CHAPTER IV.

THE ABDUCTION OF DOLLIE.

Joshua Marlowe’s tanned and bearded face grew pale at his daughter’s words. They rang in his ears for hours after she uttered them. He was not an altogether bad man at heart, but he was narrow-minded and ignorant. First of all, he loved his farm; wife and children came after.

This deal with Silas had been his own secret.

If the marriage was not consummated it would become public property.

But what was a man to do with a daughter like Marion? It was a proposition which would have puzzled a wiser man than Solomon.

Martha Marlowe had always been an obedient wife. It did not occur to the old farmer that Marion might have inherited her obstinacy in some degree from her father.

The day following the tragic scene in the kitchen Marion spent in close companionship with Dollie, but still the girl’s manner baffled and pained her.

“Are you sick, Dollie, or worried?” she asked, over and over, but each time there came the same reply. Her sister declared that she was perfectly happy.

Marion watched her as she went about her daily work. She moved like one in a dream, always smiling, but appealing.

“Poor Dollie! Poor little sister!” Marion whispered, as she tucked her into bed and went out into the air to think a little.

It was a clear moonlight night, and Marion walked farther than she thought, finding herself again on the brow of the hill where she had registered her vow during the glow of sunset.

The distant roar of the express came slowly to her ears, gradually growing louder and louder until with a piercing shriek it prepared to slow down at the little station.

Marion strained her eyes, but not even the light was visible. For some reason or other the blast of the whistle had made her shudder. As the train puffed away she felt curiously depressed. The air seemed more sultry; it was almost choking her.

After the last rumble of the wheels had died away the silence was more intense than ever.

The very landscape itself seemed wrapped in slumber, but the view from the hill was growing more attractive to her eyes, for even the Poor Farm’s ugliness was mellowed by the moonlight.

Suddenly Marion’s sharp eyes detected a moving form. Some one was coming across the fields from the direction of the Pool Farm, but avoiding the open spots on the way in a suspicious manner.

“One of the boys has run away!” exclaimed Marion, in dismay. “Poor fellow! He’ll be caught and soundly whipped to-morrow!”

She watched with eager eyes as the poor boy hurried from lot to lot, keeping as close as possible in the shadow of the trees, but as the moments passed there was no sound from the Poor Farm.

“It’s Bert Jackson!” whispered Marion as the boy came nearer. “Poor Bert! His broken arm is well again, they say! I wonder if he has been flogged that he is running away from his prison!”

She ran down the hill as swiftly as she could.

“Bert! Bert!” she called softly. “It is only I, Marion! What’s the matter, Bert? Has anything serious happened?”

The boy came out of the shadow cautiously and joined her before he answered.

“A great deal has happened,” he said, bitterly; “but I can’t talk about it. I’m just boiling with rage! I’m running away, Marion.”

“Of course,” said Marion, simply, “I knew that when I saw you, but where can you go, Bert? ’Tisn’t safe to risk the station, and besides, there’s no train now ’til to-morrow morning.”

“I know it,” answered Bert quickly. “I’m going to walk to Haysville. It’s only five miles, and there’s a train from there to New York at four in the morning.”

“New York,” echoed Marion, in a frightened whisper. “That’s a big city, Bert! Are you sure you ought to go there?”

“The bigger the better,” said the boy, smiling bitterly. “I’ve got to lose myself for awhile, you know, so that brute cannot find me.”

He nodded toward the Poor Farm and Marion understood the gesture.

“I hate him!” she said, with a stamp of her foot. “I’ve hated him ever since he hit you that day, the monster!”

“Well, he’s hit me a good many times since,” said Bert, slowly. There was a hard ring in his voice that cut the air like a bit of metal.

“Have you any money, Bert?” asked Marion, after a minute.

“Not a cent,” said the boy, doggedly; “but I reckon I can earn some. I’ll have to steal my ride to the city, that’s the part that’s bothering me.”

“No you won’t!” said Marion, stoutly. “I’ve got five dollars, Bert! Quick, come back to the house with me! You’ve got to do it!”

“Oh, I can’t take your money,” began Bert, but Marion stopped him.

“You shall take it. Come!” she said, commandingly, as she caught his arm and almost dragged him toward the farm-house.

Leaving Bert hidden behind a clump of lilacs in the yard, Marion crept stealthily around to a side door and into the house to get her five dollars.

A lamp was burning in the sitting-room, and as Marion passed she glanced up at the clock. She had been out over two hours, while every one else was in bed and sleeping.

Marion found the money in her own chamber, and then tip-toed to Dollie’s. Her anxiety for her sister was making her almost nervous.

She peered into the room, which was clearly lighted by the moon.

Her sister was not there. The bed was rumpled but empty.

Marion flew down the stairs and through the side door to the yard.

“Bert! Bert!” she called softly, but nobody answered.

“Oh, dear, what has happened?” she whispered to herself. “There’s something wrong; it’s in the air! I know it! I feel it!”

A soft step on the walk made her turn expectantly.

Bert Jackson was just behind her. He had been in the kitchen. He explained it by whispering that he had been after a drink of water.

Marion did not give a thought to this fact while her mind was in such a whirl; she only hurried to him quickly and gave him the money.

“Oh, Bert,” she said, in agony. “I can’t find Dollie! She’s gone somewhere, I don’t know where! She was in bed when I left her!”

Bert looked at her in surprise, but there was no time to lose. He must be off at once if he expected to catch the train from Haysville.

“I’ll let you hear from me, Marion, in some way,” he whispered gratefully. “And if anything has happened to Dollie, you can count on me. I’ll never forget you, Marion, you are such a friend to a fellow!”

“Take care of yourself in New York, Bert,” said the girl, tremblingly, “and who knows what may happen in that lovely big city?”

“Good-by, Marion,” answered Bert, “I’m sure something good must happen.”

He darted away and Marion went back to the house. There was not a sign of her sister’s returning.

Suddenly Marion made a discovery that nearly turned her brain. Every article belonging to Dollie’s Sunday wardrobe was missing.

In other words, she had dressed herself in her best when she went, and this fact was significant even to a girl like Marion.

Darting downstairs, the frightened girl awoke her father and mother.

“Dollie has gone! She has run away!” she cried in agony. “Oh, father, come quick and perhaps we can find her!”

But not a trace of Dollie could be found, nor was Mr. Lawson, their boarder, to be found on the premises.

Marion set her teeth hard when she made this discovery.

“They’ve gone together! He’s took her!” whined Mrs. Marlowe. “He’s run off with my darter! the scallywag!” bawled Deacon Marlowe, but Marion only clenched her hands and bit her lips. It was horrible to think of Dollie in the clutches of her insulter.

“What shall you dew, father?” asked Mrs. Marlowe, at last.

“Dunno,” said her husband, a little absently. “I calkerlate, tho’, I’ll jest ler ’er go! ’Pears tew me that’s about what she desarves, the for’ard critter!”

Marion Marlowe’s eyes flashed as she heard this decision, but she did not deign to make any answer.

Going straight to the old chest behind the kitchen door, she opened the lid and began overhauling its contents.

“What dew you want in there?” asked her father, suspiciously.

“I want grandma’s topazes,” she said very firmly. “I am going to sell them to Widow Pearson; you know she always wanted them, and the money will enable me to hunt for Dollie!”

“Yew sha’n’t tech them!” cried both her mother and father at once.

“They are ours—Dollie’s and mine,” said Marion, calmly. “I shall use them as I think best——”

A scream finished the sentence.

“They are gone! The topazes are gone!” she cried, excitedly. “See, here is the chamois bag! It is completely empty!”

She held it up to the flickering light that fell from the tallow candle in her mother’s hand.

A double crime had been committed—abduction and theft. Marion sat down on the chest and burst out crying.

“It’s Dollie that’s done it!” bellowed Deacon Marlowe angrily. “It wasn’t enough fer her tew disgrace herself an’ us by runnin’ away with that air feller, but she must up an’ steal the topazes, the brazen hussy! She shall never darken my door ag’in! The wicked jade! the—the——”

“Hush, father! Don’t you dare to call Dollie names,” cried Marion. “If any one is to blame, it is that black-hearted scoundrel! Oh, I knew he was a villain! Why didn’t I watch him!”

Marion had sprung from the chest and was confronting the old farmer—her eyes scintillating with feeling, and her drawn lips were almost bloodless.

“My sister is innocent! Do you hear me, father! Shame on you for being the first to condemn your own daughter!”

Her voice was so sharp that it seemed to hiss through the air, and the old farmer shrank back as though she had struck him.

Mrs. Marlowe covered her face with her hands and began to sob, but Marion’s eyes were burning—she had done with weeping.

Now was the time to act—to save her sister.