserve your condemnation for not preparing Viola against a trick that might have resulted disastrously while we were marking time."

"Why did Isaac Stain go to you instead of coming to me?" was her first question.

"Because he believes I am her brother, and this happens to be a man's job," he said, lowering his voice. "It is only fair, however, to state that he wanted to come to you and I, in my folly, advised him not to do so."

She was silent for a moment. Then: "And why did you think it not advisable to tell me?"

"I will be frank with you," he replied, colouring under her steady gaze. "I wanted her to find out for herself just what kind of man Lapelle really is. I was prepared to let the plot go almost to the point of consummation. I—I wanted to be the one to save her." He lowered his eyes, afraid that she would discover the truth in them.

Again she hesitated, apparently weighing her words.

"You are in love with her, Kenneth."

He looked up, startled, almost aghast. Involuntarily he started to rise to his feet, his eyes still fixed on hers, vehement denial on his parted lips, only to sink back into the chair again, convicted. There was no use attempting to deceive this cold, clear-headed woman. She knew. No lie, no evasion could meet that direct statement. For a long time they looked straight into each other's eyes, and at length his fell in mute confession.

"God help me,—I am," he groaned.

"Oh, the pity of it!" she cried out. He looked up and saw that she was trembling, her ashen face working as in pain.

"No! The curse of it, Rachel Carter!"

She appeared not to have heard his words. "'God works in a mysterious way,'" she muttered, almost inaudibly. "The call of the blood is unfailing. The brain may be deceived, the heart never." With an effort, she regained control of herself. "She has broken off with Barry Lapelle. Do you know the reason why? Because, all unbeknownst to her, she has fallen in love with you. Yes! It is true. I know. I have seen it coming."

She arose and crossed to the door, which she cautiously opened. For a moment she remained there listening, then closing it gently, she came over and stood before him.

"Love is a wonderful thing, Kenneth," she said slowly. "It is the most powerful force in all the world. It overcomes reason, it crushes the conscience, it makes strong men weak and weak men strong. For love a woman will give her honour, for love a man will barter his chance for eternal salvation. It overlooks faults, it condones crime, it rises above every obstacle that the human mind can put before it. It knows no fear, it has no religion, it serves no God. You love my girl, Kenneth. She is the daughter of the woman you despise, the daughter of one you call evil. Is your love for her great enough,—or will it ever be great enough,—to overcome these obstacles? In plain words, would you take her unto yourself as your wife, to love and cherish and honour,—mind you, HONOUR,—to the end of your days on earth?"

He stood up, facing her, his face white.

"She has done nothing dishonourable," he said levelly.

"'The sins of the mother,'" she paraphrased, without taking her eyes from his.

"Was her mother any worse than my father? Has the sin been visited upon one of us and not upon the other?"

"Then, you WOULD be willing to take Viola as your wife?"

He seemed to wrench his gaze away. "Oh, what is the use of talking about the impossible?" he exclaimed. "I have confessed that I love her,—yes, in spite of everything,—and you—"

"You have not answered my question."

"No, I have not," he said deliberately,—"and I do not intend to answer it. You know as well as I that I cannot ask her to marry me, so why speak of it? Good God, could I ask my own sister to be my wife?"

"She is not your sister. She has not one drop of Gwynne blood in her veins."

He gave a short, bitter laugh. "But who is going to tell her that, may I ask, Rachel Carter?"

She turned away, took two or three turns up and down the room, her head bent, a heavy frown between her eyes, and then sank wearily into a chair.

"I will put it this way, Kenneth," she said. "Would you ask her to be your wife if the time should ever come when she knows the truth?"

He hesitated a long time. "Will you be kind enough to tell me what your object is in asking me these questions?"

"I want to know whether you are truly in love with her," she replied steadily.

"And if I say that I could not ask her to marry me, would that prove anything to you?"

"Yes. It would prove two things. It would prove that you do not love her with all your heart and soul, and it would prove that you are the same kind of man that your father was before you."

He started. It was the second reason that caused him to look at her curiously. "What do you mean?"

"When you have answered my question, I will answer yours, Kenneth."

"Well," he began, setting his jaw, "I DO love her enough to ask her to be my wife. But I would ask her as Owen Carter's daughter. And," he added, half closing his eyes as with pain, "she would refuse to have me. She could not look at the matter as I do. Her love,—if she should ever come to have such a feeling for me,—her love would revolt against—Oh, you know what I mean! Do you suppose it would survive the shock of realization? No! She has a clean heart. She would never marry the son of the man who—who—" He found himself unable to finish the sentence. A strange, sudden reluctance to hurt his enemy checked the words even as they were being framed on his lips,—reluctance due not to compassion nor to consideration but to a certain innate respect for an adversary whose back is to the wall and yet faces unequal odds without a sign of shrinking.

"Shall I say it for you?" she asked in a cold, level voice. But she had winced, despite her iron control.

"It is not necessary," said he, embarrassed.

"In any case," she said, with a sigh, "you have answered my question. If you could do this for my girl I am sure of your love for her. There could be no greater test. I shall take a little more time before answering your question. There are one or two more things I must say to you before I come to that,—and then, if you like, we will take up this story of Isaac Stain's. Kenneth, the time may come,—I feel that it is sure to come, when—" She stopped. A sound from above caught her ear,—a regular, rhythmic thumping on the floor. After a few seconds she remarked:

"It is all right. That is a rocking-chair. She is getting impatient." Nevertheless she lowered her voice and leaned forward in her chair. "The time is sure to come when Viola will learn the truth about herself and me,—and you, as well. I feel it in my bones. It may not come till after I am dead. But no matter when it comes, I want to feel sure now,—to-night, Kenneth,—that you will never undertake to deprive her of the lands and money I shall leave to her."

He stared at her in astonishment. "What is this you are saying?" She slowly repeated the words. "Why, how could I dispossess her? It is yours to bequeath as you see fit, madam. Do you think I am a mercenary scoundrel,—that I would try to take it away from her? I know she is not my father's daughter, but—why, good heaven, I would never dream of fighting for what you—"

"Your love for her,—though unrequited,—aye, even though she became embittered toward you because of what happened years ago,—you love her enough to stand aside and allow her to hold what I shall leave to her?"

"You are talking in riddles. What on earth are you driving at?" "You will not fight her right, her claim to my estate?" she insisted, leaning still closer.

"Why, of course not!" he exclaimed, angrily.

"Even though the law might say she is not entitled to it?"

"The law can take no action unless I invoke its aid," said he. "And that is something I shall never do," he added, with finality.

"I wish I could be sure of that," she murmured, wistfully.

He came to his feet. "You may be sure of it," he said, with dignity. "Possess your soul in peace, if that is all that is troubling it."

"Sit down," she said, a strange huskiness in her voice. He obeyed her. "Your father left a certain part of his fortune to me. There was no provision made for Viola. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes. I know all about that," said he, plainly bewildered. "On the other hand, he did not impose any restrictions upon you. You are at liberty to dispose of your share by will, as you see fit, madam. I am not likely to deny my step-sister what is rightfully hers. And that reminds me. She is not my blood relation, it's true. But she is my step-sister. That settles another point. I could not ask my step-sister to be my wife. The law would—"

"Now we have come to the point where I shall answer the question you asked a while ago," she interrupted, straightening up in her chair and regarding him with a fixed, steady light in her eyes that somehow seemed to forewarn him of what was about to be revealed. "I said it would prove two things to me. One of them was that you are the same kind of man that your father was before you. I mean if you had said you could not ask Viola to be your wife." She paused, and then went on slowly, deliberately. "I lived with your father for nearly twenty years. In all that time he never asked me to be his wife."

At first he stared blankly at her, uncomprehending.

Then a slow, dark flush spread over his face. He half-started up from his chair.

"You—you mean—" he stammered.

"He never asked me to be his wife," she repeated without emotion.

He sank back, incredulous, dumbfounded. "My God! Am I to understand that you—that you were never married to my father?"

"Yes. I waited twenty years for him to ask me to marry him,—but he never did."

He was still somewhat stupefied. The disclosure was so unexpected, so utterly at odds with all his understanding that he could not wholly grasp its significance. Somewhat footlessly he burst out:

"But surely you must have demanded—I mean, did you never ask him to—to marry you?"

Her eyebrows went up slightly.

"How could I?" she inquired, as if surprised by the question. "I had not sunk so low in my own estimation as that, Kenneth Gwynne. My bed was made the day I went away with him. Some day you may realize that even such as I may possess the thing called pride. No! I would have died rather than ask him to marry me. I chose my course with my eyes open. It was not for me to demand more than I gave. He was not a free man when I went to him. He made no promises, nor did I exact any."

She spoke in the most matter-of-fact way. He regarded her in sheer wonder.

"But he SHOULD have made you his wife," he exclaimed, his sense of fairness rising above the bitter antipathy he felt toward her.

"That was for him to decide," said she, calmly. "I respected his feelings in the matter,—and still do. He had no right to marry me when we went away together. He did not take me as a wife, Kenneth Gwynne. He took me as a woman. He had a wife. Up to the day he died he looked upon her as his wife. I was his woman. I could never take her place. Not even after she had been in her grave for twenty years. He never forgot her. I see the scorn in your eyes. He does not quite deserve it, Kenneth. After all is said and done, he was fair to me. Not one man in a thousand would have done his part so well as he.

"I don't suppose you know what men do with their mistresses when they begin to feel that they are through with them and there is no legal bond to hold them. They desert them. They cast them off. And then they turn to some honest woman and marry her. That is the way with men. But he was not like that. I can tell what you are about to say. It is on your lips to say that he deserted an honest woman. Well, so he did. And therein lies the secret of his constancy to me,—even after he had ceased to love me and the passion that was in him died. He would never desert another woman who trusted him. He paid too dearly in his conscience for the first offence to be guilty of a second.

"You see I am laying bare my innermost soul to you. It hurts me to say that through all these years he loved and honoured and revered his wife,—and the memory of her. He was never unkind to me,—he never spoke of her. But I knew, and he knew that I knew. He loved you, his little boy. I, too, loved you once, Kenneth. When you were a little shaver I adored you. But I came to hate you as the years went by. It is needless to tell you the reason why. When it came time for him to die he left you half of his fortune. The other half,—and a little over,—he gave to me." Her voice faltered a little as she added: "For good and faithful service, I suppose."

During this long speech Kenneth had succeeded in collecting his thoughts. He had been shocked by her confession, and now he was mentally examining the possibilities that might arise from the aspect it bared.

First of all, Viola was not even his step-sister. He experienced a thrill of joy over that,—notwithstanding the ugly truth that gave her the new standing; to his simple, straightforward mind, Viola's mother was nothing more than a prostitute. (In his thoughts he employed another word, for he lived in a day when prostitutes were called by another name.) Still, Viola was not to blame for that. That could never be held against her.

"Why have you told me all this?" he asked bluntly. "I had no means of learning that you were never married to my father. There was never a question about it in my mind, nor in anybody else's, so far as I know. You have put a very dangerous weapon in my hand in case I should choose to use it against you."

She was silent for a long time, struggling with herself. He could almost feel the battle that was going on within her. Somehow it appalled him.

The wind outside was rising. It moaned softly, plaintively through the trees. A shutter creaked somewhere at the back of the house and at intervals banged against the casement. The frogs down in the hollow had ceased their clamour and no doubt took to themselves credit for the storm that was on the way in answer to their exhortations. The even, steady thump of the rocking-chair in the room overhead stopped suddenly, and Viola's quick tread was heard crossing the floor. She closed a window. Then, after a moment, the sound of the rocking-chair again.

Rachel left her chair and walked over to the window to peer out into the night.

"It is coming from the west," she said, as if to test the steadiness of her voice.

A far-off flicker of lightning cast a faint, phosphorescent glow into the dimly lighted room, quivering for a second or two on the face of the woman at the window, then dying away with what seemed to be a weird suggestion of reluctance.

She stood before him, looking down. "I have at last obeyed a command imposed by Robert Gwynne when he was on his death-bed. Almost his last words to me were in the nature of a threat. He told me that if I failed to carry out his request,—he did not call it a command,—he would haunt me to my dying day. You may laugh at me if you will, but he HAS been haunting me, Kenneth Gwynne. If I ever cherished the notion that I could ignore his command and go on living in the security of my own secret, I must have known from the beginning that it would be impossible. Day and night, ever since you came, some force that was not my own has been driving at my resistance. You will call it compunction, or conscience or an honest sense of duty. I do not call it by any of those names. Your father commanded me to tell you with my own lips,—not in writing or through the mouth of an agent,—he commanded me to say to you that your mother was the only wife he ever had. I have done this to-night. I have humbled myself,—but it was after a long, cruel fight."

She sat down, and it seemed to him that her very soul went out in the deep, long sigh that caused her bosom to flatten and her shoulders to droop forward.

"He was either an ingrate or a coward," said he harshly, after a short silence.

"It is not for you to pass judgment on my master," said she, simply. "May I beg you to refrain from putting your own judgment of him into words? Will you not spare me that?"

He stared at her in astonishment. He saw that she was in earnest, desperately in earnest. Choking back the words that had rushed to his lips, he got up from his chair and bent his head gravely.

"Yes, if it is any comfort to you, Rachel Carter," he said, acute pity in his eyes. "I cannot resist saying, however, that you have not spared yourself. It cost you a great deal to pay one of the debts he left for you to settle. I shall not forget it."

She arose and all the humility fell away from her. Once more she was the strong, indomitable,—even formidable,—figure he had come to know so well. Her bosom swelled, her shoulders straightened, and into her deep-set, sombre eyes came the unflinching light of determination.

"Then we are done with that," she said quietly. "I have asked no favours save this last one for myself,—but it is a greater one than you may think. You know everything now, Kenneth. You have called me Rachel Carter. Was it divination or was it stubborn memory? I wonder. So far as I know, you are the only person left in the world who knows that I was not his wife, the only one who knows that I am still Rachel Carter. No matter what this man Braley may know, or what he may tell, he—But we are wasting time. Viola must be wondering. Now as to this plan of Barry Lapelle's. I think I can safely assure you that nothing will come of it."

"Then, you knew about it before I told you?" he exclaimed.

"No. You brought me word of Jasper Suggs this morning. You said he was staying at Martin Hawk's cabin. You may have forgotten what I said to you at the time. Now you bring me word that Barry Lapelle's plot was hatched at Martin Hawk's. Well, this afternoon I went to the Court House and swore out a warrant charging Martin Hawk with stealing some of my yearling calves and sheep. That warrant is now in the hands of the sheriff. It will be served before another day is gone."

"That's pretty sharp work," he said, but still a little puzzled. "Naturally it will upset Barry's plans, but Suggs is still to be accounted for. You mentioned something about charging him with a murder back in—"

"I guess that can wait till another day," said she, with a smile that he did not quite understand. "It would be rather stupid of me, don't you think, to have him arrested?"

"You said he was not the kind of a man to be taken alive," he remarked, knitting his brows.

"I think I said something of the kind. The name of Simon Braley is known from one end of this State to the other. It is a name to conjure fear with. Every Indian uprising in the past ten years has had Braley's name connected with it. It was he who led the band of Chippewas twelve years ago when they massacred some fifteen or eighteen women and children in a settlement on White River while their men were off in the fields at work. Isn't it rather significant that the renegade Simon Braley should turn up in these parts at a time when Black Hawk is—But that is neither here nor there. My warrant calls for the arrest of Martin Hawk. For more than two years Hawk has been suspected of stealing livestock down on the Wea, hut no one has ever been willing to make a specific charge against him. He is very cunning and he has always covered his tracks."

"Do you think he will resist the sheriff? I mean, is there likely to be fighting?"

"It all depends on whether Martin is caught napping," she replied in a most casual manner. "By the way, has Isaac Stain told you much about himself?"

Kenneth could not repress a smile. "He has mentioned one or two affairs of the heart."

"His sister was one of the women massacred by the Chippewas down on White River that time. She was the young wife of a settler. Isaac will be overjoyed when he finds out that Jasper Suggs and Simon Braley are one and the same person."

He was speechless for a moment, comprehension coming slowly to him. "By all that's holy!" he exclaimed, something like awe in his voice. "I am beginning to understand. Stain will be one of the sheriff's party?"

"We will stop at his cabin on the way to Hawk's," she replied. "If he chooses to join us after I have told him who I think this man Suggs really is, no one will object."

"You say 'we.' Do you mean to tell me that you are going along with the posse? Good God, woman, there will be shooting! You must not think of—"

She checked him with an imperious gesture. "I cannot send these men to face a peril that I am not willing to face myself. That would be dastardly. I will take my chances with the rest of them. You seem to forget that I spent a good many years of my life in the wilderness. This will not be my first experience with renegades and outlaws. When I first came to this State, the women had to know how to shoot. Not only to shoot birds and beasts, but men as well. Those were hard days. I was not like the men who cut notches in their rifle stocks for every Indian they slew, and yet there is a gun in my room upstairs that could have two notches on it if I had cared to put them there."

"What time do you start?" he said, the fire of excitement in his eyes. "I insist on being one of the—"

"You will not be needed," she said succinctly. "I think you had better go now. The storm will soon be upon us. Thank you for coming here to-night, Kenneth."



CHAPTER XIX

LAPELLE SHOWS HIS TEETH

Kenneth went to bed that night firmly resolved to accompany the sheriff when he set out to arrest Martin Hawk. Zachariah had instructions to call him at daybreak and to have breakfast ready on the dot.

No doubt the posse would start about sunrise,—in any case, he would be up and prepared to take to his saddle the instant he saw his neighbour leaving her house.

The thunderstorm came rollicking down the valley, crashed and rolled and roared for half an hour or so, and then stole mumbling away in the night, leaving in its wake a sighing wind and the drip of forsaken raindrops.

He was astir at cockcrow. The first faint glow of red in the greying east found him at breakfast, with Zachariah sleepily serving him with hot corn-cakes, lean side-meat and coffee.

"Take plenty dis yere hot coffee, Marse Kenneth," urged Zachariah, at the end of a prodigious yawn. "Yo' all gwine need sumpin to keep yo' 'wake, suh, so's yo' won't fall out'n de saddle. Dis yere—"

"Speaking of saddles, have you fed Brandy Boy?"

"Yas, suh. Ah dunno as Ah evah see a hoss mo' took by 'stonishment dan he wuz when Ah step brisk-like into his stall an' sez 'Doggone yo', Brandy Boy, don't yo' know de sun's gwine to be up in less'n two hours? Wha' fo' is yo' keepin' me an' Marse Kenneth waitin' lak dis? Git ep dar, yo' lazy, good-fer-nuffin,—'"

"And what did Brandy Boy say in response to that?" broke in his master, airily.

"How dat, suh?"

"Did he reply in courteous terms or was he testy and out of sorts? Now, just what DID he say?"

Zachariah stared at the speaker in some uneasiness. "Ah reckon yo' all better go on back to bed, suh, an' lemme call yo' when yo' is wide awake. Ain' no sense in yo' startin' off on dis yere hossback ride when yo' is still enjoyin' setch a good night's sleep. No, SUH!"

"I will take another cup of your excellent coffee, Zachariah. That will make three, won't it?"

Zachariah shuffled over to the stove, muttering as he lifted the coffee pot: "Fust Ah is seein' things in de evenin' an' den Ah hears all dis yere talk 'bout a hoss SAYIN' things in de mornin',—Yas, suh,—yas, SUH! Comin' right along, suh. Little mo' side-meat, suh?"

"Take a peep out of the window and see if any one is stirring over at Mrs. Gwyn's."

"'Pears lak Ah c'n see a lady out in de front yard, suh," said Zachariah, at the window.

"You don't say so! Is it Mrs. Gwyn?" cried Kenneth, hastily gulping his coffee as he pushed his chair back from the table.

"Hit ain' light enough fo' to see—"

"Run out and saddle Brandy Boy at once, and be quick about it."

"No, suh, hit ain' Mrs. Gwyn. Hit's Miss Violy. 'Pears lak she comin' over here, suh. Leastwise she come out'n de gate kind o' fast-like,—gotten a shawl wrap aroun'—"

Kenneth waited for no more. He dashed from the house and down to the fence,—where stood Viola, pulling at the swollen, water-soaked gate peg. She was bareheaded, her brown hair hanging down her back in long, thick braids. It was apparent at a glance that she had dressed hastily and but partially at that. With one hand she pinched close about her throat the voluminous scarlet shawl of embroidered crepe in which the upper part of her body was wrapped.

Later he was to observe that her heavy shoes were unlaced and had been drawn on over her bare feet. Her eyes were filled with alarm.

"I don't know where mother is," she said, without other greeting. "She is not in the house, Kenny. I am worried almost sick."

He stared at her in dismay. "Oh, blast the luck! She must have—Say, are you sure she's gone?"

"I can't find her anywhere," cried she, in distress. "I've been out to the barn and—Why, what ails you, Kenneth?"

"She got away without my knowing it. But maybe it's not too late. I can catch up with them if I hurry. Hey, Zachariah!"

"Then, you know where she is?" cried the girl, grasping his arm as he turned to rush away. "For goodness' sake, tell me! Where has she gone?"

"Why, don't you—But of course you don't!" he exclaimed. "You poor girl! You must be almost beside yourself,—and here I go making matters worse by—"

"Where is she?" she broke in, all the colour going from her face as she shook his arm impatiently. "Come in the house," he said gently, consolingly. "I'll tell you all I know. There's nothing to be worried about. She will be home, safe and sound, almost before you know it. I will explain while Zachariah is saddling Brandy Boy." He laid his hand upon her shoulder. "Come along,—dear."

She held back. "If anything happens to her and you could have—" she began, a threat in her dark, harassed eyes.

"I had no idea she would start at such an unearthly hour. I had made up my mind to go with her, whether or not. Didn't she tell you she had made an affidavit against Martin Hawk?"

"No. The sheriff was up here last night, just after supper, but,—Oh, Kenny, what is it all about?"

His arm stole about her shoulders. She leaned heavily, wearily against him as they walked up the drenched path.

"Have you any idea at all what time she left the house?" he asked.

"I heard her go down the stairs. It was pitch dark, but the clock struck one quite a long time afterward. I did not think anything about it then, because she often gets up in the middle of the night and goes down to sit in the kitchen. Ever since father died. I must have gone to sleep again because I did not hear her come back upstairs. I awoke just at daybreak and got up to see if she needed me. She—she had not gone to bed at all, Kenny.—and I couldn't find her anywhere. Then I thought that Martin Hawk and the others had come and taken her away by mistake, thinking it was me in the darkness."

"Sit down, Viola. I'll light the fire. It's quite chilly and you are shaking like a—"

"I want to know where she has gone," she insisted.

Then he told her briefly as much as he thought she ought to know. She was vastly relieved. She even smiled.

"There's no use of your trying to catch up with her. Thank you for lighting the fire, Kenny. If you don't mind, I will sit here awhile, and I may go to sleep in this comfortable chair of yours. Goodness, I must look awful. My hair—"

"Don't touch it! It is beautiful as it is. I wish girls would always wear their hair in braids like that."

She yawned, stretched her legs out to the fire, and then suddenly realizing that her ankles were bare, drew them back again to the shelter of her petticoat with a quick, shy glance to see if he had observed.

"I wish I could cut it off,—like a boy's. It is miles too long. You might as well head Zachariah off. She has been gone since one o'clock. I am sure I heard the front door close before I dropped off to sleep. Don't fidget, Kenny. They've probably got old Martin in the calaboose by this time. Mother never fails when she sets out to do a thing. That good-for-nothing sleepy-head, Hattie, never heard a sound last night. What a conscience she must have!"

He frowned at his big silver watch. "It's after five. See here, Viola, suppose you just curl up on the sofa there and get some sleep. You look tired. I'll put a quilt over you and—"

She half-started up from the chair, flushing in embarrassment.

"Oh, I ought not to stay here, Kenny. Suppose somebody were to come along and catch me here in your—"

"Shucks! You're my sister, aren't you?"

"I suppose it's all right," she said dubiously, sinking back into the chair again. "But somehow, Kenny, I don't believe I will ever be able to think of you as a brother; not if I live a thousand years. I'm sorry to hurt your feelings, but—well, I just can't help being a little bit afraid of you. I suppose it's silly of me, but I'm so ashamed to have you see me with my hair down like this, and no stockings on, and only half-dressed. I—I feel hot all over. I didn't think of it at first, I was so worried, but now I—"

"It is very silly of you," he said, rather thickly. "You did right in coming over, and I'm going to make you comfortable now that you are here. Lie down here and get some sleep, like a good little girl, and when you wake up Zachariah will have a nice hot breakfast for you."

"I'd rather not lie down," she stammered. "Let me just sit here awhile,—and don't bother about breakfast for me. Hattie will—"

"But he has to get breakfast anyhow," he argued.

She looked at him suspiciously. "Haven't you had your breakfast?"

"No," he lied. Then he hurried off to give guilty instructions to Zachariah.

"Fo' de lan's sake," the latter blurted out as he listened to his master's orders; "is yo' all gwine to eat another breakfast?"

"Yes, I am," snapped Kenneth. "I'll take care of Brandy Boy. You go in and clear the table,—and see to it that you don't make any noise. If you do, I'll skin you alive."

An hour later, Kenneth arose from his seat on the front doorstep and stole over to the sitting-room window.

She was asleep in the big rocking-chair, her head twisted limply toward her left shoulder, presenting a three-quarters view of her face to him as he gazed long and ardently upon her. He could see the deep rise and fall of her bosom. The shawl, unclasped at the throat, had fallen away, revealing the white flannel nightgown over which she had hastily drawn a petticoat before sallying forth.

He went to the kitchen door and found Zachariah sitting grumpily on the step.

"She's still sound asleep," he announced.

"So's dat lazy Hattie over yander," lamented Zachariah, with a jerk of his head. "Ain' no smoke comin' out'n her chimbley, lemme tell yo'."

"Fill that wash-pan and get me a clean towel," ordered his master. He looked at his watch. "I'm going to awaken her,—in half an hour."

It was nearly seven o'clock when he stamped noisily into the sitting-room with towel and basin. He had thrice repeated his visit to the window, and with each succeeding visit had remained a little longer than before, notwithstanding the no uncertain sense of guilt that accused him of spying upon the lovely sleeper.

She awoke with a start, looked blankly about as if bewildered by her strange surroundings, and then fixed her wide, questioning eyes upon him, watching him in silence as he placed the basin of spring-water on a chair and draped the coarse towel over the back.

"Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes, Miss," he announced, bowing deeply. "If you desire to freshen yourself a bit after your profound slumbers, you will find here some of the finest water in the universe and a towel warranted to produce a blush upon the cheek of a graven image."

"Has mother come home?" she inquired anxiously, as she drew the shawl close about her throat again. "No sign of her. Hurry along, and as soon as we've had a bite to eat I'll ride down to the Court House and see if she's there."

He left her, and presently she came out into the kitchen, her skin glowing warmly, her braids loosely coiled on the crown of her head, her eyes like violet stars.

Zachariah marvelled at his master's appetite. Recollection of an already devoured meal of no small proportions caused him to doubt his senses. From time to time he shook his head in wonder and finally took to chuckling. The next time Marse Kenneth complained about having no appetite he would know what to say to him.

"I must run home now," said Viola at the close of the meal. "It's been awfully nice,—and so exciting, Kenny. I feel as if I had been doing something I ought not to do. Isn't it queer? Having breakfast with a man I never saw until six weeks ago!"

"It does my heart good to see you blush so prettily," said he warmly. Then his face darkened. "And it turns my blood cold to think that if you had succeeded in doing something you ought not to have done six weeks ago, you might now be having breakfast with somebody else instead of with me."

"I wish you would not speak of that, Kenneth," she said severely. "You will make me hate you if you bring it up again." Then she added with a plaintive little smile: "The Bible says, 'Love thy neighbour as thyself.' I am doing my best to live up to that, but sometimes you make it awfully hard for me."

He went to the door with her. She paused for a moment on the step to look searchingly up the road and through the trees. There was no sign of her mother. The anxious, worried expression deepened in her eyes.

"Don't come any farther with me," she said. "Go down to the Court House as fast as you can."

He watched her till she passed through the gate. As he was on the point of re-entering the house he saw her come to an abrupt stop and stare straight ahead. He shot a swift, apprehensive glance over his shoulder.

Barry Lapelle had just emerged from Rachel's yard, his gaze fixed on the girl who stood motionless in front of Gwynne's gate, a hundred feet away. Without taking his eyes from her, he slowly closed the gate and leaned against it, folding his arms as he did so.

Viola, after a moment's indecision and without a glance at Kenneth, lifted her chin and went forward to the encounter. Kenneth looked in all directions for Lapelle's rascals. He was relieved to find that the discarded suitor apparently had ventured alone upon this early morning mission. What did it portend?

Filled with sharp misgivings, he left his doorstep and walked slowly down to the gate, where he halted. It occurred to him that Barry, after a sleepless night, had come to make peace with his tempestuous sweetheart. If such was the case, his own sense of fairness and dignity would permit no interference on his part unless it was solicited by the girl herself. He was ready, however, to take instant action if she made the slightest sign of distress or alarm. While he had no intention of spying or eavesdropping, their voices reached him distinctly and he could not help hearing what passed between them.

"Have you been up to the house, Barry?" were Viola's first words as she stopped in front of the man who barred the way.

Lapelle did not change his position. His chin was lowered and he was looking at her through narrowed, unsmiling eyes.

"Yes, I have."

"Where was the dog?" she inquired cuttingly.

"He came and licked my hand. He's the only friend I've got up here, I reckon."

"I will have him shot to-day. What do you want?"

"I came to see your mother. Where is she?"

"She's away."

"Over night?"

"It will do you no good to see her, Barry. You might as well realize it first as last."

Lapelle glanced past her at the man beyond and lowered his voice. Kenneth could not hear what he said. "Well, I'm going to see her, and she will be down on her knees before I'm through with her, let me tell you. Oh, I'm sober, Viola! I had my lesson yesterday. I'm through with whiskey forever. So she was away all night, eh? Out to the farm, eh? That nigger girl of yours says she must have gone out to the farm last night, because her bed wasn't slept in. And you weren't expecting visitors as early as this or you would have got home a little sooner yourself, huh?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Soon as she is out of the house you scoot over to big brother Kenny's, eh? Afraid to sleep alone, I suppose. Well, all I've got to say is you ought to have taken a little more time to dress."

"Oh! Oh,—you—you low-lived dog!" she gasped, going white to the roots of her hair. "How dare you say—"

"That's right! Call me all the pretty names you can think of. And say, I didn't come up here to beg anything from you or your mother. I'm not in a begging humour. I'm through licking your boots, Viola. What time will the old woman be back?"

"Stand away from that gate!" she said in a voice low and hoarse with fury. "Don't you dare speak to me again. And if you follow me to the house I'll—I'll—"

"What'll you do?" he jeered. "Call brother Kenny? Well, go ahead and call him. There he is. I'll kick him from here to the pond,—and that won't be half so pleasant as rocking little sister to sleep in her cradle while mamma is out for the night."

"And I used to think I was in love with you!" she cried in sheer disgust. "I could spit in your face, Barry Lapelle. Will you let me pass?"

"Certainly. But I'm going into the house with you, understand that. I'd just as soon wait there for your mother as anywhere else."

"When my mother hears about this she will have you horsewhipped within an inch of your life," cried the girl furiously.

These words, rising on a wave of anger, came distinctly to Kenneth's ears. He left his place at the gate and walked swiftly along inside his fence until he came to the corner of the yard, where the bushes grew thickly. Here he stopped to await further developments. He heard Barry say, with a harsh laugh:

"Oh, she will, will she?"

"Yes, she will. She knows more about you than you think she does,—and so do I. Let me by! Do you hear me, Bar—"

"That's funny," he interrupted, lowering his voice to a half-whisper. "That's just what I came up to see her about. I want to tell her that I know more about her than she thinks I do. And when I get through telling her what I know she'll change her mind about letting us get married. And you'll marry me, too, my girl, without so much as a whimper. Oh, you needn't look around for big brother,—God, I bet you'd be happy if he wasn't your brother, wouldn't you? Well, he has sneaked into the house, just as I knew he would if it looked like a squall. He's a white-livered coward. How do you like that?"

He was not only astonished but distinctly confounded by the swift, incomprehensible smile that played about her disdainful lips.

"What the hellfire are you laughing at?" he exploded.

"Nothing much. I was only thinking about last night."

"Christ!" he exclaimed, the blood rushing to his face. "Why,—why, you—" The words failed him. He could only stare at her as if stunned by the most shocking confession.

"Please remember that you are speaking to—"

He broke in with a snarling laugh. "By thunder, I'm beginning to believe you're no better than she was. She wasn't anything but a common———, and I'm blessed if I think it's sensible to marry into the family, after all."

"Oh!" she gasped, closing her eyes as she shrank away from him. The word he had used stood for the foulest thing on earth to her. It had never passed her clean, pure lips. For the moment she was petrified, speechless.

"It's about time you learned the truth about that damned old hypocrite,—if you don't know it already," he continued, raising his voice at the urge of the now reckless fury that consumed him. He stood over her shrinking figure, glaring mercilessly down into her horror-struck eyes. "You don't need to take my word for it. Ask Gwynne. He knows. He knows what happened back there in Kentucky. He knows she ran off with his father twenty years ago, taking him away from the woman he was married to. That's why he hates her. That's why he never had anything to do with his dog of a father. And, by God, he probably knows you were born out of wedlock,—that you're a love-child, a bas—"



CHAPTER XX

THE BLOW

He never finished the word. A whirlwind was upon him. Before he could raise a hand to defend himself, Kenneth Gwynne's brawny fist smote him squarely between the eyes. He went down as though struck by a sledge-hammer, crashing to the ground full six feet from where he stood. Behind that clumsy blow was the weight of a thirteen stone body, hurled as from a mighty catapult.

He never knew how long afterward it was that he heard a voice speaking to him. The words, jumbled and unintelligible, seemed to come from a great distance. He attempted to rise, gave it up, and fell back dizzily. His vision was slow in clearing. What he finally saw, through blurred, uncertain eyes, was the face of Kenneth Gwynne, far above him,—and it was a long time before it stopped whirling and became fixed in one place. Then he realized that it was the voice of Gwynne that was speaking to him, and he made out the words. Something warm and wet crept along the sides of his mouth, over his chin, down his neck. His throat was full of a hot nauseous fluid. He raised himself on one elbow and spat.