The Man from Jericho Part 24

"I have just come in. I went into the country after leaving you. Who is it? Marston again?"

A sob, half hysterical, struggled from the girl's throat.

"Yes--yes! He will come! He said he would! He's determined to kill you!

Oh! I couldn't stand it!"

She put her hands over her eyes, and s.h.i.+vered.

"Who is with you, Miss Julia? You must not remain here another moment.

You know walls have ears and eyes, even at this hour of the night. Who came with you?"

"No one; who could come with me? But you! You must not stay here tonight. Perhaps he came and found you were out. He will return, Promise me!"

Before he could answer they heard a sound which each knew; the pounding hoofs of a horse ridden at full speed.

"It is he!" gasped Julia, her face colourless as marble. "It is too late!"

The hard-ridden horse stopped below with a crash and a rattle of small stones.

"Courage!" whispered John, leaning towards the girl. "Trust me; all will be well!"

Turning the lamp low, he quickly bore it into the front office and placed it upon his desk there in a far corner of the room. In an instant he was by her side again and had her hand in his, and even in the peril of that moment he felt her clinging to him, and his heart exulted. The apartment was now in almost total darkness.

"Come!" he whispered, and opening the stair door wide he led her out into the pa.s.sage, and down it for a dozen feet. Here not a ray of light came, but he placed her behind him, holding her hand all the while in a close grasp. There was a heavy step below--a stumble--a muttered curse.

"He has nerved himself with whiskey!" was the low message Glenning sent over his shoulder, "Be perfectly quiet; there is nothing to fear."

Slowly a heavy form ascended the stair, feeling its way along the wall, and halting now and then. A head and shoulders were dimly outlined, then the figure of Devil Marston stood in the open doorway. He waited a moment to steady himself, then entered. Glenning leaned forward to listen. The invader made no efforts to soften his movements, and presently John knew he had entered the front office. Then he placed his arm around the slight form by his side and gently drew her forward.

Almost carrying her, they glided down the stair like shadows, then John took her arm in his, and they hurried along the deserted streets. Not a word was spoken until they had almost reached the Dudley home.

"Why did you do this?" asked John, an almost overpowering desire to clasp her in his arms a.s.sailing him as he felt her leaning heavily upon him, and thought of the significance of it all.

"There was no one else," she murmured, and sighed as she became conscious of the nearness of home.

"Tell me about it," he said, and he knew that she drew closer to him in the starlight.

"It was awful!" she replied. "I thought it would kill me. It was near ten o'clock. Father was asleep, and I slipped out into the yard to be alone, and enjoy the night. I had strolled down the avenue to the gate, and was standing there when he pa.s.sed, going towards his home. I wore a white dress, and he saw me. He pulled up his horse, and without warning told me that he was going to square accounts with you that night, and get you out of his way. Then he laughed and rode on. I thought he was crazy. I went back to the house and tried to forget it, but I could not sleep. I knew he was capable of anything. There was no one to send--Peter would not have done. So I came."

They had entered the avenue. The segment of a late moon was pus.h.i.+ng its way through some ragged clouds above the eastern horizon.

"_Why_ did you come?" repeated John.

They had reached the portico before she answered.

"To save you from him," she said, standing upon the step, so that her face was almost on a level with his own.

"But why?--_why?_ What motive caused you to jeopardize your good name, to place yourself in a position which would compromise you forever were it known. Was it friends.h.i.+p alone?"

"I cannot tell you!"

"You can--you must!"

His face was almost fierce in the wan light, and his eyes were glowing.

"Not now; not yet."

There was a note of sadness in her voice, and her eyes fell.

Glenning took her hand, and came closer to her.

"Little girl, I _must_ know!"

She looked up, and her brave, truthful eyes met his squarely.

"There is yet something in the way," she said, smiling as through pain, "before you may--"

"What is it?" he broke in, eagerly. "Speak!"

"Jericho!"

Then she was gone, and he was alone with the memory of the past.

CHAPTER XV

In the year of grace in which this story moved, the Macon fair began the tenth day of July. All things were now leading up to it, for July had come, and the days, while really long, pa.s.sed quickly.

Glenning had a fearful task before him. Only once since that memorable night when so many things had happened--when he had been almost scorned by the girl he loved; when he had held a mob at bay and saved a worthless scoundrel's life; when he had received a young lady caller in his office at two o'clock in the morning; when he had walked home with her to be ruthlessly wakened from his blissful love-dream--only once since that night had he been able to get himself to that point of moral courage which would enable him to make his confession, and plead his cause unhampered and with a conscience at rest. And in that hour when his soul was trembling on the verge of a full disclosure of all that had pa.s.sed during that hateful, bitter-sweet time in Jericho, an interruption had come at the inopportune moment, and his chance went, for when they were together again alone that very evening he knew that it was impossible for him to speak. He knew, too, that possession and a full reciprocity of affection would never be his until he had lain bare that hidden portion of his life. He wanted to tell it; he wanted her to know. It was not a desire for concealment which held his tongue. That night when they stood in the wan moonlight by the portico steps, he had forgotten the untold secret. He knew only that she was before him, very close to him; that he had held her hand, had, for a few moments, pressed her young body to his as they went down the steps at his office; knew that she had filled him and thrilled him with a rare happiness, and that life without her would be commonplace, sunless and dreary. Another moment his consuming love would have been pouring from his lips in fervent words of fire, when he heard that name which he had come to hate--"Jericho!"

In the days which followed he fought with himself again, and some there are who will know what this means, and others there are who will not.

But of all battles fought, surely this is the most terrible, when a man fights himself. It was not the old struggle with which he had contended night upon night after his arrival in Macon. That had been horrible, for the devil and an angel had locked in his heart then, and their efforts had torn him pitiably. But his angel had won in the end. The red-gold hair and the eyes of wine came no more to make a picture of living temptation above his pillow. They were banished. Now the same devil had come again, and the same angel, and it was all to do over again. This time the devil told him to keep his mouth shut, or tell only a part of the truth, since he had already been fool enough to say that something had occurred back in Jericho. The angel bade him lay the whole story bare; this was the only honourable course. John was aware that the outcome of this fight must be decided by his att.i.tude. The combatant to which he lent his aid would overcome the other. And while he knew perfectly well what he should do, the devil pulled steadily the other way, whispering all the time that to speak the truth would mean total loss, and that a partial falsehood, at least, would be excusable, considering all that was at stake.

The new doctor's leisure hours were getting less frequent now. His remarkable success in treating the Scribbenses had all at once lifted him on a wave of popularity. Then, too, the story of how he had whipped Devil Marston in fair fight had gone abroad some way, and this, coupled to his defense of the jail, had thrown him in the full glare of the lime-light, and had also raised him on a sort of pedestal for the good people of Macon. They had never had anyone in their quiet community who could "do things" before. They began to hold him in a kind of awe, and to honour him in every way they could. Some of the most substantial recognition came from the wealthy population, who sent for him when illness required the presence of a physician. Glenning began to realize that his position was secure and his future a.s.sured.

One day Dillard joined him on the street, and accompanied him to his office. He was worried, as usual. He preceded his opening remark by shaking his head solemnly.

"It's no use, Glenning; it's no use."

Delivering this characteristic speech in a despondent tone, he walked to the window, and looked out.

"What's no use?" came the sharp, quick question, charged with irrepressible vim and a trace of nervousness.

"He won't do it! He won't do it!" was the still doleful reply.

"Stop your riddles and talk sense!" snapped John.