CHAPTER XII

There was the sound of rushing water in her ears, and for a moment she was blind. How dared he! To her, a Dudley! Then she knew she was looking full at him with unutterable scorn in her eyes. He saw the contempt and indignity which his words had aroused, and his face blackened.

"Just as you will!" he said, roughly. "It's nothing to me. There was a time when I would have made you mistress of this house, and had it not been for a scoundrelly, meddling doctor you might have married me! You love him now--I know! I'm not a fool, but precious little happiness you'll get from him. They ran him out of Jericho for mixing up with a married woman, and if you want to marry a rascal like that you're welcome to do it!"

He stopped, and glared at her like a baffled animal.

She could not yet find her voice. In a vague way she knew that she had been hurt, sorely wounded; that a profane foot had trodden in the holy of holies in her breast, and that a profane hand had snatched at the sacred fire which burned upon the altar there. She knew that never in her life before had she felt as she did now. Her purity had been affronted, and a friend's dear name had been attacked. She was crushed, dumb, and realizing that she had failed miserably in her mission, she dully turned The Prince's head towards the gate, and started to ride away. But on the instant Marston's hand was on the bridle near the bit, and Marston's figure loomed in her path.

"Not yet!" he gritted, venom flashing from his little eyes. "There is more to tell, and I don't think I'll have a lovely opportunity like this again soon! You refuse? You refuse my price?"

Still the girl did not answer. She could not answer, for her tongue seemed paralyzed. A rabid sort of anger was mounting again in the fiend before her. She saw its signals flare in a renewed gleam in his sodden eyes, in the dull red, gorged muscles of his thick throat. His coarse lips were twitching, as though forming words too awful for her to hear. At this moment, too, a cloud passed before the sun, and a quick lessening of light was perceptible. To Julia it almost amounted to gloom, seated as she was in the dank shade of one of the funereal cedars, and she could have cried out in pure physical terror had her voice at that moment been subservient to her will. For there before her, almost within arm's length, stood Devil Marston, like a huge spider in his loathesomeness, compelling her to remain where she was, and listen to whatever tale of malice, flavoured with a grain of truth, perhaps, which he might care to relate.

"The terms! The terms!" he said, again, thrusting his face towards her with all its projecting teeth visible. "You won't be hurt! What's a glass of wine and a kiss? Tut! The first is nothing, and I'll bet that jackanapes of a doctor gets plenty of the second! Isn't _one_ for _me_ worth two hundred and fifty dollars?"

This speech broke Julia's reserve, with its cruel, brutal accusation.

"Hush!" she exclaimed, all the dormant and deadened forces of her nature awaking to full and vigorous protest. "Don't dare to say such things to me, Devil Marston! I came alone to your house this morning, because, though I knew that you were a bad man, I believed that I would be received and treated with proper respect. You have forfeited all right to any kind of consideration; you have trampled upon my finer feelings and made me suffer keenly--and you shall pay! You shall pay!"

She leaned from her saddle-bow towards him, setting her flame-tinged face with its large, distressed, undaunted eyes in opposition to his vulgar visage lit with fires from hell.

He started at the sudden vehemence of her speech, and the quick transition from almost lethargy to almost violent action.

"_I_ pay?--What do you mean, girl?" he cried, gripping the bridle firmer and throwing a quick glance in the direction of the highway, which was no great distance off, and visible for several rods from where they were standing.

"I mean what I say!" she repeated, undismayed. Her courage was perhaps unnatural, induced by that low speech wherein Marston had cuttingly spoken of the kisses she had given Glenning. "My father shall hear of this, and Dr. Glenning, too--he whom you have vilely slandered! I withdraw the request which I made a while ago; I don't want a dividend if it has to come through _your_ influence and _your_ power. Though it is rightly ours, I do not want it now, for it would degrade anyone who touched it after _your_ word had made it possible! I scorn and detest you! I defy you, and dare you to do your worst, you pitiful thing whom God made like a man, and gave the nature of a brute instead of a soul! Now I am through. Let me go! Take your hand from my bridle-rein! Miss Dudley is ready to ride back home!"

Erect in her saddle now as a young goddess, she gazed down upon him with high-held head, disgust and anger blending charmingly on her lovely features. She did not feel herself. Never in her life before had such storms of feeling swept her. She knew she was unreal; that this side to her nature she had never seen--had never known of its existence. The flood which had carried her to that grand height where she could brave and dare a man like Devil Marston in his own yard, was receding. It was too powerful to last. It had given her a glorious strength to say what was in her heart and mind, in clear words which rang with sincerity and conviction, but now, that she was done, was sitting with her proud chin up and disdainful eyes fastened upon the object of her displeasure, she felt the ebb of tears which followed the flood of courage. She was surely and quickly coming back to her own; the normal woman in her was being reinstated. She knew that she must go, at once, or her next words would struggle through sobs. Though her face showed naught of it, her breast was filled with a fearful anxiety, as she watched the effect of her words. At first the man was stunned. He could not believe his ears. That anyone, to say nothing of a girl, should come before him and speak such things, was past his comprehension. He actually blinked at her, stupidly, as she went on, and his face turned a yellowish gray. But when she concluded his brutish rage had gained the ascendency.

"You're ready to go home--I guess you are! But I'm not ready to let you go! You defy me! You dare me! You call me ugly names! I'm not as pretty as your doctor friend who went regularly every evenin' to see that married woman back in Jericho! Ha! ha! ha! You don't like that, do you? But it's true, anyway, I--"

"Let me go--let me go!" sobbed Julia, the strain overcoming her at last, breaking down the frail fabric of her brave young courage. "You shan't say such things to me!"

She attempted to urge The Prince on, but the iron grip of Marston held him.

"Go easy, young lady! Don't hurry!" mocked the monster. "There's more to tell. I'm saving the choicest morsel of scandal for the last, then I'll fix this long-legged fellow of yours!"

Julia had purposely delayed bringing her weapon into play, but she saw now that the time was ripe for her to use it. She drew it from its place and quickly leveled it at the man.

"Unloose my horse, or I swear I'll shoot!" she said, and Marston, looking in her eyes, knew that she meant it.

He feinted, dropped the bridle, and pretended to draw aside. But the next moment he took a rapid step forward, threw up his arm, and sent the revolver flying through the air. It alighted on the thick grass, without exploding. It happened that the gaunt hound which had disputed Julia's passage at the beginning of her call, having finished the roast of beef in a further corner of the yard, was passing that moment on his way back to the kitchen porch, his hunger doubtless still unappeased. He was a brute used to sudden foray and quick brawls, and this movement of his master towards the horsewoman seemed to him a signal--a call to battle. So, as Marston deftly disarmed Julia, the dog promptly leaped at The Prince's front with a savage roar. The wonder is the poor girl kept her senses, but this attack of the dog was her salvation. The sensitive animal which she rode reared and swerved with the agility of a cat, eluding the hound's spring and colliding with Marston, who was sent sprawling upon the ground. The way to safety was clear! She touched The Prince's side with her heel, drew up her reins, and told him to go in a low voice of entreaty. But he needed no urging. Down the yard they flew, and Julia put him at the fence, for there was no time to be lost with the narrow gate. He went over the barrier with the ease and grace of a swallow, and on towards the road. The farm gate letting onto the pike she had left open, and as she dashed through it she almost ran into a buggy coming from the direction of town, with a man in it. The Prince swerved around the obstacle--he was running at last, and his rider made no attempt to restrain him--and was gone down the white limestone road like a greyhound in chase.

The top of the buggy which the man drove was down flat, for it was a summer morning, and he loved sunshine and air. He drew his horse up to a standstill, and turning in his seat looked back at the fleeing twain, now rapidly diminishing in a cloud of gray dust. The glimpse which he had caught of the two as they passed was almost as brief as that one gets of a landscape on a night of storm during a lightning flash. He thought he knew the colt--surely there was none other like it anywhere, and he was confident he knew the rider, although her face was white, terror-stricken, tear-stained. Whether she had recognized him or not he could not say. Her haunting eyes had looked straight at him for a moment, but no gleam of understanding had lighted them. Now they were gone; the distant hoof-beats had died. The man turned half way around, and looked again. This time his eyes swept the home of Devil Marston and its vicinity. As he looked his mouth grew hard, his eyes drooped at the corners, and the muscles of his cheeks ridged themselves under his skin. He understood. He slowly and deliberately got out, led his horse to the roadside and carefully hitched it, then passed through the open farm gate and strode briskly on. Two minutes later John Glenning, with folded arms, stood fronting Devil Marston between the cedars. The hound had disappeared. The two men were absolutely alone. There was no word of greeting exchanged between them. Each knew that civilities would be superfluous and out of place. They simply met as two things of primeval creation might meet, and the feelings which governed each of them in that moment were wholly savage. In every one this old strain is running: animal first, then soul, and mind, and heart. Mere being first; then civilization, with its accessories of education and refinement. Two animals met between the cedars; the mask had been flung aside. They had come face to face moved entirely by the world-old battle lust. The one naturally evil; the other made so because he knew that in some way the woman he loved had been mistreated and abused. Words were out of place and unnecessary, but a sense of right and decency crept into Glenning's seething brain, and made him speak.

"I want to apologize for striking you on the street in Macon."

The sentence was cold as ice, and formal. There was no feeling in it. The man to whom it was addressed stood with arms hanging loosely at his sides, his face sullen and crafty. He did not reply.

"You know I had to do it," went on the steel-like voice. "I regret the necessity more than I apologize for the blow. You deserved that. Let it pass."

Marston spoke.

"What in the devil do you want here? Begone, before I put the dogs on you!"

"I am here to give you a thrashing you won't forget as long as you live! You are a coward and a cur!"

The stinging words brought no added colour to Marston's face. They did not hurt him; his sensibilities were hardened, and were difficult to reach. But he cast an involuntary look of longing towards the revolver lying partly concealed in the long grass a rod or more away. The sombre eyes watching him with hawk-like intentness noticed the glance, and instantly turned in the same direction. Glenning saw.

"Don't you wish you had that in your hand?" he said. "I know you haven't one on your person, or you would have shot me before now. To relieve you of any apprehension I don't mind telling you that I am totally unarmed. How did that come there?"

He nodded abruptly in the direction of Julia's revolver.

"I don't see that I'm in a witness box!" Marston answered, viciously.

"Take comfort," retorted Glenning, evenly. "You will be if you live long enough. We are wasting time and bandying words to no purpose," he resumed briskly. "I met a young lady coming from your house in evident distress a few moments ago. She was riding hard and she was scared. Did _you_ scare her, and had she anything to do with that revolver?"

The words of the last sentence came hard as lead bullets against Marston's ears, and frightened him. The face of his caller had suddenly grown white and fierce. Glenning's knotted fists were writhing under his folded arms. Marston knew he had better speak, and speak the truth.

"She came to see me of her own free will. I invited her in, and she drew her pistol on me. I knocked it out of her hand to keep from getting shot."

"A likely tale, and the skeleton of truth alone, I daresay. What did _she_ want with _you_?"

A smile of triumph lit the dark features of the hybrid.

"Something _you_ could not give her, but _I_ could!--Julia Dudley came for a favour to _me_!"

"Keep her name out of it, damn you!"

Glenning, white hot, drew two steps nearer, though still holding himself in check.

"We can talk without the use of names. What favour did she want?"

"She came to ask me to have the bank dividend declared, or they would starve!"

"That was no favour. The money is Major Dudley's. You have stolen it from them by withholding it. She came to demand her own, and her own was denied her, no need to tell me that."

Marston thought of the price he had put upon the dividend, and, while he longed to goad and torture his enemy to the utmost, he feared to tell him of that part of their conversation.

"No, she didn't get it!" he answered, roughly.

"Look at me, Mr. Marston!"

Little as he liked the command, Marston centered his ever shifting eyes upon Glenning's. But they would not stay, despite his will.

"You've been to Jericho," went on the even voice. "You came back last night. What did you go for?"

"What in hell do you mean?" he flared out, with a bluster. "I went on business."

"_Your_ business, or _my_ business?"

This time Marston coloured perceptibly, and shrugged his shoulders. He did not answer.

"See here!" resumed Glenning. "I know why you went to Jericho. Now listen. If you begin spreading lies about me in this community you shall suffer. Tell the truth--the whole truth--and I'll not say a word. But you don't know the whole truth, nor any part of it. You didn't go to get the truth, but all the low, indecent scandal and gossip you could scrape together. Usually that side is not as hard to get as the other. It is not my fault that we have been enemies from the night I came to Macon. I would not have you for a friend, believe me, but we might at least have been civil. You've heard a great deal of stuff while you were away that your informants wouldn't repeat to my face. And I tell you they are all lies! Did you voice any of them to Miss--to her?"

Again Marston felt the truth dragged from him. But a sardonic smile of malicious pleasure spread over his face as he answered--

"I told her a little about my trip, and how a certain friend of hers had another sweetheart back up there, but she broke away before I could tell her all--"

"_Broke_ away!--Devil! Did you hold her?"

Restraint for the moment was cast aside.

Glenning's long hands grasped each of Marston's arms just below the shoulders, and so he held him motionless.

"I didn't touch her!" was the snarling answer. "I held the damned colt by the bridle until she drew on me--"

John flung him backward with an oath.

"_Strip!_"

He hissed out the word with sibilant wrath, and threw off his light coat. Then, trembling the least bit while fighting inwardly for calm, he began rolling back his sleeves. He ceased these preparations long enough to toss his hat upon his coat and discard tie and collar. Marston cast another hungry look at the revolver, while making no move to comply with the order he had received. Glenning came towards him.

"Are you going to fight, or must I slap your face, you dog?"

The concluding word gave Marston a happy thought, and he quickly pursed his heavy lips, and whistled shrilly. He had no mind for an encounter with the young man where the weapons employed would be fists alone. He was probably stronger, but he secretly felt that he would be punished severely should they come to blows. He had much rather that his boar-hound fight for him, so he issued the summons.

"No more of that!" said John, sternly. "Make another sound and I strike you, whether you are prepared or not. Are you coming, or shall I break a switch from one of your bushes, and lay you across my knee?"

This taunt was more than flesh and blood could bear. It pierced even Marston's seared sensibilities, and stung like something hot. He got out of his coat with one lightning-like movement, and at once assumed the offensive. This was what Glenning wished. It would have been degrading to knock down and batter about some one who made no resistance. The men presented an interesting contrast as they stood on guard. Glenning wore a white negligee shirt, and gray trousers, neatly creased. He was clean shaven and his straight black hair fell over his forehead as he leaned forward, alert and vigilant. One could see now the broad expanse of his back and his wonderful breadth of shoulders. Marston at home was not the Marston in town. He wore a sort of gray flannel shirt, carelessly buttoned, shapeless corduroy trousers and rusty shoes. His thick neck was corded and hairy, and there were dry, red veins in his cheeks caused by the excessive use of liquor. He came at his opponent carefully, in spite of his anger, and delivered his first blow so swiftly that Glenning only partially succeeded in parrying it. The big fist slid off his arm and caught him on the shoulder, turning him half way around. He responded at once with a side swing, which Marston avoided. He was remarkably quick on his feet for so heavy a man. Then they circled, warily. Suddenly Glenning let drive from the shoulder. It was an unexpected move, and caught Marston unprepared. A row of hard knuckles lodged against his chin and sent him reeling. The trunk of a cedar tree intervened, and he did not fall. His face was awful as he came on again; enough to unnerve the strongest man. But Glenning had found himself. He was calm now, and confident, Marston was raging, blind mad. He struck out wildly, trusting to brute strength. Again Glenning's long arm straightened, and for a moment the breath left the chest of his antagonist. He staggered, and dropped his guard, but Glenning did not follow up. Marston, with an inarticulate cry of rage, sought to close. He no longer attempted to fight as boxers do, but came with outstretched hands, feeling blindly for his foe. There was no mercy in the heart of the iron-faced man fronting him. A third time Glenning struck, and his fist caught Marston over the eye, crumpling him on the grass like a thing of reed. He did not move. John knelt and leaned over him. His eyes were shut, but he was breathing, spasmodically. Glenning arose.

"This is for the pain you caused her, and for the lies you told on me!" he muttered. He walked to the spot where he had thrown his clothing and put the various articles on. As he finished this he saw a negro in the side yard. "Come here!" he called.

The negro obeyed.

"There's your master. He's hurt, but not badly. Carry him in and pour water on his face and give him some whiskey."

Glenning wheeled, picked up the pearl-handled revolver as he passed, and went on towards the road.