Part 15

Ben looked at her, a glance that dropped away from the fire in her eyes. "It weren't the man you think. Coats Penniman's knowed nothin' of what's been goin' on. An' I don't know nothin' either--that's my answer to any who may ask, an' always will be," he said doggedly, "but there's things I'll tell you an' no one else.... Edward loved Ann, Miss Judith. He loved her very dear, an' he's seen her pretty constant. An' Garvin, he were mad over her, like it's in him to be. Edward made him keep away from Ann--there were hard feelin' between them because of it. But Edward didn't tell Garvin about Ann and hisself. 'Tain't a thing Edward would confide to Garvin--there ain't many things you or Edward ever has trusted to Garvin. I think Garvin suspicioned Edward to-day--that Edward were seein' Ann--and--" He stopped, then went on. "An' Edward come back by the Banks--" he stopped again.

Judith had drawn back as if the sight of him burned her. "You're wrong!" she said passionately. "Garvin was in the city to-day!"

Ben looked at her, pity and affection and respect struggling together in his eyes and in his voice. "He were at the Banks, Miss Judith. The traces of him was there. He had hid Black Betty, but I run acrost her, an' up to Crest Cave I foun' the letter Ann had wrote him, sayin' she wouldn't have him. An' he'd been drinkin'--I foun' the bottle. An' then, when I stood up by Crest Cave, I seen Garvin go acrost from the Mine Banks Road to the creek. It scart me the way he went--like he was hidin' hisself. I was so scart I went down to the road an' first I saw Edward's horse, an' then I foun' where he lay."

Judith's hand had covered her lips, as if to smother a shriek; over it her eyes stared at him.

"There weren't no one else at the Banks but Garvin when I was there--I'd have knowed it jest so quick as a dog, if there had been. I'd already took the letter--I run to you then.... Miss Judith, I don't need to tell you what all this'll come to. Garvin's jest gone mad, but if he comes to hisself like he does, who'll believe it? The law'll get him, Miss Judith. An' that ain't all--every bit of all your family history will be gone into. And Ann's name will be ruined. It will be the end of Westmo'. I never come up against nothin' like this befo'--I'm jest helpless!" The big creature looked both helpless and desperate.

Judith turned abruptly, faced God's half-acre, and Ben stood still with eyes on her rigid shoulders and carven profile. He knew Judith Westmore well; there was no room for grief, no limit to her capability when the family name was at stake.

It was not for long; she faced him again. "Where was he shot?" she asked stiffly.

Ben lifted a finger to his forehead.

Her mask-like face twitched, then was controlled. "Where is he--lying?" she asked, with the same difficulty over her words. "In the road?... Where some one may pass?"

"No--off the road--in the hollow--near the first ore-pit."

"In the bushes and grass?"

"Yes."

"Did you search around--him?"

"No. I saw he were gone--then I come quick."

Judith nodded. "Go to the barn and put the horses in the light wagon. There's no one there--the men have gone. Saddle another horse for yourself. I'll get some things from the house and come out to you. Go quick--I'll be quick."

"Are you goin' to the Banks?" Ben asked.

"I'll tell you when I come back. Go put the horses in," and she turned and walked rapidly to the house.

She returned to Ben's side before he had finished harnessing the horses. She was laden with blankets and a pillow, and, after she had put them into the wagon, her skilful hands helped him. She worked swiftly and accurately, her hard, short-drawn breathing alone indicative of tense emotion and desperate haste. She spoke low and decidedly.

"We'll have to face it the best way we can.... I want you to ride to the Copeleys'. Tell Cousin Copeley just that you found Edward--shot at the Banks, and that you came straight off to me--just that and nothing more.... Tell any one who asks--just that. Tell Cousin Copeley to come quick to the Banks to meet me. Then have him send one of the boys for the doctor and have him bring him to Westmore.... I'm going down through the woods to the Smiths'. I'll get Allen Smith and his son to go with me to the Banks--they're the nearest men I can reach, and they're not relations--I'd rather have them with me."

Judith said no more until they were ready. Then she put her hands on his huge shoulders. Even in the dim light he could see that her eyes were brimming. "Ben, you are our friend?" she asked very low. "You will stand by me?"

"I'd die befo' I hurt a Westmo'--or a Penniman," he said as huskily as she.

"I believe it, Ben.... Do this for me then: find Garvin and bring him to Westmore. It's the place where he'll be safest. Tell him I said so. He'll listen to you when he wouldn't to any one else. And there's no one who can find him in the night as you can. And, Ben, have him come back on Black Betty, if you can, and if you can't--" She paused and thought a moment. "If you can't, get Betty into the club stables during the night.... You're not afraid to do that for me, Ben?"

Ben's growl was sufficient answer.

Her hands dropped. "We'll go then," she said more clearly.

Ben held her back a moment. "Miss Judith, you'll not put this on a Penniman, an' you'll keep Ann's name out of it if you can?"

"No--I'll not accuse a Penniman. The dead can't speak--or suffer--let them bear the blame."

XXXII

THE DEATH-TRAP

Baird was riding slowly back from Westmore to the club. Even if he had been in the mood for rapid riding, he would not have attempted it; it was too dark a night. As it was, he was too much absorbed by his thoughts to hurry his horse. He was thinking of the group of proud people he had left standing guard over their dead. And he was thinking of Ann. Did she know?

The thing was terrible. The news had reached the club before the sunset glow had faded from the sky, brought to Sam by a Westmore negro and transmitted by him to the men who were dining at the club: Edward Westmore had taken his own life--at the Mine Banks. The men had scattered to their homes with the news, and Baird had ridden at once to Westmore.

There was nothing he could do; the family had already collected. Even Colonel Dickenson had been sent for and would reach Westmore before midnight. At Westmore Baird had learned a few details: Ben Brokaw had found the body and had run to Westmore with the news, and Judith and the two neighbors she took with her had discovered Edward's pistol, with one chamber emptied, lying in the grass not far from his hand. It was the ivory-handled, silver-chased weapon that all of them knew so well, which Edward always kept loaded and often carried.

Mr. Copeley had said to Baird: "We can't account for such an act on Edward's part. The only reason we can give to ourselves is that during the past year he has suffered from occasional attacks of heart trouble. That's the reason he wouldn't hunt and always rode so slowly. It may have preyed on his mind.... It is most kind of you to come, Mr. Baird, and we all thank you; but there is nothing you can do." Baird had remained only a few moments.

Brave people! Courteous and dignified even when in the deepest distress. During the moment Judith had given him, Baird had bent to her hand in profound admiration. She was deadly pale, but erect and clear-voiced. She was a woman in a million, was Judith Westmore!... And he had liked Edward almost better than any man he had ever known.... And Ann? Did she know yet?

Baird was thinking intently of Ann. As soon as the shock of the thing had worn off, he had thought of Ann. Since the night before, when Ann had said, "I'd rather you stayed away," he had been as unhappy as he had thought it possible for him to be, wretched because he felt unable to get out and fight for the thing he had begun to want badly.

Baird's horse had brought him down into the hollow, to where the creek crossed the Post-Road. Beyond was the long upgrade at the summit of which he would turn off into the club road, the extension of the Pennimans' cedar avenue.... Who would tell Ann? And how much would it mean to her?

Baird's horse had come to the bridge, his hoofs had struck the planks, when he stopped abruptly, with fore-feet planted. When Baird spoke to him, he snorted and backed.

Baird knew the signs of fright, but when he peered over the animal's head he could see nothing. It was impossible to _see_ anything in that density of gloom; one could only _feel_. He spoke to his horse again, but the creature refused to move. There was certainly some good reason for such reluctance; the bridge was dangerously ramshackle, and should have been condemned long ago.

Baird dismounted, led his horse to the roadside, and groped until he found a tree to which he could tie him. He went back to the bridge and, kneeling, felt his way along. He came upon it very soon; his hand left the plank and reached into space, a yawning hole wider certainly than the length of his arm, for there appeared to be nothing beyond.

He crept along then to the side of the bridge, and, presently, he made it out: beyond the broken and splintered end of timber which supported the planks on which he was, there was no bridge. It had been torn away, had collapsed. Full fifteen feet below, in the blackness, the creek tore along, fretted by the rocks. Whatever had jammed through that rotten structure had gone to certain destruction.... An automobile!

A certainty, something more than a premonition of a disaster to which he had played agent, turned Baird hot. He hung over the black gulf, trying to see, alive with dread of what he might see.... He could not see, but he could smell. It was an exhalation from below, the odor of gasoline; he was right, then.

Baird straightened, energetic, as always when action was demanded.... If only he had a lantern!... He remembered that he had matches, and struck one. The breeze, faint though it was, snuffed it out. He tried another with the same result. His next effort was a torch, a letter twisted so as to burn as long as possible.

It served his purpose, a flickering revelation of a mass of wreckage thrust against the shelving bank of the creek--until the flame crept to his fingers and he was forced to drop the charred paper. He sprang up and went back to the road, not to get help, that did not occur to him, but to get down to the thing below as soon as possible. There might be life lingering beneath that mass of wreckage.

Baird encountered a snake fence and an almost impassable mat of briers, but even in the darkness he felt sure of his direction, certain of it when he slid down into mud and water. He stood still, trying to determine just where the wrecked machine lay; to his left? His olfactory nerves helped him, and his hand soon touched a bit of the wreckage, an upflung wheel, then the rear of the car. Baird was trying to discover all he could first by feeling. He had a note-book in his pocket with which to make a brief bonfire, but he was saving that. If only he had a lantern!

It was the smell of a reeking wick that suggested a possibility. In 1905, an automobile was not equipped with electricity; its tail light was a lantern. Baird's hand had encountered it, its glass shattered, but the metal lamp intact and still warm. He lighted the wick; though inadequately equipped, he could find his way about now.

The machine lay against a rock, half-overturned, and with nose buried in the soft earth of the bank. Baird made his way forward on its other side. Engine, wheel and seat were jammed against the rock and half-buried in the earth, but by climbing over the rock he reached the top of the pile, and could throw the light on the confused mass.

For a moment he knelt motionless above the thing he saw, weakened by a wave of physical inability; it was not the Mine Banks alone that had claimed a Westmore.... Then he made certain that the body below was without pulse or heartbeat, and that his utmost strength could not move the mass that rested on it. The end must have come as instantaneously to one brother as it had to the other.

It was of Judith, Baird was thinking as he prepared to go back. He must take the word to Westmore.... And by some means, he must prevent travelers on the Post-Road from plunging into this death-trap. He felt a little dizzy and sick.

Baird held the light up, trying to see the bank above. He kept it upheld, staring at what it revealed--a woman's crumpled body flung against the soft loamy earth, a white blot against a black background. Even before he reached her, Baird knew who she was, and the thought was quicker than his forward plunge: "It was Garvin she loved, and Edward knew it. It was that had 'preyed' on his mind."

Baird's first terror, when his hands discovered warmth in her body, was that it was deceptive--life might be gone ... or it might be passing fast, was his fear when he found that her heart was beating; it beat so faintly against his hand. He brushed the hair from her face and brought the light close, but Ann's eyes remained closed, her lips colorless, her skin bluey-white; life was merely flickering.

Something infinitely painful rose up in Baird and choked him, a hurt greater than anything he had ever known, a profounder sense of desolation than he had had when his father lay dying. He wanted to hold her against his breast.

When he lifted her, she sighed, and the unexpected assurance of life galvanized him. He laid her down and stumbled to the creek. He brought back a little water in his cupped hands and dropped it on her face, then he rubbed her forehead with his wet hands.

It did not bring her back to consciousness, but hope had him now, coupled with a definite purpose: to get her away as soon as possible, back to her home. It would not be possible to carry her through that network of briers, but if he made his way up the creek to where there was less undergrowth he could reach the pasture. Then he could get his horse.

It was no easy matter to carry her limp body and still keep a hand free for the lantern. He made his slow way around rocks, half the time wading in water, more than once almost falling. He was nearly exhausted by combined anxiety and exertion when circumstance favored him; he came to a wide path tracked by the cattle, an easy ascent. When he reached the pasture, he laid his burden down, put the lantern where it would serve as a guide for his return.

He skirted the undergrowth along the creek without much difficulty, avoided the brier-patch, and came to the rail fence, shortly above where his horse was tied. He took down a tier of rails that he might lead him through, and his return was even more rapid than his going.

To mount his horse with Ann laid across his shoulder taxed every muscle in his body, and to hold her inert weight half-seated before him and dragging over one arm while he kept one hand free to guide his horse took both strength and skill.

Baird found the Back Road by keeping, as nearly as he could judge, parallel with the Post-Road. With his horse's head turned homeward, his task was not so difficult, for the animal strode along the familiar way, needing no guidance. In his relief, Baird kissed Ann's upturned face. "It won't be long now," he whispered. In his stress he had forgotten the hole in the bridge; forgotten Edward; forgotten Garvin; forgotten every one but Ann; forgotten even himself.

Their entrance into the woods was like passing from a darkness in which objects could be sensed into the thicker blackness of a tunnel. Baird could tell where the road led off to the club only by the turn his horse made. He forced him to back and then urged him straight ahead. Once on the Penniman Road, the animal could be trusted to keep on. That he did keep on and with the lessened speed of the horse walking away from his stable was the only guarantee Baird had that they were going in the right direction.

In time they emerged from the tunnel, into what seemed, by contrast, a normality. Baird had loathed the palpable blackness that had shrouded Ann's vague outline; he had seemed to be embracing an unreality. When they neared the barn and a horse in the enclosure whinnied, it was like hearing a friendly voice. Baird forced his horse to circle the barn, started him on the road leading to the front of the house, which the animal took gladly because again headed for the club, and checked him before the vague black mass which was the house. There was no lighted window, no sign of anxiety or of welcome.

Baird dismounted and laid Ann gently on the grass. If there was any one in that apparently heartless house to whom he could entrust her, he would ride for a doctor. He left her on the grass--better that two should move her with the care two could give--and went to the living-room door. He knocked, then pounded, then called, and was answered by total silence.

A chill touched him; was the whole world dead? Where were they all at this hour of the night? He lighted a match and, for the first time that night, looked at his watch. It was only a few minutes after ten. Baird's disbelief was so complete that he put the watch to his ear, and even when he found it ticking steadily he could not credit what it had told him. It seemed to Baird that he had spent hours under the bridge and that he had agonized half the night over Ann. But there was one comfort, if his watch was right, Ann had not been unconscious half the night. And her family were probably simply out for the evening and would be back.

He tried the door, found it unlocked, and, going in, lighted the lamp. Then he brought Ann to the couch. He could see her distinctly now, and his heart contracted as he looked at her; the limpness of her body and the waxen immobility of her face were terrifying, an inertia as complete as death. She was slipping away, and he did not know how to call her back.

As long as Baird had been fighting his way along through the night, he had been hopeful. But that vacant house!... If he went for help, Ann would die while he was gone; there was no doctor within four miles. If his ignorance struggled with that persistent unconsciousness, he might blunder fatally. He felt desperate.

XXXIII

FROM DESPAIR TO HOPE

Baird had sat for an hour with his fingers on Ann's wrist; from twelve o'clock until the living-room clock struck one. He had made his decision. As he had expressed it to himself, "I'll stand by my job."

Once, in South America, he and a companion had worked over a man who was dying from exhaustion. They had administered stimulants and had wrapped the man in hot blankets. Baird had ransacked the living-room and the kitchen, had come upon the family supply of simple remedies, among them a bottle of spirits of camphor, and, in the cedar chest beneath the stairs, had found a feather-bed laid away for the summer. He had built a fire in the kitchen stove and had heated water.

Baird had set to work then upon Ann's cold limp body, had taken off her shoes and stockings and had chafed her icy feet with hot water and camphor. He had opened her dress and had rubbed her chest and her arms and her hands with it. Then he had wrapped her closely in the feather-bed, and, lastly, he had tried to make her swallow a little of the mixture.

Though he had worked quickly, it had taken time, a lifetime of effort and of waiting, it had seemed to Baird, before even a slight warmth had crept into her body. When his fingers discovered a throb in her wrists, Baird was uplifted; he sprang from despair to hope. When her chest began gently to lift and fall, he climbed to the height of gratitude.

For an hour he had sat almost motionless, feeling life grow beneath his fingers, watching the ghastly white in Ann's face change to a more life-like hue. It seemed to him that the life in her was trying to answer to the life in him, that each throb of his heart transmitted a little and still a little more of its bounding vitality to her, and, gradually, a curious certainty had taken possession of Baird: that through his finger-tips he was pouring his superabundant strength into Ann's limp body, while with all his force he was willing her to live.

The conviction possessed him so completely that it blotted out the disjointed thoughts that had obtruded while he had longed for other assistance than his own: his anxiety over the absence of Ann's people; the suggestion that they had traveled by the Post-Road and had fallen into the death-trap he had left unguarded; his pangs of retrospective jealousy; his hopes for the future.

He was so concentrated upon his idea that all extraneous thoughts and impressions had faded from his brain. The collie had thrust himself in through the partly-open door and had nosed Baird's absorption and Ann's muffled form, and Baird had scarcely noticed him; the murky, indeterminate night had resolved itself into a steady rain, and Baird had not been aware of it; the clock had struck a single definite note, and Baird had not heard it, for Ann had stirred at last, had moved her head and sighed.

With the same curious certainty that his strength had led her back to life, and that if he called to her now she would answer, Baird bent to her ear: "Ann--?" he said softly. He called to her several times, softly, insistently, waited, then called again. When, finally, her eyelids lifted, he was so imbued with the certainty that speech would follow that the sweep of relief did not unsteady him. She was looking at him widely, fully, but without blankness. She knew him.

He waited, giving her time. It seemed to Baird that her half-awakened thoughts crossed her eyes like slowly-moving shadows. Then her gaze turned slowly from him to the room, to the half-open door and the blackness beyond. And suddenly recollection appeared to leap up in her, twitching the muscles in her face until it set in a mask of pain. She turned strained eyes on him, and speech broke from her, a voice husky but demanding:

"Is it true, what he told me--that Edward was dying?"

Baird had not thought it would be this way. He had not considered what Ann would say when she spoke; all he had thought was that, if only she could speak, he would know whether or not she was injured, whether she was in pain. Baird's native quickness and coolness almost forsook him; he retained only presence of mind enough to grasp the fact that it was Edward she loved, and that he dared not thrust the truth upon her suddenly and abnormally active brain.

He parleyed until he could think. "Who told you that, dear?"

Her speech came quickly and thickly: "Garvin. He came for me. He said Edward's horse threw him an' he was dyin' an' wanted me."

Baird had done his thinking, and had hazarded a guess as well. "He didn't tell you the truth," he said clearly and decidedly. "He simply wanted you to come with him."

She said nothing, but she relaxed; the rigid muscles in her face softened into relief and her eyes grew cloudy and slowly closed. The spurt of abnormal animation passed.

With a new fear tugging at him, Baird watched the moisture gather on her forehead and about her lips and noted the utter laxness of her hands and the weighted heaviness of her eyelids. Was she slipping into unconsciousness again? He bent over her.

"Ann, does your back hurt?" he begged.

She breathed rather than spoke the word, "No--"

"Do you feel any pain?"

She moved her head in denial.

"You're sleepy--that's all?"

She did not answer.