The Man from Jericho Part 5

"Yes. There's nothing in the State that can beat my Thunderer, Daystar and Imperial Don except that long-legged devil-colt. You want to retire from business. You can do it after this summer's racing with the tips I'll give you _if you'll kill Dudley's colt tonight_!"

"I can't! I can't!" was the moaning reply. "I'm not too good; I'm afraid!"

"Afraid of what?" a sneering voice returned. "Of the dark, two old n.i.g.g.e.rs, an old man and a girl? You're not game a bit!"

"Let me think ... let me think! How much can I make?"

"Ten thousand, easy. See here, it can be done in a minute. We've tried poison and fire, but there's no escape from a pistol bullet, unless that lank fool who last night went where I tried to go chooses to stand in the way--and I shouldn't care if he did."

"Where will the horse be?--the stable's burned flat."

"I'll find that out today and let you know soon after dark. But you'd better not do it till along towards three in the morning. Everybody will be asleep then."

"But if they should catch me, Marston? I'm supposed to be respectable!"

"d.a.m.n you for a rank coward!" was the explosive rejoinder, spoken aloud.

"I know a fellow who'll do it for a ten-dollar bill!"

The heavy tramping of feet followed this harsh speech, as though the man who had spoken was leaving the room.

"Hold on, Marston!" the nervous voice protested, eagerly. "Come back a minute! And don't talk so loud. That new doctor's on this floor somewhere. I was asleep when they brought him in half dead last night, and the night clerk, Jones, put him on this floor somewhere. Be patient.

A man can't risk his life and reputation without thinking about it. Sit down just a minute and let me think."

Some unintelligible grumbling was the only reply Glenning could hear, but he judged from the silence which followed that both men were still there. He took advantage of this lull in the conversation to put his eye to the keyhole. A compactly built, brutish looking man was in his line of vision, sprawled in a chair directly facing him. Glenning would have recognized anywhere the one who had vainly tried to enter The Prince's stall. He was an evil appearing man. His shoulders were very broad, and his neck was so thick and short that his round head seemed to spring from his body. He was flas.h.i.+ly dressed, with knee length riding boots of russet leather. His face was sensual and cruel; his straight black hair grew low upon his forehead. His eyes were small and set close to his nose, and his upper teeth habitually showed, like a wolf's. A heavy scowl sat upon his features from his present ill humour. The watcher at the keyhole felt a great wave of repulsion surge over him as he beheld this being in the shape of man, and unconsciously his heart hardened. Nothing was visible of the second occupant of the room except the toe of one shoe, which kept up an incessant tattoo on the worn carpet. Two minutes pa.s.sed, and Glenning noted that the figure fronting him was growing restless. The frown on his low forehead deepened into threatening furrows and he began to strike his boots with the whip he carried. Suddenly he sat upright.

"Out with it, man!" he hissed. "Don't dally here till the morning's gone! Are you going to do it or not?"

The tattoo ceased, and the foot was withdrawn from view. Then its owner came within the radius of the little circle formed by the keyhole. He walked straight to the burly figure in the chair, and bent down to whisper his decision. The man on watch could only see his back. He was a low, thin person, wearing a brown checked suit. Glenning swiftly put his ear to the little opening, and listened with the greatest intensity. It was of the utmost importance that he should hear the outcome of the plot. But only elusive murmurs reached him, and not a word could he hear. Observation was his second chance; the only one left. Again he brought his eye to bear. Both men were standing now, close together.

They had come to a satisfactory understanding, for the heavy man's face had lightened, and he had one hand laid in a confiding way upon the shoulder of his confederate. Then they pa.s.sed from the room, whispering as they went.

Glenning got onto his feet, found a chair, and sat down. Of one thing only was he sure--there was work before him. The rest was dark, but plain ahead lay his duty. The Dudleys must know of all that had pa.s.sed in the next room. The one called Marston had spoken of poison and of fire. Then the burning of the stable had been the work of an incendiary.

He was exerting every malign effort to get rid of Dudley's horse. The third trial was to occur that night. John got up and looked at his watch. It was after eleven. Major Dudley had said in his note that he would call in the afternoon. But he might not come till late, and something might happen whereby he could not come at all. The matter was most urgent and vital, admitting of no delay whatever. He knew no one who could act as a messenger on an errand of this character. Dillard had said he would drop in at noon, but he had duties of his own. He must go himself. There was no other course open. When he had come to this decision Glenning took a quick inventory of his physical condition. The wound over his right lung was his most serious hurt. The burns which he had sustained were only on the surface, and while they were quite painful, they would not prevent his proposed journey. Strange to say, his face had scarcely been touched by the fire. There was an ugly welt about two inches long upon his left cheek, and a scratch or two upon his forehead and neck; that was all. His hair was badly singed, as he discovered when he endeavored to brush it. He made his toilet as carefully as possible, finding shaving a task for a stoic, but going through with it nevertheless. By twelve he was appareled in a neat gray suit and clean linen, and feeling very much himself. He went down to the dining-room early, and was grateful to be a.s.signed to a table in an obscure corner. It was his especial desire right now to be unnoticed, and besides he had an innate abhorrence of publicity; of being looked at and commented upon, even though favorably.

The boy who had brought his breakfast approached in a deferential way for his order, which Glenning gave with the request that it be served quickly. But before it came he began to realize the penalty of greatness. The guests of the hotel commenced to a.s.semble, and every one that entered, male or female, big or little, cast their eyes about until they found the hero in his corner. And the painful part of it was they did not withdraw their eyes after they had found him, but gazed and gazed with truly rural interest, in which rudeness really had no place.

One little girl in brown curls even ventured to point, and ask, "Mama, is that him?" before the maternal hand could grasp her arm, and the paternal voice admonish her in a loud whisper to behave. Still his dinner did not come, and he began to grow embarra.s.sed. Finally, in desperation, he drew some old letters from his pocket and began to re-read them, finding such employment better suited to his taste than staring sillily back at the many pairs of eyes which were now beholding him. Directly a small envelope slipped from the packet in his hand and fell face upward on the table. The address was in an unformed feminine hand. He did not re-read this letter, but as he picked it up and placed it back in his breast pocket along with the others a look of dejected weariness settled heavily on his face. He forgot all those who were watching him; forgot the urgent present, as a pair of wonderful wine-brown eyes swam before him. Dishes jingled at his elbow; his dinner was being served. He must eat quickly and go. He must behave well, and let the people look as long as they wished, for they were to be his people now, and his home was to be among them. In time he was to be the family doctor for many of them.

But the grip of a past such as held him now was not the palsied touch of age. It was the strong-handed hold of vigorous youth, which tightens the more as we make resistance. Glenning shook back the straight black locks which had fallen upon his forehead, and the melancholy of his eyes became a shadow of living pain. A la.s.situde was upon him, weighting his spirit, leaden-like. He ate perfunctorily, choosing no dish above another, taking always the one closest to hand. He was not aware of the obsequious attentions of the waiter who stood proudly behind his chair, with mouth set in a perpetual grin. He did not hear the purring questions this worthy asked. Sometimes it was this way with him. He had fought a battle from which G.o.ds would have shrunk, and had come out clean. But the price! Sometimes he wondered, in bitterness, if it had been worth while, and then later, when quiet came, and he felt an awed sweetness stealing upon his soul, he was glad.

By force of will alone he brought his mind back to the hour before him.

Then, hurriedly making an end of his dinner, he went to his room for a light cane, found and descended the parlor stairs to avoid the office and the loungers there, and started up street.

The appearance of any stranger in a town the size of Macon is always remarked. Little wonder then that John Glenning found himself, as it were, on dress parade. When he had run the gantlet of one block, which happened to be the one upon which most of the business houses were located, he turned to the right, to allay any suspicions as to his ultimate destination. He would make a detour, and come back to main street further on. The first corner which he approached was occupied by a small, weather-beaten, one-story frame house, setting slightly back in a yard poorly kept, wherein a few straggling rose bushes strove for existence. Entering the front door of this house as he pa.s.sed was a slightly bent, limping figure. He recognized in a moment Doctor Kale, but whether this was his residence, or whether he was making a call, he could not determine. He was quite thankful, however, that the old doctor had not seen him, for an unpleasant situation would have developed at once. He had given his word to remain in his room for two days, and he did not feel inclined to share his secret with a comparative stranger, even though his friendly interest in the Dudleys could not be questioned.

Glenning crossed the street diagonally and resumed his eastward course, walking more rapidly. The increased circulation which his exercise occasioned caused him considerable suffering, but he set his jaws, and went on. Presently he pa.s.sed the jail, a stone structure, with narrow slits for windows. Pitying any unfortunate who might be languis.h.i.+ng in the gloomy pile this bright June day, he fell to noticing the pleasant looking houses which he pa.s.sed, most of them of frame, most of them old, and possessing no decided style of architecture, but indicating thrift and cleanliness on the part of their occupants. Then he had swerved onto the main street once more, which led on in an unbroken line almost to Cemetery Hill, beyond which was the Dudley home. He pa.s.sed very few people now, for it was hot at this time of the day, and not many were stirring. Then, too, it was the dinner hour. He found this walk would have been delightful under ordinary circ.u.mstances, for the pavement was lined with maple trees, which cast a continuous shade below. He pa.s.sed some beautiful homes on this part of his walk; residences which showed plainly the lavish elegance of ante-bellum prosperity. He grew the least bit nervous as he crossed the railroad just this side of Cemetery Hill.

It was here the pavement ended, and for the remainder of his journey he must take the pike. He was not afraid of his welcome; he knew that would be cordial and genuine, but until he should be able to make his errand known it would appear somewhat as if he had come to be thanked. His sensitive nature revolted at this. He really would have preferred to let the incident drop without discussion, but he knew that was impossible.

He was now in view of the fence, the long, iron fence bent and twisted in places which bounded a large and exceedingly well kept lawn, from which arose in stately splendour, irregularly, majestic oaks, maples and elms. The lawn sloped gently upward, and on its crest was the home, looking very square, solid and dignified, with its upper and lower porticos and its rows of windows, four above and four below. There was no sign of life. Glenning went down the fence, watching for a gate. The night before he had had no time for minor things, and it was almost as though he had never seen the place before. The gate proved to be at the other corner of the yard, was double, and had a lion's head cast in the center of the iron arch which spanned it. One of the gates yielded to his touch and he went in, feeling decidedly like a trespa.s.ser. He found himself at the beginning of a graveled drive, winding picturesquely through borders of evergreens up to the front of the mansion.

Unconsciously, perhaps, he put his hand to his tie to see that it was in place, then bravely set his face towards his goal.

As he drew closer he discovered that the house was pretentious, and that the disposition and care of everything outdoors was peculiarly correct.

He did not tarry as his feet brought him near the end of the drive, but walked with a firm tread upon the portico, removed his hat, and knocked briskly upon a panel of one of the heavy doors, both of which were open wide. Accompanying his knock, rather than following it, came the sound of the swis.h.i.+ng of dainty drapery overhead; a sound which instantly became more audible, and mingled with it was the musical hum of a lilting tune. Glenning glanced up, his heart behaving somewhat oddly, for his position was a trifle nervous, and beheld, around the further bend of the old stairway, where it gave upon the broad landing, a flutter of garments. He knew at once who it was, and he knew she had not heard his summons at the door, for she was humming industriously, and evidently had just started to descend the stair. Across the landing she floated, to the top of the downward flight, and at that point she lifted her eyes and beheld the tall young stranger standing in the middle of the open doorway. The humming stopped abruptly, and so did Julia. She did not recognize him at that distance, for the brighter light was at his back, and his clothing was entirely different from what it had been the night before. Knowing it to be a stranger, and presuming he had called to see her father, she came very demurely and very slowly down the stair, one hand sliding gently along the mahogany rail. Glenning waited in respectful silence until she should come nearer. She had dropped her eyes, but as her feet reached the floor she lifted them in an interrogative glance, and then she saw--the singed and burned hair, the disfiguring welt upon his cheek, one or two pieces of court plaster which he had tried to remove and failed. The change which transformed this quite correct and polite young lady was electric in its rapidity.

Her hands clasped and flew up under her chin, and there came a look upon her sweet face such as the man had never seen in his life before. There was grat.i.tude, compa.s.sion, and a lingering, unconscious tenderness, and eloquent, if wordless emotion beamed in her brown eyes. For a moment each was speechless. Then Julia came forward with outheld hand.

"O, you are he!" she exclaimed, and the blood rushed up to her face, overflowing its delicate beauty with rich tints. "You saved our Prince!"

The touch of the small, cool hand in his affected Glenning strangely. It brought recollection--which was bitter--and it made this girl's presence very real--which was sweet.

She spoke again almost at once, in a somewhat calmer voice, though it was plain to see her feelings had not abated.

"My father and I are in your lasting debt. Come into the library. He will want to see you. He was going into town for that purpose later in the afternoon. Peter told us he delivered father's letter safely."

As she was speaking she led the way into the room on the right. Glenning followed, and both sat down.

"I--might have waited for him to come," said John, "but--I thought something might detain him, and an incident has arisen which makes it necessary that I see him at once. Otherwise I would not have forced myself upon you so soon after--last night."

"I am glad you have come, Mr.--Doctor--"

"Glenning, Miss Dudley."

"Doctor Glenning, for I want to speak my thanks with father's. I do not know whether I should apologize or not for appealing to you last night, for I had never seen you until that moment. But I was wild with grief at the thought of my Prince burning to death before my eyes, and when the rest gave back cowardly, and left you alone, it was borne in upon me that you would do it--that you could do it, and were not afraid. Now, when I am calm and sane, I see that I was presuming enormously--almost inhumanly, upon your manhood, for I had no right in the world to speak to you as I did, and I believe I am ashamed of it today, and think I should ask your pardon."

Her words followed each other swiftly, as though the speech was one which she wished to say quickly, before her determination to speak it wavered. The flush which had come to her face at the door had never receded, and still enveloped her features charmingly, as she sat with bent head in the cool semi-gloom of the old library.

Glenning looked on her a moment keenly before he replied. The picture she made might have stirred any man's heart. He knew she was sincere; that sufficed for the time.

"Don't speak of apologies," he answered, in a voice which had grown deeper and more vibrant. "You do not owe me any. I have read of days when men counted it a favor to serve a lady, be she friend or stranger.

Let us not think those days are entirely gone--that they are as dead as the people who lived in them. Candidly, and without simulation, I was glad to do what I did for you--gladder still that you felt you might call upon me. That means more than all else, perhaps. And it was not all a duty, believe me; it was a pleasure."

A smile trembled upon her lips as she raised her head and looked squarely at him.

"And these," she said, "upon your cheek, and neck, and forehead. Your hands, blackened and burned"--her voice quivered--"your lungs perhaps scorched--what of these?"

He laughed gently.

"Let us say my body has been purged of some of its sins by fire, and let us call the marks badges of honor. They will not deface, and I shall never be sorry for them."

There was a peculiar earnestness to his tones she could not fathom.

None of the young men in Macon would have made a speech like that. None of them could have understood such sentiments. She understood them but vaguely herself, yet they appeared very n.o.ble. As he spoke, she knew that she was noticing for the first time the square lines of his angular face, and the half melancholy, half humorous expression of his eyes.

"You take serious things quite lightly," she contended, "but it is difficult to answer you. You are striving not to permit your heroism to be recognized, but _we_ know better, father and I, and you must not speak deprecatingly of it before us. It will hurt us. Shall I go for father?" She arose quietly and stood before him. "Peter is arranging new quarters for the Prince, and father is superintending the work."

"Yes, if it is convenient for him to come now. I don't think I need delay him long. You, too, had better be present, for you will be interested in my message."

"Very well. Wait just a moment."

She disappeared in the hall with light footsteps, and Glenning, with his eyes set intently upon the worn Brussels carpet in front of him, awaited her return.