The Man from Jericho Part 15

She arose and began gathering up her flowers. Glenning picked up a few which had fallen upon the ground, and gave them to her.

"Won't you come in?" she asked.

"Not this morning, thank you. Give Major Dudley my regards, and tell him I'll call soon. I must go see my pauper now; the poor fellow's pretty sick."

He pressed her hand quickly and firmly and strode rapidly away. She went slowly towards the house, her head bent over the armful of flowers. Her thoughts were new, many and tumultuous, but they were not bitter. At the portico steps she remembered that this was the day when the town paper was issued. Ordinarily she cared little for what was going on in the vicinity, but now something made her turn and call to the old negro--

"Uncle Peter, will you please go to town at once, and bring the mail?"

The old fellow retreated to put his hoe away, and Julia, casting a glance at a buggy now being driven briskly down the road, went in to her father.

The Major was decidedly unwell. He was up and dressed, and was sitting in his favourite chair by the window. But his posture was not his own.

Always erect hitherto, standing or sitting, this morning he slouched down in his chair, listlessly, and his shoulders had pulled forward. An expression almost of hopelessness was on his face, and Julia noticed, as she came quietly in, that there was no book in his hand. This fact, apparently trivial, worried her more than the dejected appearance her father presented. For she did not remember of ever seeing him alone before when he did not hold a book; if he was not reading it he was nursing it. The girl quickly and noiselessly arranged the flowers in sundry vases and bowls, then came and knelt by her father's side and took one of his pa.s.sive, unresponsive hands.

"Daddy, don't you feel a little better?" she pleaded.

He did not look at her. His eyes were directed on the floor, and he merely shook his head slowly in answer to her solicitous query.

"What is it, daddy dear? Do you hurt anywhere? Won't you go to bed, or lie down on the couch and let me sit by you?"

The tender words from his beloved child roused the Major. He lifted his head and mechanically adjusted his stock. Then he turned to her and placed his hand caressingly upon her brown hair.

"Ah, little Julia! Little Julia!"

That was all for several moments. He sat and looked at her for some time, and the love in his soul beatified his countenance.

"I'm not sick," he said, after a while. "That is, no doctor on earth could help me. It's just the letting go, sweet daughter. I'm old, you must remember, and I can't endure things nor fight as I once could. It has come in the last few days--I have seemed to crumble--to wither, and it has weighed me down horribly. I should have risen above it. I do not care about myself; my life is lived, but you, dear child--it is the thought of your future which fills me with alarm and well-nigh breaks my heart. I have no inheritance for you--I have nothing to leave you but poverty and danger. Don't you understand?"

His voice was gravely tender as he spoke to her thus, and it made her heart ache, and the burning tears come to her lids.

"Oh, daddy!" she cried; "you must be mistaken! You will--you _must_ stay with me many years yet, for I could not get along without you. Tell me you will try--you know the mind has so much to do with the body. Brace up, daddy, for your Julia! You say you have no sickness; then try and let your spirit be bright--for me! Won't you?"

She arose, glided into his lap, curled one arm around his neck and kissed him on the forehead.

"For such a daughter one should try very hard for life," he replied, and the twinkle she had not seen for several days shone in his eyes. "I'm stricken, la.s.sie, but I'll promise you this: I'll make the best fight of my life now, in its last days, and that shall be to stay with my precious little girl as long as I can. Does that satisfy you, young miss?"

The Major's last words were almost gay, and Julia's heart bounded with joy as she heard him speak in his old, brave way. It must be her constant duty to buoy him up and cheer him on. She smiled into his eyes happily, and asked him what book she should bring him. He mentioned a certain volume relating to archaeological research, which she at once procured, and seeing Peter coming up the drive she gave her father another caress and went out, almost tripping, for so quickly do we respond to conditions of joy or sadness. Peter bore nothing but the town paper, which he delivered with an obsequious bow, and immediately sought his hoe again. The lawn, next to The Prince, was his greatest pride, and some weeds were beginning to come up.

Julia sank down upon the portico step, and opened the still damp pages of the _Herald_. She tried to make herself believe that she was merely conning the column bearing on local happenings and people of the town, but surely such disinterested employment as that would not bring the blood to her checks, nor an added sparkle to her eyes. Directly she found that which she declared to herself she was not looking for, and which she read merely because she happened to see it. The item was in regard to the small-pox, and the attending physician. The _Herald_ had some very nice things to say of the new doctor; in fact, he and his actions took up a goodly portion of so much of the _Herald_ as was printed at home, because the fire had to be told of, with all things relating thereto. Truth to tell, Julia had never fully nor properly appreciated her town paper until this morning, when she found it br.i.m.m.i.n.g full of the most interesting news in the world. It seemed that John Glenning's name appeared in nearly every paragraph. There was also a notice of his encounter with Devil Marston, and this was most adroitly written, the editor evidently not wishing to offend the rich bank president, and at the same time endeavouring to keep the friendship of Uncle Billy Hoonover, who had a large county connection, all of whom subscribed for the _Herald_, and paid for it promptly. The editor opined, in conclusion, that it "was an unfortunate incident, and everyone hoped and believed it was now amicably settled."

But it was a news item on the other inside page which made the colour die out of the girl's face as the clouds grow gray in the west after the sun is gone. It was a news item only, printed without comment, but a cold hand was laid upon Julia's heart as she read on and on, down to the last bitter word, then sat crushed and shivering in the warm June sunshine. The item told of the pa.s.sing of the bank dividend, giving in explanation the reasons which Marston had declared to the directors of the inst.i.tution. She could scarcely believe it. It was their maintenance--their sole support. Without it was abject poverty, starvation. They could not live another month, to say nothing of six months, shorn of this income. Slowly her numbed mind came back to its normal state, and she tried to think it out. Why had it been done? Did the item say? Who had done it? Were there any names given? In a dazed way she lifted the paper which she had allowed to fall to the ground, and read the paragraph again. No names were given. "The directors deemed it necessary" because of the reasons which followed. She could not doubt its truth. She sat gazing in front of her, stunned, hopeless. Fate was surely unkind. Neither she nor her father merited treatment like this.

Her spirit grew rebellious, almost wicked. After a time Aunt Frances came to receive orders for dinner. "Anything you can find" was Julia's reply, and she continued to gaze straight in front of her, A buggy pa.s.sed, and its occupant lifted his hat, but she made no sign. She did not see the buggy, nor Glenning. He wondered that she did not return his salutation. Then he saw a newspaper crushed in her hand, and his active mind guessed the truth. He drove on with his heart seething at the injustice of it all, and his inability to help.

The moments pa.s.sed, and still Julia sat like a woman of stone, a look on her fresh young face which was piteous in its tragic helplessness.

"Daddy must not know! Daddy must not know!" This one sentence coursed through her mind with each throb of her pulse, and its constant reiteration almost maddened her, for how could she hold the truth from him? She saw nothing, not even the figure which presently laboured up the drive, wiping the streaming perspiration from its face as it came.

Not till Dillard stopped in front of her, waiting to be recognized, did she lift her eyes to him, dully. But she said nothing. She felt as one who had suddenly come to the end of life, unexpectedly, in the heyday of his youth and happiness.

"Good morning, Miss Julia," said Dillard, "may I sit down? I can't stay but a moment."

She brushed her skirts aside, and the young man took the seat made vacant by her movement. He was breathing hard, and had evidently come in a hurry. He, too, noted the paper, and he saw where it was opened.

"It's a bloomin' shame, Miss Julia!" he blurted out, twirling his straw hat nervously between his hands. "You've read it, I know, and I've rushed out here at my dinner hour to tell you that it's the meanest trick I ever knew anybody to do, and--"

"Who did it?"

Her voice sounded hollow and old.

"Who did it?" he repeated. "Devil Marston did it! He did it just to spite you and the Major. We made the dividend, and two hundred and fifty dollars of it belongs to you, but Marston's word is law in that bank.

Oh, it's a shame! I've come out here to let you know. I can't do anything. n.o.body can do anything, but I wanted you to know that it wasn't the bank that played you false. It was Marston, and he did it to ruin you and your father! I know I'm talkin' plain to you, and I beg your pardon if I'm too outspoken, but I've known you a long time, Miss Julia, and we've been friends, in a way. I'd give my right hand to set matters right at the bank, but I can't move an inch. Does the Major know?"

"Father is not well, and this news must be kept from him," she answered.

"The paper--I will destroy it myself, now." She began to tear it into strips, methodically. "It's good of you to come, Tom, so good of you, and I'm grateful. I'm glad to know who was back of this crime--for it amounts to that as far as we are concerned. It has a bit gotten the best of me."

She stopped her occupation of shredding the _Herald_, and gazed pensively at the ground in front of her. Dillard's round, baby-blue eyes dwelt upon her in a protectingly hungry way. His pudgy face showed his keen distress, and his fat hands toyed unceasingly with his hat. It was plain there was something else he wanted to say, but he could not find the words in which to express himself. Then, too, the time was not propitious. If he had loved Julia Dudley silently and in a worshiping way for six years, he surely could love her that same way a few days longer, when he would come to her with the offer of his honest heart, and plead with her to come with him away from all the troubles which beset her. So he got to his feet rather awkwardly, dropping his hat as he did so, and remarked--

"It's hot as blazes today, Miss Julia. If I can do _anything_ for you or the Major, call on me."

"Thank you, Tom. But I'm sorry to have been the cause of you coming out here in the sun at noonday."

"That doesn't matter a fig. I felt that you would want to know, and I wanted to be the one to tell you. Good-bye; I must be back by one."

He held a red, moist hand towards her. She smiled at him and took it with a few added words of appreciation, then Dillard was departing down the avenue with such dignity as his avoirdupois would allow, for he felt that the eyes of the girl were following his retreating form. Such was not the case, however. Julia arose the instant her caller's back was turned, gathered the streaming bits of paper into a tight wad in her two hands, and going to the kitchen, flung them in the stove.

The rest, of the day was a waking nightmare to the poor girl. She had nowhere to turn; there was no one to whom she could go and ask for advice or help. She dared not broach the fearful subject to her father, for his despondency would be sure to return, and it might be she could not raise him from it again. The blow had fallen upon tender shoulders, unused to the bearing of loads, but she did not murmur after the first flame of resentment had pa.s.sed. She even brought herself to accept it as right, and all that afternoon Major Dudley saw no change in the smiling, sweet-voiced, bright-tempered being who flitted about him, attending to his wants or engaging him in light conversation.

After tea the old gentleman seemed markedly improved, and readily retired at a rather early hour upon his daughter's suggestion. Then, when she knew he was asleep, the desolate girl stole out upon the lawn, down to the spot where that morning she and Glenning had sat, and throwing herself upon the settee, she sobbed and cried for nearly an hour. It was awful--awful! and she was so helpless! Then bitter despair seized her and she prayed to die. She asked G.o.d to take her with her father and not leave her alone to fight these strange and awful battles with the world. When her grief and terror had spent themselves in tears she grew calmer, and still lying p.r.o.ne and motionless, strove to think of a way out. The problem was set for her. Could she solve it? She thought, and thought, and in time her thinking brought results. Marston had done this; then Marston alone could undo it. The money was theirs; he was stealing it from them. What then? Was there no law to protect the innocent? She did not know, but she presumed there wasn't, in this case.

There was but one way, and that was a horrible one. She must go to Devil Marston in person, and demand that which was her right. Insist that he revoke his cruel order to pa.s.s the dividend, and compel him, if she could, to have it declared yet. She sat up as she reached this conclusion, a strange thrill sweeping through her. It would be terrible to go to this man, this being whose nature was a composite of many dreadful and evil strains. But she would go--she knew it on the moment--and she would go quickly. Tomorrow morning, as soon as she could slip away from the Major, she would make the venture. It was the only chance to escape genteel starvation. There could be little doubt that he would be at home. He was seldom gone longer than a day at a time.

Doctor Glenning had told her that he went away that very morning. Would he return that night? She must know. She would sit up for the train from Jericho. It did not come until eleven, or thereabouts, but she was not sleepy, and she loved the calm, mysterious nights in summer. The time sped swiftly. Some of the thoughts which came to her chilled her very heart; some brought anxiety and worry, and some filled her virgin soul with strange, elusive whisperings; premonitory warnings of something wonderfully sweet. If she dwelt upon these most; if her mind's eye saw beside her at times in the starlight a long shape, lean of limb and lean of face, with eyes constantly filled with troubled shadows, but true and unfaltering--who would say her nay? For the approach of love is a beautiful mystery, fraught with emotions which frighten while they charm, which awe while they inspire, and there is no more sacred or precious time in a young girl's life than that when her soul quickens in response to the summons of love.

So preoccupied was she that Julia barely heard the shriek of the express from the north as it thundered into the station in Macon. But the sound of the whistle recalled her to herself--made her remember why she was sitting there. It was hard to give up dreams for reality. But she faced the road and pressed her lips together, and waited. She heard the train pull out and resume its journey southward; its rumble became fainter and fainter and was lost in the distance. Then she fell to listening for another sound which she dreaded, yet hoped to hear. She wanted him to return that night. She wanted the fearful task over and done while her courage was high. She was perfectly aware that nothing short of desperation could have driven her to this determination. She felt it of the utmost importance that he should return that night. But the minutes pa.s.sed, and he did not come. A vehicle went by, and later a horse at a canter. Neither of these was Devil Marston. She did not need the aid of light to tell her when he rode by. The air began to grow a little chilly. She had come out without wrap of any kind, and all at once she realized her imprudence. She arose with a slight shiver, and stood for a moment with head inclined attentively. What was it? Hoofs? She held her breath and waited. An indistinguishable sound was on the air. It was lost; it came again faintly. Then suddenly it burst upon her ears unmistakably--the noise of a horse running at breakneck speed. She shuddered involuntarily, but tarried yet a moment longer to be sure.

Then he pa.s.sed in his whirlwind way--she heard again that sound in the night which never failed to bring terror to her heart--and then she went in and locked the door and went up to her room. She had grown calm. She was surprised at her own coolness, and the deliberateness with which she went about her preparations to retire. Even when she opened her bureau drawer and took therefrom a pearl-handled, thirty-two caliber revolver, she was not stirred. Her father had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday, and had taught her how to use it. She could shoot straight.

She even smiled as she laid it down in front of the mirror, after breaking it to see that its chambers were full. Her adventure in the morning would be fraught with danger, and the revolver which she knew so well how to handle should go with her when she made her call on Devil Marston.

CHAPTER X

That night John Glenning sat alone in his office with a letter spread out on the table before him. Something had come to pa.s.s which he could not understand; which had plunged him in a maze of incredulity in spite of visual evidence. The letter had come that afternoon--had been forwarded to him from Jericho--and he had taken it from the post-office upon his return from his second visit to d.i.n.k Scribbens. The letter was dated and post-marked New York City, and read as follows:

"JOHN GLENNING, ESQ.,

"Jericho, Ky.

"Dear Sir--The death of our client, and your uncle, John Glenning, on the 14th inst., reveals the fact that one of his life insurance polices was executed with you as beneficiary.

Proofs of his death having been properly forwarded to the company by us, we are this day in receipt of a draft for $2000, payable to your order. Find said draft enclosed. Please acknowledge receipt.

"Yours truly,