Part 9

"Nothing. I've planned nothing. Buller says I'm looney. Perhaps I am. I can't seem to think."

"Have you got any folks anywheres? I mean, on your father's side?"

"I've an uncle. Father's brother. But he lives in Montreal."

"Montreal! Where would that be, I wonder?"

"In Canada. Up north."

Mrs. Slawson bound on her soothing compresses in silence. Suddenly she paused, alert, listening. Then, quick as a flash, she caught her visitor by the sleeve, drew her back in to the entry and pushed her into a small closet under the stairs.

"Hush! I hear a horse. Don't you breathe till I come an' tell you."

A moment later she was lying in bed, as still as though she, like Sam, were fast asleep and dreaming.

Presently Sam stirred, sat up drowsily, and listened.

"Say, mother, you asleep?"

No answer.

A voice from below in the garden called up hoarsely:

"Hullo, there!"

"What's wanted?" demanded Sam.

"I'm Buller, from Milby's Corners. My wife's daughter has wandered off in the night. I'm out hunting for her, to take her home. She ain't all there in the upper story. I thought, maybe, she'd come in here. The last I saw of her, she was making this way. She's in her night-shift. I could see her plain as day, far ahead of me."

Sam was so obviously but just-awakened, that Buller from Milby's Corners turned his horse's head, as if to make a quick departure, when Mrs. Slawson, yawning, leaned over the rail of the sleeping-porch and spoke.

"Say, wait a minute. The poor thing! Wanderin' about in the night,--an' her light-headed--away from your pertectin' love an' care! Ain't it awful! My husban' an' me'll get up, an' be dressed in no time, for we'd like to help her, if we can, poor creature! In the meantime, seein' you ain't found her here, I s'pose you'll be goin' further. Out in her night-clo'es! My! I wonder---- Say, Sam--do _you_ see somethin' white flitterin' along towards the south--down the valley road d'rection? Seems to me _I_ do!"

Sam thought maybe he did.

Buller kicked a heel into his horse.

"G'long! I'm off down the valley road. I bet 'tis her. I'll have her yet, the d--the poor dear!"

The instant he was gone, Martha dragged Sam into the house.

"Quick! Dress you! An' go down get the auta. I have the girl hid in the entry closet. I'm goin' to take her out o' harm's way, which is that brute beast's."

"But, Martha----" remonstrated Sam.

"Sam Slawson, do as I tell you! Or you'll have to _shove_ us into Burbank in your present gob, which, believe _me_, it ain't bewitchin'. You can take it from me, lad, I'm goin' to catch that north-bound express that leaves Burbank at one o'clock this night, which, if we don't make it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin'. So we _got_ to make it, or I'll know the reason why!"

Impelled by a motive power so irresistible, Sam dressed and went about his business without venturing another word.

Martha clothed herself in the brief intervals when she was not attending Ellen Hinckley, giving her bread to eat, milk to sip, enveloping her in garments gathered from everywhere, anywhere, a conglomerate assortment that would have been grotesque if it had not been touching.

"No one'll mind your looks," Martha reassured her. "Just you sit tight, an' keep your own counsel, an' not a dog'll bark after you. Ma's veil tied down over Cora's hat is quite stylish, an', be this an' be that, you've got as good a motorin' costume as any. They all look like Sam Hill. So now, I guess, we might be movin'!"

"It's a crazy scheme," Sam whispered in his wife's ear, as she bent to him to deliver last instructions, while he was cranking up. "Suppose a tire bursts?"

"It ain't goin' to," she assured him with perfect confidence.

Out of the gate they sped, then along the hard, white high-road. Even Martha's garrulous tongue was stilled.

The world, bathed in this silver, ethereal light, seemed unfamiliar, remote, the sky to have withdrawn, in infinite cool reaches, beyond the burning little tragedy they were enacting. After a considerable period of silence, Martha turned to ask Ellen Hinckley if she were comfortable. The poor creature had fallen asleep, lulled by the motion of the car, the soft night air, but more than all by the sense of blessed security under Mrs. Slawson's protecting wing.

Martha was about to nudge Sam to look, when he turned a three-quarters profile toward her.

"I hear something back of us. Can you see?"

"No. If I stir she'll wake. You don't think it's him?"

"It may be. Joe Harding's place is down the valley road. He has a car. Buller mayn't suspect we're helping the girl, but when he didn't find her in that direction, Harding may have offered to take a hand in the game."

"Would any man o' conscience help a fella like Buller, who all the neighborhood knows the life he's led this poor creature--him an' the mother, which she's a disgrace to the name."

"No, but Harding ain't a man of conscience,--not so you'd notice it, as you say. If Buller's out on the still-hunt, Harding'd join in for the pleasure of the chase."

"Put on power," directed Martha.

Again that swift, silent progress through the night.

Once Sam whispered: "I guess we were stung. I can't hear anything back of us any more, can you?"

"No," said Martha. "But stung or no stung, keep a-goin'. We ain't takin' no risks."

Ellen Hinckley slept fitfully, but even in her waking moments she was not aware of the dangers the others had feared.

"Let her rest," Martha meditated. "After she's made a clean getaway, she'll have all that's comin' to her, in the line o' excitement an' strain. I don't believe'm when he says she ain't all there in the upper story. But that's not meanin' I think she's furnished as handsome as some. She may have all her buttons, an' yet not be the brainiest party I ever come in contract with. Why didn't she up an' open her mind an' give Buller a piece o' it long ago? There's many things a married woman's got to shoulder, God knows, but chas*tise*ment, hot off'n his griddle, as you might say, not on your life, even a married woman needn't stand, much less a unmarried maiden-girl. It ain't decent. If a man oncet took the strap to me, I'd fix'm so's the doctor'd have to hunt for the buckle o' his belt behind his internal workin's, in back among his spine. An' I'd be proud o' the job."

When they were within about five miles of Burbank Sam gave a low whistle.

"I was wonderin' if you heard it too," Martha responded promptly. "Firstoff I thought 'twas my imagination, but it ain't. Somethin' certaintly's follain' along in our tracks."

"The first was a false alarm. So may this be," said Sam.

"Sure. But, could you speed up some? Just for luck?"

Presently Martha heard another sound.

"Now, Ellen," she announced firmly, "you got to brace up. Cryin' won't do you a mite o' good."

"He's following. I know it. He's got a car. He'll get me and take me back and--_kill_ me!"

"He will if you don't do as I say. But not on your life he won't, if you mind your aunt Martha. Firstoff, have you got your money safe an' handy?"

"Yes. Here."

"That's right. See you don't lose it, when I assist you onto the train. There mayn't be much time to spare, but if the brakeman's any good on the catch, I'm up to handin'm a neat throw, an' between us you'll get there!"

"But my ticket----"

"This is no time for thinkin' o' tickets. Let the conductor be glad if, after the train is on its way, you got the price o' one o' them long, floatin' streamer-effec's he carries in his vest-pocket, to amuse 'mself punchin' holes in it."

They sped into Burbank under all the power Sam dared put on.

"Thank God!" sobbed Ellen Hinckley.

But when they reached the station, no train was in sight, the place was virtually deserted.

Sam drew up beside the platform and, for a moment sat quite still, evidently cogitating.

"No such thing! The train ain't gone!" said Martha, as if he had maintained it had. "It's only five minutes to one."

"It might have been ahead of time."

"Did you ever know one was?" inquired his wife.

He got out and made his way to the waiting-room. A moment and he was back.

"There's been delays back along the road. The train's two hours late. It won't be here till three, or after."

"Well, what do you think o' that!" said Martha.

The next instant she was dragging Ellen Hinckley into the waiting-room, through it, and on into the telegraph-operator's booth.

"Say, young fella," she addressed him bluntly, "this party here's in danger of her life. Me an' my husban' is gettin' her out o' harm's way, which he's hot on our track. He'll be along any minute. Think o' your mother, if you ever had one. An if not, think o' some other female o' the same sect, only younger. Lend a hand, anyhow, to help us out, will you?"

The youth eyed Mrs. Slawson dubiously.

"How do I know----?" he began objecting.

"You don't. But, by the time I get through with you, you will. Only this ain't the _time_, see? Come now, step lively, like they say in New York. Put this party away, out o' sight. No matter how crampin' the place. An' be quick about it!"

The young man gazed about his booth helplessly, shook his head, then got upon his feet. He drew a key from his pocket, as if acting under hypnotic suggestion.

"I'm taking your word for it," he grumbled. "If it gets me into trouble----"

"_I'll_ get you out," answered Martha confidently.

Without further ado he led them through the waiting-room, unlocked the baggage-room door and, in the semi-darkness, he and Martha walled their captive in behind a barricade of freight and baggage.

"Try to be contented till train-time," Mrs. Slawson admonished Ellen. "Don't you be scared. We won't forget you, nor we won't let your stepfather get you, 'less it's over this young-man-here's dead body an'----"

"Oh, I say!" objected the telegraph-operator plaintively.

Martha shook her head at him. "I only wanted to cheer her up," she whispered, as they passed out into the waiting-room, he locking the door behind them.

Sam came forward to meet her.

"I guess we had our scare for nothing," he observed. "If that'd been Buller behind us, he'd have got here before now."

"Not if he'd had tire-troubles. But prob'ly you're right," said Martha.

Sam considered. "Then what's the use of keeping the poor girl hid?"

"It won't hurt her. An' a ounce o' pervention is worth a pound o' cure."

Later the telegraph-operator took the trouble to shove up his window and address Martha through it. His tone was loftily supercilious, ironically facetious.

"Nothing doing! You've been stringing me, I guess!" he sagely opined.

Mrs. Slawson regarded him blandly.

"Certaintly. My husban' an' me, we come twenty-five miles streakin' through the night on purpose to do it. Such a precious jewel of a fella as you, anybody'd want to string'm, for safe-keepin', so's he wouldn't fall down an' roll away an' be lost in a crack o' the floor."

The telegraph-operator grimaced.

"Say, now, no joke! You said you'd tell me the whole story, so I'd know what I was in for. I ain't hankering to be called down by the Company for outdoing my duty."

Mrs. Slawson smoothed her dress over her knees. "Come an' sit on my lap, sonny-boy, an' I'll tell you all about it. Only bein' so young, an' havin' such a tender conscience with you, it might keep you awake in your crib nights. Did you ever see weels, as thick as my thumb, on the white skin of a young girl's shoulders? Well, I could turn back the waist o' that one in there, an' show you such. Raised by the leather-belt o' her mother's second husban', which they're perfect ladies an' gen'lmen, o' course, bless their hearts. They will be after her like mad, when they know she's given'm the slip. Good lan'! If young fellas was reely young fellas nowadays, you'd be glad of the chancet to pour some o' the Widow Cruse's oil on a poor ill-used child's troubled waters. An' not be thinkin' o' yourself all the time--if it'd harm _you_ to help her, or if the Comp'ny would objec'."

The youth regarded her with level eyes.

"You can count on me," he said. "I'm with you in this, no matter what."

"Good bey!" said Martha.

The hours dragged wearily along. One by one disappointed travelers who had strayed off to kill time at the hotel, returned to meet their delayed train.

Martha had advance information concerning its coming, the lad at the wire furnishing it gratuitously.

"It'll be along now in five minutes," he said, "and I've put the baggage-man wise, so he's ready to help you get her off, as fine as silk, even if----"

Just then Martha saw Sam approaching. Though his step and manner were, to all outward appearances as usual, she instantly knew something was amiss.

"What is it?" she asked calmly.

"He's come. Him and Harding are here. They haven't seen me nor the car yet. I put that beyond, under a shed, where it wouldn't be conspicuous. But we can't dodge them long, and----"

"This way, ma'am!" summoned the baggage-man, touching Martha's elbow. "I got the young lady ready for you--and the train's coming."

"Take care of yourself, Sam," Martha cautioned him, following her leader.

The train thundered up. Before it had fairly come to a halt, Buller sighted Sam. He made a rush toward him, brandishing a menacing arm.

"Keep cool," advised Sam. "And keep off!"

"You've got the girl!" Buller roared. "We know you have, from them as saw you coming over here, three in the car. Where is she?"

"Find her," said Sam.

Buller turned to Harding. "_You_ handle him, Joe. I'll tackle the woman."

Martha stood at the baggage-room door, as Buller came pounding down the platform.

"Hand over that girl!" He spoke with sinister calmness.

"Certaintly," said Martha. "That's just what I'm waitin' to do."

The engine whistled. Buller started toward Martha, getting in the way of the baggage-man, who was pushing a loaded hand-truck before him. His elbow sent Buller reeling. In that instant, through a maze, Buller saw Martha lift what had looked like a piece of burlap-covered baggage from the truck, and toss it, with sure aim, to the brakeman on the platform of the slow-moving car. The brakeman caught it deftly, and set it on its feet. The train slid past.

"Ellen!" Buller cried. Then, turning on Martha, "You--devil!"

Mrs. Slawson bowed civilly. "Same to you, sir."

"I'll--I'll do you up yet. You're not done with me, not by a long shot."

"I haven't a doubt o' it. I'm ready for you, any time. Likewise _Mister_ Slawson. Only, I advise you, take it out on me. My husband might hurt you too much, if he got goin'."

As they were driving home through the waning light, Sam told Martha he faintly remembered hearing Ellen's knock on the door--"only he was too tired to get up."

"You were smart to hear it through your own snores," she returned pleasantly. "But when we get home, you must turn in, an' take a real sleep. I'll wake you when Buller comes."

*CHAPTER X*

Dr. Ballard had been absent a fortnight or more, and July was drawing to its close, when one afternoon Katherine heard the sound she had been longing for all these days, the familiar musical notes of his motor-horn.

Looking ahead expectantly, he spied her at once, and gave salute, as the car swept up to the porch, a silent military salute. Alighting, he passed directly upstairs to Madam Crewe's sitting-room.

Katherine followed after, drawn as if by the sense of something pending, something too interesting to miss.

Madam Crewe glanced around as the doctor entered.

"Oho, so _you're_ back, are you?"

Dr. Ballard took a chair without waiting to be invited and said lightly, as he seated himself facing his patient:

"You speak the truth."

The old woman raised her chin. "Thank you, young man. You flatter me!"

"Not in the least," came the prompt retort. "I haven't come with any such intention. I've come--and I may as well out with it at once--I've come to tell you that I have found the reason for your dislike of 'the Ballard tribe.' I've discovered the case you have against us. I've been ferreting about among my grandfather's effects, and I've unearthed his Journal. Curious, isn't it, that a _bailiff_ should have kept a Journal?"

Madam Crewe deigned no response.

After a pause lasting several seconds, Dr. Ballard continued: "I presume you would feel seriously affronted if I were to take the liberty of supposing you might be interested."

"Fudge! Have you the Journal there?"

"Yes."

"You have read it?"

"Quite so."

"Then you--know?"

"Yes."

"Well? And what then? What are you going to do about it?"

"I am going to read my grandfather's Journal aloud, now, here--I mean, that portion of it that relates to you."

Madam Crewe straightened to a military stiffness. "You are going to do nothing of the sort," she averred stoutly.

"Indeed I am."

"I'll not permit it. I'll send Katherine from the room."

"Oh, no you won't. You are too just to do that. You have made certain charges against my grandfather; now, the only fair thing, is to give him a show--to let him state his case, from his side."

"No. He wouldn't tell the truth. He falsified once. He'd falsify again."

"You haven't proved it."

"You have my word."

"Your word is all very well, as far as it goes. But even you would hardly claim that it goes all the way 'round the truth, and then tucks under, like Dick's hatband. My grandfather has a word too, and I'm going to see that he has a chance to get it in edgewise, and--what's more, that you listen."

Madam Crewe turned her body stiffly toward Katherine.

"Come here. Sit down!" she commanded autocratically.

Dr. Ballard took up his book, opening it at an obviously marked point.

"The first entry bearing any reference to you or yours was written in 1844. In the spring of that year he mentions going to see one Squire Stryker, in connection with the stewardship of his estate. I'll skip all the non-essentials and----"

"Skip nothing. Since you _will_ read, read!"

"Very well.

"'Boston, February 6th, 1844. This morning saw Squire Stryker. He wishes to engage a bailiff. A hard man, I judge him to be. Not easy to please, because he is exacting, arbitrary, without judgment or justice. He is ruled by passion, not principle.

"'Feb. 10th. I have made my decision. For good or ill, I go to Squire Stryker's, in New Hampshire, to-morrow.'

"Following are several pages given over to notes and data connected with the estate. Its acreage, its possibilities, its limitations. Nothing else. They carry one to April, and--this:

"'A strange thing has happened. No, not a strange thing. The thing is simple, the strangeness is in its effect on me. There is a lane hard by, called Cherry Lane. 'Tis part of the estate. At this season the trees are in full blossom. I went there to estimate the probable yield of fruit, and the condition of the trees, and--underneath the white and pink boughs stood a white and pink maid. She looked at me and smiled. She told me she was Squire Stryker's daughter. She knew I was the new bailiff, she said.

"'April 14. I have seen the child again. Yes, again and again. Many times, in fact. I call her child because so indeed she seems to me, who am, at least, fifteen years older. She tells me she is seventeen. 'Tis hard to believe for that in stature she's no higher than my heart, and her eyes are as open and unconscious as a child's except when---- But that is my fancy! I am sure 'tis my fancy.

"'June 1st. 'Tis many weeks since that was written. Not that I have naught to say. Rather, too much. I find I cannot set down what is in my heart. _Idea Stryker and I are betrothed!_

"'June 14. Every afternoon towards sundown my little sweetheart and I walk in Cherry Lane. I wish she had a mother. I do not like these clandestine meetings. Sometimes I doubt myself. Not my love for Idea, God knows, but my power to make it tell for her best good. To-day I told her my conscience troubled me. I am no friend to untruth or furtive acts. Idea put on a look of high contempt, aping her father. She scowled at me, folded her arms across her bosom and, measuring me up and down, in his own manner to the life, said: "Deuce take your conscience, sir! I'll have none of it." Then, suddenly changing, she clung to me crying, "I'll have nothing but your love, Daniel! But, your love I'll die to have, and to hold." I let my heart direct me rather than my head, and gave way to her. But I still feel the better course would be to tell her father and make an end of this deceit.

* * * * *

"''Tis many a long day since I have taken up this book to write in it. Now that I do, 'tis in a different year and place. Yet I have often thought 'twas cowardly to shun the setting down in black and white of what will always be the deepest record of my heart. I have said Idea and I were at variance upon the point of telling her father what was between us. Again and again I tried to tell her 'twas unworthy of us both. But she always overruled me. I gave way. Then, one day when I spoke of it, she suddenly burst forth in such a passion as I have never seen. Poor child! 'Twas her father's fury, but not, this time, done in mimicry. She told me she was weary of being preached to about the truth, deceit, and duty. She would have me know she'd as good a sense of propriety as I. Nay, better, for, after all, who was I but her father's servant, she would like to know. "How dare you criticise me?" she blazed. "You forget I am your master's daughter."

"'I can see her now, standing there stamping her foot at me, her eyes flashing, her cheeks like flame. The rage in her flared up, then died down as quickly. That was her way. The heat in _me_ has a different habit. It smolders and grows until it seems to freeze me with its white intensity. It is my bosom-enemy which I am trying to conquer. I had not done it then. "You are right," I said. "I had forgotten. I had forgotten everything except that you are the girl I loved, who I thought loved me. You have done well to remind me of my place. I will never forget it again, or that you are _my master's daughter_."

"'With that I turned, and left her standing, stunned, bewildered, in Cherry Lane. I could see she did not realize what had happened. She thought I would come back. She waited for me. And so I did come back, but not to let her see me. Only to watch over her, that no harm should befall, for the spot was lonely and far from the house, and dusk was about to fall. When the first star showed, she went home. I could hear her crying softly, all the way. She would cry, then stop to dry her tears, and call me names through her sobbing.

"'There were no more meetings after that, though she _got in my way_ more than once, as I went about my duties. I knew very well what she wanted, but I could not relent. What my dear mother used to call my dumb demon had taken possession of me. It would not let me speak. Would not let me write to answer any of the letters Idea sent me begging me to meet her when the sun went down.

"'Then, one day, I was summoned before the Squire. She had told him.

"'He was waiting for me in his library, clad in his riding-clothes just as he had come from horseback. He carried a riding-crop. His face was of a dull reddish color, his eyes green. He began, the moment I entered the door, to assail me, standing with his back to it, his legs planted wide.

"'"You miserable beggar!" he brandished his crop in my face. "First, you have the insolence to make love to my daughter, then you insult her by refusing, when she _stoops_ to offer you her hand in reconciliation."

"'"That is precisely the point," I heard myself say. "'Tis because she _stoops_."