The Bail Jumper Part 19

Myrtle sat down in the little parlour of the farmhouse. All was stillness. The hard labour of agricultural life had driven the boys and Susy early to their rooms. But their beautiful cousin had no thought of sleep. As she walked up the pasture path a gust of memory swept over her; the memory of a night, dark, with slight stirring breezes that whispered eerily among the willows; the memory of a strong hand that had helped her to her place on the pony, and had lain on his mane as they walked slowly homeward. Burton's disappearance had been complete; since the First of July celebration he appeared to have dropped out of existence as absolutely as if the earth had swallowed him. Her strong confidence in his innocence had battled bravely against overwhelming evidence, but in the unequal conflict she knew it to be breaking down.

Since the night of their terrible experiences in the thunderstorm Gardiner had not attempted to force his acquaintance with her, but while she suffered from the injured ankle he telephoned a courteous inquiry daily, and since had found occasion to make a couple of casual calls.

Miss Vane had received him kindly; he had been Burton's friend; he was, indeed, her friend. Burton's disappearance placed Gardiner in the _role_ of a benefactor; he would forfeit the bail given for the young man's liberty, and the fact that he seemed prepared to do so without a murmur of protest gave him a strong claim upon Myrtle's regard. But she could not lose sight of the fact that there was a purpose in all Gardiner's conduct; that he sought her for his wife, and that he was only waiting until there seemed no possibility of Burton's return before he pleaded his suit once more with her.

And if Burton did not return-what? A hundred times she had thrown this thought from her mind, but it intruded again more arrogantly than ever.

A hundred times she had said, "He will return." But time was wearing on, and Burton's complete disappearance left little question as to his purpose. Even while she told herself he would return the cold sweat of doubt and uncertainty gathered on her brow. Early in the history of his trouble she had written to her brother in the East, and had received an answer of sound advice and practical encouragement; but Harry had soon after sailed for Europe, and neither advice nor consolation was to be had from him at present.

With a gesture as if warding off something unpleasant-something real and unseen-she walked across the room and drew a little volume from a book-case. It opened in her hand, and as she sat down her eyes fell upon the lines-

"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low vaulted past!

Let each new temple, n.o.bler than the last.

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast.

Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown sh.e.l.l by Life's unchanging sea."

With a sharp breath she closed the book. The whole scene stood before her again; the house crowded with merry-makers, their curious faces turned toward the reciter in courteous attention, but with an expression as though to ask what it all was about; the young man, with slightly flushed features but clear, deep, even voice; and then that wonderful instant of telepathy when their eyes met, and she heard the voice deepen and broaden as though a great storage of reserve energy had been connected to the human dynamo.

She rose with the book still in her fingers, drew a shawl about her slight figure, and stepped out into the night. It was absolutely dark. A soft wind moved quietly, toying with the light folds of her dress; a few heavy drops of rain spattered in the dust. G.o.d's heaven had descended in a mantle of darkness and lay brooding over all the face of the prairies.

And somewhere under that mantle of darkness, somewhere under the heaven of that same G.o.d, was a young man, st.u.r.dy and physically strong, but bearing in his quiet eyes and melancholy mouth a load beyond his years.

How had his "stately mansions" narrowed in!

As high-strung natures will, she sought relief from her mental torment in physical exercise. Regardless of the darkness and the threatening rain she walked down the path and out at the gate; her feet found the hard earth of the country road and she walked rapidly along, caring little where she went. But the blood, demanded by her exercise, drew away from the brain; the cool, moist wind salved the fever of her brow, and presently she turned her footsteps homeward. As she pa.s.sed the summer-house a sudden impulse seized her; she entered, laid herself down on a bench of woven willows, and in a few minutes was lost in sleep.

CHAPTER XIV-THE SACRIFICE OF SILENCE

"Greater than the measure of the heroes of renown, He is building for the future, and no hand can hold him down; Though they count him but a common man, he holds the Outer Gate, And posterity will own him as the father of the State."

_The Empire Builders._

As Wilfred walked home through the wet gra.s.s his spirits were high with a new-born enthusiasm of youth. The drudgery, the hardship, the toil unlightened by a gleam of humour or a thought except of selfishness, with which the past years of his life had been surrounded, seemed now as an unreal dream. There were greater things in life than cows, and gardens, and fields of wheat; and in a dim way these things of which he had not so much as guessed were opening to his astonished vision. In his hand he carried the little book of poems, but in his heart was the joy of a gra.s.sy slope, where they watched the night deepening through the willows, and the sound of her voice, liquid as the little stream before them. He had thought of girls, always, with a shyness strongly seasoned with an element of contempt; but toward her he felt only a reverence so deep it almost hurt. He was young, and buoyant with the first great emotion of his life, and in the crude colourings of his fancy he traced wonderful dreams that drew out of the future and became very real to his intoxicated senses.

But at the door of the Riles' house his visions fled, and the spirit of cunning that had so long been his best protector brought him back to earth. He slipped quietly in, found the lantern on its nail, and silently climbed the ladder to his room. Here he lit the lantern, and without removing his clothing lay down to read by the smoky light.

Wilfred's education was very elemental, and he stumbled through many pa.s.sages with difficulty, but in it all he was able to catch something of the spirit of the verses. At length he settled into "Eugene Aram,"

and as the excitement of the dramatic lines tightened about him he read aloud, wholly unconscious of the flight of time.

On his bed below Hiram Riles fancied he heard a mumbling sound come from his garret, and opening his eyes saw a dim light shining through the opening in the ceiling. It was deep in the dead of night, but there was no question that London was talking, in a nervous, agitated voice. Riles could not distinguish the words; he stole to the foot of the ladder and noiselessly ascended it until his head came to the level of the garret floor. Here he saw the boy lying on his mattress, a few rags of blankets about him, his knees drawn up, his head supported by a bundle of clothing, the lantern sitting on the broken chair and throwing an uncertain light upon the little volume in his hands. Riles paused in wonder, and in a moment was rivetted by the words-

"Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a 'eavy stone, One 'urried gash with a 'asty knife,- And then the deed was done: There was nothing lying at my feet But lifeless flesh and bone!

"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me hill; And yet Hi feared 'im hall the more For lying there so still.

There was a manhood in 'is look That murder could not kill!

"And, lo! the universal hair Seemed lit with ghastly flame,- Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame; Hi took the dead man by 'is 'and--"

Riles' face was writhing in an effort to find expression, but the vocal organs refused to fill their office. Like most men of low moral nature, while scoffing at religion he was an easy victim to the terrors of the supernatural. The fact that this orphan boy, the victim of his brutality for so many years, should lie awake at the dead of night stammering through these ghastly lines must carry some horrible significance. He tried to speak, but a m.u.f.fled gurgle in his throat was all the sound that responded.

It was enough. Wilfred's ears, sharpened by the terror of the thing he read, caught and magnified the guttural noise. With a shriek he sprang from the bed and, standing in the centre of the floor, his body bent forward, his fingers clutching in nervous excitement, he peered about the musty little room. Presently his eyes fell upon the livid face of Riles, just above the floor line. They fixed each other in a stare of terror, but, to his own great surprise, the boy found a strong sense of self-control beginning to bear him up.

He was first to break the silence. "So hit was you, 'Iram Riles. You couldn't sty awy. These words drew you loike a magnet draws a needle.

Listen, w'ile Hi read ye more--"

"Don't, boy; don't!" Riles managed to exclaim. "It isn't true. I never harmed him."

Wilfred's mind seemed to be acting by telepathy rather than from his own initiative. Afterwards he could not guess what put the words in his mouth.

"Yuh never 'armed 'im, didn't yuh? Well, w'ere is 'e? W'ere is 'e, 'Iram Riles? That's wot people are haskin', an' they're thinkin' o' you w'en they hask it. W'ere is 'e?"

"I don't know, Wilfred"-he had never called him Wilfred before-"I don't know where he is. I didn't touch him. I tell yuh it never struck him, do yuh hear?"

"Ho, oh, then you missed 'im! By 'ow much? Tell me, 'Iram Riles. 'Ow much? A foot?"

The man had drawn himself into a half sitting posture, his back against the wall, his body half through the trap door, his arms outstretched upon the floor. His fingers trembled, and his lips twitched as he tried to speak. He was a poor ghost of the strong man Wilfred had always known.

"Listen, boy," he said at length. "I figured on fixin' him, but I didn't. I waited for him to come out of the store, and I threw it at him, but in the darkness I missed."

"Han' then yuh went in hand robbed the syfe," completed Wilfred.

"You lie!" shouted Riles, suddenly regaining his self-possession. "It's all lies! What I told you was a lie! You hear me?"

He had risen on to his feet, and, with arms outstretched, was slowly approaching the boy. Wilfred read the change, and saw that the man who had narrowly escaped committing murder was still capable of it. But the lad had long been accustomed to protect himself, and his cunning did not desert him at the critical moment. Quick as a flash he seized the burning lantern and hurled it in the face of his a.s.sailant. For an instant all was darkness; then a tongue of flame shot across the floor and leapt up the oil-saturated night garments of Riles. With a scream the man, now a blazing torch, plunged down the opening to the floor below and rushed into the outer air. His wife, awakened by Wilfred's shriek a few moments before, showed her presence of mind by wrapping Riles in a blanket, which extinguished the blaze before he was seriously injured. Wilfred took the opportunity to steal silently out of the building. Riles was swearing terribly as the boy slipped by the corner and disappeared in the darkness.

Wilfred's plans were soon laid. Bundling up such clothing as he had been able to s.n.a.t.c.h up in the moment allowed, he waited a short time to see if the house would take fire. It did not, somewhat to his disappointment. To return to Riles would, he knew, be to court disaster.

He had a very different purpose now in view. Of late he had been reading the papers at Grants' in the evenings, and had learned that the Government of Canada was prepared to give a quarter section to any man who would live on it and establish a farm. It was a great day when his poor, narrow imagination first made the leap that supposed him-Wilfred Vickery, Barnardo boy-the owner of a farm in his own right. But when the supposition had once been made it grew upon him with a resistless fascination. He was now eighteen. The problem of getting West was a small thing to him. The harvest season was approaching, and he could work. He had been nursing this great thought for weeks, and now, at this moment, it became evident that he must strike out and boldly grapple with destiny. And he had another purpose, of which he scarcely dared think, but which was in reality the foundation of his whole desire.

Perhaps it was this deeper purpose that directed his footsteps again to the Grant farmhouse. He hardly knew the road he had taken until the building loomed up before him, solemn but friendly in the first gray suggestion of dawn. He walked quietly around and looked at all the windows, but there was no gleam of light. If only _she_ would appear! If only he might tell her of his plans, his hopes-if only he dared! But she was sleeping, dreaming, perhaps, of "the fir trees, grim and high," and he dared not take the chance of discovery by remaining until the family were astir. He must leave, silently and without good-bye; he must pa.s.s out of her life, for the present at least, as a leaf that falls in a stream and is borne away in the darkness. With a sigh he turned to go, down the little path that lead out by way of the garden. A few steps brought him to the door of the summer-house. Here he paused again; the place was sanctified with the memory of one or two holy evenings; he stepped inside, if only to prolong the sweet sorrow of his leave-taking.

As he stood, framed in the doorway, his vision was drowned in the blank darkness of the little building. But as one sense becomes inoperative another grows more alert, and in a moment his quick ears caught the sound of easy, regular breathing. Someone was sleeping in the summer-house; probably one of the boys. His first impulse was to steal silently away, but a strange fascination led him toward the little rustic couch across the farther wall. Hands outstretched, he crept toward it in the darkness, until his fingers touched a ma.s.s so uncertain their nerve-tips scarce detected it. He rubbed finger and thumb together, and knew that silken tresses lay between.

With a great bound his heart almost seemed to drive the air from the lungs; the veins of his neck bulged as though they would burst. He sank upon his knees, leaning forward. A flood of warm air flushed across his tense face; it beat and rebeat like the waves of a sea, and in that moment the boy understood that Time is but a segment calendared out of the circle of Eternity. He could not be mistaken. The elective affinities are never deceived. With a great breath he drew his shoulders back. Within his reach, within the very touch of his finger-tips, was the prize of life compared to which heaven and earth resolved into vague, uncertain promises!

She stirred slightly, as though some wandering thought from the material world had blown in airy ruffles across the smooth lying haven of her spirit land. Some consciousness of human presence-strange element of the divine, which, like a sudden light on sleeping eyes can pa.s.s the gates of slumber without unbarring them-was calling the mind back to its vacated chambers. Wilfred remained kneeling, thrilled with the strange exaltation of triumph and humility. His presence was operating upon her, like the magnet upon steel. In a moment she would speak. She would call him by name.

His eyes, straining through the darkness, caught the outline of her face. One hand lay across the forehead, palm upward. It fell listlessly to her side. She turned her head gently toward him, and a low sound escaped her lips.

His ear had not been quick enough. He leaned close to her, alert for the moment when she would call his name.

"Ray," she murmured. "Oh, Ray, they said you would not come back."

As a hypnotist may convert his subject into human stone by the utterance of a single word, the heart of the Barnardo boy froze as that low sound struck his ear, and his tense face moulded itself in deep, sudden furrows. Not all the years of the future should quite efface those quick-cut channels of disillusionment.

He sat back on his heels, his hands limp by his sides. For a moment-one brief moment-an unworthy warfare raged in his nature. How completely she was in his power! But the thought had not crossed his mind when, by some strange instinct, he removed his hat from his dishevelled head, as one might do in a holy presence. For a long while he sat, staring at the blank wall before him; then quietly rose and stole toward the door.

"Who's that? Who's that?" she demanded in a frightened tone, sitting suddenly bolt upright. "Where am I? Speak, will you?"