Part 12

“Still he would be very imprudent,” said Miller, “to option his property without any limit. Now here's what we are willing to do. As long as you hold Mr. Bishop's note for twenty-five thousand dollars unpaid, you shall have the refusal of the land at one hundred thousand dollars. Now take my advice”--Miller was smiling broadly--“let it stand at that.”

Wilson reflected for a moment, and then he said: “All right; let that go. The other condition is this--and it need be only a verbal promise--that nothing be said about my company's making this loan nor our securing the refusal of the property.”

“That will suit us,” said Miller. “Mr. Bishop' doesn't care to have the public know his business. Of course, the mortgage will have to be recorded at the court-house, but that need not attract attention. I don't blame Mr. Bishop,” went on Miller, in a half-confidential tone. “These people are the worst gossips you ever saw. If you meet any of them they will tell you that Mr. Bishop has bu'sted himself wide open by buying so much timber-land, but this loan will make him as solid as the Bank of England. The people don't understand his dealings, and they are trying to take it out on him by blasting his reputation for being one of the solidest men in his county.”

“Well, that's all, I believe,” said Wilson, and Miller drew a blank sheet of legal-cap paper to him and began to write. Half an hour later the papers were signed and Miller carelessly handed Wilson's crisp pink check on a New York bank to Mr. Bishop.

“There you are, Mr. Bishop,” he said, with a smile; “you didn't want any one else to have a finger in that big pie of yours over there, but you needed money, and I 'll tell you as a friend that a hundred thousand cash down will be about as well as you can do with that land. It takes money, and lots of it, to make money, and Mr. Wilson's company can move the thing faster than you can.”

“That's a fact,” said Wilson, in a tone that betrayed self-gratification. “Now we must all pull together for the railroad.” He rose and turned to Miller. “Will you come with me to record the paper?”

“Certainly,” said Miller, and they both left together.

The Bishop family were left alone, and the strain being lifted, they found themselves almost wholly exhausted.

“Is it all over?” gasped the old woman, standing up and grasping her son's arm.

“We've got his money,” Alan told her, with a glad smile, “and a fair chance for more.”

The pink check was fluttering in old Bishop's hand. Already the old self-willed look that brooked no interference with his personal affairs was returning to his wrinkled face.

“I 'll go over to Craig's bank an' deposit it,” he said to Alan. “It 'll take a day or two to collect it, but he'd let me check on it right now fer any reasonable amount.”

“I believe I'd ask him not to mention the deposit,” suggested Alan.

“Huh! I reckon I've got sense enough to do that.”

“I thought you intended to pay off the mortgage on our farm the fust thing,” ventured Mrs. Bishop.

“We can' t do it till the note's due next January,” said Bishop, shortly. “I agreed to keep the money a yeer, an' Martin Doe 'll make me hold to it. But what do you reckon I care as long as I've got some 'n' to meet it with?”

Mrs. Bishop's face fell. “I'd feel better about it if it was cleer,” she faltered. “But the Lord knows we ort to feel thankful to come out as we have. If it hadn't been fer Alan--Mr. Miller said that Alan--”

“Ef you all hadn't made sech a eternal row,” broke in Bishop, testily, “I'd 'a' had more timber-land than this. Colonel Barclay has as fine a strip as any I got, an' he's bantered me for a trade time an' agin.”

Abner Daniel seldom sneered at anybody, no matter what the provocation was, but it seemed impossible for him to refrain from it now.

“You've been lookin' fer the last three months like a man that needed more land,” he said. “Jest no furder back 'an last night you 'lowed ef you could git enough fer yore folly to raise the debt off'n yore farm you'd die happy, an' now yo' re a-frettin' beca'se you didn't buy up the sides o' the earth an' give nobody else a foothold. Le' me tell you the truth, even ef it _does_ hurt a little. Ef Alan hadn't thought o' this heer railroad idea, you'd 'a' been the biggest human pancake that ever lay flat in its own grease.”

“I hain't said nothin' to the contrary,” admitted Bishop, who really took the reproof well. “Alan knows what I think about it.”

Then Bishop and his wife went to Craig's bank, and a moment later Miller returned, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.

“We got through, and he's gone to catch his train,” he said.

“It worked as smooth as goose-grease. I wonder what Pole Baker said to him, or if he saw him. I have an idea he did, from the way Wilson danced to our music.”

“Heer's Pole now,” said Abner, from the door. “Come in heer, you triflin' loafer, an' give an account o' yorese'f.”

“I seed 'im makin' fer the train,” laughed Pole, “an' so I sneaked in to see what you-uns done. He walked like he owned the town.”

“It went through like lightning, without a hitch or a bobble,” Abner told him. “We was jest a-won-derin' what you shot into 'im.”

“I hardly know,” Pole sniggered. “I got to talkin' to 'im an' it looked to me like I was chippin' off tan-bark with the sharpest tool I ever handled. Every lick seemed to draw blood, an' he stood an' tuck it without a start or a shiver. I said to myse'f: 'Pole Baker, yo're nothin' but a rag-tag, bob-tail mountain Hoosier, an' he's a slick duck from up North, with a gold watch-chain an' a silk beaver, but he's a lappin' up what you say like a hungry kitten does a pan o' milk. Go it, old boy, an' ef you win, you 'll he'p the finest man out o' trouble--I mean Alan Bishop, by gum--that ever lived.' It seemed to me I was filled with the fire of heaven. I could 'a' been at it yet--fer I'd jest started--but he drawed his watch on me, an' made a shoot fer this office, me with 'im, fer feer some yokel would strike up with 'im. I mighty nigh shoved 'im in at the door.”

“You did noble,” said Miller, while Pole and Alan were silently clasping hands. “Now I told you we wouldn't forget you. Go down to Wimbley's and tell him to give you the best suit of clothes he's got, and to charge them to me 'n' Alan.”

Pole drew himself up to his full height, and stared at the lawyer with flashing eyes.

“Damn yore soul,” he said; “don't you say a thing like that to me agin. I 'll have you know I've got feelin' s as well as you or anybody else. I'd cut off this right arm an' never wince to do Alan Bishop a favor, but I 'll be danged ef anybody kin look me over after I've done a _little_ one an' pay me for it in store-clothes. I don't like that one bit, an' I ain't afeerd to say so.”

“I didn't mean any offence, Pole,” apologized Miller, most humbly.

“Well, you wouldn't 'a' said it to _some_ men,” growled Pole, “I know that. When I want pay fer a thing like that, I 'll jest go to that corner o' the street an' look down at that rock-pile, whar Alan found me one day an' paid me out jest to keep me from bein' the laughin'-stock o' this town.”

Alan put his arm over his shoulder. “Rayburn didn't mean any harm,” he said, gently. “You are both my friends, and we've had a big victory to-day; let's not have hard feelings.”

Pole hung his head stubbornly and Miller extended his hand. Abner Daniel was an attentive listener, a half smile on his face.

“Say, Pole,” he said, with a little laugh, “you run down to Wimbley's an' tell 'im not to wrop up that suit. I'm a-owin' him a bill, an' he kin jest credit the value of it on my account.”

Pole laughed heartily and thrust his big hand into Miller's.

“Uncle Ab,” he said, “you'd make a dog laugh.”

“I believe yo' re right,” said Abner, significantly, and then they all roared at Pole's expense.

The next day Alan received the following letter from Dolly Barclay:

“_DEAR ALAN,--Rayburn Miller told me in confidence of your wonderful success yesterday, and I simply cried with joy. I knew--I felt that you would win, and this is, as he says, a glorious beginning. I am so proud of you, and I am so full of hope to-day. All our troubles will come out right some day, and now that I know you love me I can wait. Rayburn would not have confided so much to me, but he said, while he would not let me tell father anything about the prospective railroad, he wanted me to prevent him from selling his tract of land near yours. You know my father consults me about all his business, and he will not dispose of that property without my knowing of it. Oh, wouldn't it he a fine joke on him to have him profit by your good judgment._”

Alan was at the little post-office in Filmore's store when he received the letter, and he folded it and restored it to its envelope with a heart filled with love and tenderness. As he walked home through the woods, it seemed to him that everything in nature was ministering to his boundless happiness. He felt as light as air as he strode along. “God bless her dear, dear little soul!” he said, fervently.

XX

BOUT a week after this transaction Rayburn Miller went to Atlanta on business for one of his clients, and while there he incidentally called at the offices of the Southern Land and Timber Company, hoping to meet Wilson and learn something about his immediate plans in regard to the new railroad. But he was informed that the president of the company had just gone to New York, and would not be back for a week.

Rayburn was waiting in the rotunda of the Kimball House for his train, which left at ten o' clock, when he ran across his friend, Captain Ralph Burton, of the Gate City Guards, a local military company.

“Glad to see you,” said the young officer. “Did you run up for the ball?”

“What ball is that?” asked Miller. “I am at the first of it.”

“Oh, we are giving one here in this house tonight,” answered Burton, who was a handsome man of thirty-five, tall and erect, and appeared at his best in his close-fitting evening-suit and light overcoat. “Come up-stairs and I 'll introduce you to a lot of strangers.”

“Can't,” Rayburn told him. “I've got to leave at ten o' clock.”

“Well, you've got a good hour yet,” insisted the officer. “Come up on the next floor, where the orchestra is, anyway, and we can sit down and watch the crowd come in.”

Miller complied, and they found seats on the spacious floor overlooking the thronged office. From where they sat they could look through several large drawing-rooms into the ballroom beyond. Already a considerable number of people had assembled, and many couples were walking about, even quite near to the two young men.

“By George!” suddenly exclaimed Miller, as a couple passed them, “who is that stunning-looking blonde; she walks like a queen.”

“Where?” asked Burton, looking in the wrong direction.

“Why, there, with Charlie Penrose.”

“Oh, that one,” said Burton, trying to think, “I know as well as I know anything, but her name has slipped my memory. Why, she's visiting the Bishops on Peachtree Street--a Miss Bishop, that's it.”

“Adele, little Adele? Impossible!” cried Rayburn, “and I've been thinking of her as a child all these years.”

“So you know her?” said Captain Burton.

“Her brother is a chum of mine,” explained Miller. “I haven't seen her since she went to Virginia to school, five years ago. I never would have recognized her in the world. My Lord! she's simply regal.”

“I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her,” said the Captain; “but I've heard lots about her from the boys who go to Bishop's. They say she's remarkably clever--recites, you know, and takes off the plantation negro to perfection. She's a great favorite with Major Middleton, who doesn't often take to the frying size. She has been a big drawing card out at Bishop's ever since she came. The boys say the house overflows every evening. Are you going to speak to her?”

“If I get a good chance,” said Rayburn, his eyes on the couple as they disappeared in the ballroom. “I don't like to go in looking like this, but she'd want to hear from home.”

“Oh, I see,” said Burton. “Well, you'd better try it before the grand march sweeps everything before it.”

As Miller entered the ballroom, Penrose was giving Adele a seat behind a cluster of palms, near the grand piano, around which the German orchestra was grouped. He went straight to her.

“You won't remember me, Miss Adele,” he said, with a smile, “but I'm going to risk speaking to you, anyway.”

She looked up from the bunch of flowers in her lap, and, in a startled, eager sort of way, began to study his face.

“No, I do not,” she said, flushing a little, and yet smiling agreeably.

“Well, I call that a good joke,” Penrose broke in, with a laugh, as he greeted Miller with a familiar slap on the shoulder. “Why, Rayburn, on my word, she hasn't talked of anybody else for the last week, and here she--”

“You are _not_ Rayburn Miller!” Adele exclaimed, and she stood up to give him her hand. “Yes, I have been talking of you, and it seems to me I have a thousand things to say, and oh, so many thanks!”

There was something in this impulsive greeting that gave Miller a delectable thrill all over.

“You were such a little thing the last time I saw you,” he said, almost tenderly. “I declare, you have changed--so, so remarkably.”

She nodded to Penrose, who was excusing himself, and then she said to Miller, “Are you going to dance to-night?”

He explained that he was obliged to take the train which left in a few minutes.

He saw her face actually fall with disappointment. The very genuineness of the expression pleased him inexplicably. “Then I must hurry,” she said. “Would you mind talking to me a little while?”

“Nothing could possibly please me so much,” said he. “Suppose we stroll around?”

She took his arm and he led her back to the rotunda overlooking the office.

“So you are Rayburn Miller!” she said, looking at him wonderingly. “Do you know, I have pictured you in my mind many times since mother wrote me all about how you rescued us from ruin. Oh, Mr. Miller, I could not in a thousand years tell you how my heart filled with gratitude to you. My mother goes into the smallest details in her letters, and she described your every word and action during that transaction in your office. I could tell just where her eyes filled and her throat choked up by her quivering handwriting. I declare, I looked on you as a sort of king with unlimited power. If I were a man I'd rather use my brain to help suffering people than to be made President of the United States and be a mere figure-head. You must not think I am spoiled by all this glitter and parade down here. The truth is, I heartily despise it. I wanted to be at home so bad when I got that letter that I cried myself to sleep.”

“You must not forget that your brother conceived the plan,” Miller protested, “and that I only--”

“Oh yes; I know Alan thought of it,” she interrupted, “but without your experience and firmness it would have remained in his dear old brain till the Lord knows when. The idea of their being in debt was slowly killing my father and mother, and you came to their relief just when they were unable to bear it any longer. I'm so glad you thought of borrowing that money.”

Just then a young man, half a head shorter than Adele, came up hurriedly. “Oh, here you are,” he exclaimed, in a gasp of relief. “I've been looking for you everywhere. This is mine, you know--the grand march. They are all ready.”

Adele smiled pleasantly. “I hope you 'll excuse me from it, Mr. Tedcastle,” she said. “I've just met a friend from home; I want to talk with him, and--”

“But, Miss Bishop, I--”

“I asked you to please excuse me, Mr. Tedcastle.” Miller saw her face harden, as if from the sneer of contempt that passed over it. “I hope it will not be necessary for me to explain my reasons in detail until I have a little more time at my disposal.”

“Oh, certainly not, Miss Bishop,” said the young man, red with anger, as he bowed himself away.

“What's society coming to?” Adele asked Miller, with a nervous little laugh. “Does a lady have to get down on her knees and beg men, little jumping-jacks, like that one, to excuse her, and pet them into a good-humor when she has good reason to change her mind about an engagement? That's a sort of slavery I don't intend to enter.”

“You served him right,” said Miller, who had himself resented the young man's childish impetuosity, and felt like slapping him for his impertinence.

Adele shrugged her fine shoulders. “Let's not waste any more time talking about him,” she said. “I was going to tell you how happy you made them all. When I read mother's description of their return home that night--how she went round looking at each object and touching it, that she might realize it was hers again; and how father sat up till past midnight talking incessantly about it; and all the droll things Uncle Abner said, I cried and laughed by turns. I longed to see you, to tell you how I felt about what you did, and yet, now that I'm with you, all I say seems utterly weak and--inadequate.”

“It seems wonderfully nice to me,” Miller declared. “I don't deserve anything, and yet--well, I like to hear you talk.” He laughed. “Whether I deserve it or not, I could listen to you for a week on a stretch.”

In truth, Rayburn Miller had never in all his varied social career become so suddenly and startlingly interested in any woman. It all seemed like a dream, and a most delicious one--the gay assemblage, the intermittent strains of the music, the touch of the stately creature on his arm, the perfume of her flowers, her hair, her eyes! He suddenly felt fearful of the passage of time, the leaving of his train, the approach of some one to claim her attention. He could not explain the spell she had thrown on him. Was it because she was his friend's sister, and so astoundingly pretty, frank, and sensible, or could it be that--?

His train of thought was broken by the approach of Miss Ida Bishop, Adele's cousin, a rather plain girl, who, with her scrawny neck and scant hair--which rebelled against being made much of--would have appeared to better advantage in a street costume.

“Oh, Adele,” she cried, reproachfully, “what _do_ you mean? Do you know you have mortally offended Mr. Tedcastle? He had the march with you.”

“And I asked him as a favor to excuse me from it,” said Adele, simply. “I had just met Mr. Miller, who is to leave on an early train, and I wanted to talk to him about home. Have you been introduced? My cousin, Miss Bishop, Mr. Rayburn Miller.”

Miss Bishop bowed indifferently, and looked as if she still saw no justification in the slight under question.

“I'm awfully sorry,” she said, reprovingly. “Mr. Tedcastle has been as nice to you as he could be, and this is the way you show appreciation for it. I don't blame him for being mad, do you, Mr. Miller?”

“I'm afraid I'd be a prejudiced witness,” he smiled, “benefiting as I am by the gentleman' s discomfiture; but, really, I can' t think that any circumstances could justify a man in pressing a lady to fill an engagement when she chooses not to do so for any reason of hers.”

“I knew you'd say that,” said Adele. “If anybody has a right to be offended it is I, for the way he has acted without waiting for my full explanation.”

“Oh, that is a high and mighty course that will do better for novels than real life,” disagreed Miss Ida Bishop. “The young men are badly spoiled here, and if we want attention we've got to humor them.”

“They shall not be spoiled by me,” declared Adele. “Why,” shrugging her shoulders, contemptuously, “if I had to run after them and bind up their bruises every time they fell down, I'd not appreciate their attentions. Besides, Mr. Tedcastle and his whole ilk actually put me to sleep. What do they talk about? Driving, pet dogs, flowers, candies, theatre-parties, and silly bosh, generally. Last Sunday Senator Hare dined at uncle's, and after dinner he and I were having really a wholesome sort of talk, and I was respecting myself--well, a little like I am now--when in traped 'Teddy' with his hangers-on. Of course, I had to introduce them to the Senator, and I felt like a fool, for he knew they were my 'company,' and it was impossible to keep them quiet. They went on with their baby talk, just as if Senator Hare were being given an intellectual treat. Of course, there are _some_ grown-up men in Atlanta, but they are driven to the clubs by the swarms of little fellows. There comes Major Middleton, one of the old régime. He may ask me to dance with him. Now watch; if he does, I 'll answer him just as I did Mr. Tedcastle, and you shall see how differently he will treat it.”

The Major, a handsome man of powerful physique and a great shock of curly, iron-gray hair, approached Adele, and with a low bow held out his hand.

“I'm after the next dance, my dear,” he said. “You are one of the very few who ever dance with me, and I don't want to go home without it.”

Adele smiled. “I'm very sorry, Major,” she said; “but I hope you 'll excuse me this evening.”

“Oh, that's all right, my dear _child_,” he said. “No, don't explain. I know your reasons are all right. Go ahead and enjoy yourself in your own way.”

“I won my bet,” Adele laughed. “Major, I knew so well what you would say that I bet on it,” and then she explained the situation.

“Tedcastle ought to be spanked,” said the Major, in his high-keyed voice. “A girl who had not rather hear from home than spin around with him ought not to have a home. I'm going to mine rather early tonight. I came only to show the boys how to make my famous Kentucky punch.”

When the Major and Miss Ida Bishop had gone and left them together, Adele looked over the railing at the big clock in the office. “We have only a few minutes longer--if you are to take that train,” she said, regretfully.

“I never had as little interest in trains in my life,” he said. And he meant it.

“Not in the trains on our new road?” she laughed.

“They are too far ahead to interfere with my comfort,” he retorted. “This one is a steam nightmare.”

“I presume you really could not miss it?” Her long-lashed eyes were down.

He hesitated; the simple thought suggested by her thrilled him as he had never been thrilled before.

“Because,” she added, “it would be so nice to have you come out to-morrow afternoon to tea, about four.”

He drew out his watch and looked at it waveringly.

“I could send a night message,” he said, finally. “I really don't want to go. Miss Adele, I don't want to go at all.”

“I don't want you to either,” she said, softly. “It seems almost as if we are quite old friends. Isn't that strange?”

He restored his watch to his pocket. “I shall stay,” he said, “and I shall call to-morrow afternoon.”

Some one came for her a few minutes later, and he went down to the office and out into the street. He wanted to walk, to feel his body in action, keeping pace with his throbbing, bounding brain. His whole being was aflame with a fire which had never burned in him before.

“Alan' s little sister!” he kept repeating to himself. “Little Adele--she's wonderful, wonderful! Perhaps she may be _the_ woman. By George! she _is_--she _is!_ A creature like that, with that soul full of appreciation for a man' s best efforts, would lift a fellow to the highest rung on the ladder of human effort. Alan's little sister! And the idiot never told me, never intimated that she was--a goddess.”