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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3265-0.txt b/3265-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..908c3f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/3265-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8011 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Re-Creation of Brian Kent, by Harold Bell Wright + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Re-Creation of Brian Kent + +Author: Harold Bell Wright + +Release Date: June 3, 2006 [EBook #3265] +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson + + + + + +THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT + + +By Harold Bell Wright + + + +DEAR AUNTIE SUE: + +I have wondered many times, while writing this simple story of life and +love, if you would ever forgive me for putting you in a book. I hope you +will, because if you do not, I shall be heartbroken, and you wouldn't +want me that way, would you, Auntie Sue? + +I fancy I can hear you say: “But, Harold, how COULD you! You know I +never did the things you have made me do in your story. You know I never +lived in a little log house by the river in the Ozark Mountains! What in +the world will people think!” + +Well, to tell the truth, dear, I don't care so very much what people +think if only they will love you; and that they are sure to do, +because,--well, just because--You must remember, too, that you will +be eighty-seven years old the eighteenth of next November, and it is +therefore quite time that someone put you in a book. + +And, after all, Auntie Sue, are you very sure that you have never lived +in a little log house by the river,--are you very sure, Auntie Sue? + +Forgive my impertinence, as you have always forgiven me everything; +and love me just the same, because I have written only in love of the +dearest Auntie Sue in the world! + +Signature [Harold] + +The Glenwood Mission Inn, Riverside, California, April 30, 1919. + + + + “And see the rivers, how they run + Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, + Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,-- + Wave succeeding wave, they go + A various journey to the deep + Like human life to endless sleep!” + + John Dyer--“Grongar Hill.” + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + +I. A REMARKABLE WOMAN + +II. THE MAN IN THE DARK + +III. A MISSING LETTER + +IV. THE WILL OF THE RIVER + +V. AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN + +VI. IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER + +VII. OFFICERS OF THE LAW + +VIII. THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW + +IX. AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION + +X. BRIAN KENT DECIDES + +XI. RE-CREATION + +XII. AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE + +XIII. JUDY TO THE RESCUE + +XIV. BETTY JO CONSIDERS + +XV. A MATTER OF BUSINESS + +XVI. THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE + +XVII. AN AWKWARD SITUATION + +XVIII. BETTY JO FACES HERSELF + +XIX. JUDY'S CONFESSION + +XX. BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE + +XXI. THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW + +XXII. AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK + +XXIII. IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS + +XXIV. JUDY'S RETURN + +XXV. THE RIVER + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + +BETTY JO + +“LOOK, JUDY! LOOK!” + +AUNTIE SUE SAID, SOFTLY, “SHE DID NOT UNDERSTAND, BRIAN.” + +...SHE MADE THE LITTLE BOOK OF PAINFUL MEMORIES A BOOK OF JOYOUS +PROMISE. + + + + +THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A REMARKABLE WOMAN. + + +I remember as well as though it were yesterday the first time I met +Auntie Sue. + +It happened during my first roaming visit to the Ozarks, when I had +wandered by chance, one day, into the Elbow Rock neighborhood. Twenty +years it was, at least, before the time of this story. She was standing +in the door of her little schoolhouse, the ruins of which you may still +see, halfway up the long hill from the log house by the river, where the +most of this story was lived. + +It was that season of the year when the gold and brown of our Ozark +Hills is overlaid with a filmy veil of delicate blue haze and the world +is hushed with the solemn sweetness of the passing of the summer. And as +the old gentlewoman stood there in the open door of that rustic temple +of learning, with the deep-shadowed, wooded hillside in the background, +and, in front, the rude clearing with its crooked rail fence along which +the scarlet sumac flamed, I thought,--as I still think, after all these +years,--that I had never before seen such a woman. + +Fifty years had gone into the making of that sterling character which +was builded upon a foundation of many generations of noble ancestors. +Without home or children of her own, the life strength of her splendid +womanhood had been given to the teaching of boys and girls. An old-maid +schoolteacher? Yes,--if you will. But, as I saw her standing there that +day,--tall and slender, dressed in a simple gown that was fitting to her +work,--there was a queenly dignity, a stately sweetness, in her bearing +that made me feel, somehow, as if I had come unexpectedly into the +presence of royalty. Not the royalty of caste and court and station with +their glittering pretenses of superiority and their superficial claims +to distinction,--I do not mean that; I mean that true royalty which +needs no caste or court or station but makes itself felt because it IS. + +She did not notice me at first, for the noise of the children at play in +the yard covered the sound of my approach, and she was looking far, far +away, over the river which lay below at the foot of the hill; over the +forest-clad mountains in the glory of their brown and gold; over the +vast sweep of the tree-crowned Ozark ridges that receded wave after wave +into the blue haze until, in the vastness of the distant sky, they were +lost. And something made me know that, in the moment's respite from her +task, the woman was looking even beyond the sky itself. + +Her profile, clean-chiselled, but daintily formed, was beautiful in its +gentle strength. Her hair was soft and silvery like the gray mist of the +river in the morning. Then she turned to greet me, and I saw her eyes. +Boy that I was then, and not given overmuch to serious thought, I knew +that the high, unwavering purpose, the loving sympathy, and tender +understanding that shone in the calm depth of those eyes could belong +only to one who habitually looks unafraid beyond all earthly scenes. +Only those who have learned thus to look beyond the material horizon of +our little day have that beautiful inner light which shone in the eyes +of Auntie Sue--the teacher of a backwoods school. + +Auntie Sue had come to the Elbow Rock neighborhood the summer preceding +that fall when I first met her. She had grown too old, she said, with +her delightful little laugh, to be of much use in the larger schools of +the more thickly populated sections of the country. But she was still +far too young, she stoutly maintained, to be altogether useless. + +Tom Warden, who lived just over the ridge from the schoolhouse, and +who was blessed with the largest wife, the largest family, and the most +pretentious farm in the county, had kinsfolk somewhere in Illinois. +Through these relatives of the Ozark farmer Miss Susan Wakefield had +learned of the needs of the Elbow Rock school, and so, finally, had +come into the hills. It was the influential Tom who secured for her the +modest position. It was the motherly Mrs. Tom who made her at home in +the Warden household. It was the Warden boys and girls who first called +her “Auntie Sue.” But it was Auntie Sue herself who won so large a place +in the hearts of the simple mountain folk of the district that she +held her position year after year, until she finally gave up teaching +altogether. + +Not one of her Ozark friends ever came to know in detail the history of +this remarkable woman's life. It was known in a general way that she +was born in Connecticut; that she had a brother somewhere in some +South-American country; that two other brothers had been killed in the +Civil War; that she had taught in the lower and intermediate grades of +public schools in various places all the years of her womanhood. Also, +it was known that she had never married. + +“And that,” said Uncle Lige Potter, voicing the unanimous opinion, +of the countryside, “is a doggone funny thing and plumb unnatural, +considerin' the kind of woman she is.” + +To which Lem Jordan,--who was then living with his fourth wife, and +might therefore be held to speak with a degree of authority,--added: +“Hit sure is a dad burned shame, an' a plumb disgrace to the men of this +here country, when you come to look at the sort of wimmen most of 'em +are a marryin' most of the time.” + +Another matter of universal and never-failing interest to the mountain +folk was the unprecedented number of letters that Auntie Sue received +and wrote. That some of these letters written by their backwoods teacher +were addressed to men and women of such prominence in the world that +their names were known even to that remote Ozark district was a source +of no little pride to Auntie Sue's immediate neighbors, and served to +mark her in their eyes with no small distinction. + +It was during the fourth year of her life amid the scenes of this +story,--as I recall time,--that Auntie Sue invested the small savings +of her working years in the little log house by the river and the eighty +acres of land known as the “Old Bill Wilson place.” + +The house was a substantial building of three rooms, a lean-to kitchen, +and a porch overlooking the river. The log barn, with “Prince,” a gentle +old horse, and “Bess,” a mild-mannered, brindle cow, completed the +modest establishment. About thirty acres of the land were cleared and +under cultivation of a sort. The remaining acreage was in timber. +The price, under the kindly and expert supervision of Tom Warden, was +fifteen dollars an acre. But Auntie Sue always laughingly insisted that +she really paid fifty cents an acre for the land and fourteen dollars +and a half an acre for the sunsets. + +The tillable land, except for the garden, she “let out on shares,” + always under the friendly guardianship of neighbor Tom; while Tom's boys +cared for the little garden in season, and saw to it that the woodpile +was always ample and ready for the stove. And, in addition to these +fixed and regular homely services, there were many offerings of helpful +hands whenever other needs arose; for, as time passed, there came to be +in all the Elbow Rock district scarce a man, young or old, who did not +now and then honor himself by doing some little job for Auntie Sue; +while the women and girls, in the same neighborly spirit, brought from +their own humble households many tokens of their loving thoughtfulness. +And never did one visit that little log house by the river without +the consciousness of something received from the silvery-haired old +teacher--a something intangible, perhaps, which they could not have +expressed in words, but which, nevertheless, enriched the lives of +those simple mountain people with a very real joy and a very tangible +happiness. + +For six years, Auntie Sue continued teaching the Elbow Rock +school;--climbing the hill in the morning from her log house by the +river to the cabin schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side +above; returning in the late afternoon, when her day's work was over, +down the winding road to her little home, there to watch, from the porch +that overlooked the river, the sunset in the evening. And every year the +daily climb grew a little harder; the days of work grew a little longer; +she went down the hill in the afternoon a little slower. And every year +the sunsets were to her eyes more beautiful; the evening skies to her +understanding glowed with richer meaning; the twilight hours filled her +heart with a deeper peace. + +And so, at last, her teaching days were over; that is, she taught no +more in the log schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side. But +in her little home beside the river she continued her work; not from +text-books, indeed, but as all such souls must continue to teach, until +the sun sets for the last time upon their mortal days. + +Work-worn, toil-hardened mountaineer mothers, whose narrow world denied +them so many of the finer thoughts and things, came to counsel with +this childless woman, and to learn from her a little of the art of +contentment and happiness. Strong men, of rude dress and speech, whose +lives were as rough as the hills in which they were reared, and whose +thoughts were often as crude as their half-savage and sometimes lawless +customs, came to sit at the feet of this gentle one, who received them +all with such kindly interest and instinctive understanding. And young +men and girls came, drawn by the magic that was hers, to confide in +this woman who listened with such rare tact and loving sympathy to their +troubles and their dreams, and who, in the deepest things of their young +lives, was mother to them all. + +Nor were the mountain folk her only disciples. Always there were the +letters she continued to write, addressed to almost every corner of +the land. And every year there would come, for a week or a month, at +different times during the summer, men and women from the great world of +larger affairs who had need of the strength and courage and patience and +hope they never failed to find in that little log house by the river. +And so, in time, it came to be known that those letters written by +Auntie Sue went to men and women who, in their childhood school days, +had received from her their first lessons in writing; and that her +visitors, many of them distinguished in the world of railroads and +cities, were of that large circle of busy souls who had never ceased to +be her pupils. + +Thus it came that the garden was made a little larger, and two rooms +were added to the house, with other modest improvements, to accommodate +Auntie Sue's grown-up boys and girls when they came to visit her. But +never was there a hired servant, so that her guests must do their own +household tasks, because, Auntie Sue said, that was good for them and +mostly what they needed. + +It should also be said here that among her many pupils who lived beyond +the sky-line of the far, blue hills, not one knew more of the +real secret of Auntie Sue's life and character than did the Ozark +mountaineers of the Elbow Rock district, among whom she had chosen to +pass the evening of her day. + +Then came one who learned the secret. He learned--but that is my story. +I must not tell the secret here. + + + +CHAPTER II. + +THE MAN IN THE DARK. + + +A man stood at a window, looking out into the night. There was no light +in the room. The stars were hidden behind a thick curtain of sullen +clouds. + +The house was a wretchedly constructed, long-neglected building of +a type common to those old river towns that in their many years of +uselessness have lost all civic pride, and in their own resultant +squalor and filth have buried their self-respect. A dingy, scarcely +legible sign over the treacherous board walk, in front, by the sickly +light of a smoke-grimed kerosene lantern, announced that the place was a +hotel. + +Dark as it was, the man at the window could see the river. The trees +that lined the bank opposite the town were mere ghostly shadows against +the gloomy masses of the low hills that rose from the water's edge, +indistinct, mysterious, and unreal, into the threatening sky. The higher +mountains that reared their crests beyond the hills were invisible. The +stream itself swept sullenly through the night,--a resistless flood of +dismal power, as if, turbid with wrecked souls, with the lost hopes and +ruined dreams of men, it was fit only to bear vessels freighted with +sorrow, misfortune, and despair. + +The manner of the man at the window was as if some woeful spirit of the +melancholy scene were calling him. With head bowed, and face turned a +little to one side, he listened intently as one listens to voices that +are muffled and indistinct. He pressed his face close to the glass, and +with straining eyes tried to see more clearly the ghostly trees, the +sombre hills, and the gloomy river. Three times he turned from the +window to pace to and fro in the darkened room, and every time his steps +brought him again to the casement, as if in obedience to some insistent +voice that summoned him. The fourth time, he turned from the window more +quickly, with a gesture of assenting decision. + +The crackling snap of a match broke the dead stillness. The sudden flare +of light stabbed the darkness. As he applied the tiny, wavering flame +to the wick of a lamp that stood on the cheap, old-fashioned bureau, the +man's hand shook until the chimney rattled against the wire standards of +the burner. Turning quickly from the lighted lamp, the man sprang again +to the window to jerk down the tattered, old shade. Facing about, he +stood with his back to the wall, searching the room with wide, fearful +eyes. His fists were clenched. His chest rose and fell heavily with his +labored breathing. His face worked with emotion. With trembling limbs +and twitching muscles, he crouched like some desperate creature at bay. + +But, save for the wretched man himself, there was in that shabby, +dingy-papered, dirty-carpeted, poorly furnished apartment no living +thing. + +Suddenly, the man laughed;--and it was the reckless, despairing laughter +of a soul that feels itself slipping over the brink of an abyss. + +With hurried step and outstretched hands, he crossed the room to snatch +a bottle of whisky from its place beside the lamp on the bureau. With +trembling eagerness, he poured a water tumbler half-full of the red +liquor. As one dying of thirst, he drank. Drawing a deep breath, and +shaking his head with a wry smile, he spoke in hoarse confidence to the +image of himself in the dingy mirror: “They nearly had me, that time.” + Again, he poured, and drank. + +The whisky steadied him for the moment, and with bottle and glass still +in hand, he regarded himself in the mirror with critical interest. + +Had he stood erect, with the vigor that should have been his by right of +his years, the man would have measured just short of six feet; but his +shoulders--naturally well set--sagged with the weariness of excessive +physical indulgence; while the sunken chest, the emaciated limbs, and +the dejected posture of his misused body made him in appearance, at +least, a wretched weakling. His clothing--of good material and well +tailored--was disgustingly soiled and neglected;--the shoes thickly +coated with dried mud, and the once-white shirt, slovenly unfastened at +the throat, without collar or tie. The face which looked back from the +mirror to the man was, without question, the countenance of a gentleman; +but the broad forehead under the unkempt red-brown hair was furrowed +with anxiety; the unshaven cheeks were lined and sunken; the finely +shaped, sensitive mouth drooped with nervous weakness; and the blue, +well-placed eyes were bloodshot and glittering with the light of +near-insanity. + +The poor creature looked at the hideous image of his ruined self as +if fascinated with the horror of that which had been somehow wrought. +Slowly, as one in a trance, he went closer, and, without moving his gaze +from the mirror, placed the bottle and tumbler upon the bureau. As if +compelled by those burning eyes that stared so fixedly at him, he leaned +forward still closer to the glass. Then, as he looked, the distorted +features twitched and worked grotesquely with uncontrollable emotions, +while the quivering lips formed words that were not even whispered. With +trembling fingers he felt the unshaven cheeks and touched the unkempt +hair questioningly. Suddenly, as if to shut out the horror of that which +he saw in the mirror, the man hid his face in his hands, and with a +sobbing, inarticulate cry sank to the floor. + +Silently, with pitiless force, the river swept onward through the night, +following its ordained way to the mighty sea. + +As if summoned again by some dark spirit that brooded over the sombre, +rushing flood, the man rose heavily to his feet. His face turned once +more toward the window. A moment he stood there, listening, listening; +then wheeling back to the whisky bottle and the glass on the bureau, he +quickly poured, and drank again. + +Nodding his head in the manner of one reaching a conclusion, he looked +slowly about the room, while a frightful grin of hopeless, despairing +triumph twisted his features, and his lips moved as if he breathed +reckless defiance to an invisible ghostly company. + +Moving, now, with a decision and purpose that suggested a native +strength of character, the man quickly packed a suit-case with various +articles of clothing from the bureau drawers and the closet. He was in +the act of closing the suit-case when he stopped suddenly, and, with +a shrug of his shoulders, turned away. Then, as if struck by another +thought, he stooped again over his baggage, and drew forth a fresh, +untouched bottle of whisky. + +“I guess you are the only baggage I'll need where I am going,” he said, +whimsically; and, leaving the open suit-case where it lay, he crossed +the room, and extinguished the light. Cautiously, he unlocked and opened +the door. For a moment, he stood listening. Then, with the bottle hidden +under his coat, he stole softly from the room. + +A few minutes later, the man stood out there in the night, on the bank +of the river. Behind him the outlines of the scattered houses that made +the little town were lost against the dusk of the hillside. From the +ghostly tree-shadows that marked the opposite bank, the solemn hills +rose out of the deeper darkness of the lowlands that edged the stream +in sombre mystery. There was no break in the heavy clouds to permit the +gleam of a friendly star. There was no sound save the soft swish of the +water against the bank where he stood, the chirping of a bird in the +near-by willows, and the occasional splash of a leaping fish or water +animal. But to the man there was a feeling of sound. To the lonely human +wreck standing there in the darkness, the river called--called with +fearful, insistent power. + +From under the black wall of the night the dreadful flood swept out of +the Somewhere of its beginning. Past the man the river poured its mighty +strength with resistless, smoothly flowing, terrible force. Into the +darkness it swept on its awful way to the Nowhere of its ending. For +uncounted ages, the river had poured itself thus between those walls of +hills. For untold ages to come, until the end of time itself, the stream +would continue to pour its strength past that spot where the man stood. + +Out of the night, the voice of the river had called to the man, as he +stood at the window of his darkened room. And the man had come, now, to +answer the call. Cautiously, he went down the bank toward the edge of +the dark, swirling water. His purpose was unmistakable. Nor was there +any hint of faltering, now, in his manner. He had reached his decision. +He knew what he had come to do. + +The man's feet were feeling the mud at the margin of the stream when his +legs touched something, and a low, rattling sound startled him. Then +he remembered. A skiff was moored there, and he had brushed against the +chain that led from the bow of the boat to the stump of a willow higher +up on the bank. The man had seen the skiff,--a rude, flat-bottomed +little craft, known to the Ozark natives as a John-boat,--just before +sunset that evening. But there had been no boat in his thoughts when he +had come to answer the call of the river, and in the preoccupation of +his mind, as he stood there in the night beside the stream, he had not +noticed it, as it lay so nearly invisible in the darkness. Mechanically, +he stooped to feel the chain with his free hand. A moment later, he had +placed his bottle of whisky carefully in the boat, and was loosing the +chain painter from the willow stump. + +“Why not?” he said to himself. “It will be easier in midstream,--and +more certain.” + +Carefully, so that no sound should break the stillness, he stowed the +chain in the bow, and then worked the skiff around until it pointed out +into the stream. Then, with his hands grasping the sides of the little +craft, and the weight of his body on one knee in the stern, he pushed +vigorously with his free foot against the bank and so was carried well +out from the shore. As the boat lost its momentum, the strong current +caught it and whirled it away down the river. + +Groping in the darkness, the man found his bottle of whisky, and working +the cork out with his pocketknife, drank long and deep. + +Already, save for a single light, the town was lost in the night. As +the man watched that red spot on the black wall, the stream swung +his drifting boat around a bend, and the light vanished. The dreadful +mystery of the river drew close. The world of men was far, very far +away. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in the mirror, and had +obeyed the voice that summoned him into the darkness. In fancy, now, he +saw his empty boat swept on and on. Through what varied scenes would it +drift? To what port would the mysterious will of the river carry it? To +what end would it at last come in its helplessness? + +And the man himself,--the human soul-craft,--what of him? As he had +pushed his material boat out into the stream to drift, unguided and +helpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the shore of +all that men call life. Through what scenes would he drift? To what port +would the will of an awful invisible stream carry him? To what end would +he finally come, in his helplessness? + +Again the man drank--and again. + +And then, with face upturned to the leaden clouds, he laughed +aloud--laughed until the ghostly shores gave back his laughter, and the +voices of the night were hushed and still. + +The laughter ended with a wild, reckless, defiant yell. + +Springing to his feet in the drifting boat, the man shook his clenched +fist at the darkness, and with insane fury cursed the life he had left +behind. + +The current whirled the boat around, and the man faced down the stream. +He laughed again; and, lifting his bottle high, uttered a reckless, +profane toast to the unknown toward which he was being carried by the +river in the night. + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A MISSING LETTER. + + +Auntie Sue's little log house by the river was placed some five +hundred yards back from the stream, on a bench of land at the foot +of Schoolhouse Hill. From this bench, the ground slopes gently to the +river-bank, which, at this point, is sheer and high enough to be well +above the water at flood periods. The road, winding down the hill, +turns to the right at the foot of the steep grade, and leads away up the +river; and between the road and the river, on the up-stream side of the +house, was the garden. + +At the lower corner of the garden, farthest from the house, the strong +current had cut a deep inward curve in the high shore-line, forming thus +an eddy, which was margined on one side, at a normal stage of water, by +a narrow shelf of land between the water's edge and the foot of the +main bank. A flight of rude steps led down from the garden above to this +natural landing, which, for three miles up and down the river, was +the only point, on Auntie Sue's side of the stream, where one could go +ashore from a skiff. + +From the porch of the house, one, facing up the river, looked over the +gently sloping garden, over the eddy lying under the high bank, and away +over a beautiful reach of water known as The Bend,--a wide, sweeping +curve which, a mile distant, is lost behind a wooded bluff where, at +times, during the vacation or hunting season, one might see the smoke +from the stone chimney of a clubhouse which was built and used by people +who lived in the big, noisy city many miles from the peaceful Ozark +scene. From the shore of The Bend, opposite and above Auntie Sue's +place, beyond the willows that fringe the water's edge, the low +bottom-lands extend back three-quarters of a mile to the foot of a +heavily timbered ridge, beyond which rise the higher hills. But directly +across from Auntie Sue's house, this ridge curves sharply toward the +stream; while less than a quarter of a mile below, a mighty mountain-arm +is thrust out from a shoulder of Schoolhouse Hill, as if to bar +the river's way. The high bluff thus formed is known to the natives +throughout all that region as Elbow Rock. + +The quiet waters of The Bend move so gently on their broad course that +from the porch, looking up the stream, the eye could scarcely mark the +current. But in front of the little log house, where the restraining +banks of the river draw closer together, the lazy current awakens to +quickening movement. Looking down the stream, one could see the waters +leaving the broad and quiet reaches of The Bend above and rushing away +with fast increasing speed between the narrowing banks until, in all +their vicious might, they dashed full against the Elbow Rock cliff, +where, boiling and tossing in mad fury, they roared away at a right +angle and so around the point and on to another quiet stretch below. And +many were the tales of stirring adventure and tragic accident at this +dangerous point of the river's journey to the far-away sea. Skilled +rivermen, by holding their John-boats and canoes close to the far +shore, might run the rapids with safety. But no boat, once caught in the +vicious grip of the main current between the comparatively still waters +of The Bend and that wild, roaring tumult at Elbow Rock, had ever +survived. + +It was nearing the close of a late summer day, and Auntie Sue, as was +her custom, stood on the porch watching the sunset. In the vast field of +sky that arched above the softly rounded hills there was not a cloud. +No wind stirred the leaves of the far-reaching forests, or marred +the bright waters of the quiet Bend that mirrored back the green, +tree-fringed banks and blue-shadowed mountains. Faintly, through the +hush, from beyond the bottom-lands on the other side of the stream, came +the long-drawn “Wh-o-e-e! Wh-o-e-e!” of farmer Jackson calling his hogs. +From the hillside, back of the house, sounded the deep, mellow tones of +a cowbell, telling Auntie Sue that neighbor Tom's cattle were going home +from their woodland pastures. A company of crows crossed the river on +leisure wing, toward some evening rendezvous. A waterfowl flapped slowly +up the stream. And here and there the swallows wheeled in graceful +circles above the gleaming Bend, or dipped, flashlike, to break the +silvery surface. As the blue of the mountains deepened to purple, and +the rosy light from below the western hills flushed the sky, the silver +sheen of the quiet water changed with the changing tints above, and the +shadows of the trees along the bank deepened until the shore-line was +lost in the dusk of the coming night. + +And even as the river gave back the light of the sky and the color of +the mountains, so the gentle face of the gray-haired woman, who watched +with such loving reverence, reflected the beauty of the scene. The peace +and quiet of the evening of her life was as the still loveliness of that +twilight hour. + +And, yet, there was a suggestion of pathos in the loneliness of the +slender figure standing there. Now and again, she clasped her delicate +hands to her breast as if moved by emotions of a too-poignant sweetness, +while in her eyes shone the soft light of fondest memories and dearest +dreams. Several times she turned her head to look about, as if wishing +for some one to share with her the beauty that moved her so. At last, +she called; and her voice, low and pure-toned, had in it the quality +that was in the light of her eyes. + +“Judy! Judy, dear! Do come and see this wonderful, wonderful sky!” + +From within the house, a shrill, querulous, drawling voice, so +characteristic of the Southern “poor-white” mountaineer, answered: +“Wha-a-t?” + +A quick little smile deepened the crows'-feet at the corners of Auntie +Sue's eyes, as she called again with gentle patience: “Do come and see +the sunset, Judy, dear! It is so beautiful!” And, this time, in answer, +Judy appeared in the doorway. + +From appearances, the poor creature's age might have been anywhere from +fifteen to thirty-five; for the twisted and misshapen body, angular and +hard; the scrawny, wry neck; the old-young face, thin and sallow, with +furtive, beady-black eyes, gave no hint of her years. As a matter of +fact, I happened to know that Judith Taylor, daughter of the notorious +Ozark moonshiner, Jap Taylor, was just past twenty the year she went to +live with Auntie Sue. + +Looking obliquely at the old gentlewoman, with a curious expression of +mingled defiance, suspicion, and affection on her almost vicious face, +Judy drawled, “Was you-all a-yellin' for me?” + +“Yes, Judy; I want you to help me watch the sunset,” Auntie Sue +answered, with bright animation; and, turning, she pointed toward the +glowing west,--“Look!” + +Judy's sly, evasive eyes did not cease to regard the illumined face of +her old companion as she returned, in her dry, high-pitched monotone: “I +don't reckon as how you-all are a-needin' much help, seein' as how you +are allus a-watchin' hit. A body'd think you-all was mighty nigh old +'nough, by now, ter look at hit alone.” + +Auntie Sue laughed, a low, musical, chuckling laugh, and, with a hint +of loving impatience in her gentle voice, replied to Judy's observation: +“But, don't you understand, child? It adds so to one's happiness +to share lovely scenes like this. It makes it all so much--so +much--well,--BIGGER, to have some one enjoy it with you. Come, dear!” + And she held out her hand with a gesture of entreaty, and a look +of yearning upon her dear old face that no human being could have +withstood. + +Judy, still slyly watchful, went cautiously nearer; and Auntie Sue, +putting an arm lovingly about the crooked shoulders of the mountain +girl, pointed again toward the west as she said, in a low voice that +vibrated with emotion, “Look, Judy! Look!” + +The black eyes shifted, and the old-young, expressionless face turned +toward the landscape, which lay before them in all its wondrous beauty +of glowing sky and tinted mountain and gleaming river. And there might +have been a faint touch of softness, now, in the querulous monotone +as Judy said: “I can't see as how hit could be ary bigger. Hain't ary +reason, as I kin see, why hit should be ary bigger if hit could. Lord +knows there's 'nough of hit as 't is; rough 'nough, too, as you-all 'd +sure know if you-all had ter trapse over them there hills all yer life +like I've had ter.” + +“But, isn't it wonderful to-night, Judy? It seems to me I have never +seen it so perfect.” + +“Hit's just like hit's allus been, so far as I kin see, 'ceptin' +that the river's higher in the spring an' more muddier,” returned +the mountain girl. “I was borned over there on yon side that there +flat-topped mountain, nigh the mouth of Red Creek. I growed up on the +river, mostly;--learned ter swim an' paddle er John-boat 'fore I kin +remember. Red Creek, hit heads over there behind that there long ridge, +in Injin Holler. There's a still--” + +She checked herself suddenly, and shot a fearful sidewise look at Auntie +Sue; then turned and pointed in the opposite direction with a pretense +of excited interest. “Look down there, ma'm! See how black the old river +is where she smashes inter Elbow Rock, an' how white them waves be where +the water biles an' throws hitself. Hit'd sure git you if you was ter +git ketched in there with er John-boat, wouldn't hit? Listen, ma'm! You +kin hear hit a-roarin' like hit was mad, can't you?” + +But the older woman turned to face, again, the quiet reaches of The +Bend. + +“I think I like The Bend best, though, Judy. See how perfectly those +trees and hills are mirrored in the river; and how the water holds +the color of the sky. Don't you think God is good to make the world so +beautiful for us, child?” + +“'Beautiful'!” cried poor, deformed Judy, in a voice that shrilled in +vicious protest. “If there is a God, like you-all are allus a-talkin' +'bout, an' if He sure 'nough made them things, like you-all sees 'em, He +sure hain't toted fair with me.” + +“Hush, Judy!” pleaded Auntie Sue. “Please don't, child!” + +But the mountain girl rebelliously continued: “Look at me! Just look at +me! If that there God of your'n is so all-fired good, what did He go an' +let my pap git drunk for, an' beat me like he done when I was a baby, +an' make me grow up all crooked like what I be? 'Good'? Hell! A dad +burned ornery kind of a God I call Him!” + +For some time, Auntie Sue did not speak, but stood with her face +upturned to the sky. Then the low, gentle voice again broke the silence: +“See, Judy, dear; the light is almost gone now, and there is not a cloud +anywhere. Yesterday evening, you remember, we could not see the sunset +at all, the clouds were so heavy and solid. The moon will be lovely +to-night. I think I shall wait for it.” + +“You-all best set down then,” said Judy, speaking again in her +querulous, drawling monotone. “I'll fetch a chair.” She brought a +comfortable rustic rocking-chair from the farther end of the porch; then +disappeared into the house, to return a moment later with a heavy shawl. +“Hit'll be a-turnin' cold directly, now the sun's plumb down,” she said, +“an' you-all mustn't get to chillin', nohow.” + +Auntie Sue thanked her with gentle courtesy, and, reaching up, caught +the girl's hand as Judy was awkwardly arranging the wrap about the thin +old shoulders. “Won't you bring a chair for yourself, and sit with +me awhile, dear?” As she spoke, Auntie Sue patted the hard, bony hand +caressingly. + +But Judy pulled her hand away roughly, saying: “You-all ain't got no +call ter do sich as that ter me. I'll set awhile with you but I ain't +a-needin' no chair.” And with that, she seated herself on the floor, her +back against the wall of the house. + +The last of the evening was gone from the sky, now. The soft darkness of +a clear, star-light night lay over the land. A gentle breeze stole over +the mountains, rustled softly through the forest, and, drifting across +the river, touched Auntie Sue's silvery hair. + +Judy was first to break the silence: “I took notice neighbor Tom brung +you-all a right smart bunch of letter mail this evenin',” she said, +curiously. + +There was a troubled note in Auntie Sue's gentle voice as she returned, +“The letter from the bank did not come, Judy.” + +“Hit didn't?” + +“No; and, Judy, it is nearly four weeks, now, since I sent them that +money. I can't understand it.” + +“I was plumb scared at the time, you oughten ter sent hit just in +er letter that a-way. Hit sure looked like a heap of money ter be +a-trustin' them there ornery post-office fellers with, even if hit was +funny, new-fangled money like that there was. Why, ma'm, you take old +Tod Stimson, down at the Ferry, now, an' that old devil'd steal anythin' +what warn't too much trouble for him ter lift.” + +“Argentine notes the money was, Judy. I felt sure that it would be all +right because, you know, Brother John sent it just in a letter all the +way from Buenos Aires. And, you remember, I folded it up in extra heavy +paper, and put it in two envelopes, one over the other, and mailed it at +Thompsonville with my own hands.” + +“Hit sure looks like hit ought ter be safe er nough, so long as hit +warn't mailed at the Ferry where old Stimson could git his hands on +hit,” agreed Judy. + +Then, after a silence of several minutes, she added, in a more +reassuring voice: “I reckon as how hit'll be all right, ma'm. I wouldn't +worry myself, if I was you. That there bank-place, like as not, gits er +right smart lot of letters, an' hit stands ter reason the feller just +naturally can't write back ter ev'rybody at once.” + +“Of course,” agreed Auntie Sue. “It is just some delay in their +acknowledgment, that is all. Perhaps they are waiting to find out if the +notes are genuine; or it may be that their letter to me went astray, and +will have to be returned to them, and then remailed all over again. I +feel sure I shall hear from them in a few days.” + +So they talked until the moon appeared from behind the dark mountains +that, against her light, were silhouetted on the sky. And, as the old +gentlewoman watched the queen of the night rising higher and higher +on her royal course, and saw the dusky landscape transformed to a +fairy-scene of ethereal loveliness, Auntie Sue forgot the letter that +had not come. + +With the enthusiasm that never failed her, the silvery-haired teacher +tried to give the backwoods girl a little of her wealth of vision. But +though they looked at the same landscape, the eyes of twenty could +not see that which was so clear to the eyes of seventy. Poor Judy! The +river, sweeping on its winding way through the hills, from the springs +of its far-away beginnings to the ocean of its final endeavor,--in all +its varied moods and changes,--in all its beauty and its irresistible +power,--the river could never mean to Judy what it meant to Auntie Sue. + +“Hit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum huntin',” said the girl, at +last, getting to her feet and standing in her twisted attitude, with her +wry neck holding her head to one side. “Them there Jackson boys'll sure +be out.” + +Auntie Sue laughed her low chuckling laugh. + +From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom-lands +across the river, came the baying of hounds. “There they be now,” said +Judy. “Hear 'em? The Billingses, 'cross from the clubhouse, 'll be out, +too, I reckon. When hit's moonlight, they're allus a-huntin' 'possum +an' 'coon. When hit's dark, they're out on the river a-giggin' for fish. +Well, I reckon I'll be a-goin' in, now, ma'm,” she concluded, with a +yawn. “Ain't no use in a body stayin' up when there ain't nothin' ter do +but ter sleep, as I kin see.” + +With an awkward return to Auntie Sue's “Goodnight and sweet dreams, +dear,” the mountain girl went into the house. + +For an hour longer, the old gentlewoman sat on the porch of her little +log house by the river, looking out over the moonlit scene. Nor did she +now, as when she had watched the sunset, crave human companionship. In +spirit, she was far from all earthly needs or cares,--where no troubled +thoughts could disturb her serene peace and her dearest dreams were +real. + +The missing letter was forgotten. + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE WILL OF THE RIVER. + + +Had Auntie Sue remained a few minutes longer on the porch, that evening, +she might have seen an object drifting down the river, in the gentle +current of The Bend. + +Swinging easily around the curve above the clubhouse, it would not have +been visible at first, because of the deep shadows of the reflected +trees and mountains. But, presently, as it drifted on into the broader +waters of The Bend, it emerged from the shadows into the open moonlit +space, and then, to any one watching from the porch, the dark object, +drawing nearer and nearer in the bright moonlight, would have soon +shaped itself into a boat--an empty boat, the watcher would have said, +that had broken from its moorings somewhere up the river;--and the +watcher would have heard, through the still, night air, the dull, heavy +roar of the mad waters at Elbow Rock. + +Drifting thus, helpless in the grip of the main current, the little +craft apparently was doomed to certain destruction. Gently, it would +float on the easy surface of the quiet, moonlit Bend. In front of the +house, it would move faster and faster. Where the river narrows, it +would be caught as if by mighty hands hidden beneath the rushing flood, +and dragged onward still faster and faster. About it, the racing waters +would leap and boil in their furious, headlong career, shaking and +tossing the helpless victim of their might with a vicious strength from +which there would be no escape, until, in the climax of the river's +madness, the object of its angry sport would be dashed against the +cliff, and torn, and crushed, and hammered by the terrific weight of the +rushing flood against that rocky anvil, into a battered and shapeless +wreck. + +The drifting boat drew nearer and nearer. It reached the point where the +curve of the opposite bank draws in to form the narrow raceway of the +rapids. It began to feel the stronger pull of those hidden hands +that had carried it so easily down The Bend. And then--and then--the +unguided, helpless craft responded to the gentle pressure of some swirl +or crosscurrent in the main flow of the stream, and swung a little +to one side. A few feet farther, and the new impulse became stronger. +Yielding easily to the current that drew it so gently across the +invisible dividing-line between safety and destruction, the boat +swung in toward the shore. A minute more, and it had drifted into that +encircling curve of the bank where the current of the eddy carried it +around and around. + +The boat seemed undecided. Would it hold to the harbor of safety into +which it had been drawn by the friendly current? Would it swing out, +again, into the main stream, and so to its own destruction? + +Three times the bow, pointing out from the eddy, crossed the +danger-line, and, for a moment, hung on the very edge. Three times, the +invisible hands which held it drew it gently back to safety. And so, +finally, the little craft, so helpless, so alone, amid the many currents +of the great river, came to rest against the narrow shelf of land at the +foot of the bank below Auntie Sue's garden. + +The light in the window of Auntie Sue's room went out. The soft +moonlight flooded mountain and valley and stream. The mad waters at +Elbow Rock roared in their wild fury. Always, always,--irresistibly, +inevitably, unceasingly,--the river poured its strength toward the sea. + + + +CHAPTER V. + +AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN. + + +Before the sun was high enough to look over Schoolhouse Hill, the next +morning, Judy went into the garden to dig some potatoes. + +Tom Warden's boys would come, some day before long, and dig them all, +and put them away in the cellar for the winter. But there was no need to +hurry the gathering of the full crop, so the boys would come when it was +most convenient; and, in the meantime, Judy would continue to dig from +day to day all that were needed for the kitchen in the little log house +by the river. In spite of her poor crooked body, the mountain girl was +strong and well used to hard work, so the light task was, for her, no +hardship at all. + +As one will when first coming out of doors in the morning, Judy paused +a moment to look about. The sky, so clear and bright the evening before, +was now a luminous gray. The mountains were lost in a ghostly world of +fog, through which the river moved in stealthy silence,--a dull thing +of mystery, with only here and there a touch of silvery light upon its +clouded surface. The cottonwoods and willows, on the opposite shore, +were mere dreams of trees,--gray, formless, and weird. The air was +filled with the dank earth-smell. The heavy thundering roar of the +never-ending war of the waters at Elbow Rock came louder and more +menacing, but strangely unreal, as if the mist itself were filled with +threatening sound. + +But to Judy, the morning was only the beginning of another day;--she +looked, but did not see. To her, the many ever-changing moods of Nature +were without meaning. With her basket in hand, she went down to the +lower end of the garden, where she had dug potatoes the time before, and +where she had left the fork sticking upright in the ground. + +A few minutes served to fill the basket; but, before starting back to +the house, the mountain girl paused again to look out over the river. +Perhaps it was some vague memory of Auntie Sue's talk, the night +before, that prompted her; perhaps it was some instinct, indefinite and +obscure;--whatever it was that influenced her, Judy left her basket, and +went to the brink of the high bank above the eddy for a closer view of +the water. + +The next instant, with the quick movement of an untamed creature of her +native mountain forests, the girl sprang back, and crouched close to +the ground to hide from something she had seen at the foot of the bank. +Every movement of her twisted body expressed amazement and fear. Her +eyes were wild and excited. She looked carefully about, as if for +dangers that might be hidden in the fog. Once, she opened her mouth as +if to call. Half-rising, she started as if to run to the house. But, +presently, curiosity apparently overruled her fear, and, throwing +herself flat on the ground she wormed her way back to the brink of the +river-bank. Cautiously, without making a sound, she peered through the +tall grass and weeds that fringed the rim above the eddy. + +The boat, which some kindly impulse of the river had drawn so gently +aside from the stronger current that would have carried it down the +rapids to the certain destruction waiting at Elbow Rock, still rested +with its bow grounded on the shore, against which the eddying water had +pushed it. But the thing that had so startled Judy was a man who was +lying, apparently unconscious, on the wet and muddy bottom-boards of the +little craft. + +Breathlessly, the girl, looking down from the top of the bank, watched +for some movement; but the dirty huddled heap of wretched humanity +was so still that she could not guess whether it was living or dead. +Fearfully, she noted that there were no oars in the boat, nor gun, nor +fishing-tackle of any sort. The man's hat was missing. His clothing was +muddy and disarranged. His position was such that she could not see the +face. + +Drawing back, Judy looked cautiously about; then, picking up a heavy +clod of dirt from the ploughed edge of the garden, and crouching again +at the brink of the bank, ready for instant flight, she threw the +clod into the water near the boat. The still form in the boat made no +movement following the splash. Selecting a smaller clod, the girl threw +the bit of dirt into the stern of the boat itself, where it broke in +fragments. And, at this, the figure moved slightly. + +“Hit's alive, all right,” commented Judy to herself, with a grin of +satisfaction, at the result of her investigation. “But hit's sure time +he was a-gittin' up.” + +Carefully selecting a still smaller bit of dirt, she deliberately tossed +it at the figure itself. Her aim was true, and the clod struck the +man on the shoulder, with the result that he stirred uneasily, and, +muttering something which Judy could not hear, half-turned on his back +so that the girl saw the haggard, unshaven face. She saw, too, that, in +one hand, the man clutched an empty whisky bottle. + +At sight of the bottle, the mountain girl rose to her feet with an +understanding laugh. “Hell!” she said aloud; “drunk,--that's all--dead +drunk. I'll sure fetch him out of hit.” And then, grinning with +malicious delight, she proceeded to pelt the man in the boat with +clods of dirt until he scrambled to a sitting posture, and looked up in +bewildered confusion. + +“If you please,” he said, in a hoarse voice, to the sallow, old-young +face that grinned down at him from the top of the bank, “which one of +the Devil's imps are you?” + +As she looked into that upturned face, Judy's grin vanished. “I sure +'lowed as how you-all was dead,” she explained. + +“Well,” returned the man in the boat, wearily, “I can assure you that +it's not in the least my fault if I disappoint you. I feel as bad about +it as you do. However, I don't think I am so much alive that it makes +any material difference.” He lifted the whisky bottle, and studied it +thoughtfully. + +“You-all come dad burned near not bein' ary bit alive,” returned the +girl. + +“Yes?” said the man, inquiringly. + +“Yep; you sure did come mighty nigh hit. If your old John-boat had +a-carried you-all on down ter Elbow Rock, 'stead of bein' ketched in +the eddy here, you-all would sure 'nough been a-talkin' to the Devil by +now.” + +The man, looking out over the river into the fog, muttered to himself, +“I can't even make a success of dying, it seems.” + +Again, he regarded the empty bottle in his hand with studied interest. +Then, tossing the bottle into the river, he looked up, once more, to the +girl on the bank above. + +“Listen, sister!” he said, nervously. “Is there any place around here +where I can buy a drink? I need something rather badly. Where am I, +anyway?” + +“You-all are at Auntie Sue's place,” said Judy; “an' there sure ain't no +chance for you-all ter git ary licker here. Where'd you-all come from, +anyhow? How'd you-all git here 'thout no oars ner paddle ner nothin'? +Where was you-all aimin' ter go?” + +“Your questions, my good girl, are immaterial and irrelevant,” + returned the man in the boat. “The all-important matter before us for +consideration is,--how can I get a drink? I MUST have a drink, I tell +you!” He held up his hands, and they were shaking as if with palsy. “And +I must have it damned quick!” + +“You-all sure do talk some powerful big words,” said Judy, with critical +interest. “You-all sure must be some eddecated. Auntie Sue, now, she +talks--” + +The man interrupted her: “Who is 'Auntie Sue'?” + +“I don't know,” Judy returned; “she's just Auntie Sue--that's all I +know. She sure is--” + +Again the man interrupted: “I think it would be well for me to +interview this worthy aunt of yours.” And then, while he raised himself, +unsteadily, to his feet, he continued, in a muttering undertone: “You +don't seem to appreciate the situation. If I don't get some sort of +liquor soon, things are bound to happen.” + +He attempted to step from the boat to the shore; but the instability of +the light, flat-bottomed skiff, together with his own unsteady weakness, +combined to land him half in the water and half on the muddy bank where +he struggled helplessly, and, in his weakened condition, would have +slipped wholly into the river had not Judy rushed down the rude steps to +his assistance. + +With a strength surprising in one of her apparent weakness, the mountain +girl caught the stranger under his shoulders and literally dragged +him from the water. When she had further helped him to his feet, Judy +surveyed the wretched object of her beneficence with amused and curious +interest. + +The man, with his unkempt hair, unshaven, haggard face, bloodshot eyes, +and slovenly dishevelled dress, had appeared repulsive enough while in +the boat; but, now, as he stood dripping with water and covered with +mud, there was a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance that brought +a grin to the unlovely face of his rescuer, and caused her to exclaim +with unnecessary frankness: “I'll be dad burned if you-all ain't a thing +ter look at, mister!” + +As the poor creature, who was shaking as if with the ague, regarded the +twisted form, the wry neck, and the sallow, old-young face of the +girl, who was laughing at him, a gleam of sardonic humor flashed in +his bloodshot eyes. “Thanks,” he said, huskily; “you are something of a +vision yourself, aren't you?” + +The laughter went from Judy's face as she caught the meaning of the +cruel words. “I ain't never laid no claim ter bein' a beauty,” she +retorted in her shrill, drawling monotone. “But, I kin tell you-all one +thing, mister: Hit was God-A'mighty Hisself an' my drunken pap what made +me ter look like I do. While you,--damn you!--you-all just naturally +made yourself what you be.” + +At the mountain girl's illiterate words, so pregnant with meaning, a +remarkable change came over the face and manner of the man. His voice, +even, for the moment, lost its huskiness, and vibrated with sincere +feeling as he steadied himself; and, bowing with courteous deference, +said: “I beg your pardon, miss. That was unkind. You really should have +left me to the river.” + +“You-all would a-drownded, sure, if I had,” she retorted, somewhat +mollified by the effect of her observation. + +“Which,” he returned, “would have been so beautifully right and fitting +that it evidently could not be.” And with this cynical remark, his +momentary bearing of self-respect was gone. + +“Are you-all a-meanin' ter say that you-all was a-wantin' ter drown?” + +“Something like that,” he returned. And then, with a hint of ugliness in +his voice and eyes, he rasped: “But, look here, girl! do you think I'm +going to stand like this all day indulging in idle conversation with +you? Where is this aunt of yours? Can't you see that I've got to have a +drink?” + +He started uncertainly toward the steps that led to the top of the bank, +and Judy, holding him by his arm, helped him to climb the steep way. A +part of the ascent he made on hands and knees. Several times he would +have fallen except for the girl's support. But, at last, they gained the +top, and stood in the garden. + +“That there is the house,” said Judy, pointing. “But I don't reckon as +how you-all kin git ary licker there.” + +The wretched man made no reply; but, with Judy still supporting him, +stumbled forward across the rows of vegetables. + +The two had nearly reached the steps at the end of the porch when +Auntie Sue came from the house to see why Judy did not return with the +potatoes. The dear old lady paused a moment, startled at the presence of +the unprepossessing stranger in her garden. Then, with an exclamation of +pity, she hurried to meet them. + +The man, whose gaze as he shambled along was fixed on the ground, did +not notice Auntie Sue until, feeling Judy stop, he also paused, and +raising his head looked full at the beautiful old lady. + +“Why, Judy!” cried Auntie Sue, her low, sweet voice filled with gentle +concern. “What in the world has happened?” + +With an expression of questioning bewilderment and rebuke on his haggard +face, the man also turned to the mountain girl beside him. + +“I found him in er John-boat what done come ashore last night, down +there in the eddy,” Judy explained to Auntie Sue. To the man, she said: +“This here is Auntie Sue, mister; but, I don't reckon as how she's got +ary licker for you.” + +“'Liquor'?” questioned Auntie Sue. “What in the world do you mean, +child?” Then quickly to the stranger;--“My dear man, you are wringing +wet. You must have been in the river. Come, come right in, and let us do +something for you.” As she spoke, she went toward him with outstretched +hands. + +But the wretched creature shrank back from her, as if in fear;--his +whole body shaking with emotion; his fluttering hands raised in a +gesture of imploring protest;--while the eyes that looked up at the +saintly countenance of the old gentlewoman were the eyes of a soul +sunken in the deepest hell of shame and humiliation. + +Shocked with pitying horror, Auntie Sue paused. + +The man's haggard, unshaven face twitched and worked with the pain of +his suffering. He bit his lips and fingered his quivering chin in a vain +effort at self-control; and then, as he looked up at her, the sunken, +bloodshot eyes filled with tears that the tormented spirit had no power +to check. + +And Auntie Sue turned her face away. + +For a little, they stood so. Then, as Auntie Sue faced him again, the +stranger, with a supreme effort of his will, gained a momentary control +of his shattered nerves. Drawing himself erect and standing steady and +tall before her, he raised a hand to his uncovered head as if to remove +his hat. When his hand found no hat to remove, he smiled as if at some +jest at his own expense. + +“I am so sorry, madam,” he said,--and his voice was musically clear and +cultured. “Please pardon me for disturbing you? I did not know. This +young woman should have explained. You see, when she spoke of 'Auntie +Sue,' I assumed, of course,--I mean,--I expected to find a native woman +who would--” He paused, smiling again, as if to assure her that he fully +appreciated the humor of his ridiculous predicament. + +“But, my dear sir,” cried Auntie Sue, eagerly, “there is nothing to +pardon. Please do come into the house and let us help you.” + +But the stranger drew back, shaking his head sadly. “You do not +understand, madam. It is not that my clothes are unpresentable,--it is +I, myself, who am unfit to stand in your presence, much less to enter +your house. I thank you, but I must go.” + +He was turning away, when Auntie Sue reached his side and placed her +gentle old hand lightly on his arm. + +“Please, won't you come in, sir? I shall never forgive myself if I let +you go like this.” + +The man's voice was hoarse and shaking, now, as he answered: “For God's +sake, madam, don't touch me! Let me go! You must! I--I--am not myself! +You might not be safe with me! Ask her--she knows!” He turned to Judy. + +“He's done said hit, ma'm,” said Judy, in answer to Auntie Sue's +questioning look. “My pap, he was that way when he done smashed me up +agin the wall, when I was nothin' but a baby, an' hit made me grow up +all crooked an' ugly like what I be now.” + +With one shamed glance at Auntie Sue, the wretched fellow looked down +at the ground. His head drooped forward. His shoulders sagged. His whole +body seemed to shrink. Turning sadly away, he again started back toward +the river. + +“Stop!” Auntie Sue's voice rang out imperiously. + +The man halted. + +“Look at me,” she commanded. + +Slowly, he raised his eyes. The gentle old teacher spoke with fine +spirit, now, but kindly still: “This is sheer nonsense, my boy. You +wouldn't hurt me. Why, you couldn't! Of course, you are not yourself; +but, do you think that I do not know a gentleman when I meet one? +Come--” She held out her hand. + +A moment he stood, gazing at her in wondering awe. Then his +far-overtaxed strength failed;--his abused nerves refused to bear +more,--and he sank,--a pitiful, cowering heap at her feet. Hiding his +face in his shaking hands, he sobbed like a child. + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER. + + +Those two women managed, somehow, to get the almost helpless stranger +into the house, where Auntie Sue, after providing him with nightclothes, +left by one of her guests, by tactful entreaty and judicial commands, +persuaded him to go to bed. + +Then followed several days and nights of weary watching. There were +times when the man lay with closed eyes, so weak and exhausted that he +seemed to be drifting out from these earthly shores on the deep waters +of that wide and unknown sea into which all the streams of life finally +flow. But, always, Auntie Sue miraculously held him back. There were +other times when, by all the rules of the game, he should have worn a +strait-jacket;--when his delirium filled the room with all manner +of horrid creatures from the pit; when leering devils and loathsome +serpents and gibbering apes tormented him until his unnatural strength +was the strength of a fiend, and his tortured nerves shrieked in agony. +But Auntie Sue perversely ignored the rules of the game. And never did +the man, even in his most terrible moments, fail to recognize in the +midst of the hellish crew of his diseased imagination the silvery-haired +old teacher as the angel of his salvation. Her gentle voice had always +power to soothe and calm him. He obeyed her implicitly, and, like a +frightened child, holding fast to her hand would beg piteously for her +to protect and save him. + +But no word of the man's low-muttered, broken sentences, nor of his +wildest ravings, ever gave Auntie Sue a clue to his identity. She +searched his clothes, but there was not a thing to give her even his +name. + +And, yet, that first day, when Judy would have gone to neighbor Tom's +for help, Auntie Sue said “No.” She even positively forbade the girl to +mention the stranger's presence in the house, should she chance to talk +with passing neighbors. “The river brought him to us, Judy, dear,” she +said. “We must save him. No one shall know his shame, to humiliate and +wound his pride and drag him down after he is himself again. Until he +has recovered and is once more the man I believe him to be, no one must +see him or know that he is here; and no one must ever know how he came +to us.” + +And late, one evening, when Judy was fast asleep, and the man was lying +very still after a period of feverish tossing and muttering, the dear +old gentlewoman crept quietly out of the house into the night. She was +gone some time, and when she returned again to the stranger's bedside +she was breathless and trembling as from some unusual exertion. And the +following afternoon, when Judy came to her with the announcement that +the boat which had brought the man to them was no longer in the eddy +below the garden, Auntie Sue said, simply, that she was glad it was +gone, and cautioned the girl, again, that the stranger's presence in the +house must not be made known to any one. + +When the mountain girl protested, saying, “You-all ain't got no call ter +be a-wearin' yourself ter the bone a-takin' care of such as him,” Auntie +Sue answered, “Hush, Judy! How do you know what the poor boy really is?” + +To which Judy retorted: “He's just triflin' an' ornery an' no 'count, +that's what he is, or he sure wouldn't been a-floatin' 'round in that +there old John-boat 'thout ary gun, or fishin' lines, or hat even, ter +say nothin' of that there whisky bottle bein' plumb empty.” + +Auntie Sue made no reply to the mountain girl's harsh summing-up of the +damning evidence against the stranger, but left her and went softly to +the bedside of their guest. + +It was perhaps an hour later that Judy, quietly entering the room, +happened upon a scene that caused her to stand as if rooted to the spot +in open-mouthed amazement. + +The man was sleeping, and the silvery-haired old maiden-lady, seated +on the side of the bed, was bending over the unconscious stranger and +gently stroking his tumbled, red-brown hair, even as a mother might +lovingly caress her sleeping child. And then, as Judy watched, +breathless with wonder, the proud old gentlewoman, bending closer over +that still form on the bed, touched her lips--soft as a rose-petal--to +the stranger's brow. + +When she arose and saw Judy standing there, Auntie Sue's delicate old +cheeks flushed with color, and her eyes were shining. With a gesture, +she commanded the girl to silence, and the two tiptoed from the room. +When they were outside, and Auntie Sue had cautiously closed the door, +she faced the speechless Judy with a deliciously defiant air that could +not wholly hide her lovely confusion. + +“I--I--was thinking, Judy, how he--how he--might have been--my son.” + +“Your 'son'!” ejaculated the girl. “Why, ma'm, you-all ain't never even +been married, as I've ever hearn tell, have you?” + +Auntie Sue drew her thin shoulders proudly erect, and, lifting her fine +old face, answered the challenging question with splendid spirit: “No, I +have never been married; but I might have been; and if I had, I suppose +I could have had a son, couldn't I?” + +The vanquished Judy retreated to the kitchen, where, in safety, she sank +into a chair, convulsed with laughter, which she instinctively muffled +in her apron. + +Then came the day when the man, weak and worn with his struggle, looked +up at his gentle old nurse with the light of sanity in his deep +blue eyes. Very tired eyes they were, and filled with painful +memories,--filled, too, with worshipping gratitude and wonder. + +She smiled down at him with delighted triumph, and drawing a chair close +beside the bed, seated herself and placed her soft hand on his where it +lay on the coverlid. + +“You are much better, this morning,” she said cheerily. “You will soon +be all right, now.” And as she looked into the eyes that regarded hers +so questioningly, there was in her face and manner no hint of doubt, or +pretense, or reproach;--only confidence and love. + +He spoke slowly, as if feeling for words: “I have been in Hell; and +you--you have brought me out. Why did you do it?” + +“Because you are mine,” she answered, with her low chuckling laugh. It +was so good to have him able to talk to her rationally after those long +hours of fighting. + +“Because I am yours?” he repeated, puzzling over her words. + +“Yes,” she returned, with a hint of determined proprietorship in her +voice; “because you belong to me. You see, that eddy where your boat +landed is my property, and so anything that drifts down the river and +lodges there belongs to me. Whatever the river brings to me, is mine. +The river brought you, and so--” She finished with another laugh,--a +laugh that was filled with tender mother-yearning. + +The blue eyes smiled back at her for a moment; then she saw them darken +with painful memories. + +“Oh, yes; the river,” he said. “I wanted the river to do something for +me, and--and it did something quite different from what I wanted.” + +“Of course,” she returned, eagerly, “the river is always like that. It +always does the thing you don't expect it to do. Just like life itself. +Don't you see? It begins somewhere away off at some little spring, and +just keeps going and going and going; and thousands and thousands of +other springs, scattered all over the country, start streams and creeks +and branches that run into it, and make it bigger and bigger, as it +winds and curves and twists along, until it finally reaches the great +sea, where its waters are united with all the waters from all the rivers +in all the world. And in all of its many, many miles, from that first +tiny spring to the sea, there are not two feet of it exactly alike. +In all the centuries of its being, there are never two hours alike. An +infinite variety of days and nights--an infinite variety of skies and +light and clouds and daybreaks and sunsets--an infinite number and +variety of currents and shoals and deep places and quiet spots and +dangerous rapids and eddies--and, along its banks, an endless change +of hills and mountains and flats and forests and meadows and farms and +cities--and--” She paused, breathless. And then, when he did not speak, +but only watched her, she continued: “Don't you see? Of course, the +river never could be what you expect, any more than life could be +exactly what you want and dream it will be.” + +“Who in the world are you?” he asked, wonderingly. “And what in the +world are you doing here in the backwoods?” + +Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: “I am Auntie Sue. I am +LIVING here in the backwoods.” + +“But, your real name? Won't you tell me your name? I must know how to +address you.” + +“Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield--MISS Wakefield, if you please. I +shall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next November. And +you must call me 'Auntie Sue,'--just as every one else does.” + +“Wakefield--Wakefield--where have I seen that name?” He wrinkled his +brow in an effort to remember. “Wakefield--I feel sure that I have heard +it, somewhere.” + +“It is not unlikely,” she returned, lightly. “It is not at all an +uncommon name. And now that I am properly introduced, don't you +think--?” + +He hesitated a moment, then said, deliberately, “My name is Brian Kent.” + +“That is an Irish name,” she said quickly; “and that is why your hair is +so nearly red and your eyes so blue.” + +“Yes,” he returned, “from my mother. And please don't ask me more now, +for I can't lie to you, and I won't tell you the truth.” And she saw, +again, the dark shadows of painful memories come into the blue eyes. + +Bending over the bed, she laid her soft hand on his brow, and pushed +back his heavy hair; and her sweet old voice was very low and gentle as +she said: “My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. The river brought +you to me, and you are mine. You must not even think of anything else, +just now. When you are stronger, and are ready, we will talk of your +future; but of your past, you--” + +A loud knock sounded at the door of the living room. + +“There is someone at the door,” she said hastily. “I must go. Lie still, +and go to sleep like a good boy; won't you?” + +Swiftly, she leaned over, and, before he realized, he felt her lips +touch his forehead. Then she was gone, and Brian Kent's Irish eyes were +filled with tears. Turning to the wall, he hid his face in the pillow. + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +OFFICERS OF THE LAW. + + +As Auntie Sue was closing the door of her guest's room carefully behind +her, Judy came from the kitchen in great excitement, and the knocking at +the front door of the house was repeated. + +“Hit's the Sheriff, ma'm,” whispered Judy. “I was just a-comin' ter tell +you. I seed 'em from the kitchen-winder. He's got two other men with +him. Their hosses is tied ter the fence in front. What in hell will we +do, now? They are after him in there, sure 's death!” + +Auntie Sue's face was white, and her lips trembled,--but only for a +moment. + +“Go back into the kitchen, Judy, and stay there,” she commanded, in a +whisper; and went to open the front door as calmly as if nothing unusual +had happened. + +Sheriff Knox was a big man, with a bluff, kindly manner, and a voice +that made nothing of closed doors. He returned Auntie Sue's greeting +heartily, and, with one of his companions,--a quiet, business-looking +gentleman,--accepted her cordial invitation to come in. The third man of +the party remained near the saddle-horses at the gate. + +“Well, Auntie Sue,” said the Sheriff, settling his ponderous bulk in one +of the old lady's rocking-chairs, which certainly was not built to carry +such a weight, “how are you? I haven't seen you in a coon's age. I'll +swear, though, you ain't a minute older than you was when you first +begun teachin' the little Elbow Rock school up there on the hill, are +you?” + +“I don't know, Sheriff,” Auntie Sue returned, with a nervous little +laugh. “I sometimes think that I am a few days older. I have watched a +good many sunsets since then, you know.” + +The big officer's laughter almost shook the log walls of the house. To +his quiet companion, who had taken a chair near the window, he said: +“I'll have to tell you, Ross, that Auntie Sue owns every sunset in these +Ozark Mountains. What was it you paid for them?” He turned again to +their smiling hostess. “Oh, yes; fifty cents an acre for the land and +fourteen dollars and a half for the sunsets. You'll have to be blamed +careful not to trespass on the sunsets in this neighborhood, Ross.” + Again, his hearty laugh roared out, while his chair threatened to +collapse with the quaking of his massive body. + +The gentleman seated at the window laughed quietly, in sympathy. + +“You'll be all right, though, Ross,” the Sheriff continued, “as long +as you're with me. Auntie Sue and me have been friends for about twenty +year, now. I always stop to see her whenever I'm passing through the +Elbow Rock neighborhood, if I ain't in too big a hurry. Stayed with her +a week, once, five years ago, when we was after that Lewis gang. +She knows I'd jail any man on earth that would even touch one of her +sunsets.” + +Then, as if the jesting allusion to his office reminded him of his +professional duties, he added: “I plumb forgot, Auntie Sue, this +gentleman is Mr. Ross. He is one of William J. Burns's crack detectives. +Don't be scared, though, he ain't after you.” + +Auntie Sue, while joining in the laughter, and acknowledging the +introduction, regarded the business-looking gentleman by the window with +intense interest. + +“I think,” she said, slowly,--and the sweetness of her low, cultured +voice was very marked in contrast to the Sheriff's thundering tones,--“I +think, sir, that this is the first time in my life that I ever saw a +real detective. I have read about them, of course.” + +Mr. Ross was captivated by the charm of this beautiful old gentlewoman, +who regarded him with such child-like interest, and who spoke with such +sweet frankness and dignity. Smilingly, he returned: + +“I fear, madam, that you would find me very disappointing. No one that I +ever knew in my profession could hope to live up to the reputation +given us by the story-books. No secret service man living can remotely +approximate the deeds performed by the detectives of fiction. We are +very, very human, I can assure you.” + +“I am sure that you, at least, must be very kind,” returned Auntie +Sue, gently. And the cheeks of the experienced officer flushed like the +cheeks of a schoolboy. + +“Mr. Ross, Auntie Sue,” said the Sheriff, “is, as I was telling you, one +of William J. Burns's big men.” + +Auntie Sue gave her attention to her big friend: “Yes?” + +The Sheriff continued: “Now, the Burns people, you see, protect the +banks all over the country.” + +“Yes?” came, again, in a tone so low and gentle that the monosyllable +was scarcely heard. + +The officer's loud voice went on: “And Mr. Ross, here, works most of +his time on these bank cases. Just now, he is trailing a fellow that got +away with a lot of money from the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, of +Chicago, about a month ago;--that is, the man disappeared about a month +ago. He had been stealing along from the bank for about a year,--worked, +for them, you see.” + +“The Empire Consolidated Savings Bank!” Auntie Sue spoke the words in +a voice that was little more than a whisper. It was to the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank that she had sent the money which she had +received from her brother in Buenos Aires; and Homer T. Ward, the +president of that bank, was one of her old pupils. Why, her stranger +guest, in the other room there, was that very moment wearing one of the +bank president's nightshirts. + +“And do you”--Auntie Sue addressed the detective--“do you know the man's +name, Mr. Ross?” + +“Oh, yes,” returned the officer, “his name is Brian Kent.” + +Some source of strength, deep-hidden in her gentle nature, enabled +Auntie Sue to control her emotions, though her voice broke a little as +she slowly repeated the man's name, “Brian Kent. And do I understand, +sir, that you have traced the man to this--neighborhood?” + +The detective was too skilled not to notice Auntie Sue's manner and the +break in her voice; but he never dreamed that this old gentlewoman's +agitation was caused by a deeper interest than a quite natural fear that +a dangerous criminal might be lurking in the immediate vicinity. + +“Not exactly, Mrs.--ah--” + +“Miss Wakefield,”--she supplied her name with a smile. + +With a courteous bow, the detective continued: “We do not know for sure +that the man is in this neighborhood, Miss Wakefield. There is really no +cause for you to be alarmed. Even if he should call at your house, here, +you need not be frightened, for I assure you the man is not at all a +dangerous character.” + +“I am glad,” said Auntie Sue; and she laughed a little with a relief +more genuine than her callers knew. + +Detective Ross continued as if anxious to finish his unpleasant duty: +“It is too bad for us to be disturbing you with this business, Miss +Wakefield, and I hope you will forgive us; but, the case is like this: +We traced our man to the little town of Borden, some forty miles up the +river from here. He disappeared from the hotel one night, leaving his +suit-case and, apparently, everything he had with him, and not a +soul that we can find has seen him since. Of course, everybody says +'suicide.' He had been drinking heavily and acting rather queer the two +or three days he was at the hotel,--it seems. But I am not willing, yet, +to accept the suicide idea as final, because it would be too easy for +him to give things that appearance in order to throw us off; and I can't +get away from the fact that a John-boat that was tied to the bank near +the hotel managed to break loose and drift off down the river that same +night. Working on my theory, we are following down the river, trying +to get trace of either the boat or the man. So far, we haven't heard of +either, which rather strengthens me in my belief that the boat and the +man went away together. He is probably traveling nights, and lying up +under the willows in daylight. But he will be compelled to show himself +somewhere, soon, in order to get something to eat, for he couldn't have +taken much with him, trying, as he was, to create the impression that he +had committed suicide. You have a wonderful view of the river here, Miss +Wakefield.” + +“Yes, sir; it is beautiful from the porch.” + +“You spend a good deal of time on the porch, do you?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“And you would be quite likely to notice any boat passing, wouldn't +you?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Could you see a boat at night,--in the moonlight, I mean?” + +“I could if it were well out in the middle of the stream, away from the +shadow of the trees, along the bank.” + +“Have you seen any boats pass lately, Miss Wakefield?” + +“No, sir; I haven't seen a boat on the river for a month, at least.” + +“Dead certain about it, are you, Auntie Sue?” asked the Sheriff. + +“Yes, sir; I am very sure,” she returned. “Judy and I were talking about +it yesterday.” + +“Who is Judy?” asked the detective. + +The Sheriff answered, “Just a girl that lives with Auntie Sue.” + +And Auntie Sue added: “I know Judy has seen no boats passing, because, +as I say, we were talking about it.” + +“I see,” said the detective. “And may I ask, Miss Wakefield, if any +one--any stranger, I mean--has called at the house lately, or if you +have seen any one in the vicinity?” + +The gentle old lady hesitated. + +The officers thought she was searching her memory to be sure before she +answered. + +Then Auntie Sue said, deliberately: “No, sir; we have not seen a +stranger in this vicinity for several weeks. The last one was a +mule-buyer, who stopped to ask if he was on the right road to Tom +Warden's; and that must have been fully six weeks ago.” + +The detective looked at Sheriff Knox. + +“Well,” said the big officer, “I reckon we might as well push along.” + +The two men arose. + +“Oh, but surely you will stay for dinner,” said Auntie Sue, while her +dear heart was faint with fear lest they accept, and thus bring about +who could say what disastrous consequences through their meeting with +Judy. + +“Not this time, Auntie Sue,” returned the Sheriff. “Mr. Ross is anxious +to get on down the river as fast as he can. He's got men on watch at +White's Crossing, and if our man ain't passed there, or if we don't +strike his trail somewhere before we get there, we will jump back on the +railroad, and get some boy to bring the horses through later.” + +“I see,” returned Auntie Sue. And to the detective she added, smiling: +“I am sure it must be very difficult for any one to escape you, Mr. +Ross. I have read such wonderful things about Mr. Burns and the work +of his organization; and now that I have met you,--a real live +detective,--I shall be very careful, indeed, about what I do in the +future. I shouldn't want to have you on my track, I assure you.” + +The two men laughed heartily, and the detective, as he extended his hand +in farewell, returned: “I count it a great privilege to have met you, +Miss Wakefield; and if you will promise to do one thing for me, I'll +agree to be very lenient with you if I am ever assigned to a case in +which you are to be brought to justice.” + +“I promise,” returned the old lady, quickly. “I really wouldn't dare to +refuse under the circumstances, would I? What do you want me to do, Mr. +Ross?” + +“If this man Brian Kent should happen to appear in this vicinity, will +you get a message as quickly as possible, at any cost, to Sheriff Knox?” + +“Why, of course,” agreed Auntie Sue. “But you have not yet told me what +the man looks like, Mr. Ross.” + +“He is really a fine looking chap,” the detective answered. “Thirty +years old--fully six feet tall--rather slender, but well built--weighs +about one hundred fifty--a splendid head--smooth shaven--reddish +hair--dark blue eyes--and a high, broad forehead. He is of +Irish extraction--is cultured--very courteous in his manner and +speech--dresses well--and knows a lot about books and authors and such +things.” + +“I would surely know him from that description,” said Auntie Sue, +thinking of the wretched creature who had fallen, sobbing, at her feet +so short a time before. “But, you do not make him seem like a criminal +at all. It is strange that a man such as you describe should be a +fugitive from the law, is it not?” + +“We come in contact with many strange things in our business, Miss +Wakefield,” the Burns operative answered--a little sadly, Auntie Sue +thought. “Life itself is so strange and complex, though you in your +quiet retreat, here, can scarcely find it so.” + +“Indeed, I find life very wonderful, Mr. Ross, even here in my little +house by the river,” she answered, slowly. + +Sheriff Knox held out a newspaper to Auntie Sue: “Just happened to +remember that I had it in my pocket,” he said. “It gives a pretty full +account of this fellow Kent's case. You will notice there is a big +reward offered for his capture. If you can catch him for us, you'll make +enough money to keep you mighty nigh all the rest of your life.” And +the officer's great laugh boomed out at the thought of the old +school-teacher as a thief-catcher. + +“By the way, Sheriff,” said Auntie Sue, as they were finally saying +good-bye at the door, “you didn't happen to ask at Thompsonville for my +mail, did you, as you came through?” Her voice was trembling, now, with +eagerness and anxiety. + +“I'm plumb sorry, Auntie Sue, but I didn't. You see, we were so busy +on this job, I clean forgot about stopping here; and, besides, we might +have caught our man before we got this far, you see.” + +“Of course,” returned Auntie Sue, “I should have thought of that; but +I have been rather anxious about an important letter that seems to have +been delayed. Some of the neighbors will probably be going to the office +to-day, though. Good-bye! You know you are always welcome, Sheriff; and +you, too, Mr. Ross, if you should ever happen to be in this part of the +country again.” + +“A wonderful old woman, Ross,” commented Sheriff Knox as they were +riding away. And the quiet, business-looking detective, whose life +had been spent in combating crime and deception, answered, as he waved +farewell to Auntie Sue, who watched them from the door of the little log +house by the river, “A very wonderful woman, indeed,--the loveliest old +lady I have ever met,--and the most remarkable.” + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW. + + +When she had watched Sheriff Knox and his two companions ride out of +sight, Auntie Sue turned slowly back into the house to face Judy, who +stood accusingly in the kitchen doorway. + +For what seemed a long time, the old gentlewoman and the deformed +mountain girl stood silently looking at each other. Then Auntie Sue +nervously crossed the room to lay the newspaper, which the Sheriff had +given her, on the table beside her basket of sewing. + +Without speaking, Judy followed her, watching every movement intently. + +Turning to face her companion again, Auntie Sue stood, still speechless, +clasping and unclasping her thin old hands. + +Judy spoke in her shrill, drawling monotone: “You-all have sure fixed +hit this here time, hain't you? Can't you-all see what a hell of a hole +you've done got us inter?” + +When Auntie Sue apparently could not reply, Judy continued: “Just as if +hit wasn't more 'n enough for you-all ter go an' wear yourself plumb out +a-takin' keer of that there ornery, no-'count feller, what I never ought +ter dragged out of the river nohow. An', now, you-all got ter go +an' just naturally lie like you did ter the Sheriff an' that there +deteckertive man. I was plumb scared to death a-listenin' ter you +through the crack in the kitchen door. I 'lowed every minute they'd +ketch you, sure. My Lord-A'mighty! ma'm, can't you-all figger what'll +happen ter weuns if they ever finds out that weuns done had him hid +right here in this here house all the time? I never heard tell of such +dad burned, fool doin's in all my born days! I sure wish ter God that +there old John-boat had a-tuck him off down the river an' smashed him +up agin Elbow Rock, like hit ort, an' not a-fetched him ter our door ter +git weuns in jail for savin' his worthless, no-'count hide,--I sure do!” + +“But, Judy, I never in all my life did such a thing before,” said Auntie +Sue in a tremulous whisper, too overwrought to speak aloud. + +“You-all ain't a-needin' ter do hit but onct, neither. Onct is sure a +heap plenty for that there big Sheriff man. Just look what he did ter +my pap! He's jailed pap seven times, that I kin rec'lect. God-A'mighty +knows how many times he ketched him 'fore I was borned. An' pap, he +didn't do so mighty much ary time, neither.” + +“I just had to do it, Judy, dear,” protested Auntie Sue. “It seemed as +if I simply could not tell the truth: something wouldn't let me.” + +Judy, unheeding her companion's agitation, continued reviewing the +situation: “An' just look at all the money you-all done lost!” + +“Money?” questioned Auntie Sue. + +“Yep, 'money:'--that there reward what they'd a-paid you-all if you-all +hadn't a-lied like you did. I reckon as how there'd a-been as much, +maybe, as what was in that there letter you-all done sent ter the bank +an' ain't never heard tell of since. Hit's most likely clean gone by +now, an' here you done gone an' throw'd this other away,--plumb throw'd +hit away!” + +At this, Auntie Sue's spirit suddenly flashed into fiery indignation. + +“Judith Taylor,” she said sharply, “how can you suggest such a wicked +thing? Why, I would--I would--DIE before I would accept a penny for +doing such a thing!” + +And it was Judy, now, who stood silent and abashed before the aroused +Auntie Sue. + +“Don't ever speak of such a thing again!” continued the old lady. +“And remember, we must be more careful than ever, now, not to let any +one--not a soul--know that Mr.--Mr.--Burns is in the house, or that we +ever saw him!” + +“That there deteckertive man said as how the feller's name was Brian +Kent, didn't be?” muttered the sullen Judy. + +“I don't care what the detective man said!” retorted Auntie Sue. “I am +telling you that his name is Brian Burns, and you had better remember +it! You had better remember, too, that if anybody ever finds out the +truth about him, you and I will go right along to jail with him!” + +“Yes, ma'm; I sure ain't aimin' ter forgit that,” replied the humbled +Judy; and she slouched away to the kitchen. + +Auntie Sue went to the door of Brian Kent's room. But, with her +hand outstretched toward the latch, she hesitated. Had he heard? The +Sheriff's voice had been so loud. She feared to enter, yet she knew that +she must. At last, she knocked timidly, and, when there was no answer, +knocked again, louder. Cautiously, she opened the door. + +The man lay with his face to the wall,--to all appearances fast asleep. + +She tiptoed to the bed, and stood looking down upon the stranger +for whom, without a shadow of reason,--one would have said,--she had +violated one of the most deeply rooted principles of her seventy years. + +To Auntie Sue, daughter of New England Puritanism, and religious to +the deeps of her being, a lie was abhorrent,--and she had +lied,--deliberately, carefully, and with painstaking skill she had lied. +She had not merely evaded the truth; she had lied,--and that to save a +man of whom she knew nothing except that he was a fugitive from the law. +And the strangest thing about it was this, that she was glad. She could +not feel one twinge of regret for her sin. She could not even feel that +she had, indeed, sinned. She had even a feeling of pride and triumph +that she had lied so successfully. She was troubled, though, about this +new and wholly unexpected development in her life. It had been so easy +for her. She had lied so naturally, so instinctively. + +She remembered how she had spoken to Brian Kent of the river and of +life. She saw, now, that the river symbolized not only life as a whole, +with its many ever-changing conditions and currents, amid which the +individual must live;--the river symbolized, as truly, the individual +life, with its ever-changing moods and motives,--its ever-varying and +often-conflicting currents of instinct and training,--its infinite +variety of intellectual deeps and shallows,--its gentle places of +spiritual calm,--and its wild and turbulent rapids of dangerous passion. + +“What hitherto unsuspected currents in her life-river,” she asked +herself, “had carried her so easily into falsehood? What strange forces +were these,” she wondered, “that had set her so suddenly against honesty +and truthfulness and law and justice? And this stranger,--this wretched, +haggard-faced, drunken creature, who had been brought by the mysterious +currents of life to her door,--what was there in him that so compelled +her protecting interest? What was it within him, deeply hidden under +the repellent exterior of his being, that had so awakened in her that +strange feeling of possession,--of motherhood?” + +It was not strange that, in her mental and spiritual extremity, the dear +old gentlewoman's life-long habit should lead her to kneel beside +the stranger's bed and pray for understanding and guidance. It was +significant that she did not ask her God to forgive the lie. + +And, presently, as she prayed, she felt the man on the bed move. Then +a hand lightly touched her hair. She remained very still for a +little,--her head still bowed. The hand that touched so reverently the +silvery gray hair trembled a little. Slowly, the old teacher raised her +face to look at him; and the Irish blue eyes of Brian Kent were wide +with wondering awe and glowing with a light that warmed her heart and +strengthened her. + +“Why did you do it?” he asked. “You wonderful, wonderful woman! Why did +you do it?” + +Slowly, she rose from her knees to sit beside him on the bed. “You +heard?” + +He nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak. + +“I was afraid the Sheriff talked too loud,” she said. + +“But, why did you do it?” he persisted. + +“I think it was because I couldn't do anything else,” she answered, with +her little chuckling laugh. Then she added, seriously: “How could I let +them take you away? Are you not mine? Did not the river bring you to +me?” + +“I must tell you,” he answered, sadly, “that what the detective told you +about me is true.” + +“Yes?” she answered, smiling. + +“I was a clerk in the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank,” he continued, +“and I stole money,--for nearly a year I stole,--not large sums, but a +little at a time. Then, when I knew that it was going to be discovered, +I took quite a lot, and ran away.” + +“Yes?” said Auntie Sue. + +“Do you not care that I am a thief?” he questioned, wonderingly. + +“Oh, yes; I care very much,” she returned. “But, you see, after all, +your stealing is a little thing that can be made all right. Your being +a thief is so small in comparison with other things which you might have +been, but which you are not, and of so little importance in comparison +with what you really ARE, that I can't feel so very bad about it.” + +“But--but--my drinking,--my condition when--” He could not go on. + +“Why, you see,” she answered, “I can't think of THAT man as being YOU at +all. THAT was something that the accident of your being a thief did to +you,--like catching cold, and being sick, after accidentally falling in +the river.” + +After a little silence, the man spoke, slowly: “I suppose every thief, +when he is caught, says the same thing; but I really never wanted to do +it. Circumstances--” he paused, biting his lip, and turning away. + +“What was she like?” asked Auntie Sue, gently. + +“She?” and his face reddened. + +“Yes, I have observed that, to a man, 'circumstances' nearly always mean +a woman. To a woman, of course, it is a man.” + +“I cannot tell you about her, now,” he said. “Some day, perhaps, when I +am further away from it. But she is not at all like you.” + +And this answer, for some strange reason, brought a flush of pleasure to +the face of the old schoolteacher. + +“I did not mean for you to tell me now,” she returned. “I only wanted +you to know that, even though I am an old maid, I can understand.” + +She left him then, and went to attend to her simple household duties. + +It was not until quite late in the evening that Auntie Sue took up the +newspaper which Sheriff Knox had given her. Judy had retired to her +room, and Brian Burns--as they had agreed he should be called--was fast +asleep. + +To-morrow, Brian was going to sit up. His clothing had been washed and +ironed and pressed, and Auntie Sue was making some little repairs in the +way of darning and buttons. She had finished, and was putting her needle +and scissors in the sewing-basket on the table beside her, when she +noticed the paper, which she had forgotten. + +The article headed “BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS” was not long. It told, in a +matter-of-fact, newspaper way, how Brian Kent had, at different times, +covering a period of several months, taken various sums from the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank, and gave, so far as was then known, the +accumulated amount which he had taken. The dishonest clerk had employed +several methods in his operations; but the particular incident--read +Auntie Sue--which had led to the exposure of Kent's stealings was the +theft of a small sum of money in bank-notes, which had been sent to the +bank in a letter by one of the bank's smaller depositors. + +The newspaper fell from Auntie Sue's hand. Mechanically, she fingered +the garment lying in her lap. + +She, too, had sent a sum of money in a letter for deposit to her small +account in this bank from which Brian Kent had stolen. She would not +have sent the familiar paper currency of the United States that way; +but, this money was in Argentine notes. Her brother from far-away Buenos +Aires had sent it to her, saying that it would help to keep her during +the closing years of her life; and she had added it to her small savings +with a feeling of deepest gratitude that her last days were now fully +provided for. And she had received from the bank no acknowledgment of +her letter with its enclosures. + +Taking up the paper with hands that trembled so she scarce could +distinguish the words, she read the paragraph again. + +Suddenly, she recalled the man's puzzled expression when she had +told him her name, and she seemed to hear him say, again, “Wakefield? +Wakefield? Where have I seen that name?” + +She looked at the date of the paper. Beyond all doubt, the man sleeping +there in the other room;--the man whom she had saved from a suicide's +end in the river;--whom she had nursed through the hell of delirium +tremens;--whom she had yearned over as over her own son, and for whom, +to save from the just penalty of his crime, she had lied--beyond all +doubt that man had robbed her of the money that was to have insured to +her peace and comfort in the closing years of her life. + +Carefully, Auntie Sue laid the garment she had just mended with such +loving care, with the rest of Brian Kent's clothing, on the near-by +chair. Rising, she went with slow, troubled step to the porch. + +There was no moon, that night, to turn the waters of The Bend into a +stream of silvery light. But the stars were shining bright and clear, +and she could see the river where it made its dark, mysterious way +between the walls of shadowy hills; and borne to her ears on the gentle +night wind came the deep, thundering roar of the angry waters at Elbow +Rock. + +For a long time she stood there on the porch looking into the night, +with the light from the open door of her little house behind her; and +she felt very lonely, very tired, and very old. With her beautiful old +face upturned to the infinite sky, where shining worlds are scattered +in such lavish profusion, she listened, listened to the river that, with +its countless and complex currents, swept so irresistibly onward along +the way that was set for it by Him who swung those star-worlds in the +limitless space of that mighty arch above. And something of the spirit +that broods ever over the river must have entered into the soul of +Auntie Sue. When she turned back into the house, there was a smile on +her face, though her eyes were wet with tears. + +Going to the chair that held Brian Kent's clothing, she took the +garments in her arms and pressed them to her lips. Then she carried them +to his room. + +For some time she remained in that darkened chamber beside the sleeping +man. + +When she returned to the living-room, she again took up the newspaper. +Very carefully, that her sleeping companions in the house might not hear +her, she went to the kitchen, the paper in her hand. Very carefully, +that no sound should betray her act, she burned the paper in the kitchen +stove. + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION. + + +During the next few days, Brian Kent rapidly regained his strength. No +one seeing the tall, self-possessed gentleman who sat with Auntie Sue on +the porch overlooking the river, or strolled about the place, could have +imagined him the wretchedly repulsive creature that Judy had dragged +from the eddy so short a time before. And no one,--exempting, perhaps, +detective Ross,--would have identified this bearded guest of Auntie +Sue's as the absconding bank clerk for whose arrest a substantial reward +was offered. + +But Mr. Ross had departed from the Ozarks, to report to the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank that, to the best of his knowledge and belief, +Brian Kent had been drowned. Homer T. Ward, himself, wrote Auntie Sue +about the case, for the detective had told the bank president about his +visit to the little log house by the river, and the banker knew that his +old teacher would wish to hear the conclusion of the affair. + +The facts upon which the detective based his conclusion that Brian Kent +was dead, were, first of all, the man's general character, temperament, +habits, and ambitions,--aside from his thefts from the bank,--prior to +the time of his exposure and flight, and his known mental and physical +condition at the time he disappeared from the hotel in the little river +town of Borden. + +The detective reasoned (and there are thousands of cases that could +be cited to support his contention) that by such a man as Brian +Kent,--knowing, as he must have known, the comparative certainty of +his ultimate arrest and conviction, and being in a mental and nervous +condition bordering on insanity, as a result of his constant brooding +over his crime and the excessive drinking to which he had resorted for +relief,--by such a man, death would almost inevitably be chosen rather +than a life of humiliation and disgrace and imprisonment. + +Acting upon the supposition, however, that the man had gone down the +river in that missing boat, and that the appearance of suicide +was planned by the fugitive to trick his pursuers, the detectives +ascertained that he had provided no supplies for a trip down the river. +The man would be compelled to seek food. The mountain country through +which he must pass was sparsely settled, and for a distance that would +have taken a boat many days to cover, the officers visited every house +and cabin and camp on either side of the river without finding a trace +of the hunted man. The river had been watched night and day. The net set +by the Burns operatives touched every settlement and village for many +miles around. And, finally, the battered and broken wreck of the lost +boat had been found some two miles below Elbow Rock. + +“. . . And so, my dear Auntie Sue,” Banker Ward wrote, in conclusion, +“you may rest in peace, secure in the certainty that my thieving bank +clerk is not lurking anywhere in your beautiful Ozarks to pounce down +upon you unawares in your little house beside the river. The man is +safely dead. There is no doubt about it. I regret, more than I can +express, that you have been in any way disturbed by the affair. Please +think no more about it. + +“By the way, you made a great impression upon detective Ross. He was +more than enthusiastic over your graciousness and your beauty. I +never heard him talk so much before in all the years I have known him. +Needless to say, I indorsed everything he said about the dearest +old lady in the world, and then we celebrated by dining together and +drinking a toast to Auntie Sue. . . .” + +Auntie Sue went with the letter to Brian, and acquainted him with that +part of the banker's communication which related to the absconding +clerk; but, about her relation to the president of the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank, she said nothing. + +“Isn't it splendid!” she finished, her face glowing with delight. + +“Splendid?” he echoed, looking at her with grave, questioning eyes. + +“Why, yes, of course!” she returned. “Aren't you glad to be so dead, +under the circumstances? Think what it means! You are free, now. No +horrid old detectives dogging your steps, or waiting behind every bush +and tree to pounce upon you. There is nothing, now, to prevent your +being the kind of man that you always meant to be,--and really ARE, +too,--except for your--your accidental tumble in the river,” she +finished with her low chuckling laugh. “And, some day,” she went on, +with conviction, “when you have established yourself,--when you have +asserted your REAL self, I mean,--and have paid back every penny of the +money, Homer T. Ward and Mr. Ross and everybody will be glad that they +didn't catch you before you had a chance to save yourself.” + +“And you, Auntie Sue?” Brian's voice was deep with feeling: “And you?” + +“Me? Oh, I am as glad, now, as I can ever be, because, you see, to me it +is already done.” + +For a long minute he looked at her without speaking, then turned his +face away to gaze out over the river and the hills; but his eyes were +the eyes of one who looks without seeing. + +Slowly, he said: “I wish I could be sure. There was a time when I +was--when I believed in myself. It seems to me, now, that it was years +and years ago. I thought, then, that nothing could shake me in my +purpose; that nothing could check me in my ambition. I saw myself going +straight on to the goal I had set for myself as certainly as--well, as +your river ever there goes on to the sea. But now--” He shook his head +sadly. + +Auntie Sue laughed. “You foolish boy. My river out there doesn't go +straight at all. It meets all sorts of obstacles, and is beset by all +sorts of conflicting influences, and so is forced to wind and twist and +work its way along; but, the big, splendid thing about the river is that +it keeps going on. It never stops to turn back. No matter what happens +to it, it never stops. It goes on and on and on unto the very end, until +it finally loses itself in the triumph of its own achievement,--the +sea.” + +“And you think that I can go on?” he asked, doubtingly. + +“I know you can go on,” she answered with conviction. + +“But, why are you so sure?” + +“Perhaps,” she returned, smiling, “seventy years makes one sure of some +things.” + +Ho exclaimed passionately: “But you do not know--you cannot know--how +my life, my dreams, my plans, my hopes, my--everything--has been broken +into bits!” + +She answered calmly, pointing to Elbow Rock: “Look there, Brian. See +how the river is broken into bits. See how its smoothly flowing, onward +sweep is suddenly changed to wild, chaotic turmoil; how it rages and +fumes and frets and smashes itself against the rocks. But it goes on +just the same. Life cannot be always calm and smoothly flowing like the +peaceful Bend. But life can always go on. Life must always go on. And +you will find, my dear boy, that a little way below Elbow Rock there is +another quiet stretch.” + +When he spoke again there was a note of almost reverence in his voice. + +“Auntie Sue, was there ever a break in your life? Were your dreams and +plans ever smashed into bits?” + +For a little, she did not answer; then she said, bravely: “Yes, Brian; +several times. Once,--years and years ago,--I do not know how I managed +to go on. I felt, then, as you feel now; but, somehow, I managed, and +so found the calm places. The last hard spot came quite recently.” + She paused, wondering what he would do if she were to tell him how he +himself had made the hard spot. “But, now,” she continued, “I am hoping +that the rest of the way will be calm and untroubled.” + +“I wish I could help to make it so!” he cried impulsively. + +“Why, you can,” she returned quickly. “Of course you can. Perhaps that +is why the current landed your boat at my garden, instead of carrying +you on down the rapids to Elbow Rock. Who can say?” + +A new light kindled in the man's eyes as his sensitive nature took fire +at Auntie Sue's words. “I could do anything for a woman like you, Auntie +Sue,” he said quietly, but with a conviction that left no room for +doubt. “But you must tell me what I am to do.” + +She answered: “You are simply to go on with your life--just as if no +Elbow Rock had ever disturbed you; just as the river goes on--to the +end.” + +She left him, then, to think out his problem alone; for the teacher of +so many years' experience was too wise not to know when a lesson was +finished. + +But when the end of the day was come, they again sat together on the +porch and watched the miracle of the sunset hour. And no word was spoken +by them, now, of life and its problems and its meanings. As one listens +to the song of a bird without thought of musical notes or terms; as one +senses the fragrance of a flower without thought of the chemistry of +perfume; as one feels the presence of spring in the air without thought +of the day of the week, so they were conscious of the beauty, the glory, +and the peace of the evening. + +Only when the soft darkness of the night lay over the land, and river +and mountain and starry sky were veiled in dreamy mystery, did Auntie +Sue speak: “Oh, it is so good to have some one to share it with,--some +one who understands. I am very lonely, sometimes, Brian. I wonder if you +know?” + +“Yes, Auntie Sue, I know, for I have been lonely, too.” + +And so the old gentlewoman, whose lifework was so nearly finished, and +the man in the flush of his manhood years, whose life had been so nearly +wrecked, were drawn very close by a something that came to them out of +the beauty and the mystery of that hour. + +The next day, Brian told Auntie Sue that he would leave on the morrow. + +“Leave?” she echoed in dismay. “Why, Brian, where are you going?” + +“I don't exactly know,” he returned; “but, of course, I must go +somewhere, out into the world again.” + +“And why must you 'go somewhere, out into the world again'?” she +demanded. + +“To work,” he answered, smiling. “If I am to go on, as you say, I must +go where I can find something to do.” + +“If that isn't just like you--you child!” cried the old teacher. “You +are all alike,--you boys and girls. You all must have something to do; +always, it is 'something to do'.” + +“Well,” he returned, “and must we not have something to do?” + +“You will do something, certainly,” she answered; “but, before you +can DO anything that is worth doing, you must BE something. Life isn't +DOING;--it is BEING.” + +“I wonder if that was not the real reason for my wretched failures,” + said Brian, thoughtfully. + +“It is the real reason for most of our failures,” she returned. “And so +you are not going to fail again. You are not going away somewhere, you +don't know where, to do something you don't know what. You are going to +stay right here, and just BE something. Then, when the time comes, you +will do whatever is yours to do as naturally and as inevitably as the +birds sing, as the blossoms come in the spring, or as the river finds +its way to the sea.” + +And more than ever Brian Kent felt in the presence of Auntie Sue as +a little boy to whom the world had grown suddenly very big and very +wonderful. + +But, after a while, he shook his head, smiling wistfully. “No, no, +Auntie Sue, that sounds all true and right enough, but it can't be. I +must go just the same.” + +“Why can't it be, Brian?” + +“For one thing,” he returned, “I cannot risk the danger to you. After +all, as long as I am living, there is a chance that my identity will be +discovered, and you--no, no; I must not!” + +“As for that,” she answered quickly, “the chances of your being +identified are a thousand times greater if you go into the world again +too soon. Some day, of course, you must go; but you are safer now right +here. And”--she added quickly--“it would be no easier for me, dear boy, +to--to--have it happen somewhere away from me. You are mine, you know, +no matter where you go.” + +“But, Auntie Sue,” he protested, “I am not a gentleman of means that I +can do nothing indefinitely; neither am I capable of living upon your +hospitality for an extended period. I must earn my bread and butter.” + +The final sentence came with such a lifting of his head, such a look +of stern decision, and such an air of pride, that the gentle old +school-teacher laughed until her eyes were filled with tears; and Judy, +at the crack in the kitchen door, wondered if the mistress of the little +log house by the river were losing her mind. + +“Oh, Brian! Brian!” cried Auntie Sue, wiping her eyes. “I knew you +would come to the 'bread and butter' at last. That is where all our +philosophies and reasonings and arguments come at last, don't they? Just +'bread and butter,' that is all. And I love you for it. Of course you +can't live upon my hospitality,--and I couldn't let you if you would. +And if you WOULD, I wouldn't let you if I could. I am no more a lady of +means, my haughty sir, than you are a gentleman of independent fortune. +The fact is, Brian, dear, I suspect that you and I are about the two +poorest people in the world,--to be anything like as pretentiously +respectable and properly proud as we are.” + +When the man could make no reply, but only looked at her with a +much-puzzled and still-proud expression, she continued, half-laughingly, +but well pleased with him: “Please, Brian, don't look so haughtily +injured. I had no intention of insulting you by offering charity. Far +from it.” + +Instantly, the man's face changed. He put out his hands protestingly, +and his blue eyes filled, as he said, impulsively. “Auntie Sue, after +what you have done for me, I--” + +She answered quickly: “We are considering the future. What has been, is +past. Our river is already far beyond that point in its journey. Don't +let us try to turn the waters back. I promise you I am going to be very, +very practical, and make you pay for EVERYTHING.” + +Smiling, now, he waited for her to explain. + +“I must tell you, first,” she began, “that, except for a very small +amount in the--in a savings bank, I have nothing to provide for my last +days except this little farm.” + +“What a shame,” Brian Kent exclaimed, “that a woman like you can give +her life to the public schools for barely enough salary to keep her +alive during her active years, and then left in her old age with no +means of support. It is a national disgrace.” + +Auntie Sue chuckled with appreciation of the rather grim humor of the +situation. What would Brian Kent, indignant at the public neglect of the +school-teacher, say of the man who had robbed her of the money that was +to provide for her closing years? “After all, most public sins are only +individual sins at the last,” she said, musingly. + +“I beg your pardon,” said Brian, not in the least seeing the relevancy +of her words. + +Auntie Sue came quickly back to her subject: “Only thirty acres of my +little farm is under cultivation. The remaining fifty acres is wild +timberland. If I could have that fifty acres also in cultivation, with +the money that the timber would bring,--which would not be a great +deal,--I would be fairly safe for the--for the rest of my evening,” she +finished with a smile. “Do you see?” + +“You mean that I--that you want me to stay here and work for you?” + +“I mean,” she answered, “that, if you choose to stay for awhile, you +need not feel that you would be accepting my hospitality as charity,” + she returned gently. “I am not exactly offering you a job: I am only +showing you how you could, without sacrificing your pride, remain in +this quiet retreat for awhile before returning to the world.” + +“It would be heaven, Auntie Sue,” he returned earnestly. “I want to stay +so bad that I fear myself. Let me think it over until to-morrow. Let me +be sure that I am doing the right thing, and not merely the thing I want +to do.” + +She liked his answer, and did not mention the subject again until Brian +himself was ready. And, strangely enough, it was poor, twisted Judy who +helped him to set matters straight. + + + +CHAPTER X. + +BRIAN KENT DECIDES. + + +Brian had walked along the river-bank below the house to a spot just +above the point where the high bluff jutting out into the river-channel +forms Elbow Rock. + +The bank here is not so high above the roaring waters of the rapids, for +the spur of the mountain which forms the cliff lies at a right angle to +the river, and the greater part of the cliff is thus on the shore, with +its height growing less and less as it merges into the main slope of +the mountain-side. From the turn in the road, in front of the house, a +footpath leads down the bank of the river to the cliff, and, climbing +stairlike up the face of the steep bluff, zigzags down the easier slope +of the down-river side, to come again into the road below. The +road itself, below Elbow Rock, is forced by the steep side of the +mountain-spur and the precipitous bluff to turn inland from the river, +and so, climbing by an easier grade up past Tom Warden's place, crosses +the ridge above the schoolhouse, and comes back down the mountain again +in front of Auntie Sue's place, to its general course along the stream. +The little path forms thus a convenient short cut for any one following +the river road on foot. + +Brian, seated on the river-bank a little way from the path where it +starts up the bluff, was trying to decide whether it would be better +for him to follow his desire and stay with Auntie Sue for a few weeks +or months, or whether he should not, in spite of the land he might clear +for her, return to the world where he could more quickly earn the money +to pay back that which he had stolen. + +And as he sat there, the man was conscious that he had reached one +of those turning-points that are found in every life where results, +momentous and far-reaching, are dependent upon comparatively unimportant +and temporary issues. He could not have told why, and yet he felt a +certainty that, for him, two widely separated futures were dependent +upon his choice. Nor could he, by thinking, discover what those futures +held for him, nor which he should choose. Even as his boat that night +had hung on the edge of the eddy,--hesitating on the dividing-line +between the two currents,--so the man himself now felt the pull of his +life-currents, and hesitated,--undecided. + +Looking toward the house, he thought how like the life offered by Auntie +Sue was to the quiet waters of The Bend, and--his mind finished the +simile--how like the life to which he would go was to the rapids at +Elbow Rock; and, yet, he reflected, the waters could never reach the +sea without enduring the turmoil of the rapids. And, again, the thought +came, “The Bend is just as much the river as the troubled passage around +the rock.” + +When he had given up life, and, to all intent and purpose, had left life +behind him, the river, without his will or knowledge, had mysteriously +elected to save him from the death he had chosen as his only refuge from +the utter ruin that had seemed so inevitable. As the currents of the +river had carried his boat to the eddy at the foot of Auntie Sue's +garden, the currents of life had mysteriously brought him to the saving +influence of Auntie Sue herself. Should he push out again into the +stream to face the danger he knew beset such a course? or should he wait +for a season in the secure calm of the harbor she offered until he were +stronger? Brian Kent knew, instinctively, that there was in the wisdom +and love of Auntie Sue's philosophy and faith a strength that would, if +he could make it his, insure his safe passage through every danger of +life, and yet--The man's meditations were interrupted by a chance look +toward the bluff which towered above him. + +Judy was climbing the steep trail. + +Curiously, Brian watched the deformed mountain girl as she made her way +up the narrow, stairlike path, and her cutting words came back to him: +“God-A'mighty and my drunken pap made me like I am. But you,--damn +you!--you made yourself what you be.” And Auntie Sue had said that +the all-important thing in life was not to DO something, but to BE +something. + +The girl, who had gained a point halfway to the top of the bluff, paused +to look searchingly about, and Brian, who was half-hidden by the bushes, +started to call to her, thinking she might be looking for him; but some +impulse checked him and he remained silently watching her. Climbing +hurriedly a little higher up the path Judy again stopped to look +carefully around, as if searching the vicinity for some one. Then, once +more, she went on until she stood on top of the cliff; and now, as she +looked about over the surrounding country, she called: “Mr. Burns! Oh, +Mr. Burns! Who-o-e-e! Mr. Burns!” + +Brian's lips were parted to answer the call when something happened on +top of the bluff which held him for the moment speechless. + +From beyond where Judy stood on the brink of the cliff, a man's head +and shoulders appeared. Brian saw the girl start and turn to face the +newcomer as if in sudden fear. Then she whirled about to run. Before she +could gain the point where the path starts down from the top, the man +caught her and dragged her roughly back, so that the two disappeared +from Brian's sight. Brian was halfway up the bluff when he heard the +girl's shrill scream. + +There was no sign of weakness, now, in the man that Judy had dragged +from the river. He covered the remaining distance to the top in a +breath. From among the bushes, a little way down the mountainside, came +the sound of an angry voice mingled with Judy's pleading cries. + +An instant more, and Brian reached the spot where poor Judy was +crouching on the ground, begging the brute, who stood over her with +menacing fists, not to hit her again. + +The man was a vicious-looking creature, dressed in the rough garb of +the mountaineer; dirty and unkempt, with evil, close-set eyes, and a +scraggly beard that could not hide the wicked, snarling mouth. + +He stood for a second looking at Brian, as if too surprised by the +latter's sudden appearance to move; then he went down, felled by as +clean a knockout as was ever delivered by an Irish fist. + +“Are you hurt, Judy?” demanded Brian, as he lifted the girl to her feet. +“Did he strike you?” + +“He was sure a-fixin' ter lick me somethin' awful when you-all put in,” + returned the poor girl, trembling with fear. “I know, 'cause he's done +hit to me heaps er times before. He's my pap.” + +“Your father!” exclaimed Brian. + +Judy nodded;--then screamed: “Look out! He'll git you, sure!” + +Judy's rescuer whirled, to see the man on the ground drawing a gun. A +vigorous, well-directed kick, delivered in the nick of time, sent the +gun whirling away into the bushes and rendered the native's right arm +useless. + +“Get up!” commanded Brian. + +The man rose to his feet, and stood nursing his damaged wrist and +scowling at Judy's companion. + +“Are you this girl's father?” + +“I reckon I am,” came the sullen reply. “I'm Jap Taylor, an' you-all +are sure goin' to find that you can't come between a man an' his lawful +child in these here mountains, mister,--if you-all be from the city.” + +“And you will find that you can't strike a crippled girl in my presence, +even if she is your daughter,--in these mountains or anywhere else,” + retorted Brian. “What are you trying to do with her, anyway?” + +“I aim ter take her back home with me, where she belongs.” + +“Well, why didn't you go to the house for her like a man, instead of +jumping on her out here in the woods!” + +“Hit ain't none of your dad burned business as I can see,” came the +sullen reply. + +“I am making it my business, just the same,” returned Brian. + +He turned to the girl, who had drawn back a little behind him. “Judy,” + he said, kindly, “I think perhaps you better tell me about this.” + +“Pap, he was a-layin' for me in the bresh 'cause he dassn't come to the +house ter git me,” said the girl, fearfully. + +“But, why does he fear to come to the house?” persisted Brian. + +“'Cause he done give me ter Auntie Sue.” + +“Gave you to Auntie Sue?” repeated the puzzled Brian. + +Jap Taylor interrupted with, “I didn't sign ary paper, an'--” + +“Shut up, you!” snapped Brian. “Go on, Judy.” + +“Hit was a year last corn-plantin',” explained the girl. “My maw, she +died. He used ter whip her, too. An' Auntie Sue was there helpin' weuns; +an' Tom Warden an' some other folks they was there, too; an' they done +fixed hit so that I was ter go an' live with Auntie Sue; an' pap, he +give me ter her. He sure did, Mr. Burns, an' I ain't a-wantin' ter go +with him, no more.” + +The poor girl's shrill monotone broke, and her twisted body shook with +her sobs. + +“I didn't sign ary paper,” repeated Judy's father, with sullen +stubbornness. “An' what's more, I sure ain't a-goin' ter. I 'lows as how +she'll just go home an' work for me, like she ort, 'stead of livin' with +that there old-maid schoolma'am. I'm her paw, I am, an' I reckon I got +rights.” + +He started toward the girl, who drew closer to Brian, and begged +piteously: “Don't let him tech me! 'Fore God, Mr. Burns, he'll kill me, +sure!” + +Brian drew the girl behind him as he faced the father with a brief, “Get +out!” + +The mountaineer hesitated. + +Brian went one step toward him: “Do you hear? Get out! And if you ever +show your dirty face in this vicinity again, I'll not leave a whole bone +in your worthless carcass!” + +And Jap Taylor saw something in those Irish blue eyes that caused him to +start off down the mountain toward the river below Elbow Rock. + +When he had placed a safe distance between himself and the man who +appeared so willing and able to make good his threat, Judy's father +turned, and, shaking his uninjured fist at Brian, delivered a volley +of curses, with: “I'll sure git you-all for this! Jap Taylor ain't +a-lettin' no man come between him an' his'n. I'll fix you, an' I'll fix +that there schoolma'am, too! She's nothin' but a damned old--” + +But Brian started toward him, and Jap Taylor beat a hasty retreat. + +“Never mind, Judy,” said Brian, when the native had disappeared in the +brush and timber that covered the steep mountain-side. “I'll not let +him touch you. Come, let us sit down and talk a little until you are +yourself again. Auntie Sue must not see you like this. We don't want to +let her know anything about it. You won't tell her, will you?” + +“I ain't aimin' ter tell nobody,” said Judy, between sobs. “I sure ain't +a-wantin' ter make no trouble,--not for Auntie Sue, nohow. She's been +powerful good ter me.” + +When they were seated on convenient rocks at the brink of the cliff +overlooking the river, Judy gradually ceased crying, and presently said, +in her normal, querulous monotone: “Did you-all mind what pap 'lowed +he'd do ter Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns?” + +“Yes, Judy; but don't worry, child. He is not going to harm any one +while I am around.” + +“You-all are aimin' ter stay then, be you? I'm sure powerful glad,” said +Judy, simply. + +Brian started. A new factor had suddenly been injected into his problem. + +“I was powerful scared you-all was aimin' ter go away,” continued Judy. +“Hit was that I was a-huntin' you-all to tell you 'bout, when pap he +ketched me.” + +“What were you going to tell me, Judy?” + +“I 'lowed ter tell you-all 'bout Auntie Sue. She'd sure be powerful mad +if she know'd I'd said anythin' ter you, but she's a-needin' somebody +like you ter help her, mighty bad. She--she's done lost a heap of money, +lately: hit was some she sent--” + +Brian interrupted: “Wait a minute, Judy. You must not tell me anything +about Auntie Sue's private affairs; you must not tell any one. Anything +she wants me to know, she will tell me. Do you understand?” he finished +with a reassuring smile. + +“Yes, sir; I reckon you-all are 'bout right, an' I won't tell nobody +nothin'. But 'tain't a-goin' ter hurt none ter say as how you-all ort +ter stay, I reckon.” + +“And why do you think I ought to stay, Judy?” + +“'Cause of what Auntie Sue's done for you-all,--a-nursin' you when you +was plumb crazy an' plumb dangerous from licker, an' a lyin' like she +did ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man,” returned Judy +stoutly; “an' 'cause she's so old an' is a-needin' you-all ter help her; +an' 'cause she is a-lovin' you like she does, an' is a-wantin' you-all +ter stay so bad hit's mighty nigh a-makin' her plumb sick.” + +Brian Kent did not answer. The mountain girl's words had revealed to him +the selfishness of his own consideration of his problem so clearly that +he was stunned. Why had he not, in his thinking, remembered the dear old +gentlewoman who had saved him from a shameful death? + +Judy went on: “Hit looks ter me like somebody just naturally's got ter +take care of Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns. All her whole life she's a-been +takin' care of everybody just like she tuck me, an' just like she tuck +you-all, besides a heap of other ways; an' now she's so old and mighty +nigh plumb wore out, hit sure looks like hit was time somebody was +a-fixin' ter do somethin' for her. That was what I was a-huntin' you-all +ter tell you when pap ketched me, Mr. Burns.” + +“I am glad you told me, Judy;--very glad. You see, I was not thinking of +things in just that way.” + +“I 'lowed maybe you mightn't. Seems like folks mostly don't.” + +“But it's all right, now!” Brian cried heartily. “You have settled it. +I'll stay. We'll take care of Auntie Sue,--you and I, Judy. Come on, +now; let's go to the house, and tell her. But we won't say anything +about your father, Judy;--that would only make her unhappy; and we must +never make Auntie Sue unhappy--never.” He was as eager and enthusiastic, +now, as a schoolboy. + +“'Course,” said Judy, solemnly; “'course you just naturally got ter stay +an' take care of her now, after what pap's done said he'd do.” + +“Yes, Judy; I've just naturally got to stay,” returned Brian. + +Together they went down the steep cliff trail and to the little log +house by the river to announce Brian's decision to Auntie Sue. They +found the dear old lady in her favorite spot on the porch overlooking +the river. + +“Why, of course you will stay,” she returned, when Brian had told her. +“The river brought you to me, and you know, my dear boy, the river is +never wrong. Oh, yes, I know there are cross-currents and crooked spots +and sand-bars and rocks and lots of places where it SEEMS to us to be +wrong. But, just the same, it all goes on, all the time, toward the sea +for which it starts when it first begins at some little spring away +over there somewhere in the mountains. Of course you will stay with me, +Brian,--until the river carries you on again.” + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +RE-CREATION. + + +From the very day of his decision, to which he had been so unexpectedly +helped by Judy, Brian Kent was another man. The gloomy, despondent, +undecided spirit that was the successor of the wretched creature that +Judy had helped to Auntie Sue's that morning was now succeeded by a +cheerful, hopeful, contented man, who went to his daily task with a +song, did his work with a smile and a merry jest, and returned, when the +day was done, with peace in his heart and laughter on his lips. + +As the days of the glorious Ozark autumn passed, Brian's healthful, +outdoor work on the timbered mountain-side brought to the man of the +cities a physical grace and beauty he had lacked,--the grace of physical +strength and the beauty of clean and rugged health. The bright autumn +sun and the winds that swept over the many miles of tree-clad hills +browned his skin; while his work with the ax developed his muscles and +enforced deep breathing of the bracing mountain air, thus bringing +a more generous supply of richer blood, which touched his now firmly +rounded cheeks with color. + +The gift of humor and the faculty of quaint and witty conversational +twists, with the genius of storytelling that was his from his Irish +mother, made quick friends for him of the mountain neighbors who +welcomed this new pupil of their old school-teacher with whole-hearted +pleasure, and quoted his jests and sayings throughout the country with +never-failing delight. And Judy,--it is not too much to say that Judy +became his most ardent admirer and devoted slave. + +But the dear old mistress of the little log house by the river alone +recognized that these outward changes in the human wreck that the +river had brought to her were but manifestations of a more potent +transformation that was taking place in the man's inner life; and it was +this inner change that filled the teacher's loving heart with joy, and +which she watched with keen and delighted interest. + +It was not, after all, a new life that was coming to this man, Auntie +Sue told herself; it was his own old and more real life that was +reassuring itself. It was the real Brian Kent that had been sojourning +in a far country that was now coming home to his own. It was the wealth +of his heart and mind and soul which had been deep-buried under an +accumulation of circumstances and environment that was now being brought +to the surface. + +Might it not be that Auntie Sue's genius for absorbing beauty and making +truth her own had, in her many years of searching for truth and beauty +in whatever humanity she encountered, developed in her a peculiar +sensitiveness? And was it not this that had made her feel instinctively +the real nature of the man in whom a less discerning observer would have +recognized nothing worthy of admiration or regard? Without question, +it was the true,--the essential,--the underlying,--elements in the +character of the absconding bank clerk that had aroused in this +remarkable old gentlewoman the peculiar sense of kinship--of +possession--that had determined her attitude toward the stranger. The +law that like calls to like is not less applicable to things spiritual +than to things material. The birds of a feather that always flock +together are not of necessity material birds of material feathers. + +Nor was Brian Kent himself unconscious of his Re-Creation. The man knew +what he was, as every man knows deep within himself the real self that +is. And that was the horror of the situation which had set him adrift on +the river that night when, in his last drunken despairing frenzy, he had +left the world with a curse in his heart and had faced the black unknown +with reckless laughter and a profane toast. It is to be doubted if +there can be a hell of greater torment than that experienced by one who, +endowed by nature with a capacity for great living, is betrayed by the +very strength of his genius into a situation that is intolerable of his +real self, and is forced, thus, to a continuous self-crucifixion and +death. + +In his new environment the man felt the awakening of this self which he +had mourned as dead. Thoughts, emotions, dreams, aspirations, which had, +as he believed, been killed, he found were not dead, but only sleeping; +and in the quickening of their vitality and strength he knew a joy as +great as had been his despair. + +The beauty of nature, that had lost its power of appeal to his sodden +soul, now stirred him to the very depth of his being. The crisp, +sun-sweet air of the autumn mornings, when he went forth with his ax +to the day's clean labor, was a draught of potent magic that set every +nerve of him tingling with delight. The woodland hillside, where he +worked, was a wonderland of beautiful creations that inspired a thousand +glowing fancies. Sometimes, at his heavy task, he would pause for a +moment's rest, and so would look out and away over the vast expanse of +country that from his feet stretched in all its charm of winding river +and wooded slopes, and tree-fringed ridges to the far, blue sky-line; +and the very soul of him would answer to the call as he had thought he +never could answer again. The very clouds that drifted past on their +courses to unseen ports beyond the hills were freighted with meaning for +him now. The winds that came laden with the subtly blended perfume +of ten thousand varieties of trees and grasses and shrubs and flowers +whispered words of life which he now could hear. The loveliness of the +glowing morning skies, as he saw them when he rose for the day's work, +and the glories of the sunsets, as he watched them with Auntie Sue +from the porch when the day's task was accomplished, filled him with an +exquisite gladness which he had never hoped to know again. + +Most of all, did the river speak to him; not, indeed, as it had spoken +that dreadful night, when, from the window of his darkened room, he had +listened to its call: the river spoke, now, in the full day as his eye +followed its winding length through the hills in all its varied beauty +of sunshine and shadow;--of gleaming silver and living green and +russet-brown. It talked to him in the evening when the waters gave back +the glories of the sky and the deepening twilight wrapped the world in +its dusky veil of mystery. It spoke to him in the soft darkness of the +night, as it swept on its way under the stars, or in the light of the +golden moon. And, in time, some of these things which the river said to +him, he, in turn, told to Auntie Sue. + +And Auntie Sue, delighted with the man's awakening self, and charmed +with his power of thought and his gift of expression, led him on. +With artful suggestion and skilful question and subtle argument, she +stimulated his mind and fancy to lay hold of the truths and beauties +that life and nature offered. But ever the rare old gentlewoman was his +teacher, revealing himself to himself; guiding him to a fuller discovery +and knowledge of his own life and its meaning, which, indeed, is the +true aim and end of all right teaching. + +So the days of the autumn passed. The hills changed their robes of +varied green for costumes of brown and gold, with touches here and there +of flaming scarlet and brilliant yellow. And then winter was at hand, +and that momentous evening came when Auntie Sue said to her pupil, after +an hour of most interesting talk, “Brian, why in the world don't you +write a book?” + +“'A book'!” exclaimed Brian, in a startled tone. + +Judy laughed. “He sure ought ter. Lord knows he talks like one.” + +“I am in earnest, Brian,” said Auntie Sue, her lovely old eyes shining +with enthusiasm and her gentle voice trembling with excitement. “I have +been thinking about it for a long time, now, and, to-night, I just can't +keep it to myself any longer. Why don't you give to the world some of +the thoughts you have been wasting on Judy and me?” + +“Hit's sure been a-wastin' of 'em on me,” agreed Judy. “'Fore God, I +don't sense what he's a-talkin' 'bout, more'n half the time.” + +Brian laughed. “Judy is prophetic, Auntie Sue. She voices perfectly the +sentiment of the world toward any book I might write.” + +Auntie Sue detected a note of bitterness underlying the laughing +comment, and wondered. + +Judy spoke again as she arose to retire to her room for the night: “I +reckon as how there's a right smart of things youuns talk that'd be +mighty fine if a body only had the learnin' ter sense 'em. An' there +must be heaps of folks where youuns come from what would know Mr. +Burns's meaning if he was to write hit all out plain. Everybody ain't +like me. Hit's sure a God's-blessin' they ain't, too.” + +“And there, Brian, dear, is your answer,” said Auntie Sue, as Judy left +the room. “Any book has meaning only for those who have the peculiar +sympathy and understanding needed to interpret it. A book that means +nothing to one may be rich in meaning for another. Every writer writes +for his own peculiar readers, just as every individual has his own +peculiar friends.” + +“Or enemies,” said Brian. + +“Or enemies,” agreed Auntie Sue. + +Brian went to the window, and stood for some time, looking out into the +night. Then turning, with a nervous gesture, he paced uneasily up +and down the room; while Auntie Sue watched him in silence with an +expression of loving concern on her dear old face. + +At last, she spoke: “Why, Brian, what is the matter? What have I said? +I did not mean to upset you like this. Come, sit down here, and tell me +about it. What is it troubles you so?” + +With a short laugh, Brian came and stood before her. “I suppose it had +to come sooner or later, Auntie Sue. I have been trying for days to +muster up courage enough to tell you about it. You have touched the one +biggest thing in my life.” + +“Why, what do you mean, Brian?” + +“I mean just what we have been talking about,--writing,” answered Brian. + +“Oh!” she cried, with quick and delighted triumph. “Then I AM right. You +have been thinking about it, too.” + +“Thinking about it!” he echoed, and in his voice she felt the nervous +intensity of his mood. “I have thought of nothing else. All day long +when I am at work, I am writing, writing, writing. It is the last thing +on my mind when I go to sleep. I dream about it all night. And, it is +the first thing I think about in the morning.” + +Auntie Sue clasped her hands to her heart with an exclamation of joyous +interest. + +Brian, with a quiet smile at her enthusiasm, went on: “I know exactly +what I want to say, and why I want to say it. There is a world of +people, Auntie Sue, whose lives have been broken and spoiled by one +thing or another, and who have more or less cut themselves loose from +everything, and are just drifting, they don't care a hang where, because +they think they have failed so completely that there is nothing more +in life for them. People like me,--I don't mean thieves and criminals +necessarily,--who have had that which they know to be the best and +biggest and truest part of themselves tortured and warped and twisted +and denied and smashed and beaten and betrayed and killed; and who, +because they feel that their real selves are dead within them, don't +care what happens to that part which is left.” + +He was walking the floor again now, and speaking with a depth of feeling +which he had never before revealed to his gentle companion. + +“It is not so much the love of wrong-doing that makes people turn +bad,”--he continued,--“it is having their real selves misunderstood and +doubted and smothered and their realest loves and dreams and aspirations +never recognized, or else distorted and twisted and made to appear +as something they hate. I want to make the people--and there are many +thousands of them--who are suffering in the living hell that tormented +me, feel that I know and understand. And then, Auntie Sue, then I want +to tell them about you and your river. + +“I would teach them the things you have taught me. I would say to every +one that I could persuade to listen: 'It doesn't in the least matter +what your experience is, the old river is still going on to the sea. +No matter if every woman you ever knew has proved untrue, virtuous +womanhood still IS. No matter if every man you ever knew has proved +false, true manhood still IS. If every friend you ever had has betrayed +your friendship, loyal friendship still IS. If you have found nothing +in your experience but dishonesty and falsehood and infidelity and +hypocrisy, it is only because you have been unfortunate in your +experience; because honesty and fidelity and sincerity are existing +FACTS. They are the very foundation facts of life, and can no more fail +life than the river can fail to reach the sea. + +“'Your little individual experience, my little individual +experience,--what are they? They are nothing more than the tiny bubbles, +swirls, ripples, and breaks on the surface of the great volume of water +that flows so inevitably onward. The bit of foam, the tiny wave caused +by twig or branch or blade of water-grass, or the great rocks and cliffs +that make the roaring whirlpools and rapids,--do they stay the waters, +or turn the river back on its course, or in any way prevent its +onward flow? No more can the twigs of circumstances, or the boughs of +environment, or the grasses of accident that make the tiny waves of our +individual experiences,--or even the great rocks and cliffs of national +or racial import,--such as wars, and pestilence, and famine,--finally +check or stay the river of life in its onward flow toward the sea of its +final and infinite meaning.'” + +He went again to the window, and stood looking out into the night as +though listening to the voices. + +“Why, Auntie Sue,” he said, turning back to the old gentlewoman,--and +his face was radiant with the earnestness of this thought,--“Auntie Sue, +there are as many currents in our river out there as there are human +lives. A comparatively few great main or dominant currents in the river +flow--a comparatively few great dominant currents in the river flow of +life. But if you look closer, you will see that in each one of +those established principal currents there are countless +thousands--millions--of tiny currents all turning and twisting across, +and back, and up, and down in every direction,--weaving +themselves together,--pulling themselves apart,--criss-crossing, +clashing,--interlacing,--tangled and confused,--and these are the +individual lives. And no matter what the conflict or confusion; no +matter what direction they take for the moment, they all, ALL, go to +make up the river;--they, all together, ARE the river,--and they all +together move onward,--ceaselessly, inevitably, irresistibly.” + +He paused to stand smiling down at her, as she sat there in her low +chair beside the table with the lamplight on her silvery hair,--there in +the little log house by the river. + +“That is what you have made your river mean to me, Auntie Sue; and that +is what I would give to the world.” + +With trembling hands, the gentle old teacher reached for her +handkerchief, which lay in the sewing-basket on the table beside her. +Smilingly, she wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. Lovingly, +she looked up at him,--standing so tall and strong before her, with his +reddish hair tumbled and tossed, and his Irish blue eyes lighted with +the fire of his inspiration. + +“Well,” she said, at last, “why don't you do it, Brian?” + +As a breath of air puts out the light of a candle, so the light went +from Brian Kent's face. Dropping into his chair, he answered hopelessly, +“Because I am afraid.” + +“Afraid?” echoed Auntie Sue, troubled and amazed. “What in the world are +you afraid of, Brian?” + +And the bitter, bitter answer came, “I am afraid of another failure.” + +Auntie Sue's quick mind caught the significance of his words. “ANOTHER +failure, Brian? Then you,--then you have written before?” + +“Yes,” he returned. And not since his decision to remain with her had +she seen him so despondent. “To write was the dream and the passion of +my life. I tried and tried. God, how I worked and slaved at it! The only +result from my efforts was the hell from which you dragged me.” + +Alter a little silence, Auntie Sue said gently: “I don't think I +understand, Brian. You have never told me about your trouble, you know.” + +“It is an old, old story,” he returned. “I am only one of thousands. My +wretched experience is not at all uncommon.” + +“I know,” she answered. “But don't you think that perhaps you had better +tell me? Perhaps, in the mere telling of it to me, now that it is all +over, you may find the real reason for--for what happened to you.” + +Wise Auntie Sue!--wise in that rarest of all wisdom,--the sympathetic +understanding of human hearts and souls. + +“You know about my earlier life,” he began; “how, in my boyhood, after +mother's death, I worked at anything I could do to keep myself alive, +and how I managed to gain a little schooling. I was always dreaming of +writing, even then. I took the business course in a night-school, not +because I liked it, but because I thought it would help me to earn a +living in a way that would give me more time for what I really wanted +to do. And after I finished school, and had finally worked up to a good +position in that bank, I did have more time for my writing. But,”--he +hesitated--“I--well,--other interests had come into my life,--and--” + +Auntie Sue said, softly, “She did not understand, Brian.” + +“No, she did not understand,” he continued, accepting Auntie Sue's +interpretation without comment. “And when my writing brought no money, +because no publisher would accept my stuff, and the conditions under +which I wrote became intolerable because of misunderstanding and +opposition and disbelief in my ability and charges of neglect, +I--I--stole money from my employers to gain temporary relief until my +writing should amount to something. You see, I could not help believing +that I would succeed, in time. I suppose all dreamers have more or less +confidence in their dreams: they must, you know, or their dreams would +never be realized. I always expected to pay back the money I took with +the money I would earn by my pen. But I failed to earn anything, you +see; and then--then the inevitable happened, and the river brought me to +you.” + +“But, my dear boy!” cried Auntie Sue, “all this that you have told me +is no reason why you should fear to write now. Indeed, it is a very good +reason why you should not fear.” + +He looked at her questioningly, and she continued: “You have given every +reason in the world why you failed. Your whole life was out of tune. +How could you expect to produce anything worthy from such a jangling +discord? You should have been afraid, indeed, to write THEN. But, +NOW,--now, Brian, you are ready. You are a long, long way down the river +from the place of your failures. The disturbing, distracting things +are past,--just as in the quiet reach of the river below Elbow Rock the +turmoil of the rapids is past. You say that you know exactly what +you want to write, and why you want to write it--and you do know--and +because you know,--because you have suffered,--because you have +learned,--because you can do this thing for others,--it is yours to do, +and so you must do it. What you really mean when you say you are 'afraid +to write' is, that you are AFRAID NOT TO,” she finished with a little +laugh of satisfaction. + +And Brian Kent, as he watched her glowing face and felt the sincerity +and confidence that vibrated in her voice, was thrilled with a new +courage. The fires of his inspiration shone again in his eyes, as he +answered, with deep conviction, “Auntie Sue, I believe you are right. +What a woman you are!” + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE. + + +So Brian wrote his book that winter. + +When the days were fair, he worked with his ax on the mountain-side. But +his notebook was ever at hand, and many a thought that went down on the +pages of his manuscript was born while he wrought with his hands in the +wholesome labor which gave strength to his body and clearness to his +brain. In the evenings, he wrote in the little log house by the river, +with Auntie Sue sitting in her chair beside the table,--the lamp-light +on her silvery hair, and her sewing-basket within reach of her +hand,--engaged with some bit of needlework, a book, or perhaps with one +of her famous letters to some other pupil, far away. The stormy days +gave him many hours with his pen, and so the book grew. + +And always as the man endeavored to shape his thoughts for the printed +pages that would carry his message to the doubting, disconsolate, and +fearful world that he knew so well, he heard in his heart the voices of +the river. From the hillside where he worked in the timber he could see +the stream winding through the snowy hills like a dark line carelessly +drawn with many a crook and curve and break on the sheet of white. From +the porch he saw the quiet Bend a belt of shining ice and snow, save for +a narrow line in the centre, which marked the course of the strongest +currents; while the waters of the rapids crashed black and dreadful +against the Elbow Rock cliff, which stood gaunt and grim amid the +surrounding whiteness; and in the deathlike hush of the winter twilight, +the roar of the turmoil sounded with persistent menace. And all that the +river said to him he put down,--so far as it was given him to do. + +And that which Brian Kent wrote was good. He knew it--in his deepest, +truest self he knew. And Auntie Sue knew it; for, of course, he read +to her from his manuscript as the book grew under his hand. Even Judy +caught much of his story's meaning, and marvelled at herself because +she, too, could understand. + +So the spring came, and the first writing of the book was nearly +finished. + +And now the question arose: What would they do about the final +preparation of the manuscript for the printers? Brian explained that he +should have a typewritten copy of his script, which he would work over, +correct, and revise, and from which perfected copy the final manuscript +would be typewritten. But neither Auntie Sue nor Brian would consider +his finishing the book anywhere but in the little log house by the +river; even if there had been no other reason why Brian should not go to +the city, if it could be avoided. + +“There is only one thing to do,”--said Auntie Sue, at last, when the +matter had been discussed several times,--“we must send for Betty Jo. +She has been studying stenography in a business college in Cincinnati, +and, in her latest letter to me, she wrote that she would finish in +April. I'll just write her to come right here, and bring her typewriter +along. She will need a vacation, and she can have it and do your work at +the same time. Besides, I need to see Betty Jo. She hasn't been to visit +me since before Judy came.” + +Brian thought that Auntie Sue seemed a little nervous and excited as she +spoke, but he attributed it to her combined interest in the book and in +the proposed typist. The man could not know the real cause of his gentle +old companion's agitation, nor with what anxiety she had considered the +matter for many days before she announced her plan. The fact was that +Auntie Sue was taking a big chance, and she realized it fully. But +she could find no other way to secure the services of a competent +stenographer for Brian, and, as Brian must have a competent stenographer +in order to finish his book properly, she had decided to accept the +risk. + +“That sounds all right, Auntie Sue,” returned Brian. “But who, pray +tell, is Betty Jo?” + +“Betty Jo is,”--Auntie Sue paused and laughed with a suggestion of +embarrassed confusion,--“Betty Jo is--just Betty Jo, Brian,” she +finished. + +Brian laughed now. “Fine, Auntie Sue! That describes her exactly,--tells +me her life's history and gives me a detailed account of her +family,--ancestors and all.” + +“It describes her with more accuracy than you think,” retorted Auntie +Sue, smiling in return at his teasing manner. + +“I reckon as how she's got more of er name than that, ain't she?” said +Judy, who was a silent, but intensely interested, listener. “I've +allus took notice that folks with funny names'll stand a right smart of +watchin'.” + +Brian and Auntie Sue laughed together at this, but the old lady said, +with a show of spirit: “Judy! You know nothing about it! You never even +saw Betty Jo! You shouldn't say such things, child.” + +“Might as well say 'em as ter think 'em, I reckon,” Judy returned, her +beady-black eyes stealthily watching Brian. + +“What is your Betty Jo's real name, Auntie Sue?” asked Brian, curiously. + +Again Auntie Sue seemed to hesitate; then--“Her name is Miss Betty Jo +Williams,” and as she spoke the old teacher looked straight at Brian. + +“A perfectly good name,” Brian returned; “but I never heard of her +before.” + +Judy's black eyes, with their stealthy, oblique look, were now +watchfully fixed on Auntie Sue. + +“She is the orphan-niece of one of my old pupils,” Auntie Sue continued. +“I have known her since she was a baby. When she finished her education +in the seminary, and had travelled abroad for a few months, she decided +all at once that she wanted a course in a business college, which was +just what any one knowing her would expect her to do.” + +“Sounds steady and reliable,” commented Brian. “But will she come?” + +“Yes, indeed, she will, and be tickled to death over the job,” returned +Auntie Sue. “I'll write her at once.” + +While Auntie Sue was preparing to write her letter, Judy muttered, in +a tone which only Brian heard: “Just the same, 'tain't no name for a +common gal ter have; hit sure ain't. There's somethin' dad burned queer +'bout hit somewhere.” + +“Nonsense! Judy,” said Brian in a low voice; “don't worry Auntie Sue.” + +“I ain't aimin' ter worry her none,” returned the mountain girl; “but +I'll bet you-all a pretty that this here gal'll worry both of youuns +'fore you are through with her;--me, too, I reckon.” + +For some reason, Auntie Sue's letter to Betty Jo seemed to be rather +long. In fact, she spent the entire evening at it; which led Judy to +remark that “hit sure looked like Auntie Sue was aimin' ter write a book +herself.” + +A neighbor who went to Thompsonville the following day with a load of +hogs for shipment, posted the letter. And, in due time, another neighbor +brought the answer. Betty Jo would come. + +It was the day following the evening when Brian wrote the last page of +his book that another letter came to Auntie Sue,--a letter which, for +the second time, very nearly wrecked Brian Kent's world. + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +JUDY TO THE RESCUE. + + +Brian was working in the garden. It was early in the afternoon, and the +man, as he worked in the freshly ploughed ground, was rejoicing at the +completion of his book. + +Straightening up from his labor, he drew a deep breath of the fragrant +air. About him on every side, and far away into the blue distance, the +world was dressed in the gala dress of the season. The river, which at +the breaking of the winter had been a yellow flood that washed the top +of the bank in front of the house and covered the bottom-lands on the +opposite side, was again its normal self, and its voice to him, now, was +a singing voice of triumphal gladness. + +For Brian, too, the world was new, and fresh, and beautiful. The world +of his winter was gone. He had found himself in his work, and in the +glorious consciousness of the fact he felt like shouting with sheer joy +of living. + +“And Auntie Sue, dear Auntie Sue,” he thought, looking with love in +his eyes toward the house, how wonderful she had been in her helpful +understanding and never-failing faith in him. After all, it was Auntie +Sue's triumph more than it was his. + +His happy musing was interrupted by a neighbor who, on his way home from +Thompsonville, stopped at the garden fence with the letter for Auntie +Sue. + +Brian took the letter with a jest which brought a roar of laughter from +the mountaineer, and, when the latter had gone on his way up the hill, +started toward the house to find Auntie Sue. + +Glancing at the envelope in his hand, Brian noticed the postmark “Buenos +Aires.” He stopped suddenly, staring dumbly at the words in the circular +mark and at the name written on the envelope. Over and over, he +read “Buenos Aires,--Miss Susan Wakefield; Buenos Aires,--Miss Susan +Wakefield.” Something--His brain seemed to be numb. His hands trembled. +He looked about at the familiar surroundings, and everything seemed +suddenly strange and unreal to him. He looked again at the letter in his +hand, turning it curiously. A strange feeling of oppression and ominous +foreboding possessed him as though the bright spring sky were all at +once overcast with heavy and menacing storm-clouds. What was it? “Buenos +Aires,--Susan Wakefield?” Where had he seen that combination before? +What was it that made the name of the Argentine city in connection with +Auntie Sue's name seem so familiar? Slowly, he went on to the house, +and, finding Auntie Sue, gave her the letter. + +“Oh!” cried the old lady, as she saw the postmark on the envelope. “It +must be from brother John. It is not John's writing, though,” she added, +as she opened the envelope. + +And at her words the feeling of impending disaster so oppressed Brian +Kent that only by an effort could he control himself. He was possessed +of the strange sensation of having at some time in the past lived the +identical experience through which he was at that moment passing. “Susan +Wakefield;--a brother John in Buenos Aires, Argentine;--the letter!” It +was all so familiar that the allusion was startling in its force. But +that ominous cloud,--that sense of some great trouble near that filled +him with such unaccountable dread--what could it mean? + +An exclamation from Auntie Sue drew his attention. She looked at him +with tear-filled eyes, and her sweet voice broke as she said: “Brian! +Brian! John is dead! This--this letter is from the doctor who attended +him.” + +Tenderly, as he would have helped his own mother, Brian assisted Auntie +Sue to her room. For a little while he sat with her, trying to comfort +her with such poor words as he could find. + +Briefly, she told him of the brother who had lived in Argentine for many +years. He had married a South-American woman whom Auntie Sue had never +seen, and while not wealthy had been moderately prosperous. But he +had never forgotten his sister who was so alone in the world. “Several +times, when he could, he sent me money for my savings-bank account,” she +finished simply, her sweet old voice low and tender with the memories +of the years that were gone. “John and I were always very fond of each +other. He was a good man, Brian.” + +Brian Kent sat like a man stricken dumb. Auntie Sue's words, “he sent me +money for my savings-bank account,” had made the connection between the +names “Buenos Aires, Argentine; John Wakefield; Susan Wakefield,” and +the thing for which his mind had been groping with such a sense of +impending disaster. + +In her grief over the death of her brother, and in her memories of their +home years so long past, dear old Auntie Sue had forgotten the peculiar +meaning her words might have for the former clerk of the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank who sat beside her, and to whom she turned in +her sorrow as a mother to a dearly beloved son. + +“But it is all right, Brian, dear,” she said with brave cheerfulness. +“When one has watched the sunsets for seventy years, one ceases to fear +the coming of the night, for always there is the morning. Just let me +rest here alone for a little while, and I will be myself again.” + +She looked up at him with a smile, and Brian Kent, kneeling beside the +bed, bowed his head and caught the dear old hands to his lips. Without +trusting himself to speak again, the man left the room,--closing the +door. + +He moved about the apartment as one in a dream. With a vividness that +was torture, he lived again that hour in the bank when, opening the +afternoon mail, he had found the letter from Susan Wakefield with the +Argentine notes, which her letter said she had received from her brother +John in Buenos Aires, and which she was sending to the bank for deposit +to her little account. It had been a very unbusinesslike letter and a +very unbusinesslike way to transmit money. It was, indeed, this nature +of the transaction that had tempted the hard-pressed clerk. + +Mechanically, Brian stopped at his writing-table to finger the +manuscript which he had finished the evening before. Was it only the +evening before? Taking up the volume of closely written sheets which +were bound together by a shoestring that Auntie Sue had laughingly found +for him, when he had so joyously announced the completion of the last +page of his book, he turned the leaves idly,--reading here and there +a sentence with curious interest. The terrific mental strain of his +situation completely divorced him, as it were, from the life which he +had lived during those happy months just past, and which was so fully +represented by his work. + +Again the river, swinging around a sudden turn in its course, had come +upon a passage where its peaceful flow was broken by the wild turmoil of +the troubled waters. + +“And Auntie Sue,”--something within the man's self was saying,--“dear +Auntie Sue, who had saved him, not only from death, but from the hell +of the life that he had formerly lived, as well; and whose loving +companionship and sympathetic understanding had so inspired and +strengthened him in the work which had been the passionate desire of his +heart;--the gentle old teacher whose life had been so completely given +to others, and who, in the helplessness of her last years, was so +alone,--Auntie Sue was depending upon that money which her brother had +sent her as the only support of the closing days of her life. Auntie Sue +believed that her money was safe in the bank. That belief was to her +a daily comfort. Auntie Sue did not know that she was almost +penniless;--that the man whom she had saved with such a wondrous +salvation had robbed her, and left her so shamefully without means +for the necessities of life. Auntie Sue did not know. But she would +know,”--that inner voice went on. “The time would come when she +would learn the truth. It was certain to come. It might come any day. +Then--then--” + +As one moving without conscious purpose, Brian Kent went from the +house,--the manuscript in his hand. + +Judy was sitting idly on the porch steps. At sight of the mountain girl +the man knew all at once that there was one thing he must do. He must +make sure that there was no mistake. He was already sure, of course; but +still, as a condemned man at the scaffold hopes against hope for a stay +of sentence, so he caught at the shadowy suggestion of a possibility. + +“Come with me, Judy,” he said, forcing himself to speak coolly; “I want +to talk with you.” + +Judy arose, and, looking at him in her stealthy, oblique way, said, +in her drawling monotone: “What's happened ter Auntie Sue? Was there +somethin' in that there letter Bud Jackson give you-all for her what's +upset her?” + +“Auntie Sue's brother is dead, Judy,” Brian answered. “She wishes to be +alone, and we must not disturb her. She will be all right in a little +while. Come, let us walk down toward the bluff.” + +When they had reached a spot on the river-bank a short distance above +the Elbow Rock cliff, Brian said to his companion: “Judy, I want you +to tell me something. Did Auntie Sue ever send money in a letter to the +Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, in Chicago?” + +“The black, beady eyes shifted evasively, and the mountain girl turned +her sallow, old-young face away from Brian's direct gaze. + +“Look at me, Judy.” + +She sent a stealthy, oblique glance in his direction. + +“You must tell me.” + +“I done started ter tell you-all onct,--that time pap ketched me,--an' +you-all 'lowed as how I oughten ter tell nothin' 'bout Auntie Sue to +nobody.” + +“But it is different now, Judy,” returned Brian. “Something has happened +that makes it necessary for me to know.” + +“Meanin' that there letter 'bout her brother bein' dead?” asked Judy, +shrewdly. + +“Yes.” + +“What you-all got ter know for?” + +“Because--” Brian could not finish. + +Judy's beady eyes were watching him intently, now. “Hit looks like +you-all ain't a-needin' me ter tell you-all anythin',” she observed +dryly. + +“Then Auntie Sue did send money?” + +“She sure did. I seed her fix hit in the letter, myself,” came the +answer. + +“What kind of money?” + +“I dunno,--some funny kind hit was,--what her brother done sent her from +some funny place, I dunno just where.” + +“When did she send it?” + +“'Bout a month 'fore you come.” + +“And--and did any letter ever come from the bank to tell her that the +money was received by them all right?” + +The mountain girl did not answer, but again turned her face away. + +“Tell me,” Brian insisted. “I--I--must know, Judy,” and his voice was +harsh and broken with emotion. + +The answer came reluctantly: “I reckon you-all knows where that there +money went ter.” + +The girl's answer sent a new thought like a hot iron into Brian Kent's +tortured brain. He caught Judy's arm in quick and fearful excitement. +“Judy!” he gasped, imploringly, “Judy, do you--? does Auntie Sue know--? +does she know that I--?” + +“How could she help knowin'? She ain't no fool. An' I done heard that +there Sheriff an' the deteckertive man tellin' her 'bout you an' the +bank. An' the Sheriff, he done give her a paper what he said told all +'bout what you-all done, an' she must er burned the paper, or done +somethin' with hit, 'cause I couldn't never find hit after that night. +An' what would she do that for? And what for did she make me promise not +ter ever say nothin' ter you-all 'bout that there money letter? An' why +ain't she said nothin' to you 'bout the letter from the bank not comin', +if she didn't know hit was you 'stead of them what done got the money?” + +The girl paused for a moment, and then went on in a tone of reverent +wonder: “An' to think that all the time she could a-turned you-all over +to that there Sheriff an' got the money-reward to pay her back what +you-all done tuck.” + +Brian Kent was as one who had received a mortal hurt. His features were +distorted with suffering. With eyes that could not see, he looked down +at the manuscript to which he still unconsciously clung; and, again, +he fingered the pages of his work as though some blind instinct were +sending his tormented soul to seek relief in the message which, during +the happy months just past, he had written for others. + +And the deformed mountain girl, who stood before him with twisted body +and old-young face, grew fearful as she watched the suffering of this +man whom she had come to look upon as a superior being from some world +which she, in her ignorance, could never know. + +“Mr. Burns,” she said at last, putting out her hand and plucking at his +sleeve, “Mr. Burns, you-all ain't got no call ter be like this. You-all +ain't plumb bad. I knows you ain't, 'count of the way you-all have +been ter me an' 'cause you kept pap from hurtin' me, an' 'cause you are +takin' care of Auntie Sue like you're doin'. Hit ain't no matter 'bout +the money, now, 'cause you-all kin take care of her allus.” + +Brian looked up from the manuscript in his hand, and stared dumbly at +the girl, as if he failed to hear her clearly. + +“An' just think 'bout your book,” Judy continued pleadingly. “Think +'bout all them fine things you-all have done wrote down for everybody +ter read,--'bout the river allus a-goin' on just the same, no matter +what happens, an' 'bout Auntie Sue an'--” + +She stopped, and drew away from him, frightened at the look that came +into the man's face. + +“Don't, Mr. Burns! Don't!” she half-screamed. “'Fore God, you-all +oughten ter look like that!” + +The man threw up his head, and laughed,--laughed as the wild, reckless +and lost Brian Kent had laughed that black night when, in the drifting +boat, he had cursed the life he was leaving and had drunk his profane +toast to the darkness into which he was being carried. + +Raising the manuscript, which represented all that the past months of +his re-created life had meant to him, and grasping it in both hands, he +shook it contemptuously, as he said, with indescribable bitterness and +the reckless surrendering of every hope: “'All them fine things that I +have wrote down for everybody ter read.'” He mimicked her voice with a +sneer, and laughed again. Then: “It's all a lie, Judy, dear;--a damned +lie. Auntie Sue is a saint, and believes it. She made me believe it +for a little while,--her beautiful, impossible dream-philosophy of the +river. The river,--hell!--the river is as treacherous and cruel and +false and tricky and crooked as life itself! And I am as warped and +twisted in mind and soul as you are in body, Judy, dear. Neither of us +can help it. We were made that way by the river. To hell with the whole +impossible mess of things!” With a gesture of violent rage, he turned +toward the river, and, taking a step forward, lifted the manuscript high +above his head. + +Judy screamed, “Mr. Burns, don't!” + +He paused an instant, and, turning his head, looked at her with another +laugh. + +“'Fore God, you dassn't do that!” she implored. + +And then, as the man turned his face from her, and his arms went back +above his head for the swing that would send the manuscript far out into +the tumbling waters of the rapids, she leaped toward him, and, catching +his arm, hampered his movement so that the book fell a few feet from the +shore, where the water, checked a little in its onward rush to the cliff +by the irregular bank, boiled and eddied among the rocky ledges and huge +boulders that retarded its force. Another leap carried the mountain girl +to the edge of the bank, where she crouched like a runner ready for +the report of the starter's pistol, her black, beady eyes searching the +stream for the volume of manuscript, which had disappeared from sight, +drawn down by the troubled swirling currents. + +The man, watching her, laughed in derision; but, while his mocking +laughter was still on his lips, the boiling currents brought the book, +again, to the surface, and Brian saw the girl leave the bank as if +thrown by a powerful spring. Straight and true she dived for the book, +and even as she disappeared beneath the surface her hands clutched the +manuscript. + +For a second, Brian Kent held his place as if paralyzed with horror. +Then, as Judy's head appeared farther down the stream, he ran with +all his strength along the bank to gain a point a little ahead of the +swimming girl before he should leap to her rescue. + +But Judy, trained from her birth on that mountain river, knew better +than Brian what to do. A short distance below the point where she had +plunged into the stream, a huge boulder, some two or three feet from the +shore, caused a split in the current, one fork of which set in toward +the bank. Swimming desperately, the girl gained the advantage of this +current, and, just as Brian reached the spot, she was swept against +the bank, where, with her free hand, she caught and held fast to a +projecting root. Had she been carried past that point, nothing could +have saved her from being swept on into the wild turmoil of the waters +at Elbow Rock. + +It was the work of a moment for Brian to throw himself flat on the +ground at the edge of the bank and, reaching down, to grasp the girl's +wrist. Another moment, and she was safe beside him, his manuscript still +tightly held under one arm. + +Not realizing, in his excitement, what he was doing, Brian shook the +girl, saying angrily: “What in the world do you mean, taking such a +crazy-fool chance as that!” + +She broke away from him with: “Well, what'd you-all go an' do such a +dad burned fool thing for? Hit's you-all what's crazy yourself--plumb +crazy!” + +Brian held out his hand: “Give me that manuscript!” + +Judy clutched the book tighter, and drew back defiantly. “I won't. +You-all done throwed hit away onct. 'Tain't your'n no more, nohow.” + +“Well, what do you purpose to do with it?” said the puzzled man, in a +gentler tone. + +“I aims ter give hit ter Auntie Sue,” came the startling reply. “I +reckon she'll know what ter do. Hit allus was more her'n than your'n, +anyhow. You done said so yourself. I heard you only last night when +you-all was so dad burned tickled at gittin' hit done. You-all ain't got +no right ter sling hit inter the river, an', anyway, I ain't a-goin' ter +let you.” + +“Which sounds very sensible to me,” came a clear voice from a few feet +distant. + +Judy and Brian turned quickly, to face a young woman who stood regarding +them thoughtfully, with a suggestion of a smile on her very attractive +face. + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +BETTY JO CONSIDERS. + + +The most careless eye would have seen instantly that the newcomer was +not a native of that backwoods district. She was not a large woman, but +there was, nevertheless, a full, rounded strength, which saved her +trim and rather slender body from appearing small. Neither would a +discriminating observer describe her by that too-common term “pretty.” + She was more than that. In her large, gray eyes, there was a look +of frank, straightforward interest that suggested an almost boyish +good-fellowship, while at the same time there was about her a general +air of good breeding; with a calm, self-possessed and businesslike +alertness which, combined with a wholesome dignity, commanded a feeling +of respect and confidence. Her voice was clear and musical, with an +undertone of sympathetic humor. One felt when she spoke that while she +lacked nothing of intelligent understanding and sympathetic interest, +she was quite ready to laugh at you just the same. + +When the two stood speechless, she said, looking straight at Brian: “It +seems to me, sir, that the young lady has all the best of the argument. +But I really think she should have some dry clothes as well.” + +She turned to the dripping and dishevelled Judy: “You poor child. Aren't +you cold! It is rather early in the season for a dip in the river, I +should think. Let me take whatever you have there, and you make for the +house as fast as you can go,--the run will warm you.” + +As she spoke, she went to the mountain girl, holding out her hand to +take the manuscript, and smiling encouragingly. + +But Judy backed away, her stealthy, oblique gaze fixed with watchful +surprise on the fair stranger. + +“This here ain't none of your put-in,” and her shrill drawling monotone +contrasted strangely with the other's pleasing voice. “Where'd you-all +happen from, anyhow? How'd you-all git here?” + +“I came over the bluff by the path,” answered the other. “You see, I +left the train from the south at White's Crossing because I knew I could +drive up from there by the river road quicker than I could go by rail +away around through the hills to Thompsonville, and then make the drive +down the river from there. When I reached Elbow Rock, I was in such a +hurry, I took the short cut, while the man with my trunk and things went +by the road over Schoolhouse Hill, you know. I arrived here just as this +gentleman was pulling you from the water.” + +Before Brian could speak, Judy returned with excitement: “I know who +you-all be now. I ought ter knowed the minute I set eyes on you. You-all +are the gal with that there no-'count name, an' you've come ter work for +him, there,”--she pointed to Brian,--“a-helpin' him ter write his book, +what ain't his'n no more, nohow, 'cause he done throwed hit away,--plumb +inter the river.” + +“I am Miss Williams,” returned the other. “My 'no-'count name,' I +suppose, is Betty Jo.” She laughed kindly. “Perhaps it won't seem so +'no'count' when we are better acquainted, Judy. Won't you run along to +the house, and change to some dry clothes? You will catch your death of +cold if you stand here like this.” + +“How'd you-all know I was Judy?” + +“Why, Auntie Sue wrote me about you, of course.” + +“An' you knowed me 'cause I'm so all crooked an' ugly, I reckon,” came +the uncompromising return. + +Betty Jo turned to Brian: “You are Mr. Burns, are you not, for whom I am +to work?” + +Brian made no reply,--he really could not speak. “And this,”--Betty +Jo included Judy, the manuscript, and the river in a graceful +gesture,--“this, I suppose, is the result of what is called 'the +artistic temperament'?” + +Still the man could find no words. The young woman's presence and her +reference to his work brought to him, with overwhelming vividness, the +memory of all to which he had so short a time before looked forward, +and which was now so hopelessly lost to him. He felt, too, a sense of +rebellion that she should have come at such a moment,--that she could +stand there with such calm self-possession and with such an air of +competency. Her confidence and poise in such contrast to the chaotic +turmoil of his own thoughts, and his utter helplessness in the situation +which had so suddenly burst upon him, filled him with unreasoning +resentment. + +Betty Jo must have read in Brian Kent's face something of the suffering +that held him there dumb and motionless before her, and so sensed a +deeper tragedy than appeared on the surface of the incident; and her own +face and voice revealed her understanding as she said, with quiet, +but decisive, force: “Mr. Burns, Judy must go to the house. Won't you +persuade her?” + +Brian started as one aroused from deep abstraction, and went to Judy; +while Betty Jo drew a little way apart, and stood looking out over the +river. + +“Give me the manuscript, Judy,” said Brian gently, “and go on to the +house.” + +“You-all ain't a-goin' ter sling hit inter the river again?” The words +were half-question and half-assertion. + +“No,” said Brian. “I promise not to throw it into the river again.” + +As Judy gave him the manuscript, she turned her beady eyes in a +stealthy, oblique look toward Betty Jo, and whispered: “You-all best +tell her 'bout hit. I sure hate her poison-bad; but hit's easy ter see +she'd sure know what ter do.” + +“Be careful that Auntie Sue doesn't see you like this, Judy,” was +Brian's only answer; and Judy started off for her much-needed change to +dry clothing. + +When the mountain girl was gone, Brian stood looking at the +water-stained volume of manuscript in his hand. He had no feeling, now, +of more than a curious idle interest in this work to which, during the +months just past, he had given so without reserve the best of himself. +It was, he thought, strange how he could regard with such indifference a +thing for which a few hours before he would have given his life. Dumbly, +he was conscious of the truth of Judy's words,--that the book was no +longer his. Judy was right--this book which he had called his had always +been, in reality, Auntie Sue's. So the matter of his work, at least +so far as he had to do with it, was settled--definitely and finally +settled. + +But what of himself? What was to become of him? Of one thing only he was +certain about himself;--he never could face Auntie Sue again. Knowing, +now, what he had done, and knowing that she knew;--that all the time she +was nursing him back to health, all the time she had been giving him the +inspiration and strength and peace of her gentle, loving companionship, +in the safe and quiet harbor of her little house by the river, she had +known that it was he who had--A clear, matter-of-fact, but gentle, +voice interrupted his bitter thoughts: “Is it so very badly damaged, Mr. +Burns?” + +He had forgotten Betty Jo, who now stood close beside him. + +“Let me see?” She held out her hand as he turned slowly to face her. + +Without a word, he gave her the manuscript. + +Very businesslike and practical, but with an underlying feeling of +tenderness that was her most compelling charm, Betty Jo examined the +water-stained volume. + +“Why, no,” she announced cheerfully; “it isn't really hurt much. You +see, the sheets being tied together so tightly, the water didn't get all +the way through. The covers and the first and last pages are pretty wet, +and the edges of the rest are rather damp. It'll be smudged somewhat, +but I don't believe there is a single word that can't be made out. It is +lucky it didn't prolong its bath, though, isn't it? All we need to do, +now, is to put it in the sun to dry for a few minutes.” + +Selecting a sunny spot near by, she arranged the volume against a stone +and deftly separated the pages so that the air could circulate more +freely between them; and one would have said, from her manner of ready +assurance, that she had learned from long experience exactly how to dry +a manuscript that had been thrown in the river and rescued just in the +nick of time. That was Betty Jo's way. She always did everything without +hesitation,--just as though she had spent the twenty-three years of her +life doing exactly that particular thing. + +Kneeling over the manuscript, and gently moving the wet sheets, she +said, without looking up: “Do you always bath your manuscripts like this +before you turn them over to your stenographer to type, Mr. Burns?” + +In spite of his troubled state of mind, Brian smiled. + +The clear, matter-of-fact voice went on, while the competent hands +moved the drying pages. “You see, I never worked for an author before. I +suspect I have a lot to learn.” + +She looked up at him with a Betty Jo smile that went straight to his +heart, as Betty Jo's smiles had a curious way of doing. + +“I hope you will be very patient with me, Mr. Burns. You will, won't +you? There is no real danger of your throwing ME in the river when the +'artistic temperament' possesses you, is there?” + +It was no use. When Betty Jo set out to make a man talk, that man +talked. Brian yielded not ungracefully: “I owe you an apology, Miss +Williams,” he said. + +“Indeed, no,” Betty Jo returned, giving her attention to the manuscript +again. “It is easy to see that you are terribly upset about something; +and everybody is so accustomed to being upset in one way or another that +apologies for upsetments are quite an unnecessary bother, aren't they?” + +That was another interestingly curious thing about Betty Jo,--the way +she could finish off a characteristic, matter-of-fact statement with a +question which had the effect of making one agree instantly whether one +agreed or not. + +Brian felt himself quite unexpectedly feeling that “upsetments” were +quite common, ordinary, and to be expected events in one's life. “But I +am really in very serious trouble, Miss Williams,” he said in a way that +sounded oddly to Brian himself, as though he were trying to convince +himself that his trouble really was serious. + +Betty Jo rose to her feet, and looked straight at him, and there was no +mistaking the genuineness of the interest expressed in those big gray +eyes. + +“Oh, are you? Is it really so serious? I am so sorry. But don't you +think you better tell me about it, Mr. Burns? If I am to work for you, I +may just as well begin right here, don't you think?” + +There it was again,--that trick-question. Brian felt himself agreeing in +spite of himself, though how he was to explain his painful situation +to this young woman whom, until a few minutes before, he had never even +seen, he did not know. He answered cautiously, speaking half to himself: +“That is what Judy said.” + +Betty Jo did not understand, and made no pretense,--she never made a +pretense of anything. “What did Judy say?” she asked. + +“That I had better tell you about it,” he answered. + +And the matter-of-fact Betty Jo returned: “Judy seems to be a very +particular and common-sensing sort of Judy, doesn't she?” + +And Brian realized all at once that Judy was exactly what Betty Jo said. + +“But,--I--I--don't see how I CAN tell you, Miss Williams.” + +“Why?” laughed Betty Jo. “It is perfectly simple, Mr. Burns, here, +now, I'll show you: You are to sit down there on that nice comfortable +rock,--that is your big office-chair, you know,--and I'll sit right here +on this rock,--which is my little stenography-chair,--and you will just +explain the serious business proposition to me with careful attention to +details. I must tell you that 'detailing' is one of my strong points, so +don't spare me. I really should have my notebook, shouldn't I?” + +Again, in spite of himself, Brian smiled; also, before he was aware, +they were both seated as Betty Jo had directed. + +“But this is not a business matter, Miss Williams,” he managed to +protest half-heartedly. + +Betty Jo was looking at her watch in a most matter-of-fact manner, and +she answered in a most matter-of-fact voice: “Everything is more or less +a business matter, isn't it, Mr. Burns?” + +And Brian, if he had answered, would have agreed. + +Betty Jo slipped her watch back into her pocket, and continued: “You +will have plenty of time before that man with my trunk and things can +get away 'round over Schoolhouse Hill and down again to Auntie Sue's. He +will be obliged to stop at neighbor Tom's, and tell them all about me, +of course. We mustn't let him beat us to the house, though; so, perhaps, +you better begin, don't you think?” + +That “don't-you-think?” so characteristic of Betty Jo, did its work, as +usual; and so, almost before Brian Kent realized what he was doing, +it had been decided for him that to follow Judy's advice was the best +possible thing he could do, and he was relating his whole wretched +experience to this young woman, about whom he knew nothing except that +she was a niece of an old pupil of Auntie Sue's, and that she had just +finished a course in a business college in Cincinnati. + +At several points in his story Betty Jo asked straightforward +questions, or made short, matter-of-fact comments; but, always with her +businesslike air of competent interest. Indeed, she managed to treat the +situation as being wholly impersonal; while at the same time the man +was never for a moment made to feel that she was lacking in sincere and +genuine sympathy. Only when he told her that his name was Brian Kent, +and mentioned the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, did she for the +moment betray excited surprise. When she saw that he had noticed, she +said quickly: “I read of the affair in the papers, of course.” + +Auntie Sue had indeed taken a big chance when she decided for Betty Jo +to come to help Brian with his book. But Auntie Sue had taken no chance +on Betty Jo herself. Perhaps it was, in fact, the dear old teacher's +certainty about Betty Jo herself that had led her to accept the risk +of sending for the niece of her friend and pupil under such a peculiar +combination of circumstances. + +When Brian had finished his story with the account of his discovery of +the distressing fact that he had robbed Auntie Sue and that she knew he +had robbed her, Betty Jo said: “It is really a sad story, isn't it, Mr. +Burns? But, oh, isn't Auntie Sue wonderful! Was there ever such +another woman in the world! Don't you love her? And couldn't you do +anything--anything that would make her happy? After all, when you think +of Auntie Sue, and how wonderful she has been, this whole thing isn't so +bad, is it?” + +“Why, I--I--don't think I see what you mean,” Brian replied, puzzled +by the unexpected turn she had given to the situation, yet convinced by +that little question with which she finished that she was somehow right. + +“Well, I mean wouldn't YOU love to do for some one what Auntie Sue has +done for you? I should if I were only big enough and good enough. +It seems to me it would make one the happiest and contentedest and +peacefulest person in the world, wouldn't it?” + +Brian did not answer. While he felt himself agreeing with Betty Jo's +view, he was wondering at himself that he could discuss the matter +so calmly. It was not that he no longer felt deeply the shame of this +terrible thing that he had done; it was not that he had ceased to suffer +the torment that had caused his emotional madness, which had found +expression in his attempt to destroy his manuscript; it was only +that this young woman somehow made it possible for him to retain his +self-control, and instead of venting his emotions in violent and wholly +useless expressions of regret, and self-condemnation, and in irrational, +temperamental action, to consider coolly and sanely what he must do. He +was strangely possessed, too, of an instinctive certainty that Betty Jo +knew exactly how he felt and exactly what she was doing. + +While he was thinking these things, or, rather, feeling them, Betty Jo +went to see how the manuscript was drying. She returned to her seat on +the rock presently, saying: “It is doing very nicely,--almost dry. I +think it will be done pretty soon. In the meantime, what are we going +to do about everything? You have thought of something for you to do, of +course!” + +“I fear I have felt rather more than I have thought,” returned Brian. + +She nodded. “Yes, I know; but feeling alone never arrives anywhere. An +excess of thoughtless feeling is sheer emotional extravagance. I sound +like a book, don't I?” she laughed. “It is so just the same, Mr. +Burns. And now that you have--ah--been properly--not to say +gloriously--extravagant at poor Judy's expense, we had better do a +little thinking, don't you think?” + +The man's cheeks reddened at her words; but the straightforward, +downright sincerity of those gray eyes, that looked so frankly into +his, held him steady; while the interrogation at the end of her remark +carried its usual conviction. + +“There is only one possible thing left for me to do, Miss Williams,” he +said earnestly. + +“And what is that?” A smile that sent a glow of courage to Brian Kent's +troubled heart accompanied the flat question. + +“I can't face Auntie Sue again, knowing what I know now.” He spoke with +passion. + +“Of course you would expect to feel that way, wouldn't you?” came the +matter-of-fact answer. + +“The only thing I can do,” he continued, “is to give myself up, and go +to the penitentiary; arranging, somehow, to do it in such a way that the +reward will go to Auntie Sue. God knows she deserves it! Sheriff Knox +would help me fix that part, I am sure.” + +For a moment there was a suspicious moisture in Betty Jo's gray eyes. +Then she said, “And you would really go to prison for Auntie Sue?” + +“It is the least I can do for her now,” he returned. + +And Betty Jo must have felt the sincerity of his purpose, for she said, +softly: “I am sure that it would make Auntie Sue very happy to know that +you would do that; and”--she added--“I know that you could not possibly +make her more unhappy and miserable than by doing it, could you?” + +Again she had given an unexpected turn to the subject with the usual +convincing question-mark. + +“But what can I do?” he demanded, letting himself go a little. + +Betty Jo steadied him with: “Well, suppose you listen while I consider? +Did I tell you that 'considering' was another of my strong points, Mr. +Burns? Well, it is. You may consider me while I consider, if you please. + +“The first thing is, that you must make Auntie Sue happy,--as happy as +you possibly can do at any cost. The second thing is, that you must pay +her back that money, every penny of it. Now, it wouldn't make her happy +for you to go to prison, and the reward wouldn't pay back all the money; +and if you were in prison, you never could pay the rest; besides, if you +were wasting your time in prison, she would just die of miserableness, +and she wouldn't touch a penny of that reward-money--not if she was to +die for want of it. So that settles that, doesn't it?” + +And Brian was forced to admit that, as Betty Jo put it, it did. + +“Very well, let us consider some more: Dear Auntie Sue has been +wonderfully, gloriously happy in doing what she has for you this past +winter,--meaning your book and all. I can see that she must have been. +No one could help being happy doing such a thing as that. So you just +simply can't spoil it all, now, by letting her know that you know what +you know.” + +Brian started to speak, but she checked him with: “Please, Mr. Burns, +I must not be interrupted when I am considering. Next to the +prison,--which we have agreed won't do at all,--you could do nothing +that would make Auntie Sue more unhappy than to spoil the happiness she +has in your not knowing what you have done to her. That is very clear, +isn't it? And think of her miserableness if, after all these weeks of +happy anticipation, your book should never be published. No, no, no; you +can't rob Auntie Sue of her happiness in you just because you stole her +money, can you?” + +And Brian knew in his heart that she was right. + +“So, you see,” Betty Jo continued, “the only possible way to do is to +go right along just as if nothing had happened. And there is this final +consideration,--which must be a dark secret between you and me,--when +the book is finished, you must see to it that every penny that comes +from it goes to Auntie Sue until she is paid back all that she lost +through you. Now, isn't that pretty fine 'considering,' Mr. Burns?” + +And Brian was convinced that it was. “But,” he suggested, “the book may +not earn anything. Nothing that I ever wrote before did.” + +“You never wrote one before just like this, did you?” came the very +matter-of-fact answer. “And, besides, if your book never earns a cent, +it will do Auntie Sue a world more good than your going to prison for +her. That would be rather silly, now that you think of it, wouldn't it? +And now that we have our conspiracy all nicely conspired, we must hurry +to the house before that man arrives with my things.” + +She went for the manuscript as she spoke. “See,” she cried, “it is quite +dry, and not a bit the worse for its temperamental experience!” She +laughed gleefully. + +“But, Miss Williams,” exclaimed Brian, “I--I--can't understand you! +You don't seem to mind. What I have told you about myself doesn't seem +to--to--make any difference to you--I mean in your attitude toward me.” + +“Oh, yes, it does,” she returned. “It makes me very interested in you, +Mr. Burns.” + +“But, how can you have any confidence--How can you help me with my book +now that you know what I am?” he persisted, for he was sincerely puzzled +by her apparent indifference to the revelation he had made of his +character. + +“Auntie Sue,”--she answered,--“just Auntie Sue. Come,--we must go.” + +“How in the world can I ever face her!” groaned Brian. + +“You won't get the chance at her, for awhile, with me around;--she will +be so busy with me that she won't notice anything wrong with you. So +you will get accustomed to the conspiracy feeling before you are even +suspected of conspiring. You know, when one has once arrived at the +state of not feeling like a liar, one can lie with astonishing success. +Haven't you found it so?” + +They laughed together over this as they went toward the house. + +As they reached the porch, Betty Jo whispered a last word of +instruction: “You better find Judy, and fix her the first thing;--fix +her good and hard. Here is Auntie Sue now. Don't worry about her +noticing anything strange about you. I'll attend to her.” + +And the next minute, Betty Jo had the dear old lady in her arms. + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +A MATTER OF BUSINESS. + + +The weeks that followed the coming of Betty Jo to the little log house +by the river passed quickly for Brian Kent. Perhaps it was the peculiar +circumstances of their first meeting that made the man feel so strongly +that he had known her for many years, instead of for only those few +short weeks. That could easily have been the reason, because the +young woman had stepped so suddenly into his life at a very critical +time;--when his mental faculties were so confused by the turmoil and +suffering of his emotional self that the past was to him, at the moment, +far more real than the present. + +And Betty Jo had not merely come into his life casually, as a +disinterested spectator; but, by the peculiar appeal of herself, she +had led Brian to take her so into his confidence that she had become +immediately a very real part of the experience through which he was then +passing, and thus was identified with his past experience out of which +the crisis of the moment had come. + +Again Betty Jo, in the naturalness of her manner toward him, and by her +matter-of-fact, impersonal consideration of his perplexing situation, +had brought to his unsettled and chaotic mind a sense of stability and +order; and by subtly insinuating her own practical decisions as to the +course he should follow, had made herself a very literal part of his +inner life. In fact, Betty Jo knew Brian Kent more intimately at the +close of their first meeting than she could have known him after years +of acquaintanceship under the ordinary course of development. + +Brian's consciousness of this would naturally cause him to feel toward +the young woman as though she had long been a part of his life. Still +other causes might have contributed to the intimate companionship that +so quickly became to them both an established and taken-for-granted +fact; but, the circumstances of their first meeting, given, of course, +their peculiar individualities, were, really, quite enough. The fact +that it was springtime might also have had something to do with it. + +The morning after her arrival, Betty Jo set to work typing the +manuscript. Brian went to his work on the timbered hillside. In the +evenings, Brian worked over the typewitten pages,--revising, correcting, +perfecting,--and then, as Betty Jo made the final copy for the printers, +they went critically over the work together. + +So the hours flew past on busy wings, and the days of the springtime +drew toward summer. The tender green of the new-born leaves and grasses +changed to a stronger, deeper tone. The air, which had been so filled +with the freshness and newness of bursting buds and rain-blessed soil, +and all the quickening life of tree and bush and plant, now carried the +perfume of strongly growing things,--the feel of maturing life. + +To Brian, the voices of the river brought a fuller, deeper message, with +a subtle undertone of steady and enduring purpose. + +From the beginning, Betty Jo established for herself the habit of +leaving her work at the typewriter in the afternoons, and going for +a walk over the hills. Quite incidentally, at first, her walks +occasionally led her by way of the clearing where Brian was at work +with his ax, and it followed, naturally, that as the end of the day drew +near, the two would go together down the mountain-side to the evening +meal. But long before the book was finished, the little afternoon visit +and the walk together at the day's close had become so established as a +custom that they both accepted it as a part of their day's life; and to +Brian, at least, it was an hour to which he looked forward as the most +delightful hour of the twenty-four. As for Betty Jo,--well, it was +really Betty Jo who established the custom and developed it to that +point where it was of such importance. + +Auntie Sue was too experienced from her life-long study of boys and +girls not to observe the deepening of the friendship between the man and +the woman whom she had brought together. But if the dear old lady felt +any twinges of an apprehensive conscience, when she saw the pair day +after day coming down the mountain-side through the long shadows of +the late afternoon, she very promptly banished them, and, quite +consistently, with what Brian called her “River philosophy,” made no +attempt to separate these two life currents, which, for the time at +least, seemed to be merging into one. + +And often, as the three sat together on the porch after supper to watch +the sunsets, or later in the evening as Auntie Sue sat with her sewing +while they were busy with their work and unobserving, the dear old lady +would look at them with a little smile of tender meaning, and into the +gentle eyes would come that far-away look that was born of the memories +that had so sweetened the long years of her life, and of the hope and +dream of a joy unspeakable that awaited her beyond the sunset of her +day. + +In her long letter to Betty Jo, asking the girl to come, Auntie Sue had +told the young woman the main facts of Brian's history as she knew them, +omitting only the man's true name and the name of the bank. She had even +mentioned her conviction that there had been a woman in his trouble. But +Auntie Sue had not mentioned in her letter the money she had lost; nor +did she now know that Brian had himself told Betty Jo at the time of +their first meeting. + +On the day that Betty Jo typed the last page, and the book was ready for +the printers, the young woman went earlier than usual to the clearing +where Brian was at work. The sound of his ax reached her while she was +yet some distance away, and guided her to the spot where he was chopping +a big white oak. + +Brian, with his eyes fixed on the widening cut at the base of the tree, +did not notice the girl, who stood watching him. She was smiling to +herself at his ignorance of her presence and in anticipation of the +moment when he should discover her, and there was in her eyes a look of +wholesome womanly admiration for the man who swung his ax with such easy +strength. In truth, Brian Kent at his woodman's labor made a picture not +at all unattractive. + +Swiftly, the cut in the tree-trunk widened as the ax bit deeply at every +skilful stroke, and the chips flew about the chopper's feet. The acrid +odor of the freshly cut oak mingled with the woodland perfume. The +sun warmly flooded the clearing with its golden light, and, splashing +through the openings in the forest foliage, formed pools of yellow +beauty amid the dark, rich green of the shadowy undergrowth. The air was +filled with the sense of life, vital and real, and strong and beautiful. + +And the young woman, as she stood smiling there, was keenly conscious +of it all. Most of all, perhaps, Betty Jo was conscious of the man, who +worked with such vigor at his manly task. + +Slowly, accurately, the bright ax sank deeper and deeper into the heart +of the tree. The chips increased in scattered profusion. And then, as +Betty Jo watched, the swinging ax cut through the last fibre of the +tree's strength, and the leafy top swayed gently toward its fall. Almost +imperceptibly, at first, it moved while Betty Jo watched breathlessly. +Brian swung his ax with increasing vigor, now, while the wood, still +remaining, cracked and snapped as the weight of the tree completed the +work of the chopper. Faster and faster the towering mass of foliage +swung in a wide graceful arc toward the ground. The man with the ax +stepped back, his eyes fixed on the falling tree as, with swiftly +increasing momentum, its great weight swept swiftly downward to its +crashing end. + +Betty Jo clapped her hands in triumph; and Brian, turning, saw her +standing there. His face was flushed and glistening with perspiration; +his broad chest heaved with the deep breathing gained by his exertion, +and his eyes shone with the gladness of her presence. + +“You are early, to-day!” he cried. “Have you finished? Is it actually +completed?” + +“All finished,” she returned; and, going to the fallen tree, she put her +hands curiously on the trunk, which lay a little higher than her waist. +“Help me up,” she commanded. + +Brian set his ax against the stump, and, laughingly, lifted her to the +seat she desired. Then he stood watching her face as she surveyed the +tangled mass of branches. + +“It looks so strange from here, doesn't it?” she said. + +“Yes; and I confess I don't like to see it that way;” he returned. “I +wish they didn't have to be cut. I feel like a murderer,--every one I +fall.” + +She looked down into his eyes, as she returned: “I know you must. YOU +would, of course. But, after all, it has to be, and I don't suppose the +tree minds so much, do you?” + +“No; I don't suppose it feels it much.” He laughed, and, throwing aside +his hat, he ran his fingers through his tumbled hair for all the world +like a schoolboy confused by being caught in some sentimental situation +which he finds not only embarrassing, but puzzling as well. + +“I like you for feeling that way about it, though,” Betty Jo confessed +with characteristic frankness. “And I am sure it must be a very good +thing for the world that every one is not so intensely practical that +they can chop down trees without a pang. And that reminds me: Speaking +of the practical, now that the book is finished, what are we going to do +with it?” + +“Send it to some publisher, I suppose,” answered Brian, soberly; “and +then, when they have returned it, send it to some other publisher.” + +“Have you any particular publisher to whom you will send it first?” she +asked. + +“They are all alike, so far as my experience goes,” he returned. + +“I suppose it would be best if you could take your book East, and +interview the publishers personally, don't you think?” + +Brian shook his head: “I am not sure that it would make any difference, +and, in any case, I couldn't do it.” + +“I know,” said Betty Jo, “and that is what I wanted to get at. Why don't +you appoint me your agent, and let me take your book East, and make the +publishing arrangements for you?” + +Brian looked at her with such delighted surprise that Betty Jo smiled +back at him well pleased. + +“Would you really do it?” he demanded, as though he feared she was +jesting. + +“You are sure that you don't mean 'COULD I do it'?”--she +returned,--“sure you could trust me?” + +To which Brian answered enthusiastically: “You could do anything! If you +undertake the job of landing a publisher for my stuff, it is as good as +done.” + +“Thank you,” she said, jumping down from the tree-trunk. “Now that we +have settled it, let us go to the house and tell Auntie Sue, and I will +start in the morning.” + +As they went down the hill, they discussed the matter further, and, +later, at the house, Brian took a moment, when Auntie Sue was in her +room, to hand an envelope to his assistant. “Your salary,” he said, +hurriedly, “and expense money for the trip.” + +“Oh!” Betty Jo's exclamation was one of surprise. Then she said, in +her most matter-of-fact, businesslike tone: “Thank you. I will render a +statement of my account, but--” For once, Betty Jo seemed at a loss for +words. “You don't mind if I ask--is--is this money--?” + +Brian's face was a study. “Yes,” he said, “it is really Auntie Sue's +money; but it is all I have, and I can't return it to her--without her +knowing--so I--” + +Betty Jo interrupted: “I understand. It is all we can do,--forgive me?” + +Brian Kent did not know that Betty Jo, a few minutes later, buried the +envelope he had given her deep in the bottom of her trunk without even +opening it. + +The next day, Brian drove to Thompsonville with Betty Jo, who took the +noon train for the East. + +The two were rather quiet as “Old Prince” jogged soberly along the +beautiful river road. Only now and then did they exchange a few words of +the most commonplace observation. + +They were within sight of the little Ozark settlement when Brian said, +earnestly: “I wish I could tell you, Miss Williams, just what your +coming to help me with this work has meant to me.” + +“It has meant a great deal to me, too, Mr. Burns,” she returned. +Then she added quickly: “I suppose the first real work one does after +finishing school always means more than any position following could +possibly mean, don't you think? Just like your book. No matter how many +you may write in the future, this will always mean more to you than any +one of them.” + +“Yes,” he said slowly. “This book will always mean more to me than all +the others I may write.” + +For a moment their eyes met with unwavering frankness. Then Betty Jo +turned her face away, and Brian stiffened his shoulders, and sat a +little straighter in the seat beside her. That was all. + +Very brave they were at the depot purchasing Betty Jo's ticket and +checking her trunk. With brave commonplaces they said good-bye when the +train pulled in. Bravely she waved at him from the open window of the +coach. And bravely Brian stood there watching until the train rounded +the curve and disappeared from sight between the hills. + +The world through which Brian Kent drove that afternoon on his way back +to Auntie Sue and Judy in the little log house by the river was a very +dull and uninteresting world indeed. All its brightness and its beauty +seemed suddenly to have vanished. And as “Old Prince” jogged patiently +on his way, sleepily content with thoughts of his evening meal of hay +and grain, the man's mind was disturbed with thoughts which he dared not +own even to his innermost self. + +“Circumstances to a man,” Auntie Sue had said, “always meant a woman.” + And Brian Kent, while he never under any pressure would have admitted +it, knew within his deepest self that it was a woman who had set him +adrift on the dark river that dreadful night when he had cursed the +world which he thought he was leaving forever. + +“Circumstances” in the person of Auntie Sue had saved him from +destruction, and, in the little log house by the river, had brought +about his Re-Creation. + +And then, when that revelation of his crime toward Auntie Sue had +come, and the labor of months, with all that it implied of the enduring +salvation of himself and the happiness of Auntie Sue, hung wavering in +the balance, it was the “Circumstances” of Betty Jo's coming that had +set him in the right current of action again. + +What waited for him around the next bend in the river, Brian +wondered,--calm and peaceful waters, with gently flowing currents, or +the wild tumult of dangerous rapids wherein he would be forced to fight +for his very existence? Would Betty Jo succeed as his agent to the +publishers? If she did succeed in finding a publisher to accept +his book, would the reading public receive his message? And if +that followed, what then? When Betty Jo's mission in the East was +accomplished, she was to return to Auntie Sue for the summer. Then--? + +“Old Prince,” of his own accord, was turning in at the gate, and Brian +awoke from his abstraction to see Auntie Sue and Judy waiting for him. + +All during the evening meal and while he sat with Auntie Sue on the +porch overlooking the river, as their custom was, Brian was preoccupied +and silent; while his companion, with the wisdom of her seventy years, +did not force the conversation. + +It was the time of the full moon, and when Auntie Sue at last bade him +good-night, Brian, saying that the evening was too lovely to waste in +sleep, remained on the porch. For an hour, perhaps, he sat there alone; +but his thoughts were not on the beauties of the scene that lay before +him in all its dreamy charm of shadowy hills and moonlit river. He had +no ear for the soft voices of the night. The gentle breeze carried to +him the low, deep-toned roar of the crashing waters at Elbow Rock; but +he did not hear. Moved at last by a feeling of restless longing, and the +certainty that only a sleepless bed awaited him in the house, he left +the porch to stroll along the bank of the river. + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE. + + +Brian Kent, strolling along the bank of the river in the moonlight, +and preoccupied with thoughts that were, at the last, more dreams than +thoughts, was not far from the house when a sound from behind some +near-by bushes broke in upon his reveries. A moment, he listened. Then +telling himself that it was some prowling animal, or perhaps, a bird +that his presence had disturbed, he went on. But he had gone only a few +feet farther when he was conscious of something stealthily following +him. Stepping behind the trunk of a tree, he waited, watching. Then he +saw a form moving toward him through the shadows of the bushes. Another +moment, and the form left the concealing shadow, and, in the bright +moonlight, he recognized Judy. + +At first, the man's feeling was that of annoyance. He did not wish to be +disturbed at such a time by the presence of the mountain girl. But +his habitual gentleness toward poor Judy, together with a very natural +curiosity as to why she was following him at that time of the night, +when he had supposed her in bed and asleep, led him to greet her kindly +as he came from behind the tree: “Well, Judy, are you, too, out enjoying +the moonlight?” + +The girl stopped suddenly and half-turned as if to run; but, at his +words, stood still. + +“What is it, Judy?” he asked, going to her. “What is the matter?” + +“There's a heap the matter!” she answered, regarding him with that sly +oblique look; while Brian noticed a feeling of intense excitement in her +voice. “I don't know what you-all are a-goin' ter think of me, but +I'm bound ter tell you just the same,--seems like I got ter,--even if +you-all was ter lick me for hit like pap used ter.” + +“Why, Judy, dear,” the puzzled man returned, soothingly, “you know I +would never strike you, no matter what you did. Come, sit down here on +this log, and tell me about whatever it is that troubles you; then you +can go back to sleep again.” + +“I ain't a-wantin' ter set down. I ain't been asleep. Hit seems like +I can't never sleep no more.” She wrung her hands and turned her poor +twisted body about nervously; then demanded with startling abruptness: +“When do you-all 'low she'll git back?” + +The wondering Brian did not at first catch her meaning, and she +continued, with an impatient jerk of her head: “Hit's that there gal +with the no-'count name, Betty Jo, I'm a-talkin' 'bout.” + +“Oh, you mean Miss Williams,” Brian returned. “Why, I suppose she +will be back in two or three weeks, or a month, perhaps; I don't know +exactly, Judy. Why?” + +“'Cause I'm a-tellin' you-all not ter let her come back here ever,” came +the startling answer, in a voice that was filled with menacing anger. +Then, before Brian could find a word to reply, the mountain girl +continued, with increasing excitement: “You-all dassn't let her come +back here, nohow, 'cause, if you do, I'll hurt her, sure. You-all +have been a-thinkin' as how I was plumb blind, I reckon; but I seen +you,--every evenin', when she'd pretend ter just go for a walk an' +then'd make straight for the clearin' where you was a-choppin', an' then +you'd quit, an' set with her up there on the hill. Youuns never knowed +I was a-watchin' from the bresh all the time, did you? Well, I was; an' +when youuns'd walk down ter the house, so slow like an' close together, +I'd sneak ahead, an' beat you home; but all the time I was a-seein' you, +an' youuns never knowed, 'cause youuns just naturally couldn't see nor +hear nothin' but each other. Don't you-all 'low as how I'd know by the +way you looked at her, while youuns was a-fixin' that there book, every +night, what you-all was a-thinkin' 'bout her? My God-A'mighty! hit was +just as plain ter me as if you was a-sayin' hit right out loud all the +time,--a heap plainer hit was than if you'd done writ' hit down in your +book. I can't make out ter read print much, nohow, like youuns kin; but +I sure kin see what I see. I--” + +“Judy! Judy!” Brian broke the stream of the excited girl's talk. “What +in the world are you saying? What do you mean, child?” + +“You-all knows dad burned well what I'm a-meanin'!” she retorted, with +increasing anger. “I'm a-meanin' that you-all are plumb lovin' that +there Betty Jo gal,--that's what I'm a-meanin'!--an' you-all sure ain't +got ary right for ter go an' do sich a thing, nohow!” + +Brian tried to check her, but she silenced him with: “I won't neither +hush! I can't! I tell you I'm a-goin' ter say my say if you-all kills +me! I've just naturally got ter! Seems like I was all afire inside an' +would burn plumb up if I didn't! I've got rights, I reckon, if I be all +crooked an' twisted out er shape, an' ugly-faced an' no learnin', ner +nothin'.” + +A dry sob choked the torrent of words for an instant; but, with a +savage effort she went on: “I know I ain't nothin' alongside of her, +but you-all ain't a-goin' ter have her just the same,--not if I have ter +kill her first! You ain't got no right ter have her, nohow, 'cause hit's +like's not you-all done got a woman already somewheres, wherever 'twas +you-all come from; an' even if you ain't got no woman already, I sure +ain't a-goin' ter let you have her! What'd she ever do for you? Hit was +me what dragged you-all from the river when you was mighty nigh dead +from licker an' too plumb sick ter save yourself! Hit's me that's +kept from tellin' the Sheriff who you be an' a-takin' that there +reward-money! Hit was me what jumped inter the river above Elbow Rock +just ter git your dad burned old book, when you'd done throwed hit plumb +away! + +“I knowed first time I heard Auntie Sue name her what she'd do ter you! +Any fool would a-knowed what a woman with a half-gal, half-boy name like +her'n would do, an' she's done hit,--she sure has! But she ain't a-goin' +ter do no more! You-all belongs ter me a heap more'n you do ter her,--if +hit comes ter that,--though, I ain't a-foolin' myself none a-thinkin' +that sich as you could ever take up with sich as me,--me bein' what I +am. No, sir; I ain't never fooled myself ary bit like that, Mr. Burns. +But hit ain't a-makin' no difference how ugly an' crooked an' no 'count +I be outside; the inside of me is a-lovin' you like she never could, ner +nobody else, I reckon. An' I'll just go on a-lovin' you, no matter what +happens; an' I ain't a-carin' whether you got a woman already er not, +er whether you-all have robbed er killed, er what you done. An'--an'--so +I'm a-tellin' you, you'd best not let her come back here no more, +'cause--'cause I just naturally can't stand hit ter see youuns +tergether! 'Fore God, I'm a-tellin' you true,--I'll sure hurt her!” + +The girl's voice raised to a pitch of frenzied excitement, and, +whirling, she pointed to the river, as she cried: “Look out there! What +do you-all reckon your fine Betty Jo lady would do if I was ter git +her ketched in them there rapids? What do you-all reckon the Elbow Rock +water would do ter her? I'll tell you what hit'd do: Hit would smash an' +grind an' tear an' hammer that there fine, straight body of hers +'til hit was all broken an' twisted an' crooked a heap worse'n what I +be,--that's what hit would do; an' hit would scratch an' cut an' beat up +that pretty face an' mess up her pretty hair an' choke her an' smother +her 'til she was all blue-black an' muddy, an' her eyes was red an' +starin', an' she was nothin' but just an ugly lump of dirt; an' hit +wouldn't even leave her her fine clothes neither,--the Elbow Rock water +wouldn't,--hit'd just naturally tear 'em off her, an' leave her 'thout +ary thing what's makin' you love her like you're a-doin'! An' where +would all her fine schoolin' an' smart talk an' pretty ways be then? Eh? +She wouldn't be no better, nor half as good as me, I'm a-tellin' you, +onct Elbow Rock got done with her!” + +The poor creature finished in wild triumph; then suddenly, as though +spent with the very fury of her passion, she turned from the river, and +said dully: “You'd sure best not let her come back, sir! 'Fore God, I +ain't a-wantin' ter do hit, but hit seems like I can't help myself; I +can't sleep for wantin' ter fix hit so,--so's you just couldn't want +ter have her no more'n you're a-wantin' me. I--I--sure ain't a-foolin' +myself none, not ary bit, a-thinkin' you-all could ever git ter +likin' sich as me; but, I can't help sort of dreamin' 'bout hit an' +a-pretendin', an'--an' all the while I'm a-knowin', inside er me like, +that there ain't nobody,--not Auntie Sue, nor this here Betty Jo, nor +that there other woman, nor anybody,--what kin care for you like I'm +a-carin',--they just naturally couldn't care like me; 'cause--'cause, +you see, sir, I ain't got nobody else,--ain't no man but you ever even +been decent ter me. I sure ain't got nobody else--” + +The distraught creature's sobs prevented further speech, and she dropped +down on the ground, weak and exhausted; her poor twisted body shaking +and writhing with the emotion she could not voice. + +For a little while, Brian Kent himself was as helpless as Judy. He could +only stand dumbly, staring at her as she crouched at his feet. Then, +very gently, he lifted her from the ground, and tried as best he could +to comfort her. But he felt his words to be very shallow and inadequate, +even though his own voice was trembling with emotion. + +“Come, Judy, dear,” he said, at last, when she seemed to have in a +measure regained her self-control. “Come. You must go back to the house, +child.” + +Drawing away from his supporting arm, she answered, quietly: “I ain't +no child, no more, Mr. Burns: I'm sure a woman, now. I'm just as much a +woman as--as--she is, if I be like what I am. I'm plumb sorry I had ter +do this; but I just naturally couldn't help hit. You ain't got no call +ter be scared I'll do hit again.” + +When they were nearing the house, Judy stopped again, and, for a long +minute, looked silently out over the moonlit river, while Brian stood +watching her. + +“Hit is pretty, ain't hit, Mr. Burns?” she said at last. “With the hills +all so soft an'--an' dreamy-like, an' them clouds a-floatin' 'way up +there over the top of Table Mountain; with the moon makin' 'em all +silvery an' shiny 'round the edges, an' them trees on yon side the river +lookin' like they was made er smoke er fog er somethin' like that; an' +the old river hitself a-layin' there in The Bend like--like a long strip +of shinin' gold,--hit sure is pretty! Funny, I couldn't never see hit +that a-way before,--ain't hit?” + +“Yes, Judy; it is beautiful to-night,” he said. + +But Judy, apparently without hearing him, continued: “'Seems like I can +sense a little ter-night what Auntie Sue an' youuns are allus a-talkin' +'bout the river,--'bout hit's bein' like life an' sich as that. An' hit +'pears like I kin kind of git a little er what you done wrote 'bout hit +in your book,--'bout the currents an' the still places an' the rough +water an' all. I reckon as how I'm a part of your river, too, ain't I, +Mr. Burns?” + +“Yes, Judy,” he answered, wonderingly; “we are all parts of the river.” + +“I reckon you're right,” she continued. “Hit sure 'pears ter be that +a-way. But I kin tell you-all somethin' else 'bout the river what you +didn't put down in your book, Mr. Burns: There's heaps an' heaps er +snags an' quicksands an' sunk rocks an' shaller places where hit looks +deep an' deep holes where hit looks shaller, an' currents what's hid +'way down under that'll ketch an' drag you in when you ain't a-thinkin', +an' drown you sure. 'Tain't all of the river what Auntie Sue an' youuns +kin see from the porch. You see, I knows 'bout hit,--'bout them other +things I mean,--'cause I was borned and growed up a-knowin' 'bout +'em; an'--an'--the next time you-all writes er book, Mr. Burns, I 'low +you-all ought ter put in 'bout them there snags an' things, 'cause folks +sure got ter know 'bout 'em, if they ain't a-wantin' ter git drowned.” + +When Judy had gone into the house, Brian again sat alone on the porch. + +An hour, perhaps, had passed when a voice behind him said: “Why, Brian, +are you still up? I supposed you were in bed long ago.” + +He turned to see Auntie Sue, standing in the doorway. + +“And what in the world are you prowling about for, this time of the +night?” Brian retorted, bringing a chair for her. + +“I am prowling because I couldn't sleep,--thinking about you, Brian,” + she answered. + +“I fear that is the thing that is keeping me up, too,” he returned +grimly. + +“I know,” she said gently. “Sometimes, one's self does keep one awake. +Is it--is it anything you care to tell me? Would it help for me to +know?” + +For some time, he did not answer; while the old teacher waited silently. +At last, he spoke, slowly: “Auntie Sue, what is the greatest wrong that +a woman can do?” + +“The greatest wrong a woman can do, Brian, is the greatest wrong that a +man can do.” + +“But, what is it, Auntie Sue?” he persisted. + +“I think,” she answered,--“indeed I am quite sure,--that the greatest +wrong is for a woman to kill a man's faith in woman; and for a man to +kill a woman's faith in man.” + +Brian Kent buried his face in his hands. + +“Am I right, dear?” asked the old gentlewoman, after a little. + +And Brian Kent answered: “Yes, Auntie Sue, you are right--that is the +greatest wrong.” + +Again they were silent. It was as though few words were needed between +the woman of seventy years and this man who, out of some great trouble, +had been so strangely brought to her by the river. + +Then the silvery-haired old teacher spoke again: “Brian, have you ever +wondered that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever asked yourself +why I never married?” + +“Yes, Auntie Sue,” he answered. “I have wondered.” + +“Many people have,” she said, with simple frankness. Then--“I am going +to tell you something, dear boy, that only two people in the world +beside myself ever knew, and they are both dead, many years now. I am +going to tell you, because I feel--because I think--that, perhaps, +it may help you a little. I, too, Brian, had my dreams when I was a +girl,--my dreams of happiness,--such as every true woman hopes for;--of +a home with all that home means;--of a lover-husband;--of little +ones who would call me 'mother';--and my dreams ended, Brian, on a +battlefield of the Civil War. He went from me the very day we were +promised. He never returned. I have always felt that we were as truly +one as though the church had solemnized and the law had legalized our +union. I promised that I would wait for him.” + +“And you--you have kept that promise? You have been true to that +memory?” Brian Kent asked, wonderingly. + +“I have been true to him, Brian;--all the years of my life I have been +true to him.” + +Brian Kent bowed his head, reverently. + +Rising, the old gentlewoman went close to him, and put her hands on his +shoulders. “Brian, dear, I have told you my secret because I thought +it might help you to know. Oh, my boy--my boy,--don't--don't let +anything--don't let anyone--kill your faith in womanhood! No matter how +bitter your experience, you can believe, now, that there are women who +can be faithful and true. Surely, you can believe it now, Brian,--you +must!” + +And as he caught her hands in his, and raised his face to whisper, “I do +believe, Auntie Sue,” she stooped and kissed him. + +Then, again, Brian Kent was alone in the night with his thoughts. + +And the river swept steadily on its shining way through the moonlit +world to the distant sea. + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +AN AWKWARD SITUATION. + + +Frequent letters from Betty Jo informed Brian and Auntie Sue of that +practical and businesslike young woman's negotiations with various +Eastern publishers, until, at last, the matter was finally settled to +Betty Jo's satisfaction. + +She had contracted with a well-known firm for the publication of the +book. The details were all arranged. The work was to begin immediately. +Betty Jo was returning to the little log house by the river. + +Brian drove to Thompsonville the morning she was to arrive, and it +seemed to him that “Old Prince” had never jogged so leisurely along the +winding river road, yet he was at the little mountain station nearly an +hour before the train was due. + +Those weeks had been very anxious weeks to Brian, in spite of Auntie +Sue's oft-repeated assurances that no publisher could fail to recognize +the value of his work. And, to be entirely truthful, Brian himself, +deep down in his heart, felt a certainty that his work would receive +recognition. But, still, he would argue with himself, his feeling +of confidence might very well be due to the dear old gentlewoman's +enthusiastic faith in him rather than in any merit in the book itself; +and it was a well-established fact--to all unpublished writers at +least--that publishers are a heartless folk, and exceedingly loth to +extend a helpful hand to unrecognized genius, however great the worth of +its offering. He could scarcely believe the letters which announced the +good news. It did not seem possible that this all-important first step +toward the success which Auntie Sue so confidently predicted for his +book was now an accomplished fact. + +And now that Betty Jo's mission was completed, it seemed months ago that +he had said good-bye to her and had watched the train disappear between +the hills. But when at last the long whistle echoing and reechoing from +the timbered mountain-sides announced the coming of the train that was +bringing her back, and the train itself a moment later burst into view +and, with a rushing roar of steam and wheels and brakes, came to a stop +at the depot platform, and there was Betty Jo herself, it seemed that it +was only yesterday that she had gone away. + +Very calm and self-possessed and well poised was Betty Jo when +she stepped from the train to meet him. She was very capable and +businesslike as she claimed her baggage and saw it safely in the spring +wagon. But still there was a something in her manner--a light in the +gray eyes, perhaps, or a quality in the clear voice--that meant worlds +more to the man than her simple statement, that she was glad to see him +again. Laughingly, she refused to tell him about her trip as they rode +home, saying that Auntie Sue must hear it all with him. And so conscious +was the man of her presence there beside him that, somehow, the +prospective success or failure of his book did not so much matter, after +all. + +In the excitement of the joyous meeting between Auntie Sue and Betty +Jo, Judy's stoical self-repression was unnoticed. The mountain girl went +about her part of the household work silently with apparent indifference +to the young woman's presence. But when, after the late dinner was over, +Auntie Sue and Brian listened to Betty Jo's story, Judy, unobserved, was +nearby, so that no word of the conversation escaped her. + +Three times that night, when all was still in the little log house by +the river, the door of Judy's room opened cautiously, and the twisted +form of the mountain girl appeared. Each time, for a few minutes, she +stood there in the moonlight that shone through the open window into the +quiet room, listening, listening; then went stealthily to the door of +the room where Betty Jo was sleeping, and each time she paused before +that closed door to look fearfully about the dimly lighted living room. +Once she crept to Brian's door, and then to Auntie Sue's, and once she +silently put her hand on the latch of that door between her and Betty +Jo; but, each time, she went stealthily back to her own room. + +Betty Jo awoke early that morning. Outside her open window the +birds were singing, and the sun, which was just above the higher +mountain-tops, was flooding the world with its wealth of morning beauty. +The music of the feathery chorus and the golden beauty of the light +that streamed through the window into her room, with the fresh enticing +perfume of the balmy air, were very alluring to the young woman just +returned from the cities' stale and dingy atmosphere. + +Betty Jo decided instantly that she must go for a before-breakfast walk. +From the window, as she dressed, she saw Brian going to the barn with +the milk-pail, and heard him greet the waiting “Bess” and exchange a +cheery good-morning with “Old Prince,” who hailed his coming with a low +whinny. + +Quietly, so as not to disturb Auntie Sue, Betty Jo slipped from the +house and went down the gentle slope to the river-bank, and strolled +along the margin of the stream toward Elbow Rock,--pausing sometimes to +look out over the water as her attention was drawn to some movement of +the river life, or turning aside to pluck a wild flower that caught +her eye. She had made her way thus leisurely two-thirds of the distance +perhaps from the house to Elbow Rock bluff when Judy suddenly confronted +her. The mountain girl came so unexpectedly from among the bushes that +Betty Jo, who was stooping over a flower, was startled. + +“Judy!” she exclaimed. “Goodness! child, how you frightened me!” she +finished with a good-natured laugh. But as she noticed the mountain +girl's appearance, the laugh died on her lips, and her face was grave +with puzzled concern. + +Poor Judy's black hair was uncombed and dishevelled. The sallow, +old-young face was distorted with passion, and the beady eyes glittered +with the light of an insane purpose. + +“What is it, Judy?” asked Betty Jo. “What in the world is the matter?” + +“What'd you-all come back for?” demanded Judy with sullen menace in +every word. “I done told him not ter let you. Hit 'pears ter me youuns +ought ter have more sense.” + +Alarmed at the girl's manner, Betty Jo thought to calm her by saying, +gently: “Why, Judy, dear, you are all excited and not a bit like +yourself. Tell me what troubles you. I came back because I love to be +here with Auntie Sue, of course. Why shouldn't I some if Auntie Sue +likes to have me?” + +“You-all are a-lyin',” returned Judy viciously. “But you-all sure can't +fool me. You-all come back 'cause he's here.” + +A warm blush colored Betty Jo's face. + +Judy's voice raised shrilly as she saw the effect of her words. + +“You-all knows dad burned well that's what you come back for. But hit +ain't a-goin' ter do you no good; hit sure ain't. I done told him. I +sure warned him what'd happen if he let you come back. I heard you-all +a-talkin' yesterday evenin' all 'bout his book an' what a great man that +there publisher-feller back East 'lows he's goin' ter be. An' I kin see, +now, that you-all has knowed hit from the start, an' that's why you-all +been a-fixin' ter git him away from me. I done studied hit all out last +night; but I sure ain't a-goin' ter let you do hit.” + +As she finished, the mountain girl, who had worked herself into a frenzy +of rage, moved stealthily toward Betty Jo, and her face, with those +blazing black eyes, and its frame of black unkempt hair, and its +expression of insane fury, was the face of a fiend. + +Betty Jo drew back, frightened at the poor creature's wild and +threatening appearance. + +“Judy!” she said sharply. “Judy! What do you mean!” + +With a snarling grin of malicious triumph, Judy cried: “Scared, ain't +you! You sure got reason ter be, 'cause there ain't nothin' kin stop me +now. Know what I'm a-goin' ter do? I'm a-goin' ter put you-all in the +river, just like I told him, an' old Elbow Rock is a-goin' ter make +you-all broken an' twisted an' ugly like what my pap made me. Oh, hit'll +sure fix that there fine slim body of your'n, an' that there pretty face +what he likes ter look at so, an' them fine clothes'll be all wet an' +mussed an' torn off you. You-all sure will be a-lookin' worse'n what +I ever looked the next time he sees you,--you with your no-'count, +half-gal and half-boy name!” + +As the mountain girl, with the quickness of a wild thing, leaped upon +her, Betty Jo screamed--one piercing cry, that ended in a choking gasp +as Judy's hands found her throat. + +Brian, who was still at the barn, busy with the morning chores, heard. +With all his might, he ran toward the spot from which the call came. + +Betty Jo fought desperately; but, strong as she was, she could never +have endured against the vicious strength of the frenzied mountain-bred +Judy, who was slowly and surely forcing her toward the brink of the +river-bank, against which the swift waters of the rapids swept with +terrific force. + +A moment more and Brian would have been too late. Throwing Judy aside, +he caught the exhausted Betty Jo in his arms, and, carrying her a little +back from the edge of the stream, placed her gently on the ground. + +Betty Jo did not faint; but she was too spent with her exertions to +speak, though she managed to smile at him reassuringly, and shook her +head when he asked if she was hurt. + +When Brian was assured that the girl was really unharmed, he turned +angrily to face Judy. But Judy had disappeared in the brush. + +Presently, as Betty Jo's breathing became normal, she arranged her +disordered hair and dress, and told Brian what the mountain girl had +said; and this, of course, forced the man to relate his experience with +Judy that night when she had told him that Betty Jo must not come back. + +“I suppose I should have warned you, Miss Williams,” he finished; “but +the whole thing seemed to me so impossible, I could not believe there +was any danger of the crazy creature actually attempting to carry out +her wild threat; and, besides,--well, you can see that it was rather +difficult for me to speak of it to you. I am sorry,” he ended, with +embarrassment. + +For a long moment, the two looked at each other silently; then Betty +Jo's practical common sense came to the rescue: “It would have been +awkward for you to try to tell me, wouldn't it, Mr. Burns? And now that +it is all over, and no harm done, we must just forget it as quickly as +we can. We won't ever mention it again, will we?” + +“Certainly not,” he agreed heartily. “But I shall keep an eye on Miss +Judy, in the future, I can promise you.” + +“I doubt if we ever see her again,” returned Betty Jo, thoughtfully. “I +don't see how she would dare go back to the house after this. I expect +she will return to her father. Poor thing! But we must be careful not to +let Auntie Sue know.” Then smiling up at him, she added: “It seems like +Auntie Sue is getting us into all sorts of conspiracies, doesn't it? +What DO you suppose we will be called upon to hide from her next?” + +At Brian's suggestion, they went first to the barn, where he quickly +finished his work. Then, carrying the full milk-pail between them, they +proceeded, laughing and chatting, to the house, where Auntie Sue stood +in the doorway. + +The dear old lady smiled when she saw them coming so, and, returning +their cheery greeting happily, added: “Have you children seen Judy +anywhere? The child is not in her room, and the fire is not even made in +the kitchen-stove yet.” + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +BETTY JO FACES HERSELF. + + +All that day Auntie Sue wondered about Judy, while Brian and Betty Jo +exhausted their inventive faculties in efforts to satisfy the dear old +lady with plausible reasons for the mountain girl's disappearance. + +During the forenoon, Brian canvassed the immediate neighborhood, and +returned with the true information that Judy had stopped at the first +house below Elbow Rock for breakfast, where she had told the people +that she was going back to her father, because she was “doggone tired of +working for them there city folks what was a-livin' at Auntie Sue's.” + +This was, in a way, satisfactory to Auntie Sue, because it assured her +that the girl had met with no serious accident and because she knew very +well the mountain-bred girl's ability to take care of herself in the +hills. But, still, the gentle mistress of the log house by the river was +troubled to think that Judy would leave her so without a word. + +Betty Jo was so occupied during the day by her efforts to relieve Auntie +Sue that she had but little time left for thought of herself or for +reflecting on the situation revealed in her encounter with Judy. But +many times during the day the mountain girl's passionate accusation came +back to her, “You-all are a-lyin'! You-all come back 'cause HE is here.” + Nor could she banish from her memory the look that was on Brian Kent's +face that morning when he was carrying her in his arms back from the +brink of the river-bank, over which the frenzied Judy had so nearly sent +her to her death. And so, when the day at last was over, and she was +alone in her room, it was not strange that Betty Jo should face herself +squarely with several definite and pointed and exceedingly personal +questions. + +It was like Betty Jo to be honest with herself and to demand of herself +that her problems be met squarely. + +“First of all, Betty Jo,” she demanded, in her downright, +straightforward way of going most directly to the heart of a matter, +“are you in love with Brian Kent?” + +Without hesitation, the answer came, “I have not permitted myself to +love him.” + +“You have not permitted yourself to love him? That means that you would +be in love with him if you dared, doesn't it?” + +And Betty Jo, in the safe seclusion of her room, felt her cheeks burn as +she acknowledged the truth of the deduction. + +The next question was inevitable: “Is Brian Kent in love with you, Betty +Jo?” + +And Betty Jo, recalling many, many things, was compelled to answer, from +the triumphant gladness of her heart: “He is trying not to be, but he +can't help himself. And”--the downright and straightforward young woman +continued--“because I know that Brian Kent is trying so hard not to love +me is the real reason why I have not permitted myself to love him.” + +But the clear-thinking, practical Betty Jo protested quickly: “You must +remember that you are wholly ignorant of Brian Kent's history, except +for the things he has chosen to tell you. And those things in his life +which he has confessed to you are certainly not the things that could +win the love of a girl like you, even though they might arouse your +interest in the man. Interest is not love, Betty Jo. Are you quite sure +that you are not making the mistake that is most commonly made by young +women?” + +Betty Jo was compelled to answer that she was not mistaking interest +for love, because had such been the case, she would not be able to so +analyze the situation. Betty Jo's quite womanly prejudice is admitted, +because the prejudice was so womanly, and because Betty Jo herself was +so womanly. + +“Very well, Miss Betty Jo,” the young woman continued inexorably, “you +are not permitting yourself to love Brian Kent because Brian Kent is +trying not to love you. But, why is the man trying so hard not to love +you?” + +Betty Jo thought very hard over this question, and felt her way +carefully to the answer. “It might be, of course, that it is because he +is a fugitive from the law. A man under such circumstances could easily +convince himself that no good woman would permit herself to love him, +and he would therefore, in reasonable self-defense, prevent himself from +loving her if he could.” + +But surely Brian Kent had every reason to know that Betty Jo did not at +all regard him as a criminal. Betty Jo, as Auntie Sue, recognized only +the re-created Brian Kent. If that were all, they need only wait for the +restitution which was so sure to come through his book. And Brian Kent +himself, through Auntie Sue's teaching and through his work, had come +to recognize only his real self, and not the creature of circumstances +which the river had brought to the little log house. Betty Jo felt sure +that there was more than this that was forcing the man to defend himself +against his love for her. Thus she was driven to the conclusion that +there was something in Brian Kent's history that he had not made +known to her,--a something that denied him the right to love her, and +that,--reasoned poor Betty Jo in the darkness of her room,--could only +be a woman,--a woman to whom he was bound, not by love indeed,--Betty Jo +could not believe that,--but by ties of honor and of the law. + +And very clearly Betty Jo reasoned, too, that Brian's attitude toward +her evidenced unmistakably his high sense of honor. The very fact +that he had so persistently--in all their companionship, in their most +intimate moments together even--held this invisible and, to her, unknown +barrier between them, convinced her beyond a doubt of the essential +integrity of his character, and compelled her admiration and confidence. + +“That is exactly it, Betty Jo,” she told herself sadly; “you love him +because he tries so hard to keep himself from loving you.” + +And thus Betty Jo proved the correctness of Auntie Sue's loving estimate +of her character and justified the dear old teacher's faith in the +sterling quality of her womanhood. + +Face to face with herself, fairly and squarely, the girl accepted the +truth of the situation for Brian and for herself, and determined her +course. She must go away,--she must go at once. + +She wished that she had not returned to the log house by the river. +She had never fully admitted to herself the truth of her feeling toward +Brian until Judy had so unexpectedly precipitated the crisis; but, she +knew, now, that Judy was right, and that the real reason for her return +was her love for him. She knew, as well, that her very love,--which, +once fully admitted and recognized by her, demanded with all the +strength of her young womanhood the nearness and companionship of the +mate her heart had chosen,--demanded, also, that she help him to keep +that fine sense of honor and true nobility of character which had won +her. + +She understood instinctively that,--now that she had confessed her love +to herself,--she would, in spite of herself, tempt him in a thousand +ways to throw aside that barrier which he had so honorably maintained +between them. Her heart would plead with him to disregard his better +self, and come to her. Her very craving for the open assurance of his +love would tempt him, perhaps beyond his strength. And, yet, she knew as +truly that, if he should yield; if he should cast aside the barrier +of his honor; if he should deny his best self, and answer her call, it +would be disastrous beyond measure to them both. + +To save the fineness of their love, Betty Jo must go. If it should be +that they never met again, still she must go. + +But there were other currents moving in the river that night. In the +steady onward flow of the whole, Betty Jo's life-currents seemed to be +setting away from the man she loved. But other currents, unknown to the +girl, who faced herself so honestly, and who so bravely accepted the +truth she found, were moving in ways beyond her knowledge. Directed and +influenced by innumerable and unseen forces and obstacles, the currents +which, combined, made the stream of life in its entirety, were weaving +themselves together,--interlacing and separating,--drawing close and +pulling apart,--only to mingle as one again. + +Betty Jo saw only Brian Kent and herself, and their love which she now +acknowledged, and she had, as it were, only a momentary glimpse of those +small parts of the stream. + +Betty Jo could not know of those other currents that were moving so +mysteriously about her as the river poured itself onward so unceasingly +to the sea. + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +JUDY'S CONFESSION. + + +In spite of all their care, Brian and Betty Jo did not wholly convince +Auntie Sue that there was no more in Judy's disappearance than the +report from the neighbors indicated. The dear old lady felt that there +was something known to the young people that they were keeping from her; +and, while she did not question their motives, and certainly did not +worry,--for Auntie Sue never worried,--she was not satisfied with the +situation. When she retired to her room for the night, she told herself, +with some spirit, that she would surely go to the bottom of the affair +the next morning. + +It happened that Auntie Sue went to the bottom of the affair much sooner +than she expected. + +It must have been about that same hour of the night when Betty Jo, after +reaching her decision to go away, retired to her bed, that Auntie Sue +was aroused by a low knocking at the open window of her room. + +The old teacher listened without moving, her first thought being that +her fancy was tricking her. The sound came again, and, this time, there +could be no mistake. Sitting up in her bed, Auntie Sue looked toward +the window, and, at the sound of her movement, a low whisper came from +without. + +“Don't be scared, Auntie Sue. Hit ain't nobody but just me.” + +As she recognized Judy's voice, she saw the mountain girl's head and +twisted shoulders outlined above the window-sill. A moment more, and +Auntie Sue was at the window. + +“Sh-h-h!” cautioned Judy. “Don't wake 'em up. I just naturally got ter +tell you-all somethin', Auntie Sue; but, I ain't a-wantin' Mr. Burns +an' that there Betty Jo woman ter hear. I reckon I best come through the +winder.” + +Acting upon the word, she climbed carefully into the room. + +“Judy, child! What--?” + +The mountain girl interrupted Auntie Sue's tremulous whisper with: “I'll +tell hit ter you, ma'm, in a little bit, if you'll just wait. I got ter +see if they are sure 'nough a-sleepin' first, though.” + +She stole silently from the room, to return a few minutes later. “They +are plumb asleep, both of 'em,” she said in a low tone, when she had +cautiously closed the door. “I done opened the doors ter their rooms, +an' listened, an' shet 'em again 'thout ary one of 'em a-movin' even. +I'll fix the winder, now, an' then we kin make a light.” + +Carefully, she closed the window and drew down the shade. Then she lit +the lamp. + +Auntie Sue, who was sitting on the bed, looked at the girl in bewildered +amazement. + +With a nervous laugh, Judy fingered her torn dress and dishevelled hair. +“I sure am a sight, ain't I, ma'm? I done hit a-comin' through the bresh +in the dark. But, don't--don't--look so kinder lost like; you-all ain't +got no call ter be scared of me.” + +“Why, Judy, dear, I'm not afraid of you. Come, child; tell me what is +the trouble.” + +At the kindly manner and voice of the old gentlewoman, those black eyes +filled with tears, which, for the moment, the mountain girl stoically +permitted to roll down her thin sallow cheeks unheeded. Then, with +a quick resolute jerk of her twisted body, she drew her dress sleeve +across her face, and said: “I--I--reckon I couldn't hate myself no +worse'n I'm a-doin'. Hit seems like I been mighty nigh plumb crazy; but, +I just naturally had ter come back an' tell you-all, 'cause you-all been +so good ter me.” + +She placed a chair for Auntie Sue, and added: “You-all best make +yourself comfertable, though, ma'm. I'm mighty nigh tuckered out myself. +Hit's a right smart way from where pap's a-livin' ter here, an' I done +come in a hurry.” + +She dropped down on the floor, her back against the bed, and clasped her +knees in her hands, as Auntie Sue seated herself. + +“Begin at the beginning, Judy, and tell me exactly what has happened,” + said Auntie Sue. + +“Yes, ma'm, I will,--that's what I was aimin' ter do when I made up ter +come back.” + +And she did. Starting with her observation of Brian and Betty Jo, and +her conviction of their love, she told of her interview with Brian the +night she warned him not to let Betty Jo return, and finished with the +account of her attack on Betty Jo that morning. + +Auntie Sue listened with amazement and pity. Here, indeed, was a wayward +and troubled life-current. + +“But, Judy, Judy!” exclaimed the gentle old teacher, “you would not +really have pushed Betty Jo into the river. She would have been drowned, +child. Surely, you did not mean to kill her, Judy.” + +The girl wrung her hands, and her deformed body swayed to and fro in the +nervous intensity of her emotions. But she answered, stubbornly: “That +there was just what I was aimin' ter do. I'd a-killed her, sure, if Mr. +Burns hadn't a-come just when he did. I can't rightly tell how hit was, +but hit seemed like there was somethin' inside of me what was a-makin' +me do hit, an' I couldn't, somehow, help myself. An'--an'--that ain't +all, ma'm; I done worse'n that,” she continued in a low, moaning wail. +“Oh, my God-A'mighty! Why didn't Mr. Burns sling me inter the river an' +let me be smashed an' drowned at Elbow Rock while he had me, 'stead of +lettin' me git away ter do what I've gone an' done!” + +Auntie Sue's wonderful native strength enabled her to speak calmly: +“What is it you have done, Judy? You must tell me, child.” + +The older woman's voice and manner steadied the girl, and she answered +more in her usual colorless monotone, but still guarded so as not to +awaken the other members of the household: “Hit seemed like Mr. Burns +ketchin' me, like he did, an' me a-seein' him with her in his arms, made +me plumb crazy-mad, an' I 'lowed I'd fix hit so's he couldn't never have +her nohow, so I--I--done told pap 'bout him bein' Brian Kent what +had robbed that there bank, an' how there was er lot of reward-money +a-waitin' for anybody that'd tell on him.” + +Auntie Sue was too shocked to speak. Was it possible that, now, when the +real Brian Kent was so far removed from the wretched bank clerk; when +his fine natural character and genius had become so established, and his +book was--No, no! It could not be! God could not let men be so cruel as +to send Auntie Sue's Brian Kent to prison because that other Brian Kent, +tormented by wrong environment, and driven by an evil combination of +circumstances, had taken a few dollars of the bank's money! And Betty +Jo--No, no! Auntie Sue's heart cried out in protest. There must be some +way. She would find some way. The banker--Homer Ward! Auntie Sue's mind, +alert and vigorous as the mind of a woman of half her years, caught at +the thought of her old friend and pupil. She leaned forward in her chair +over the girl who sat on the floor at her feet, and her voice was strong +and clear with the strength of the spirit which dominated her frail +body. + +“Judy, did you tell any one else besides your father?” + +“There wasn't nobody else ter tell,” came the answer. “An' pap, he +'lowed he'd kill me if I said anythin' ter anybody 'fore he'd got the +money. He aims ter git hit all for hisself.” + +“What will he do? Will he go to Sheriff Knox?” + +“No, ma'm; pap, he 'lowed if he done that a-way, the Sheriff he'd +take most of the money. Pap's a-goin' right ter that there bank feller +hisself.” + +“Yes, yes! Go on, Judy!” + +“You see, ma'm, I done remembered the name of the bank an' where hit was +an' Mr. Ward's name an' all, on 'count of that there money letter what +you done sent 'em an' us bein' so worried 'bout hit never gittin' there +an' all that. An' pap, he knows er man over in Gardner what's on the +railroad, you see, what'll let him have money enough for the trip,--a +licker-man, he is,--an' pap's aimin' ter make hit over ter Gardner ter +git the money in time ter ketch that there early mornin' train. Hit's a +right smart way over the mountains, but I reckon's how pap'll make +hit. Soon's pap left, I got ter thinkin' what I'd done, an' the more +I studied 'bout hit,--'bout Mr. Burns a-havin' ter go ter prison, an' +'bout you-all a-carin' for him the way you does, an' 'bout how happy you +was over his book, an'--an'--how good you'd been ter me,--the sorrier +I got, 'til I just couldn't stand a-thinkin' 'bout hit no longer; +an'--an'--so I come fast as I could ter tell you. I 'lowed you'd make +out ter fix hit some way so--Mr. Burns won't have ter go ter prison. +Couldn't you-all send--send a telegraph ter the bank man, er somethin'? +I'd git it inter Thompsonville for you, ma'm; an' Mr. Burns, he needn't +never know nothin' 'bout hit.” + +Auntie Sue was dressing when Judy finished speaking. With a physical +strength that had its source in her indomitable spirit, she moved about +the room making the preparations necessary to her plan, and as she +worked she talked to the girl. + +“No, Judy, a telegram won't do. I must go to Homer Ward myself. That +morning train leaves Thompsonville at six o'clock. You must slip out of +the house, and harness 'Old Prince' to the buggy as fast as you can. You +will drive with me to Thompsonville, and bring 'Prince' back. You can +turn him loose when you get near home, and he will come the rest of the +way alone. You must not let Mr. Burns nor Betty Jo see you, because +they mustn't know anything about what you have done. Do you understand, +child?” + +“Yes, ma'm,” said Judy, eagerly. She was on her feet now. + +“You can go to the neighbors and find some place to stay until I +return,” continued Auntie Sue. + +“You don't need ter worry none 'bout me,” said Judy. “I kin take care +of myself, I reckon. But ain't you plumb seared ter go 'way on the cars +alone an' you so old?” + +“Old!” retorted Auntie Sue. “I have not felt so strong for twenty years. +There is nothing for me to fear. I will be in St. Louis to-morrow night, +and in Chicago the next forenoon. I guess I am not so helpless that I +can't make a little journey like this. Homer Ward shall never send my +boy to prison,--never,--bank or no bank! Go on, now, and get 'Prince' +and the buggy ready. We must not miss that train.” She pushed Judy from +the room, and again cautioned her not to awaken Brian or Betty Jo. + +When she had completed her preparations for the trip, Auntie Sue wrote +a short note to Betty Jo, telling her that she had been called away +suddenly, and that she would return in a few days, and that she +was obliged to borrow Betty Jo's pocket-book. Grave as she felt the +situation to be, Auntie Sue laughed to herself as she pictured the +consternation of Betty Jo and Brian in the morning. + +Silently, the old lady stole into the girl's room to secure the money +she needed and to leave her letter. Then, as silently, she left the +house, and found Judy, who was waiting with “Old Prince” and the buggy, +ready to start. + +The station agent at Thompsonville was not a little astonished when +Auntie Sue and Judy appeared, and, with the easy familiarity of an old +acquaintance greeted her with, “Howdy, Auntie Sue! What in thunder are +you doin' out this time of the day? No bad news, I hope?” + +“Oh, no, Mr. Jackson,” Auntie Sue answered easily. “I'm just going to +Chicago for a little visit with an old friend.” + +“Sort of a vacation, eh?” returned the man behind the window, as he +made out her ticket. “Well, you sure have earned one, Auntie Sue. It's +gittin' to be vacation time now, too. Bunch of folks come in yesterday +to stay at the clubhouse for a spell. Pretty wild lot, I'd say,--wimmen +as well as the men. I reckon them clubhouse parties don't disturb you +much, though, if you be their nearest neighbor,--do they?” + +“They never have yet, Mr. Jackson,” she returned. “Their place is on the +other side of the river, and a mile above my house, you know. I see them +in their boats on The Bend, though, and once in a while they call on me. +But the Elbow Rock rapids begin in front of my place, and the clubhouse +people don't usually come that far down the river.” + +She turned to Judy, and, with the girl, went out of the waiting room +to the platform, where she whispered: “You must start back right away, +Judy. If your father is on the train, he might see you.” + +“What if pap ketches sight of you-all?” Judy returned nervously. + +“He will not be so apt to notice me as he would you,” she returned, +“even if he does catch a glimpse of me. And it can't be helped if he +does. I'll be in Chicago as quick as he will, and I know I will see Mr. +Ward first. Go on now, dear, and don't let Mr. Burns or Betty Jo see +you, and be a good girl. I feel sure that everything will be all right.” + +With a sudden awkward movement, poor Judy caught the old gentlewoman's +hand and pressed it to her lips; then, turning, ran toward the buggy. + +When the train arrived, the station agent came to help Auntie Sue with +her handbag aboard, and she managed to keep her friend between herself +and the coaches, in case Jap Taylor should be looking from a window. As +the conductor and the agent assisted her up the steps, the agent said: +“Mind you take good care of her, Bill. Finest old lady God-Almighty +ever made! If you was to let anything happen to her, you best never show +yourself in this neighborhood again; we'd lynch you, sure!” + +The conductor found a good seat for his lovely old passenger, and made +her as comfortable as possible. As he punched her ticket, he said, with +a genial smile, which was the voluntary tribute paid to Auntie Sue by +all men: “You are not much like the passengers I usually carry in this +part of the country, ma'm. They are mostly a rather rough-lookin' lot.” + +She smiled back at him, understanding perfectly his intended compliment. +“They are good people, though, sir,--most of them. Of course, there are +some who are a little wild, sometimes, I expect.” + +The railroad man laughed again, shaking his head. “I should say so. You +ought to see the specimen I've got in the smoker. I picked him up back +there at Gardner. Perhaps you have heard of him--Jap Taylor. He is about +the worst in the whole country, I reckon.” + +“I have heard of him,” she returned. “I do hope he won't come into this +coach.” + +“Oh, he won't start anything on my train,” laughed the man in blue +reassuringly. “He would never come in here, anyhow. Them kind always +stay in the smoker. Seems like they know where they belong. He is +half-scared to death himself, anyway; he is going to Chicago, too, and +I'll bet it's the first time in his life he has ever been farther from +these hills than Springfield.” + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE. + + +When Brian went to the barn the next morning he found “Old Prince” + standing at the gate. While he was still trying to find some plausible +explanation of the strange incident, after unharnessing the horse and +giving him his morning feed, an excited call from Betty Jo drew his +attention. With an answering shout, he started for the house. The +excited girl met him halfway, and gave him Auntie Sue's note. + +When Brian had read the brief and wholly inadequate message, they stood +looking at each other, too mystified for speech. Brian read the note, +again, aloud, speaking every word with slow distinctness. “Well, I'll +be hanged!” he ejaculated, at the close of the remarkable communication, +staring at Betty Jo. + +“It wouldn't in the least surprise me if we were both hanged before +night,” returned Betty Jo. “After this from Auntie Sue, I am prepared +for anything. What on earth DO you suppose has happened?” + +Brian shook his head: “It is too much for me!” + +Together they went to the house, and the place seemed strangely +deserted. Every possible explanation that suggested itself, they +discussed and rejected. + +“One thing we can depend upon,” said Brian, at last, when they had +exhausted the resources of their combined imaginations: “Auntie Sue +knows exactly what she is doing, and she is doing exactly the right +thing. I suppose we will know all about it when she returns.” + +Betty Jo looked again at the note: “'I will be back in a few days,'” she +read slowly. “'Be good children, and take care of things.'” + +Again, they regarded each other wonderingly. + +Then Betty Jo broke the silence with an odd little laugh: “I feel like +we were cast away on some desert island, don't you?” + +“Something like that,” Brian returned. Then, to relieve the strain of +the situation, he added: “I suppose 'Bess' will have to be milked and +the chores finished just the same.” + +“And I'll get breakfast for us,” agreed Betty Jo, as he started back to +the barn. + +In the safe seclusion of the stable, with no one but “Old Prince” and +“Bess” to witness his agitation, Brian endeavored to bring his confused +and unruly thoughts under some sort of control. + +“Several days; several days.” The words repeated themselves with +annoying persistency. And they--Betty Jo and he, Brian Kent--were to +“take care of things”;--they were to keep house together;--they were to +live together, alone,--in the log house by the river,--alone. She was +even then preparing their breakfast. They would sit down at the table +alone. And there would be dinner and supper; and the evening,--just for +them. He would work about the place. She would attend to her household +duties. He would go to his meals, and she would be there expecting +him,--waiting for him. And when the tasks of the day were finished, they +would sit on the porch to watch the coming of the night,--Betty Jo +and he, Brian Kent--“What in God's name,” the man demanded of the +indifferent “Bess,” did Auntie Sue mean by placing him in such a +situation? Did she think him more than human? + +It had not been easy for Brian to maintain that barrier between himself +and Betty Jo, even with the constant help of Auntie Sue's presence. +Many, many times he had barely saved himself from declaring his +love; and, now, he was asked to live with her in the most intimate +companionship possible. + +For the only time in his life Brian Kent was almost angry at Auntie Sue. +“By all that was consistent, and reasonable, and merciful, and safe,” he +told himself, “if it was absolutely necessary for the dear old lady to +disappear so mysteriously, why had she not taken Betty Jo along?” + +In the meantime, while Brian was confiding his grievances to his +four-footed companions in the barn, Betty Jo was expressing herself in +the kitchen. + +“Betty Jo,” she began, as she raked the ashes from the stove preparatory +to building the fire, “it appears to me that you have some serious +considering to do, and”--with a glance toward the barn, as she went out +to empty the ash-pan--“you must do it quickly before that man comes for +his breakfast. You were very right, last night, in your decision, to +go away. It is exactly what you should have done. I am more than ever +convinced of that, this morning. But you can't go now. Even if Auntie +Sue had not taken your pocket-book and every penny in it, you couldn't +run away with Auntie Sue herself gone. If she hadn't wanted you to stay +right here for some very serious reason, Betty Jo, she would have +taken you with her last night. Auntie Sue very pointedly and definitely +expects you to be here when she returns. And she will be away several +days,--several days, Betty Jo.” She repeated the words in a whisper. +“And during those several days, you are to keep house for the man you +love;--the man who loves you;--the man whom you must keep from telling +you his love,--no matter how your heart pleads for him to tell you, you +must not permit him to speak. He will be coming in to breakfast in a few +minutes, and you will sit down at the table with him,--across the table +from him,--facing him,--Betty Jo,--just like--” + +She looked in the little mirror that hung beside the kitchen window, +and, with dismay, saw her face flushed with color that was not caused by +the heat of the stove. “And you will be forced to look at him across the +table, and he will look at you,--and--and you must not,--” she stamped +her foot,--“you dare not look like THAT, Betty Jo. + +“And then there will be the dinner that you will cook for him, and the +supper; and the evenings on the porch. O Lord! Betty Jo, what ever will +you do? How will you ever save the fineness of your love? If you were +afraid to trust yourself with the help of Auntie Sue's presence, what +in the world can you do without her--and you actually keeping house +with him? Oh, Auntie Sue! Auntie Sue!” she groaned, “you are the dearest +woman in the world and the best and wisest, but you have blundered +terribly this time! Why DID you do such a thing! It is not fair to him! +It is not fair to me! It is not fair to our love! + +“All of which,”--the practical Betty Jo declared a moment later, wiping +her eyes on the corner of her apron, and going into the other room to +set the table for breakfast,--“all of which, Betty Jo, does not in the +least help matters, and only makes you more nervous and upset than you +are. + +“One thing is certain sure,” she continued, while her hands were busy +with the dishes and the table preparations: “If we can endure this test, +we need never, never, never fear that anything nor anybody can ever, +ever make us doubt the genuineness of our love. Auntie Sue has certainly +arranged it most beautifully for Brian Kent and Betty Jo Williams to +become thoroughly acquainted.” + +Betty Jo suddenly paused in her work, and stood very still: “I wonder,” + she said slowly,--“can it be,--is it possible,--what if Auntie Sue has +brought about this situation for that very reason?” + +“Breakfast ready?” cried Brian at the kitchen-door, and his voice was so +hearty and natural that the girl answered as naturally: “It will be +as soon as you are ready for it. I forget, do you like your eggs three +minutes or four?” + +They really managed that breakfast very well, even if they did sit +opposite each other so that each was forced to look straight across +the table into the face of the other. Or, perhaps, it was because they +looked at each other so straight and square and frankly honest that the +breakfast went so well. + +And because the breakfast went so well, they managed the dinner and the +supper also. + +“I have been thinking,” said Brian at the close of their evening meal, +looking straight into the gray eyes over the table, “perhaps it might be +better for you to stay at neighbor Tom's until Auntie Sue returns. I'll +hitch up 'Old Prince' and drive you over, if you say. Or, we might find +some neighbor woman to come here to live with us, if you prefer.” + +“You don't like my housekeeping, then?” asked Betty Jo. + +“Like it!” exclaimed Brian; and the tone of his voice approached the +danger-point. + +Betty Jo said quickly: “I'll tell you exactly what I think, Mr. Burns: +Auntie Sue said we were to be good children, and take care of things +until she returned. She did not say for me to shirk my part by going to +neighbor Tom's or by having any one come here. Don't you think we can do +exactly what Auntie Sue said?” + +“Yes,” returned Brian, heartily; “I am sure we can. And do you +know,--come to think about it,--I believe the dear old lady would be +disappointed in us both if we dodged our--well,--” he finished with +emphasis,--“our responsibilities.” + +And after that, somehow, the evening on the porch went as well as the +breakfast and dinner and supper had gone. + +It was the second day of their housekeeping that Betty Jo noticed +smoke coming from the stone chimney of the clubhouse up the river. She +reported her observation to Brian when he came in from his work for +dinner. During the afternoon, they both saw boats on the quiet waters of +The Bend, and at supper told each other what they had seen. And in the +evening they together watched the twinkling lights of the clubhouse +windows, and once they heard voices and laughter from somewhere on the +river as though a boating party were making merry. + +Two days later, Brian and Betty Jo were just finishing dinner when a +step sounded on the porch, and a man appeared in the open doorway. + +The stranger was dressed in the weird and flashy costume considered by +his class to be the proper thing for an outing in the country, and his +face betrayed the sad fact that, while he was mentally, spiritually, and +physically greatly in need of a change from the unclean atmosphere +that had made him what he was, he was incapable of benefiting by more +wholesome conditions of living. He was, in fact, a perfect specimen of +that type of clubman who, in order to enjoy fully the beautiful life of +God's unspoiled world, must needs take with him all of the sordid and +vicious life of that world wherein he is most at home. + +With no word of greeting, he said, with that superior air which so many +city folk assume when addressing those who live in the country: “Have +you people any fresh vegetables or eggs to sell?” + +Brian and Betty Jo arose, and Brian, stepping forward, said, with a +smile: “No, we have nothing to sell here; but I think our neighbor, Mr. +Warden, just over the hill, would be glad to supply you. Won't you come +in?” + +The man stared at Brian, turned an appraising eye on Betty Jo; then +looked curiously about the room. + +“I beg your pardon,” he said, removing his cap, “I thought, when I +spoke, that you were natives. My name is Green,--Harry Green. There is +a party of us stopping at the clubhouse, up the river, there;--just out +for a bit of a good time, you know. We are from St. Louis,--first time +any of us were ever in the Ozarks,--friends of mine own the clubhouse.” + +“My name is Burns,” returned Brian. “We noticed your boats on the river. +You are enjoying your outing, are you?” + +Again the man looked curiously from Brian to Betty Jo. “Oh, yes; we +can stand it for awhile,” he answered. “We're a pretty jolly bunch, you +see;--know how to keep things going. It would kill me if I had to live +here in this lonesome hole very long, though. Don't you find it rather +slow, Mrs. Burns?” + +Poor Betty Jo's face turned fairly crimson. She could neither answer the +stranger nor meet his gaze, but stood with downcast eyes;--then looked +at Brian appealingly. + +But Brian was as embarrassed as Betty Jo; while the stranger, as he +regarded them, smiled with an expression of insolent understanding. + +“I guess I have made another mistake,” he said, with a meaning laugh. + +“You have,” returned Brian, sharply, stepping forward as he spoke; for +the man's manner was unmistakable. “Be careful, sir, that you do not +make another.” + +Mr. Green spoke quickly, with an airy wave of his hand: “No offense; +no offense, I assure you.” Then as he moved toward the door, he added, +still with thinly veiled insolence: “I beg your pardon for intruding. I +understand, perfectly. Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns! Good-afternoon, miss!” + +Brian followed him out to the porch; and the caller, as he went down the +steps, turned back with another understanding laugh: “I say, Burns, you +are a lucky devil. Don't worry about me, old man. I envy you, by Jove! +Charming little nest. Come over to the club some evening. Bring the +little girl along, and help us to have a good time. So-long!” + +Mr. Harry Green probably never knew how narrowly he escaped being +manhandled by the enraged but helpless Brian. + +Brian remained on the porch until he saw the man, in his boat, leave the +eddy at the foot of the garden and row away up the river. + +In the house, again, the two faced each other in dismay. + +Betty Jo was first to recover: “I am sure that it is quite time for +Auntie Sue to come home and take charge of her own household again. +Don't you think so, Mr. Burns?” + +And Brian Kent most heartily agreed. + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW. + + +The members of the clubhouse party were amusing themselves that +afternoon in the various ways peculiar to their kind. + +At one end of the wide veranda overlooking the river a group sat at a +card table. At the other end of the roomy lounging place, men and women, +lying at careless ease in steamer-chairs and hammocks, were smoking and +chatting about such things as are of interest only to that strange +class who are educated to make idleness the chief aim and end of their +existence. On the broad steps leading down to the tree-shaded lawn, +which sloped gently to the boat landing at the river's edge, still +other members of the company were scattered in characteristic attitudes. +Across the river, in the shade of the cottonwoods that overhang the +bank, a man and a woman in a boat were ostensibly fishing. In a hammock +strung between two trees, a little way from the veranda, lay a woman, +reading. + +Now and then a burst of shrill laughter broke the quiet of the +surrounding forest. A man on the steps called a loud suggestive jest to +the pair in the boat, and the woman waved her handkerchief in answer. +The card-players argued and laughed over a point in their game. Some +one shouted into the house for Jim, and a negro man in white jacket +appeared. When the people on the veranda had expressed their individual +tastes, the one who had summoned the servant called to the woman in the +hammock under the tree, “What is yours, Martha?” + +Without looking up from her book, the woman waved her hand, and +answered, “I am not drinking this time. Thanks.” + +A chorus of derisive shouts and laughter came from the veranda. But +the woman went on reading. “Oh, let her alone!” protested some one, +good-naturedly. “She was going a little strong, last night. She'll be +all right by and by, when she gets started again.” + +The negro, Jim, had returned with his loaded tray, and was passing among +the members of the company with his assortment of glasses, when some one +called attention to Harry Green, who was just pulling his boat up to the +landing after his visit to the little log house down the river. + +A boisterous chorus greeted the boatman: “Hello, Harry! Did you find +anything? You're just in time. What'll you have?” + +With a wave of greeting, the man fastened his boat to the landing, and +started up the slope. + +“He'll have a Scotch, of course!” said some one. “Did anybody ever know +him to take anything else? Go and get it, Jim. He'll be nearly dead for +a drink after rowing all that distance.” + +The woman in the hammock lowered her book, and lay watching the man as +he came up the path toward the steps. + +Harry Green, who, apparently, was a person of importance among them, +seated himself in an easy chair on the veranda, and accepted the glass +proffered by Jim. + +“Did you find any eggs, Harry?” demanded one. The man first refreshed +himself with a long drink; then looked around with a grin of amused +appreciation: “I didn't get any eggs,” he said; “but I found the nest +all right.” + +A shout of laughter greeted the reply. + +“What sort of nest, Harry? Duck? Turkey? Hen? Dove? Or rooster?” came +from different members of the chorus. + +Raising his glass as though offering a toast, he answered: “Love! my +children; love!” + +A yell of delight came from the company, accompanied by a volley of: +“A love-nest! Well, what do you know about that! Good boy, Harry! Takes +Harry to find a love-nest! He's the boy to send for eggs! I should say, +yes! Martha will like that! Oh, won't she!” + +This last remark turned their attention toward the woman in the hammock, +and they called to her: “Martha! Oh, Martha! Come here! You better +look after Harry! Harry has found a love-nest! Told you something would +happen if you let him go away alone!” + +Putting aside her book, the woman came to join the company on the +veranda. + +She was rather a handsome woman, but with a suggestion of coarseness in +form and features, though her face, in spite of its too-evident signs of +dissipation, was not a bad face. + +Seating herself on the top step, with her back against the post in an +attitude of careless abandonment, she looked up at the negro who stood +grinning in the doorway. “Bring me a highball, Jim: you know my kind.” + Then to the company: “Somebody give me a cigarette.” + +Harry tossed a silver case in her lap. Another man, who sat near, leaned +over her with a lighted match. + +Expelling a generous cloud of smoke from her shapely lips, she +demanded: “What is this you are all shouting about Harry having another +love-nest?” + +During the answering chorus of boisterous laughter and jesting remarks, +she drank the liquor which the negro brought. + +Then Harry, pointing out Auntie Sue's house, which was easily visible +from where they sat, related his experience. And among the many +conjectures, and questions, and comments offered, no one suggested even +that the man and the woman living in that little log house by the river +might be entirely innocent of the implied charge. For those who are +themselves guilty, to assume the guilt of others is very natural and +altogether human. + +In the moment's quiet which followed the arrival of a fresh supply of +drinks, the woman called Martha said: “But what is the man like, Harry? +You have enthused quite enough about the girl. Suppose you tell us about +the man in the case.” + +Harry gave a very good description of Brian Kent. + +“Oh, damn!” suddenly cried Martha, shaking her skirt vigorously. She had +spilled some of the liquor from her glass. + +A woman on the outer edge of the circle whispered to her nearest +neighbor, and a hush fell over the group. + +“Well,” said Martha, drinking the liquor remaining in her glass, “why +the devil don't we find out who they are, if we are so curious?” + +“Find out! How? We'll find out a lot! What would you do,--ask them their +names and where they are from?” came from the company. + +“It is easy enough,” retorted Martha. “There is that native girl that +Molly picked up the day we landed here to help her in the kitchen. She +must belong in this neighborhood somewhere. I'll bet she can tell us +something. What is her name?” + +“Judy,--Judy Taylor. Great idea! Good! Send her out here, Jim,” + responded the others. + +When the deformed mountain girl appeared before them, she looked from +face to face with such a frightened and excited expression on her +sallow, old-young features, and such a wild light in her black beady +eyes, that they regarded her with silent interest. + +Judy spoke first, and her shrill monotone emphasized her excited state +of mind: “That there nigger said as how Missus Kent was a-wantin' ter +see me. Be ary one of youuns sure 'nough Missus Kent?” + +The group drew apart a little, and every face was turned from Judy to +the woman sitting on the top step of the veranda with her back against +the post. + +Judy went slowly toward the woman, her beady eyes fixed and staring as +though at some ghostly vision. The woman rose to her feet as Judy paused +before her. + +“Be you-all Brian Kent's woman?” demanded Judy. + +The excited exclamation from the company and the manner of the woman +suddenly aroused the mountain girl to a realization of what she had done +in speaking Brian Kent's name. With an expression of frightened dismay, +she turned to escape; but the group of intensely interested spectators +drew closer. Every one waited for Martha to speak. + +“Yes,” she said, slowly, watching the mountain girl; “I am Mrs. Brian +Kent. Do you know my husband?” + +Judy's black beady eyes shifted slyly from one face to another, and her +twisted body moved uneasily. + +“No, ma'm; I ain't a-sayin' I knows him exactly. I done heard tell 'bout +him nigh 'bout a year ago, when there was some men from the city come +through here a-huntin' him. Everybody 'lows as how he was drowned at +Elbow Rock.” + +“The body was never found, though,” murmured one of the men in the +group. + +“Who lives in that little log house over there, Judy?” Harry Green asked +suddenly, pointing. + +“There? Oh, that there's Auntie Sue's place. I 'lowed everybody knowed +that,” returned the girl. + +“Who is Auntie Sue?” came the next question. + +One of the women answered, before Judy could speak: “Auntie Sue is that +old-maid school-teacher they told us about. Don't you remember, Harry?” + +“Is Auntie Sue at home now, girl?” asked Mrs. Kent. + +Judy's gaze was fixed on the ground as she replied: “I don't know, ma'm. +I ain't got no truck with anybody on yon side the river.” + +“Is there any one living with Auntie Sue?” asked some one; and in the +same breath from another came the question, “Who is Mr. Burns?” + +Judy jerked her twisted shoulders and threw up her head with an +impatient defiance, as she returned shrilly: “I'm a-tellin' youuns I +don't know nothin' 'bout nobody. Hit ain't no sort er use for youuns ter +pester me. I don't know nothin' 'bout hit, an' I wouldn't tell youuns +nothin' if I did.” + +And with this, the mountain girl escaped into the house. + +While her friends on the veranda were looking at each other in +questioning silence, Mrs. Kent, without a word, turned and walked away +into the woods. + +As she disappeared among the trees, one of the men said, in a low tone: +“You better go after her, Harry. She is on, all right, that it's Brian +Kent. She never did believe that story about his death, you know. There +is no knowing what she'll do when she gets to thinking it all over.” + +“It is a darned shame,” exclaimed one of the women, “to have our party +spoiled like this!” + +“Spoiled nothing,” answered another. “Martha is too good a sport to +spoil anything. Go on, Harry. Cheer her up. Bring her back here. We'll +all help get her good and drunk to-night, and she'll be all right.” + +There was a laugh at this, and some one said: “A little something +wouldn't hurt any of us just now, I'm thinking. Here, Jim!” + +Harry Green found Mrs. Kent sitting on the riverbank some distance above +the boat landing. + +She looked up at the sound of his approach, but did not speak. Dropping +down beside her, the man said: “I'm damned sorry about this, Martha. +I never dreamed I was starting anything, or I would have kept my mouth +shut.” + +“It is Brian, all right, Harry,” she answered, slowly. “It is funny, but +he has been on my mind all day. I never dreamed that it was this part +of the country where he was supposed to have been drowned, or I wouldn't +have come here.” + +“Well, what does it matter, anyway?” returned the man. “I don't see that +it can make any difference. We don't need to go down there where he is, +and it is damned certain that they won't call on us.” + +Looking out over the river, the woman spoke as if thinking aloud: “This +is just the sort of place he would love, Harry--the river and hills and +woods. He never cared for the city--always wanted to get away into +the country somewhere. Tell me, what is she really like? Does she look +like--like--well,--like any of our crowd?” + +One by one, the man picked a number of pebbles from among the dead +leaves and the short grass within reach of his hand, as he answered: +“Oh, I was just kidding when I raved about her to the bunch.” One by +one, he flipped the bits of stone into the water. “She really doesn't +amount to much. Honestly, I hardly noticed her.” + +The woman continued speaking as though thinking her thoughts aloud: +“Brian was a good man, Harry. That bank affair was really my fault. He +never would have done such a thing if I hadn't devilled him all the time +for more money, and made such a fuss about his wasting so much time in +his everlasting writing. I'd hate to have him caught and sent to the +'pen' now.” + +“You're a good sport, Martha,” he returned heartily. “I know just how +you feel about it. And I can promise you that there is not one of our +crowd that will ever whisper a thing. They are not that kind, and you +know how they all like you. Come, dear. Don't bother your head about it +any more. I don't like to see you like this. Let us go up to the house, +and show them how game you are,--shall we?” + +He put his arm about her, but the woman gently pushed him away. “Don't +do that, now, Harry. Let me think.” + +“That is just what you must not do,” he retorted, with a laugh. +“Thinking can't help matters. Come, let us go get a drink. That is what +you need.” + +She looked at him some time before she answered; then, with a quick +movement, she sprang to her feet: + +“All right! You're on!” she cried, with a reckless laugh. “But you'll go +some if you keep up with me to-night.” + +And so, that evening, while Brian Kent and Betty Jo from the porch of +the little log house by the river watched the twinkling lights of the +clubhouse windows, the party with mad merriment tried to help a woman to +forget. + +But save for the unnatural brightness of her eyes and the heightened +color in her face, drink seemed to have little effect on Martha Kent +that night. When at a late hour the other members of the wild company, +in various flushed and dishevelled stages of intoxication, finally +retired to their rooms, Martha, in her apartment, seated herself at the +window to look away over the calm waters of The Bend to a single light +that showed against the dark mountainside. The woman did not know that +the light she saw was in Brian Kent's room. + +Long after Betty Jo had said good-night, Brian walked the floor in +uneasy wakefulness. The meeting with the man Green and his too-evident +thoughts as to the relations of the man and woman who were living +together in the log house by the river filled Brian with alarm; while +the very presence of the man from the city awoke old apprehensions that +in his months of undisturbed quiet in Auntie Sue's backwoods home had +almost ceased to be. Through Auntie Sue's teaching and influence; his +work on his book; the growing companionship of Betty Jo and their love, +Brian had almost ceased to think of that absconding bank clerk who +had so recklessly launched himself on a voyage to the unknown in the +darkness of that dreadful night. But, now, it all came back to him with +menacing strength. + +The man, Green, would talk to his companions of his visit to the log +house that afternoon. He would tell what he had discovered. Curiosity +would lead others of the clubhouse party to call. Some one might +remember the story of the bank clerk, who was supposed to have lost his +life in that neighborhood, but whose body was never found. There might +even be one in the party who knew the former clerk. Through them the +story would go back to the outside world. There would be investigations +by those whose business it was never to forget a criminal who had +escaped the law. + +Brian felt his Re-Creation to be fully established; but what if his +identity should be discovered before the restitution he would make +should be also accomplished? And always, as he paced to and fro in his +little room in the log house, there was, like a deep undercurrent in the +flow of his troubled thought, his love for Betty Jo. + +It is little wonder that, to Brian Kent, that night, the voices of the +river were filled with fearful doubt and sullen, dreadful threatenings. + +And what of the woman who watched the tiny spot of light that marked +the window of the room where the re-created Brian Kent kept his lonely +vigil? Did she, too, hear the voices of the river? Did she feel the +presence of that stream which poured its dark flood so mysteriously +through the night between herself and the man yonder? + +Away back, somewhere in the past, the currents of their lives in the +onward flow of the river had drawn together. For a period of time, their +life-currents had mingled, and, with the stream, had swept onward as +one. Other influences--swirls and eddies and counter-currents of other +lives--had touched and intermingled until the current that was the man +and the current that was the woman had drawn apart. For months, they +had not touched; and, now, they were drawing nearer to each other again. +Would they touch? Would they again mingle and become one? What was this +mysterious, unseen, unknown, but always-felt, power of the river that +sets the ways of its countless currents as it sweeps ever onward in its +unceasing flow? + +The door of her room opened. Harry Green entered as one assured of a +welcome. The woman at the window turned her head, but did not move. +Going to her, the man, with an endearing word, offered a caress; but she +put him aside. “Please, Harry,--please let me be alone to-night?” + +“Why, Martha, dear! What is wrong?” he protested, again attempting to +draw her to him. + +Resisting more vigorously, she answered: “Everything is wrong! You are +wrong! I am wrong! All life is wrong! Can't you understand? Please leave +me.” + +The man drew back, and spoke roughly in a tone of disgust: “Hell! I +believe you love that bank clerk as much as you ever did!” + +“Well, and suppose that were true, Harry?” she answered, wearily. +“Suppose it were true,--that I did still love my husband? Could that +make any difference now? Can anything ever make any difference now? You +will tire of me before long, just as you have grown tired of the others +who were before me. Don't you suppose I know? You and our friends have +taught me many things, Harry. I know, now, that Brian's dreams were +right. That his dreams could never be realized, does not make them +foolish nor wrong. His dreams that seemed so foolish--such impossible +ideals--were more real, after all, than this life that we think so real. +WE are the dreamers,--we and our kind,--and our awakening is as sure to +come as that river out there is sure of reaching the sea.” + +The man laughed harshly: “You are quite poetical, to-night. I believe I +like you better, though, when you talk sense.” + +“I am sorry, Harry,” she returned. “Please don't be cross with me! Go +now,--please go!” + +And something forced the man to silence. Slowly, he left the room. The +woman locked the door. Returning to the window, she fell on her knees, +and stretched her hands imploringly toward the tiny spot of light that +still shone against the dark shadow of the mountain-side. + +Between the mighty walls of tree-clad hills that lifted their solemn +crests into the midnight sky, the dark river poured the sombre strength +of its innumerable currents,--terrible in its awful power; dreadful, in +its mysterious and unseen forces; irresistible in its ceaseless, onward +rush to the sea of its final and infinite purpose! + +And here and there on the restless, ever-moving surface of the shadowy, +never-ending flood twinkled the reflection of a star. + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK. + + +The President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank looked up from the +papers on his desk as his secretary entered from the adjoining room and +stood before him. + +“Well, George?” + +The secretary smiled as he spoke: “Mr. Ward, there is an old lady out +here who insists that you will see her. The boys passed her on to me, +because,--well, she is not the kind of woman that can be refused. She +has no card, but her name is Wakefield. She--” + +The dignified President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank +electrified his secretary by springing from his chair like a schoolboy +from his seat at the tap of the teacher's dismissing bell. “Auntie Sue! +I should say she couldn't be refused! Where is she?” And before the +secretary could collect his startled thoughts to answer, Homer T. Ward +was out of the room. + +When the smiling secretary, the stenographers, and other attending +employees had witnessed a meeting between their dignified chief and +the lovely old lady, which strengthened their conviction that the great +financier was genuinely human, President Ward and Auntie Sue disappeared +into the private office. + +“George,” said Mr. Ward, as he closed the door of that sacred inner +sanctuary of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, “remember I am not in +to any one;--from the Secretary of the Treasury to the Sheriff, I am not +in.” + +“I understand, sir,” returned the still smiling George. And from that +moment until Homer T. Ward should open the door, nothing short of a +regiment could have interrupted the interview between Auntie Sue and her +old pupil. + +Placing the dear old lady tenderly in a deep, leather-upholstered chair, +Mr. Ward stood before her as though trying to convince himself that +she was real; while his teacher of those long-ago, boyhood days gazed +smilingly up at him. + +“What in the name of all that is unexpected are you doing here, Auntie +Sue?” he demanded; “and why is not Betty Jo with you? Isn't the girl +ever coming home? There is nothing the matter with her, is there? Of +course not, or you would have wired me.” + +It was not at all like the bank president to ask so many questions all +at once. + +Auntie Sue looked around the private office curiously, then smilingly +back to the face of the financier. + +“Do you know, Homer,” she said with her chuckling little laugh, +“I--I--am almost afraid of you in here. Everything is so grand and +rich-looking; and there were so many men out there who tried to tell me +you would not see me. I--I am glad I didn't know it would be like this, +or I fear I never could have found the courage to come.” + +Homer T. Ward laughed, and then--rather full-waisted as he was--went +down on one knee at the arm of her chair so as to bring his face level +with her eyes. + +“Look at me, Auntie Sue,” he said; “look straight through me, just as +you used to do years and years ago, and tell me what you see.” + +And the dear old lady, with one thin soft hand on his heavy shoulder, +answered, as she looked: “Why, I see a rather naughty boy, whom I ought +to spank for throwing spitballs at the old schoolroom ceiling,” she +retorted. “And I am not a bit afraid to do it either. So sit right over +there, sir, and listen to me.” + +They laughed together then; and if Auntie Sue wiped her eyes as the +schoolboy obediently took his seat in the big chair at the banker's +desk, Homer T. Ward's eyes were not without a suspicious moisture. + +“Tell me about Betty Jo first,” the man insisted. “You know, Auntie Sue, +the girl grows dearer to me every year.” + +“Betty Jo is that kind of a girl, Homer,” Auntie Sue answered. + +“I suppose it is because she is all I have to love,” he said, “but, you +know, ever since Sister Grace died and left the fatherless little kid +to me, it seems like all my plans have centered around her; and now that +she has finished her school; has travelled abroad, and gone through with +that business-college course, I am beginning to feel like we should sort +of settle down together. I am glad for her to be with you this summer, +though, for the finishing touches; and when she comes home to stay, you +are coming with her.” + +Auntie Sue shook her head, smiling: “Now, Homer, you know that is +settled: I will never leave my little log house by the river until I +have watched the last sunset. You know, my dear boy, that I would be +miserable in the city.” + +It was an old point often argued by them, and the man dismissed it, now, +with a brief: “We'll see about that when the time comes. But, why didn't +you bring Betty Jo with you?” + +“Because,” Auntie Sue answered, “I came away hurriedly, on a very +important trip, for only a day, and it is necessary for her to stay and +keep house while I am gone. The child must learn to cook, Homer, even if +she is to inherit all your money.” + +“I know,” answered the banker;--“the same as you make me work when I +visit you. But your coming to me sounds rather serious, Auntie Sue. What +is your trouble?” + +The dear old lady laughed, nervously; for, to tell the truth, she did +not quite know how she was going to manage to present Brian Kent's case +to Homer T. Ward without presenting more than she was at this time ready +to reveal. + +“Why, you see, Homer,” she began, “it is not really my trouble as much +as it is yours, and it is not yours as much as it is--” + +“Betty Jo's?” he asked quickly, when she hesitated. + +“No! no!” she cried. “The child doesn't even know why I am here. Just +try to forget her for a few minutes, Homer.” + +“All right,” he said; “but you had me worried for a minute.” + +Auntie Sue might have answered that she was somewhat worried herself; +but, instead, she plunged with desperate courage: “I came to see you +about Brian Kent, Homer.” + +It is not enough to say that the President of the Empire Consolidated +Savings Bank was astonished. “Brian Kent?” he said at last. “Why, Auntie +Sue, I wrote you nearly a year ago that Brian Kent was dead.” + +“Yes, I know; but he was not--that is, he is not. But the Brian Kent +your detectives were hunting was--I mean--is.” + +Homer T. Ward looked at his old teacher as though he feared she had +suddenly lost her mind. + +“It is like this, Homer,” Auntie Sue explained: “A few days after +your detective, Mr. Ross, called on me, this stranger appeared in the +neighborhood. No one dreamed that he was Brian Kent, because, you see, +he was not a bit like the description.” + +“Full beard, I suppose?” commented the banker, grimly. + +“Yes: and every other way,” continued Auntie Sue. “And he has been +working so hard all winter; and everybody in the country respects and +loves him so; and he is one of the best and truest men I ever knew; +and he is planning and working to pay back every cent he took; and I +cannot--I will not--let you send him to prison now.” + +The lovely old eyes were fixed on the banker's face with sweet anxiety. + +Homer T. Ward was puzzled. Strange human problems are often presented +to men in his position; but, certainly, this was the strangest;--his old +teacher pleading for his absconding clerk who was supposed to be dead. + +At last he said, with gentle kindness: “But, why did you come to tell me +about him, Auntie Sue? He is safe enough if no one knows who he is.” + +“That is it!” she cried. “Some one found out about him, and is coming +here to tell you, for the reward.” + +The banker whistled softly. “And you--you--grabbed a train, and beat 'em +to it!” he exclaimed. “Well, if that doesn't--” + +Auntie Sue clasped her thin hands to her breast, and her sweet voice +trembled with anxious fear: “You won't send that poor boy to prison, +now, will you, Homer? It--it--would kill me if such a terrible thing +were to happen now. Won't you let him go free, so that he can do his +work,--won't you, Homer? I--I--” The strain of her anxiety was almost +too much for the dear old gentlewoman's physical strength, and as her +voice failed, the tears streamed down the soft cheeks unheeded. + +In an instant the bank president was again on his knees beside her +chair. + +“Don't, Auntie Sue: don't, dear! Why, you know I would do anything +in the world you asked, even if I wanted to send the fellow up; but I +don't. I wouldn't touch him for the world. It is a thousand times better +to let him go if he is proving himself an honest man. Please, dear, +don't feel so. Why, I will be glad to let him off. I'll help him, Auntie +Sue. I--I--am as glad as you are that we didn't get him. Please don't +feel so about it. There, there,--it is all right, now.” + +So he comforted and reassured her until she was able to smile through +her tears. “I knew I could depend on you, Homer.” + +A few minutes later, she said: “And what about that man who is coming to +claim the reward, Homer?” + +“Never you mind him!” cried the banker; “I'll fix that. But, tell me, +Auntie Sue, where is young Kent now?” + +“He is working in the neighborhood,” she returned. + +He looked at her shrewdly. “You have seen a lot of him, have you?” + +“I have seen him occasionally,” she answered. Homer T. Ward nodded his +head, as if well pleased with himself. “You don't need to tell me any +more. I understand, now, exactly. It is very clear what has reformed +Brian Kent; you have been up to your old tricks. It is a wonder you +haven't taken him into your house to live with you,--to save him from +associating with bad people.” + +He laughed, and when Auntie Sue only smiled, as though humoring him in +his little joke, he added: “By the way, has Betty Jo seen this latest +patient of yours? What does she think of his chances for complete +recovery?” + +“Yes,” Auntie Sue returned, calmly; “Betty Jo has seen him. But, really, +Homer, I have never asked her what she thought of him.” + +“Do you know, Auntie Sue,” said the banker, reflectively, “I never did +believe that Brian Kent was a criminal at heart.” + +“I know he is not,” she returned stoutly. “But, tell me, Homer, how did +it ever happen?” + +“Well, you see,” he answered, “young Kent had a wife who couldn't +somehow seem to fit into his life. Ross never went into the details with +me, fully, because that, of course, had no real bearing on the fact that +he stole the money from the bank. But it seems that the youngster was +rather ambitious,--studied a lot outside of business hours and that sort +of thing. I know he made his own way through business college before he +came to us. The wife didn't receive the attention she thought she should +have, I suppose. Perhaps she was right at that. Anyway, she wanted a +good time;--wanted him to take her out more, instead of spending his +spare time digging away at his books. And so it went the usual way,--she +found other company. Rather a gay set, I fancy; at least it led to her +needing more money than he was earning, and so he helped out his salary, +thinking to pay it back before he was caught, I suppose. Then the crash +came,--some other man, you know,--and Brian skipped, which, of course, +put us next to his stealing. I don't know what has become of the woman. +The last Ross knew of her she was living in St. Louis, and running with +a pretty wild bunch,--glad to get rid of Brian, I expect. She couldn't +have really cared so very much for him. + +“Do you know, Auntie Sue, I have seen so many cases like this one. +I have been glad, many times, that I never married. And then, again, +sometimes, I have seen homes that have made me sorry I never took the +chance. I am glad you saved the boy, Auntie Sue: I am mighty glad.” + +“You have made me very happy, Homer,” Auntie Sue returned. “But are you +sure you can fix it about that reward? The man who is coming to claim it +will make trouble, won't he, if he is not paid, somehow?” + +“Yes, I expect he would,” returned the president, thoughtfully. “And my +directors might have something to say. And there are the Burns people +and the Bankers' Association and all. Hum-m-m!” + +Homer T. Ward considered the matter a few moments, then he laughed. +“I'll tell you what we will do, Auntie Sue; we will let Brian Kent pay +the reward himself. That would be fair, wouldn't it?” + +Auntie Sue was sure that Brian would agree that it was a fair enough +arrangement; but she did not see how it was to be managed. + +Then her old pupil explained that he would pay the reward-money to the +man who was coming to claim it, and thus satisfy him, and that the bank +would hold the amount as a part of the debt which Brian was expected to +pay. + +Auntie Sue never knew that President Ward himself paid to the bank +the full amount of the money stolen by Brian Kent in addition to the +reward-money which he personally paid to Jap Taylor, in order to quiet +him, and thus saved Brian from the publicity that surely would have +followed any other course. + +It should also be said here that Judy's father never again appeared in +the Ozarks; at least, not in the Elbow Rock neighborhood. It might be +that Jap Taylor was shrewd enough to know that his reputation would not +permit him to show any considerable sum of money, where he was +known, without starting an investigation; and for men of his type +investigations are never to be desired. + +Or it is not unlikely that the combination of money and the city proved +the undoing of the moonshiner, and that he came to his legitimate and +logical end among the dives and haunts of his kind, to which he would +surely gravitate. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS. + + +The day following that night of Brian Kent's uneasy wakefulness was a +hard day for the man and the woman in the little log house by the river. + +For Brian, the morning dawned with a sense of impending disaster. He +left his room while the sky was still gray behind the eastern mountains, +and the mist that veiled the brightness of the hills seemed to hide in +its ghostly depths legions of shadowy spirits that from his past had +assembled to haunt him. The sombre aisles and caverns of the dimly +lighted forest were peopled with shadowy memories of that life which he +had hoped would never again for him awake. And the river swept through +its gray world to the crashing turmoil at Elbow Rock like a thing doomed +to seek forever in its own irresistible might the destruction of its +ever-living self. + +As one moving in a world of dreams, he went about his morning's work. +“Old Prince” whinnied his usual greeting, but received no answer. “Bess” + met him at the barnyard gate, but he did not speak. The sun leaped +above the mountain-tops, and the world was filled with the beauty of +its golden glory. From tree and bush and swaying weed, from forest and +pasture, and garden and willow-fringed river-bank, the birds voiced +their happy greetings to the new day. But the man neither saw nor heard. + +When he went to the house with his full milk-pail, and Betty Jo met him +at the kitchen-door with her cheery “Good-morning!” he tried resolutely +to free himself from the mood which possessed him, but only partially +succeeded. Several times, as the two faced each other across the +breakfast table, Brian saw the gray eyes filled with questioning +anxiety, as though Betty Jo, also, felt the presence of some forbidding +spectre at the meal. + +After several vain attempts to find something they could talk about, +Betty Jo boldly acknowledged the situation by saying: “What in the world +is the matter with us, this morning, Mr. Burns? I am possessed with the +feeling that there is some one or something behind me. I want to look +over my shoulder every minute.” + +At her words, Brian involuntarily turned his head for a quick backward +glance. + +“There!” cried Betty Jo, with a nervous laugh, not at all like her +normal, well-poised self. “You feel it, too!” + +Brian forced a laugh in return: “It is the weather, I guess.” He tried +to speak with casual ease. “The atmosphere is full of electricity this +morning. We'll have a thunder-storm before night, probably.” + +“And was it the electricity in the air that kept you tramping up and +down your room last night until almost morning?” she demanded abruptly, +with her characteristic opposition to any evasion of the question at +issue. + +Brian retorted with a smile: “And how do you know that I tramped up and +down my room last night?” + +The color in Betty Jo's cheeks deepened as she answered, “I did not +sleep very well either.” + +“But, I surely did not make noise enough for you to hear in your room?” + persisted Brian. + +The color deepened still more in Betty Jo's checks, as she answered +honestly: “I was not in my room when I heard you.” She paused, and when +he only looked at her expectantly, but did not speak, continued, in a +hesitating manner quite unlike her matter-of-fact self: “When I could +not sleep, and felt so as though there were somebody or something in the +house that had no business here, I became afraid, and opened my door so +I would not feel so much alone; and then I saw the light under the door +of your room, and,--” she hesitated, but finished with a little air of +defiance,--“and I went and listened outside your door to see if you were +up.” + +“Yes?” said Brian Kent, gently. + +“And when I heard you walking up and down, I wanted to call to you; but +I thought I better not. It made me feel better, though, just to know +that you were there; and so, pretty soon, I went back to my room again.” + +“And then?” said Brian. + +“And then,” confessed Betty Jo, “whatever it was that was keeping me +awake came back, and went on keeping me awake until I was simply forced +to go to you for help again.” + +Poor Betty Jo! She knew very well that she ought not to be saying those +things to the man who, while he listened, could not hide the love that +shone in his eyes. + +And Brian Kent, as he thought of this woman, whom he loved with all the +strength of his best self, creeping to the door of his room for comfort +in the lonely night, scarcely dared trust himself to speak. At last, +when their silence was becoming unbearable, he said, gently: “You poor +child! Why didn't you call to me?” + +And Betty Jo, hearing in his voice that which told her how near he was +to the surrender that would bring disaster to them both, was aroused to +the defense. The gray eyes never wavered as she answered, bravely: “I +was afraid of that, too.” + +And so Betty Jo confessed her love that answered so to his need; but, +in her very confession, saved their love from themselves. If she had +lowered her eyes--Brian Kent, in reverent acknowledgment, bowed his +head before her. Then, rising, he walked to the window, where he stood +for some time looking out, but seeing nothing. + +“It was that horrid man coming yesterday that has so upset us,” said +Betty Jo, at last. “We were getting on so beautifully, too. I wish he +had gone somewhere else for his vegetables and eggs and things!” + +Brian was able to smile at this as he turned to face her again, and they +both knew that,--for that time, at least,--the danger-point was safely +past. + +“I wish so, too,” he agreed; “but never mind; Auntie Sue will be home in +a day or two, and then everything will be all right again.” + +But when he had taken his hat and was starting out for the day's work, +Betty Jo asked, “What are you doing to-day?” + +“I was going to work on the fence around the clearing,” he answered. +“Why?” + +“I--I--wish you could find something to do nearer the house,” came the +slow answer. “Couldn't you work in the garden, perhaps?” + +“I should say I could!” he returned heartily. + +All that forenoon, as Betty Jo went about her household duties she felt +the presence of the thing that filled her so with fear and dread. With +vigorous determination she scolded herself for being so foolish, and +argued with herself that it was all a nervous fancy born of her restless +night. But, the next moment, she would start with a sudden fear and turn +quickly as if to face some one whose presence she felt behind her. And +Brian, too, as he worked in the garden, caught himself often in the act +of pausing to look about with nervous apprehension. + +During the noonday meal they made a determined effort to laugh at +themselves, and by the time dinner was over had almost succeeded. But +when Brian, as he pushed back his chair, said, jestingly, “Well, am I +to work in the garden again this afternoon?” Betty Jo answered, +emphatically, “Indeed you are! I will not stay another minute in this +house alone. Goodness knows what I will do to-night!” + +There was no jest in the man's voice as he answered: “I'll tell you what +you will do to-night,--you will go to bed and you will go to sleep. You +will leave the door to your room wide-open, and I shall lie right there +on that couch, so near that a whisper from you will reach me. We will +have no more of this midnight prowling, I promise you. If any ghost +dares appear, we--” + +The reassuring words died on Brian Kent's lips. His eyes, looking over +Betty Jo's shoulders, were fixed and staring, and the look on his face +sent a chill of horror to the girl's heart. She dared not move nor look +around as he sat like a man turned to stone. + +A woman's laugh broke the dead silence. + +With a scream, Betty Jo sprung to her feet and whirled about. + +As one in a trance, Brian Kent arose and stood beside her. + +The woman, who stood in the open doorway, laughed again. + +Martha Kent's heavy drinking the night before, when her clubhouse +friends in a wild debauch had tried to help her to forget, was the +climax of many months of like excesses. The mood in which she had sent +the man Green from her room was the last despairing flicker of her +better instincts. Moved by her memories of better things,--of a better +love and dreams and ideals,--she had spent a little hour or two in +sentimental regret for that which she had so recklessly cast aside. And +then, because there was within her no foundation of abiding principle +for her sentiment, she had again put on the character which had so +separated her from the life of the man to whom she was married, indeed, +but with whom she was never one. With the burning consciousness of what +she might have been and of what she was ever tormenting her, she sank, +as the hours passed, deeper and deeper into the quicksands of physical +indulgence until, in her mad determination to destroy utterly her +ability to feel remorse, she lost all mental control of herself, and +responded to every insane whim of her drink-disordered brain. + +As she stood there, now, in the doorway of that little log house by the +river,--face to face with the man and the woman who, though they +were united in their love, were yet separated by the very fact of her +existence,--she was, in all her hideous, but pitiful, repulsiveness, the +legitimate creation of those life-forces which she so fitly personified. + +Betty Jo instinctively drew closer to Brian's side. + +“Hello, Brian, dear!” said the woman, with a drunken leer. “Thought I'd +call to see you in your charming love-nest that Harry Green raved so +about. Can't you introduce me to your little sweetheart?” + +“No?” she continued, and laughed again. Then coming an unsteady step +toward them, she added, thickly: “Very well, Brian, old sport; you +won't introduce me,--I'll have to introduce myself.” She grinned with +malicious triumph at Betty Jo: “Don't be frightened, my dear. It's all +right. I'm nobody of importance,--just his wife,--that's all,--just his +wife.” + +Betty Jo, with a little cry, turned to the man who stood as if stricken +dumb with horror. “Brian?” she said. “Oh, Brian?” + +It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his given name, and +Brian Kent, as he looked, saw in those gray eyes no hint of doubt or +censure, but only the truest love and sympathy. Betty Jo had not failed +in the moment of her supreme testing. + +“It's true, all right, isn't it, Brian?” said Martha Kent. “I'm his wife +fast enough, my dear. But you don't need to worry,--you two. I'm a good +sport,--I am. I've had my fun. No kick coming from me. Just called to +pay my respects,--that's all. So-long, Brian, old sport! Good-bye, my +dear!” + +With an uncertain wave of her hand, she staggered through the doorway +and passed from their sight. + +In the little log house by the river the two who had kept the fineness +of their love stood face to face. + +For Betty Jo, the barrier which Brian Kent had maintained between them +to protect her from his love was no longer a thing unknown. But the +revelation, coming as it did, had brought no shadow of distrust or doubt +of the man to whom she had so fully entrusted herself. It had, indeed, +only strengthened her faith in him and deepened her love. + +For one glorious triumphal moment the very soul of the man exulted in +the truth which Betty Jo made known to him. Then he turned slowly away, +for he dared not trust himself to look at her a moment longer. + +With bowed head he paced up and down the room. He went to the table +which held Auntie Sue's sewing-basket, and fingered the trifles there. +Then, slowly, he passed through the open door to the porch, where Betty +Jo, through the window, near which she stood, saw him look away over the +river and the mountains. + +Suddenly, she saw him start, and stare intently at some nearer object +that had caught his attention. As Betty Jo watched, he moved to the edge +of the porch, and, stooping, grasped the railing with his hands;--his +head and shoulders were thrust forward; his lips were parted; his +whole attitude was that of the most intense and excited interest. Then, +straightening up, he threw back his head, and laughed aloud. But his +laughter alarmed the girl, who ran to the door, crying, “What is it, +Brian?” + +“Look!” he shouted, madly, and pointed toward the river. “Look, Betty +Jo!” + +Martha Kent, alone in one of the clubhouse boats, was rowing with +drunken clumsiness toward the head of the Elbow Rock rapids. + +The woman's friends had missed her, and, guessing, from some remark she +had made, where she had gone, had sent four men of the party after her; +for they realized that she was in no condition to be alone in a boat +on the river, particularly on that part of the stream near Auntie Sue's +place. After leaving Brian and Betty Jo, she had gone back to her boat +in the eddy at the foot of the garden, and was pulling out into the +stream when she saw her friends approaching. With a drunken laugh, she +waved her hand, and began rowing from them directly toward the swift +water. The men shouted for her to stop, and pulled with all their +strength. But the woman, taking their calls as a challenge, rowed the +harder, while every awkward pull of the oars carried her nearer the +deadly grip of the current. + +Betty Jo, as she reached Brian's side, and saw what was happening on the +river, grasped the man's arm appealingly, with a cry: “Brian! Brian! She +is going into the rapids! She will be carried down to Elbow Rock!” + +But Brian Kent, for the moment, was beside himself. All that he had +suffered,--all that the woman out there on the river had cost him in +anguish of soul,--all that she had taken from him of happiness,--came +before him with blinding vividness; and now,--now,--in her drunkenness, +she was making her own way to her own destruction. + +“Of course she is!” he shouted, in answer to Betty Jo. “Her friends +yonder are driving her to it! Could anything be more fitting?” + +As though grasped by powerful unseen hands beneath the surface, the boat +shot forward. The woman, feeling the sudden pull of the current, stopped +rowing, and looked about as if wondering what had happened. Her friends, +not daring to follow closer to the dangerous water, were pulling madly +for the landing at the foot of the garden. The boat in the middle of the +river moved faster. + +“Look, Betty Jo, look!” shouted the man on the porch, madly. “It's got +her now--the river has got her--look!” + +With a scream of fear, the woman in the boat dropped her oars, and +grasped the gunwale of the little craft. + +Brian Kent laughed. + +Betty Jo shrank back from him, her eyes, big with horror, fixed upon +his face. Then, with a quick movement, she sprang toward him again, and, +catching his arm, shook him with all her strength and struck him again +and again with her fist. + +“Brian! Brian!” she cried. “You are insane!” + +The man looked down at her for an instant with an expression of +bewildered astonishment on his face, as one awakened from a dream. He +raised his hand and drew it across his forehead and eyes. + +The boat with the helpless woman was already past the front of the +house. + +Betty Jo cried again as if calling the man she loved from a distance: +“Brian! Brian!” + +With a sudden movement, the man jerked away from her. The next instant, +he had leaped over the railing of the porch to the ground below and was +running with all his might toward the river, at an angle which would put +him opposite or a little below the boat when he reached the bank. + +With a sob, Betty Jo followed as fast as she could. + +As Brian Kent raced toward the river's edge, the powerful current drew +the boat with the woman into the first rough water of the rapids, and, +as the skiff was shaken and tossed by the force that was sweeping it +with ever-increasing speed toward the wild turmoil at Elbow Rock, the +woman screamed again and again for help. + +The warring forces of the stream whirled the little craft about, and +she saw the man who was nearing the bank. She rose to her feet in the +rocking boat, and stretched out her arms,--calling his name, “Brian! +Brian! Brian!” Then the impact of the boat against a larger wave of +the rapids brought her to her knees, and she clung to the thwarts with +piteous cries. + +Betty Jo and the clubhouse men, who had overtaken her, saw Brian as +he reached the river opposite the boat. For a little way he raced the +tumbling waters until he had gained a short distance ahead of the skiff; +then they saw him, without an instant's pause, leap from the high bank +far out into the boiling stream. + +Running along the bank, the helpless watchers saw the man fighting his +way toward the boat. One moment, he disappeared from sight, dragged +beneath the surface by the powerful currents with which he wrestled. The +next instant, the boiling waters would toss him high on the crest of a +rolling wave, only to drag him down again a second later. But, always, +he drew nearer and nearer the object of his struggle, while the rapids +swept both the helpless woman and the tossing boat and the swimming man +onward toward the towering cliff, and the thunder-roar of the mad waters +below grew louder and louder. + +The splendid strength of arms and shoulders which Brian Kent had +acquired by his months of work with his ax on the timbered mountain-side +sustained him now in his need. With tremendous energy, he breasted the +might of the furious river. To the watchers it seemed at times that it +was beyond the power of human muscles to endure the terrific strain. +Then he gained the boat, and they saw him striving with desperate energy +to drag it toward the opposite shore and so into the currents that would +carry it past the menacing point of the cliff and perhaps to the safety +of the quiet water below. + +All that human strength could do in that terrible situation, Brian Kent +did. But the task was beyond the power of mortal man. + +For an instant the breathless watchers on the bank thought there was a +chance; but the waters with mad fury dragged their victims back, and, +with terrific power, hurled them forward toward the frowning rocks. + +It was quickly over. + +In that wild turmoil of the boiling, leaping, seething, lashing, +hammering waves, the boat, with the woman who crouched on her knees on +the bottom, and the man who clung to the side of the craft, appeared for +a second lifted high in the air. The next instant, the crash of breaking +wood sounded above the thundering roaring of the waters. The man and +the woman disappeared. The wreck of the boat was flung again and again +against the cliff, until, battered and broken, it was swept away around +the point. + +Against the dark wall of rock Brian Kent's head and shoulders appeared +for an instant, and they saw that he held the woman in his arms. The +furious waters closed over them. For the fraction of a second, the man's +hand and arm appeared again above the surface, and was gone. + +Betty Jo sank to the ground with a low cry of anguish, and hid her face. + +Another moment, and she was aroused by a loud shout from one of the men +who had caught a glimpse of the river's victims farther out at the point +of the rocky cliff. + +Springing to her feet, Betty Jo started madly up the trail that leads +over the bluff. The men followed. + +Immediately below Elbow Rock there is a deep hole formed by the waters +that pour around the point of the cliff, and below this hole a wide +gravelly bar pushing out from the Elbow Rock side of the stream forces +the main volume of the river to the opposite bank. In the shallow water +against the upper side of the bar they found them. + +With the last flicker of his consciousness, Brian Kent had felt his feet +touch the bottom where the water shoals against the bar, and, with his +last remaining strength, had dragged himself and the body of the woman +into the shallows. + +Betty Jo was no hysterical weakling to spend the priceless seconds of +such a time in senseless ravings. The first-aid training which she had +received at school gave her the necessary knowledge which her native +strength of character and practical common sense enabled her to apply. +Under her direction, the men from the clubhouse worked as they probably +never had worked before in all their useless lives. + +But the man and the woman whose life-currents had touched and +mingled,--drawn apart to flow apparently far from each other, but drawn +together again to once more touch, and, as one, to endure the testing +of the rapids,--the man and the woman had not brought to the terrible +ordeal the same strength. + +One was drawn into the Elbow Rock rapids by the careless indifference +and the reckless spirit that was born of the life she had chosen; by +her immediate associates and environment; and by the circumstances that +were, at the last analysis, of her own making. + +The other braved the same dangers, strong in the splendid spirit that +had set him against such terrible odds to attempt the woman's rescue. +From his work on the timbered mountain-side, from his life in the clean +atmosphere of the hills, and from the spiritual and mental companionship +of that little log house by the river, he had brought to his testing the +splendid strength which enabled him to endure. + +Somewhere in that terrible conflict with the wild waters at Elbow Rock, +while the man whose life she had so nearly ruined by her wantonness was +fighting to save her, the soul of Martha Kent went from the bruised and +battered body which Brian drew at last from the vicious grasp of the +currents. + +But the man lived. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +JUDY'S RETURN. + + +In the early evening twilight of the day following the tragedy at Elbow +Rock, Betty Jo was sitting on the porch, to rest for a few minutes in +the fresh air, after long hours of watching beside Brian's bed. + +A neighbor woman had come to help, but Betty Jo would not leave the side +of the man she loved as he fought his way slowly out of the dark shadow +of the death that had so nearly conquered him. Nor, indeed, would Brian +let her go, for even in those moments when he appeared most unconscious +of the life about him, he seemed to feel her presence. All through +the long, long hours of that anxious night and day she had watched and +waited the final issue;--feeling the dark messenger very close at times, +but gaining hope as the hours passed and her lover won his way nearer +and nearer to the light;--courageous always;--giving him the best of her +strength, so far as it was possible to give him anything;--making him +feel the steady, enduring fullness of her love. + +At last, they felt that the victory was won. The doctor, satisfied that +the crisis was safely past, went his way to visit other patients. By +evening, Brian was resting so easily that the girl had stolen away for a +few minutes, leaving the neighbor to call her if he should waken. + +Betty Jo had been on the porch but a short time when a step sounded on +the gravel walk that led from the porch steps around the corner of the +house. A moment more, and Judy appeared. + +The mountain girl stopped when she saw Betty Jo, and the latter went to +the top of the steps. + +“Good-evening, Judy!” said Betty Jo, quietly. “Won't you come in?” + +Slowly, with her black beady eyes fixed on Betty Jo's face, Judy went up +the steps. + +As the mountain girl reached the level of the porch-floor, Betty Jo drew +a little back toward the door. + +Judy stopped instantly, and stood still. Then, in a low tone, she said: +“You-all ain't got no call ter be afeared, Miss Betty Jo. You hain't +never goin' ter have no call ter be scared of me again, never.” + +“I am so glad for you to say that, Judy,” returned Betty Jo, smiling. “I +don't want to be afraid of you, and I am not really; but--” + +“Ain't you-all plumb a-hatin' me for what I done?” asked Judy, +wonderingly. + +“No, no; Judy, dear, I don't hate you at all, and you must know that +Auntie Sue loves you.” + +“Yes,” Judy nodded her head, thoughtfully. “Auntie Sue just naturally +loves everybody. Hit wouldn't be no more'n nature, though, for you-all +ter hate me. I sure have been poison-mean.” + +“But that is all past now, Judy,” said Betty Jo, heartily. “Come and sit +down?” She started toward the chairs. + +But the mountain girl did not move, except to shake her head in refusal +of the hospitable invitation. + +“I ain't a-goin' ter put my foot inside this house, nor set with +you-all, nor nothin' 'til I've said what I done come ter say.” + +Betty Jo turned back to her again: “What is it, Judy?” + +“Auntie Sue done told me not ter let you-all er Mr. Burns see me 'til +she come back. But I can't help hit, an' if I don't talk 'bout that +none, I reckon she ain't a-goin' ter mind so much. You-all don't know +that I seed Auntie Sue that night 'fore she went away, an' that hit was +me took her ter the station with 'Old Prince,' an' brung him back, did +you?” + +“No,” said Betty Jo, “I did not know; and if Auntie Sue told you not to +tell us about it, I would rather you did not, Judy.” + +“I ain't aimin' ter,” Judy returned; “but Auntie Sue don't know nothin' +'bout what's happened since she went away, an' hit's that what's +a-makin' me come ter you-all.” + +Betty Jo, seeing that the poor girl was laboring under some intense +emotional stress, said, gently: “What is it that you wish to tell me, +Judy? I am sure Auntie Sue will not mind, if you feel so about it.” + +The mountain girl's eyes filled and the tears streamed down her sallow +cheeks, while her twisted shoulders shook with the grief she could not +suppress, as she faltered: “My God-A'mighty! Miss Betty Jo, I--I--didn't +aim ter do hit! I sure didn't! 'Fore God, I'd er let 'em kill me first, +if I'd only had time ter think. But hit--hit--was me what told that +there woman how Mr. Burns was Brian Kent. Hit's--hit's--me what's ter +blame for gittin' her killed in the river an' him so nigh drowned. O +God! O God! If he'll only git well! + +“An' I ain't a-feelin' toward you-all like I did, Miss Betty Jo. I +can't no more. I done left them clubhouse folks, after I knowed what has +happened, an' all day I been hangin' 'round here in the bresh. An' Lucy +Warden she done told me, this afternoon, 'bout how you-all was takin' +care of Mr. Burns, an' how you just naturally wouldn't let him die. +An'--an'--I kin see, now, what hit is that makes Auntie Sue and him an' +you-all so different from that there clubhouse gang an' pap an' me. An' +I ain't a-wantin' ter be like I been, no more, ever. I'd a heap rather +jump inter the river an' drown myself. 'Fore God, I would! An' I want +ter come back an' help you-all take care of him; an' live with Auntie +Sue; an'--an'--be a little might like youuns, if I kin. Will you let me, +Miss Betty Jo? Will you? I most know Auntie Sue would, if she was here.” + +Before the mountain girl had finished speaking, Betty Jo's arm was +around the poor twisted shoulders, and Betty Jo's eyes were answering +Judy's pleading. + +And so, when Auntie Sue came home, it was Judy who met her at the +station, with “Old Prince” and the buggy; and as they drove down the +winding road to the little log house by the river, the mountain girl +told the old gentlewoman all that had happened in her absence. + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +THE RIVER. + + +Brian Kent recovered quickly from the effects of his experience in the +Elbow Rock rapids, and was soon able again to take up his work on the +little farm. Every day he labored in the garden, or in the clearing, or +at some task which did not rightly fall to those who rented the major +part of Auntie Sue's tillable acreage. + +Auntie Sue had told him about her visit to the President of the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank, and of the arrangement made by the banker--as +she understood it--for Brian's protection. But while the dear old lady +explained that Homer T. Ward was one of her pupils, she did not reveal +the relation between Brian's former chief and Betty Jo. Neither Auntie +Sue nor Betty Jo, for several very good reasons, was ready for Brian to +know the whole truth about his stenographer. It was quite enough, they +reasoned, for him to love his stenographer, and for his stenographer +to love him, without raising any more obstacles in the pathway of their +happiness. + +As the busy weeks passed, several letters came from the publishers of +Brian's book,--letters which made the three in the little log house +by the river very happy. Already, in the first reception of this new +writer's work, those who had undertaken to present it to the public saw +many promises of the fulfillment of their prophecies as to its success. +When the third letter came, a statement of the sales to date was +enclosed, and, that afternoon, Betty Jo went to Brian where he was at +work in the clearing. + +When they were comfortably, not to say cozily, seated on a log in the +shade at the edge of the forest, she announced that she had come for a +very serious talk. + +“Yes?” he returned; but he really looked altogether too happy to be +exceedingly serious. + +“Yes,” she continued, “I have. As your accredited business agent and--” + she favored him with a Betty Jo smile--“shall I say manager?” + +“Why not managing owner?” he retorted. + +“I am glad you confirm my promotion so readily,” she returned, with a +charming touch of color in her cheeks, “because that, you see, helps me +to present what I have to say for the good of the firm.” + +“I am listening, Betty Jo.” + +“Very well; tell me, first, Brian, just exactly how much do you owe that +bank, reward-money and all, and Auntie Sue, interest and everything?” + +Brian went to his coat, which lay on a near-by stump, and returned with +a small pocket account-book. + +“I have it all here,” he said, as he seated himself close beside her +again. And, opening the book, he showed her how he had kept a careful +record of the various sums he had taken from the bank, with the dates. + +“Oh, Brian, Brian!” she said with a little cry of delight, “I am so +glad,--so glad you have this! It is exactly what I want for my wedding +present. It was so thoughtful of you to fix it for me.” + +Thus by a characteristic, Betty Jo turn she made the little book of +painful memories a book of joyous promise. + +When they again returned to the consideration of business matters, +Brian gave her the figures which answered her questions as to his total +indebtedness. + +Again Betty Jo exclaimed with delight: “Brian, do you see? Take your +pencil and figure quick your royalties on the number of books sold as +given in the publishers' statement.” + +Brian laughed. “I have figured it.” + +“And your book has already earned more than enough to pay everything,” + said Betty Jo. “Isn't that simply grand, Brian?” + +“It is pretty 'grand,' all right,” he agreed. “The only trouble is, I +must wait so long before the money is due me from the publishers.” + +“That is exactly what I came to talk about,” she returned quickly. “I +tried to have it different when I made the arrangements with them, but +the terms of payment in the contract are the very best I could get; and +so I have planned a little plan whereby you--that is, we--won't need to +wait for your freedom until the date of settlement with the publishers.” + +“You have a plan which will do that?” Brian questioned, doubtfully. + +She nodded vigorously, with another Betty Jo smile. “This is the plan, +and you are not to interrupt until I have finished everything: I happen +to have some money of my very, very own, which is doing nothing but +earning interest--” + +At the look on Brian's face, she stopped suddenly; but, when he started +to speak, she put her hand quickly over his mouth, saying: “You were +not to say a single word until I have finished. Play fair, Brian, dear; +please!” + +When he signified that he would not speak, she continued in her most +matter-of-fact and businesslike tone: “There is every reason in the +world, Brian, why you should pay off your debt to the bank and to Auntie +Sue at the earliest possible moment. You can think of several reasons +yourself. There is me, for instance. + +“Very well. You have the money to your credit with the publishers; but +you can't use it yet. I have money that you can just as well use. You +will make an assignment of your royalties to me, all in proper form, to +cover the amount you need. You will pay me the same interest my money is +now earning where it is. + +“I will arrange for the money to be sent to you in the form of a +cashier's cheque, payable to the banker, Homer T. Ward, so the name +Brian Kent does not appear before we are ready, you see. You will make +believe to Auntie Sue that the money is from the publishers. You will +send the cheque to Mr. Bank President personally, with a statement +of your indebtedness to him properly itemized, interest figured on +everything. You will instruct him to open an account for you with the +balance. And then--then, Brian, you will give dear Auntie Sue a cheque +for what you owe her, with interest of course. And we will all be so +happy! And--and--don't you think I am a very good managing owner? You +do, don't you?” + +When he hesitated, she added: “And the final and biggest reason of all +is, that I want you to do as I have planned more than I ever wanted +anything in the world, except you, and I want this so because I want +you. You can't really refuse, now, can you?” + +How, indeed, could he refuse? + +So they worked it out together as Betty Jo had planned; and when the +time came for the last and best part of the plan, and Brian confessed to +Auntie Sue how he had robbed her, and had known for so long that she was +aware of his crime against her, and finished his confession by giving +her the cheque, it is safe to say that there was nowhere in all the +world more happiness than in the little log house by the river. + +“God-A'mighty sure helped me to do one good turn, anyway, when I jumped +inter the river after that there book when Mr. Burns done throw'd hit +away,” commented the delighted Judy. + +And while they laughed together, Betty Jo hugged the deformed mountain +girl, and answered: “God Almighty was sure good to us all that day, +Judy, dear!” + +It was only a day later when Auntie Sue received a letter from Homer T. +Ward which sent the dear old lady in great excitement to Betty Jo. The +banker was coming for his long-deferred vacation to the log house by the +river. + +There was in his letter a kindly word for his former clerk, Brian Kent, +should Auntie Sue chance to see him; much love for his old teacher and +for the dearest girl in the world, his Betty Jo. + +But that part of Homer T. Ward's letter which most excited Auntie +Sue and caused Betty Jo to laugh until she cried was this: The great +financier, who, even in his busy life of large responsibilities, found +time for some good reading, had discovered a great book, by a new and +heretofore unknown writer. The book was great because every page of it, +Homer T. Ward declared, reminded him of Auntie Sue. If the writer had +known her for years, he could not have drawn a truer picture of her +character, nor presented her philosophy of life more clearly. It was a +remarkable piece of work. It was most emphatically the sort of writing +that the world needed. This new author was a genius of the rarest and +best sort. Mr. Ward predicted boldly that this new star in the literary +firmament was destined to rank among those of the first magnitude. +Already, among the banker's closest book friends, the new book was being +discussed, and praised. He would bring a copy for Auntie Sue and Betty +Jo to read. It was not only the book of the year;--it was, in Homer T. +Ward's opinion, one of the really big books of the Century. + +“Well,” commented Betty Jo, when they had read and reread that part of +the letter, “dear old Uncle Homer may be a very conservative banker, +but he certainly is more than liberal when he touches on the question of +this new author. Won't we have fun, Auntie Sue! Oh, won't we!” + +Then they planned the whole thing, and proceeded to carry out their +plan. + +Brian was told only that Mr. Ward was coming to visit Auntie Sue, and +that he must be busy somewhere away from the house when the banker +arrived, and not come until he was sent for, because Auntie Sue must +make a full confession to her old pupil of the part she had played +in the Re-Creation of Brian Kent before Homer T. Ward should meet his +former clerk. + +Brian, never dreaming that there were other confessions to be made, +smilingly agreed to do exactly as he was told. + +When the momentous day arrived, Betty Jo met her uncle in Thompsonville, +and all the way home she talked so continuously of her school, and asked +so many questions about his conduct and life and their many Chicago +friends, that the helpless bank president had no chance whatever of +asking her a single embarrassing question. But, when dinner was over +(Brian had taken his lunch with him to the clearing), Homer T. Ward +wanted to know things. + +“Was Brian Kent still working in the neighborhood?” + +Auntie Sue informed him that Brian was still working in the +neighborhood. + +“Betty Jo had seen the bank clerk?” Betty Jo's uncle supposed. “What did +she think of the fellow?” + +Betty Jo thought Brian Kent was a rather nice fellow. + +“And how had Betty Jo been amusing herself while her old uncle was +slaving in the city?” + +Betty Jo had been doing a number of things: Helping Auntie Sue with her +housework; learning to cook; keeping up her stenographic work; reading. + +“Reading?” That reminded him, and forthwith Mr. Ward went to his room, +and returned with the book. + +And then those two blessed women listened and admired while he +introduced them to the new genius, and read certain favorite passages +from the great book, and grew enthusiastic on the new author, saying all +that he had written in his letter and many things more, until Betty Jo +could restrain herself no longer, but ran to him, and took the book from +his hands, and, with her arms around his neck, told him that he was the +dearest uncle in the world, because she was going to marry the man who +wrote the book he so admired. + +There were long explanations after that: How the book so highly valued +by Banker Ward had actually been written in that very log house by the +river; how Auntie Sue had sent for Betty Jo to assist the author with +her typewriting; how the author, not knowing who Betty Jo was, had +fallen in love with his stenographer, and, finally, how Betty Jo's +author-lover was even then waiting to meet her guardian, still not +knowing that her guardian was the banker Homer T. Ward. + +“You see, uncle, dear,” explained Betty Jo, “Auntie Sue and I were +obliged to conspire this little conspiracy against my man, because, you +know, authors are funny folk, and you never can tell exactly what they +are going to do. After giving your heart to a genius as wonderful as you +yourself know this one to be, it would be terrible to have him refuse +you just because you were the only living relative of a rich old +banker;--it would, wouldn't it, uncle, dear?” + +And, really, Homer T. Ward could find reason in Betty Jo's argument, +which ended with that fatal trick question. + +Taking his agreement for granted, Betty Jo continued: “And, you see, +Auntie Sue and I were simply forced to conspire a little against you, +uncle, dear, because you know perfectly well that, much as I needed the +advantage of associating with such an author-man in the actual writing +of his book, you would never, never have permitted me to fall in love +with him before you had discovered for yourself what a great man he +really is, and I simply had to fall in love with him because God made +me to take care of a genius of some sort. And if you don't believe that, +you can ask Judy. Judy has found out a lot about God lately. + +“You won't think I am talking nonsense, or am belittling the occasion +will you, uncle, dear?” she added anxiously. “I am not,--truly, I am +not,--I am very serious. But I can't help being a little excited, can I? +Because it is terrible to love a banker-uncle, as I love you, and at +the same time to love a genius-man, as I love my man, and--and--not know +what you two dearest men in the world are going to do to each other.” + +And, at this, the girl's arms were about his neck again, and the girl's +head went down on his shoulder; and he felt her cheek hot with blushes +against his and a very suspicious drop of moisture slipped down inside +his collar. + +When he had held Betty Jo very close for a while, and had whispered +comforting things in her ear, and had smiled over her shoulder at his +old teacher, the banker sent the girl to find her lover while he should +have a serious talk with Auntie Sue. + +The long shadows of the late afternoon were on the mountain-side when +Brian Kent and Betty Jo came down the hill to the little log house by +the river. + +The girl had said to him simply, “You are to come, now, Brian;--Auntie +Sue and Mr. Ward sent me to tell you.” + +She was very serious, and as they walked together clung closely to his +arm. And the man, too, seeming to feel the uselessness of words for such +an occasion, was silent. When he helped her over the rail-fence at the +lower edge of the clearing, he held her in his arms for a little; then +they went on. + +They saw the beautiful, tree-clad hills lying softly outlined in the +shadows like folds of green and timeworn velvet, extending ridge +on ridge into the blue. They saw the river, their river, making its +gleaming way with many a curve and bend to the mighty sea, that was +hidden somewhere far beyond the distant sky-line of their vision; and +between them and the river, at the foot of the hill, they saw the little +log house with Auntie Sue and Homer T. Ward waiting in the doorway. + +When the banker saw the man at Betty Jo's side, his mind was far from +the clerk whom he had known more than a year before in the city. His +thoughts were on the author, the scholar, the genius, whose book had +so compelled his respect and admiration. This tall fellow, with the +athletic shoulders and deeply tanned face, who was dressed in the rude +garb of the backwoodsman, with his coat over his arm, his ax on his +shoulder, and his dinner-pail in his hand,--who was he? And why was +Betty Jo so familiar with this stranger,--Betty Jo, who was usually +so reserved, with her air of competent self-possession? Homer T. Ward +turned to look inquiringly at Auntie Sue. + +His old teacher smiled back at him without speaking. + +Then, Betty Jo and Brian Kent were standing before him. + +“Here he is, Uncle Homer,” said the girl. + +Brian, hearing her speak those two revealing words, and seeing her go to +the bank president, who put his arm around her with the loving intimacy +of a father, stood speechless with amazement, looking from Homer T. Ward +and Betty Jo to Auntie Sue and back to the banker and the girl. + +Mr. Ward, still not remembering the bank clerk in this re-created Brian +Kent, was holding out his hand with a genial smile. + +As the bewildered Brian mechanically took the hand so cordially +extended, the older man said: “It is an honor, sir, to meet a man who +can do the work you have done in writing that book. It is impossible to +estimate the value of such a service as you have rendered the race. You +have a rare and wonderful gift, Mr. Burns, and I predict for you a life +of remarkable usefulness.” + +Brian, still confused, but realizing that Mr. Ward had not recognized +him, looked appealingly at Betty Jo and then to Auntie Sue. + +Auntie Sue spoke: “Mr. Ward is the uncle and guardian of Betty Jo, +Brian.” + +“'Brian'!” ejaculated the banker. + +Auntie Sue continued: “Homer, dear, Betty Jo has presented HER author, +Mr. Burns;--permit me to introduce MY Brian Kent!” + +And Judy remarked that evening, when, after supper, they were all on the +porch watching the sunset: “Hit sure is dad burned funny how all tangled +an' snarled up everythin' kin git 'fore a body kin think most, an', +then, if a body'll just keep a-goin' right along, all ter onct hit's all +straightened out as purty as anythin'.” + +They laughed happily at the mountain girl's words, and the dear old +teacher's sweet voice answered: “Yes, Judy; it is all just like the +river, don't you see?” + +“Meanin' as how the water gits all tangled an' mixed up when hit's +a-boilin' an' a-roarin' like mad down there at Elbow Rock, an' then all +ter onct gits all smooth an' calm like again,” returned Judy. + +“Meaning just that, Judy,” returned Auntie Sue. “No matter how tangled +and confused life seems to be, it will all come straight at the last, +if, like the river, we only keep going on.” + +And when the dreamy Indian-summer days were come and the blue haze of +autumn lay softly over the brown and gold of the beautiful Ozark hills, +the mountain folk of the Elbow Rock neighborhood gathered one day at the +little log house by the river. + +It was a simple ceremony that made the man and the woman, who were so +dear to Auntie Sue, husband and wife. But the backwoods minister was not +wanting in dignity, though his dress was rude and his words plain; and +the service lacked nothing of beauty and meaning, though the guests +were but humble mountaineers; for love was there, and sincerity, and +strength, and rugged kindliness. + +And when the simple wedding feast was over, they all went down to +the river-bank, at the lower corner of the garden, where, at the eddy +landing, a staunch John-boat waited, equipped and ready. + +When the last good-byes were spoken, and Brian and Betty Jo put out from +the little harbor into the stream, Auntie Sue, with Judy and Homer T. +Ward, went back to the porch of the little log house, there to watch the +beginning of the voyage. + +With Brian at the oars, the boat crossed the stream to the safer +waters close to the other shore, and then, with Betty Jo waving her +handkerchief, and the neighbor men and boys running shouting along the +bank, swept down the river, past the roaring turmoil of the Elbow Rock +rapids into the quiet reaches below, and away on its winding course +between the tree-clad hills. + +“I am so glad,” said Auntie Sue, her dear old face glowing with love, +and her sweet voice tremulous with feeling, “I am so glad they chose the +river for their wedding journey.” + + + + +Note.--This biographical sketch of Harold Bell Wright will give the +reader a knowledge and understanding of the life-work, aims and purposes +of the author as expressed through his books. It is reprinted on these +pages in response to popular demand.--The Publishers. + + + + +HAROLD BELL WRIGHT + +A Biography + +By ELSBERY W. REYNOLDS + + +The biography of a man is of importance and interest to other men just +to the degree that his life and work touches and influences the life of +his time and the lives of individuals. + +Only in a feeble way, at best, can the life story of any man be told on +the printed page. The story is better as it is written on the hearts of +men and women and the man himself does the writing. + +He lives longest who lives best. He who carves deepest against corroding +time is he who touches with surest hand the greatest number of human +hearts. + +He may or may not be a prodigy of physical strength. He may or may not +be a tower of mental energy. But so long as this old world stands the +man with an overpowering desire for all that is best for the race to +be in the race, whose life is in tune with the divine and with the good +that is within us all, whether he be orator, writer, artist or artisan, +is a giant among men. + +That which we read makes a deeper and more lasting impression on our +lives than that which we see or hear. An author with millions of readers +must be a great central power of thought and influence, at least, in his +own day and generation. We can understand the truth of this through a +study of the aims and life purposes of Harold Bell Wright as expressed +through his books and the circumstances under which they were written. +The wonderful popularity of this author is well estimated by the +millions of copies of his books that have been sold. This is also the +greatest testimonial that can be given to the merit of his work. The +great heart of the reading public is an unprejudiced critic. “Is not +the greatest voice the one to which the greatest number of hearts listen +with pleasure?” + +When a man has attained to great eminence under adverse circumstances we +sometimes wonder to what heights he might have climbed under conditions +more favorable. Who can tell? It is just as easy to say what the young +man of twenty will be when a matured man of forty. The boy of poverty +makes a man of power while the boy nursed in the lap of luxury makes +a man of uneventful life, and, again, a life started with a handicap +remains so through its possible three score years and ten and the life +begun with advantages multiplies its talents ten and a hundred fold. + +So, after all, is not the heart of man the real man and is it not +the guiding star of his ambition, his will, his determination, his +conscience? + +Harold Bell Wright, the second of four sons, was born May 4, 1872, in +Rome, Oneida County, New York. From an earlier biographer we quote the +following: + +“Some essential facts must be dug from out the past where they lie +embedded in the detrital chronicles of the race. Say, then, that away +back in 1640 a ship load of Anglo-Saxon freedom landed in New England. +After a brief period some of the more venturesome spirits emigrated to +the far west and settled amid the undulations of the Mohawk valley +in central New York. Protestant France also sent westward some +Gallic chivalry hungering for freedom. The fringe of this garment of +civilization spread out and reached also into the same valley. English +determination and Huguenot aspiration touched elbows in the war for +political and religious freedom, and touched hearts and hands in +the struggle for economic freedom. Their generations were a genuine +aristocracy. Mutual struggles after mutual aims cemented casual +acquaintance into enduring friendship. William Wright met, loved +and married Alma T. Watson. To them four sons were born. A carpenter +contractor, a man who builds, contrives and constructs, is joined to +a woman into whose soul of wholesome refinement come images of dainty +beauty, where they glow and grow radiant. With lavish unrestraint the +life of this French woman pours itself into her sons. The third child +died in infancy. The eldest survived his mother by some thirteen years. +The youngest is a constructive mechanical engineer. The second son is +Harold Bell Wright. + +“During ten years this mother and this son live in rare intimacy. The +boy's first enduring impression of this life is the vision of the mother +bending affectionately over him while criticising the water color sketch +his unpracticed fingers had just made. Crude blendings and faulty +lines were pointed out, then touched into harmony and more accurate +perspective by her quick skill. Together their eyes watched shades dance +on sunny slopes, cloud shadows race among the hills or lie lazily in the +valley below. + +“Exuberant Nature and ebullient boy loved each other from the first. +Alone, enravished, he often wandered far in sheer joy of living. He +brings, one day, from his rambles a bunch of immortelles which mother +graciously receives. Twenty years later the boy, man-grown, bows +reverently over a box of withered flowers--the same bouquet the mother +took that day and laid away as a precious memento of his boyish love. +Such was the first decade. + +“A ten-year-old boy, motherless, steals from harsh labor and yet harsher +surroundings, runs to the home of sacred memories, clambers to the +attic, and spends the night in anguished solitude. This was his first +Gethsemane. For ten years buffeted and beaten, battling with adversity, +sometimes losing but never lost, snatching learning here and there, +hating sham, loving passionately, misunderstood, misapprehended, too +stubbornly proud to ask apologies or make useless explanations, fighting +poverty in the depths of privation, wrestling existence from toil he +loathed, befriending many and also befriended much, but always face to +face with the grim tragedy which has held part of the stage since Eden. + +“Such was the second decade. The first was spent on hill sides where +shadows only made the light more buoyant as they fled away. The second +was passed in the valley where the shadow hung lazily till the cloud +grew very black and drenched the soil. + +“Lured to college, he undertook to acquire academic culture. As is +well known, college life with its professorial anecdotes and jokes, its +student pranks and grind, is routine drudgery and cob-webbery prose. +Bookish professors and conventional students rarely have just such an +animate problem of French artistry and Bohemian experience to solve. +They did nobly, to be sure, but here was a mind which threw over them +all the glamour of romance.” + +Mr. Wright entered the Preparatory Department of Hiram College at the +age of twenty, having previously accepted the faith and identified +himself with the Christian Church in the little quarry town of Grafton, +Ohio. He continued active in the different departments of work in his +church all during his school years with the ultimate result of his +entering the ministry. + +Having no financial means, while in school he made his way by doing odd +jobs about town, house painting and decorating, sketching, etc. After +two years of school life, while laboring to gain funds in order that he +might continue his schooling, he contracted from overwork and out-door +exposure a severe case of pneumonia that left his eyesight badly +impaired and his constitution in such condition that, to the present +day, he has never fully recovered. + +Air castles were tumbled and hopes blasted when his physician advised +him that it would be fatal to re-enter school for, at least, another +year. Whereupon, seeking health and a means of existence, starting from +a point on the Mahoning river, he canoed with sketch and note book, but +alone, down stream a distance of more than five hundred miles. From +this point, by train, he embarked for the Ozark mountains in southwest +Missouri. Here, for some months, while gradually regaining his strength, +he secured employment at farm work, sketching and painting at intervals. + +Once more, he found himself on bed-rock, taking his last cent to pay +express charges back to Ohio on some finished pictures, but, this time, +fortune smiled promptly with a good check by return mail. + +It was while in the Ozarks that Harold Bell Wright preached his first +sermon. Being a regular attendant at the services, held in the little +mountain log school house, he was asked to talk to the people, one +Sunday, when the regular preacher had failed to appear. + +From this Sunday morning talk, that could hardly be called a sermon, and +others that followed, he came to feel that he could do more good in the +ministry than he could in any other field of labor, and soon thereafter +accepted a regular pastorate at Pierce City, Missouri, at a yearly +salary of four hundred dollars. True to a resolve, that his work should +be that through which he could help the most people, he had now chosen +the ministry. A further resolve that he would give up this ministry, +chosen with such earnest conviction, should another field of labor offer +more extensive measures for reaching mankind, took him, in later years, +into the field of literature. He left the ministry with many regrets but +with the same earnest conviction with which he had earlier chosen it. + +Following the publication of “The Shepherd of the Hills” his publishers +assured him that he could secure greater results from his pen rather +than his pulpit and prevailed upon him to henceforth make literature his +life work. This was in every way consistent with his teaching that every +man's ministry is that work through which he can accomplish the greatest +good. + +In the battle of life there is always the higher ground that the many +covet but few attain. In reaching this height Mr. Wright has given to +a multitude, his time, strength and substance, that they, too, might +further advance. He is companionable, loving and loyal to his friends. +He hates sham and hypocrisy and any attempt to glorify one's self by +means other than the fruits of one's own labor. + +This boy, who, from the death of his mother, was driven into a hand to +hand struggle with life for a bare existence, was necessarily forced +into contact with much that was vicious and corrupt. But he in no way +became a part of it. That same inherent love for mental cleanliness and +spiritual truths that has so distinguished the works of the man kept the +boy unstained in his unfortunate environment. + +Mr. Wright resigned his charge at Pierce City for the larger work at +Pittsburg, Kansas. In the second year of his pastorate--1899--he +married Frances E. Long in Buffalo, New York. This union of love had +its beginning back in the school days at Hiram. Unto them have been born +three sons, Gilbert Munger, 1901, Paul Williams, 1902, and Norman Hall, +1910. + +In Pittsburg, Mr. Wright received enthusiastic support from his church +people. Finances were soon in a satisfactory condition, and church +attendance reached the capacity of the building, but still the young +pastor was not satisfied. Pittsburg was a mining town, a young men's +town. A little city with saloons and brothels doing business on every +hand. His soul was on fire for his church to do a larger work and, with +the hope of arousing his people, he conceived the idea of writing “That +Printer of Udell's,” planning to read the story, by installments, on +special evenings of successive weeks, to his congregation. + +Pittsburg was made the principal scene and the church of the story was +the kind of church he wanted his Pittsburg charge to be. The teachings +set forth, through the preacher of the story, in the latter half of +the book, are the identical things the author was preaching. The first +chapters of the story are very largely colored by Mr. Wright's early +life, but they are by no means autobiographical. + +“That Printer of Udell's” was written without thought or intention of +offering it for publication. During the author's ministry he made some +of the warmest and most abiding friendships of his life, and it was +through certain of these friends that he was persuaded from reading the +story, as intended, but to offer it for publication, giving it, thus, a +wider usefulness. + +Having a leave of absence of several weeks from his church during the +winter of 1901-2 he accepted an invitation from the pastor of a Chicago +church to hold a special meeting, and it was during this meeting +that the author and his publisher met for the first time. Mr. Wright +delivered a sermon entitled “Sculptors of Life” that was so impressive +that I sought him out with entreaties to repeat his sermon as a lecture +to a certain company of young people. + +The acquaintance thus begun very quickly became one of friendship, +without any knowledge or thought that it would in time lead to a +co-operative life work, and when the author later offered his book for +publication it was without request or thought of financial remuneration. +Mr. Wright, however, was given a contract paying him the highest royalty +that was being paid for any author's first book. + +“That Printer of Udell's” was written almost entirely in the late hours +of the night and the very early hours of the morning. Great demands were +being made on the author's time in the way of requests for officiating +and speaking at public and civic functions in addition to the now heavy +requirements of his church. His aggressive activities, backed by his +splendid spirit, fearlessness and courage in combating the evils of his +little city made for him a host of admirers, alike, among his enemies +and friends. When he left to accept a pastorate in Kansas City, +Missouri, his resignation was not accepted. + +After one year in Kansas City he found that he was not physically able +to carry out the great city work as he had dreamed it and planned it, +on a scale that would satisfy his longings for service, and it made him +seriously consider whether there was not some other way that would more +equally measure with his strength. He went again to the Ozarks, this +time for rest and meditation, and while there began writing “The +Shepherd of the Hills.” This Story has a peculiar significance for +the author. He feels toward it as he can not feel for any of his other +books. “The Shepherd of the Hills” was written as a test. The strength +of the message he was able to put into the story and the response it +should find in the hearts of men and women was to decide for him his +ministry henceforth, whether he would teach the precepts of the Man of +Galilee by voice or pen. It was a testing time that bore fruit not only +in this simple, sweet story, that to quote an eminent divine, “is one of +the greatest sermons of our day,” but resulted as well in the splendid +volumes that have followed. + +“The Shepherd of the Hills” was finished during the year of his +pastorate at Lebanon, Missouri, and but for the sympathy, encouragement +and helpful understanding of his church officers and membership, it is +doubtful if the story could ever have been completed. When Mr. Wright +delivered the manuscript to his publishers the first of the year, 1907, +for publication the next fall, he had accepted the pastorate of the +Christian Church in Redlands, California, hoping this land of sunshine +would give him a larger measure of health. + +Some months later, resigning his Redlands pastorate, he went to the +Imperial Valley and there, the following year, wrote “The Calling of Dan +Matthews.” The church and its problems were weighing on the author and +affecting his life no less than when he was in the ministry and it was +only natural that he should give to the world “a picture that is true +to the four corners of the earth.” Every incident in the story has its +counterpart in real life and, with but few exceptions, came under the +author's personal observation. He did not get the real pleasure out +of writing “The Calling of Dan Matthews” that he did the story which +preceded it. But he could not, try as he would, escape it. + +The publication of “The Calling of Dan Matthews” in the fall of 1909 was +just two years after the publication of “The Shepherd of the Hills.” + +“The Winning of Barbara Worth” required more time and effort in the +collecting of material than any book the author had written, but +probably gave him, at least, as much pleasure. He is very careful with +regard to descriptive detail, and even while writing “The Calling of Dan +Matthews” he was making a study of the desert and this great reclamation +project. Before sending his manuscript for publication he had it checked +over by the best engineers on the Pacific coast for inaccuracies in any +of his descriptions that involved engineering or reclamation problems. + +“The Winning of Barbara Worth” bears the distinction, without doubt, +of being the only book ever published that called its publisher and +illustrator from a distance of two and three thousand miles, into the +heart of a great desert, for a consultation with its author. This story +of the Imperial Valley and its reclamation was written in the same study +as was “The Calling of Dan Matthews.” A study of rude construction, +about eighteen by thirty-five feet, with thatched roof and outside +covering of native arrow-weed and built entirely by the author himself. + +When Mr. Wright finished “The Winning of Barbara Worth”--so named in +honor of Ruth Barbara Reynolds--he was a sick man. He often worked the +night through, overtaxing his nerve and strength. For several months he +virtually dwelt within the four walls of his study and for a time it was +feared he would not live to finish the book. He wrote the last chapters +while confined to his bed, after which he was taken by easy stages, +through the kindness of friends, to that part of Northern Arizona that +is so delightful to all lovers of the out-of-doors. In this bracing +mile-high atmosphere he soon grew well and strong, almost to ruggedness, +and on the day his book was published he was riding in a wild-horse +chase over a country wild and rough where the writer of this sketch +would only care to go, carefully picking his way, on foot. So it was +weeks after publication before the author saw the first bound copy +of his book. During these summer and fall months, while regaining his +strength, he was busy with sketch and note book collecting material, for +this part of Arizona is the scene of his novel “When a Man's a Man.” + +“Their Yesterdays” was written in Tucson, Arizona, and was published in +the fall of 1912, just one year after the publication of “The Winning +of Barbara Worth.” In order to write this story, with the least possible +strain on his nerves and vitality, Mr. Wright secluded himself in a +little cottage purchased especially for this work. His material was +collected from the observations of his thoughtful years and his intimate +knowledge of human hearts. This book is, perhaps, more representative +of the real Harold Bell Wright than anything he has done. It is the true +presentation of his views on life, love and religion. I once asked Mr. +Wright, in behalf of the faculty, to deliver an address to a graduating +class of some twenty-odd young men of the Morgan Park Academy (Chicago). +He was very busy and I suggested that without special effort he make the +commonplace remarks that one so often hears on like occasions. For the +first time that I remember he somewhat impatiently resented a suggestion +from me, saying “These young men are on the threshold of life and the +very best that is within me is due to them. I can give to them only such +a message as I would, were I to stand before judgment on the morrow.” It +was with just this spirit that the author wrote “Their Yesterdays.” + +Following “Their Yesterdays” the next book in order of publication was +“The Eyes of the World,” published in the fall of 1914. It was written +in the same arrow-weed study on Tecolote Rancho in the Imperial Valley +where he wrote “The Calling of Dan Matthews” and “The Winning of Barbara +Worth.” Being fully in sympathy with the author's purpose in writing +this story, the campaign of advertising was of such educational +character and so eventful in many ways, that it will long be remembered +by authors, publishers and reading public, and, we trust, make for +cleaner books and pictures. + +As it was in the writing of “The Calling of Dan Matthews” so it was in +the writing of “The Eyes of the World,” the sense of duty stood highest. +The modern trend in books and music and art and drama had so incensed +the author that “The Eyes of the World” was the result of his all +impelling desire for cleaner living and thinking. As is true of all +writers, there are sometimes those who fail to catch the message in +Mr. Wright's books. He is occasionally misunderstood, and that was +especially true with “The Eyes of the World.” To the great majority +of people, clean living and thinking, the message was not to be +misinterpreted and to them the book is blessed. To that small minority +it was convicting and, from a few such, it brought forth condemnation +which, in a fellow author here and there, was pronounced and emphasized +by envy and jealousy. To critics of this class Mr. Wright makes no reply +and is not in the least disturbed. + +“The Uncrowned King,” a small volume--an allegory--published in 1910, +to me, is one of the most delightful of Mr. Wright's books. Possibly, +it has an added charm because of certain peculiar conditions. It was +written in Redlands, California, during the winter of 1909-10, although +the notion for the little volume occurred to the author while living in +Kansas City. It was one of those times when the longing and will to do +a work greater than the physical would permit seemed almost overpowering +when, unconsciously coming to his aid, a young woman talking to a +company of Christian Endeavorers chanced to remark, “After all, the +real kings of earth are seldom crowned.” All through the evening service +thoughts that this inspired kept running through the author's mind and +late that same night he wrote the outline which was only completed some +years later and given to his publishers to enrich the world. + +His first four novels in order of publication have been dramatized +and enjoyed by thousands from before the footlights and it has been a +delight to renew acquaintances with old friends in this way. It remained +for “The Eyes of the World” to be the first of his books to be presented +in a feature production of motion pictures. + +The likes and dislikes of Harold Bell Wright are quite pronounced. He is +unpretending, cares not for the lime-light and avoids interviews for the +public press. Loud, boisterous conversation is but little less offensive +to him than vulgarity in speech or action. His friends are strong, +clean-minded men who are doing things in the world and are as necessary +to his being as the air to his existence, and his generosity to them is +no less marked than his caring and providing for his family, which is +almost a passion. He is extremely fond of most forms of out-door life. +The desert with its vast expanse, fierce solitude and varied colors is +no less attractive to him than the peaceful quiet of wooded dells, the +beauty of flowering meadows or the rugged mountains with their roaring +trout streams that furnish him hours of sport with rod and line. He +enjoys hunting, horse-back riding or long tramps afoot. But when there +is work to be done it is the one thing that bulks largest and all else +must wait. + +After finishing “The Eyes of the World,” Mr. Wright embarked on the +building of a home in the Santa Monica mountains near Hollywood, +California. So in the summer of 1915 the little family of five +began making their residence in the new canyon home, one of nature's +delightful spots. + +Then again, the author went into camp in the Arizona desert while +writing “When a Man's a Man.” For he finds it very helpful to live in +the atmosphere of his story while doing the actual writing and he also +avoids frequent interruption. I think he got more real enjoyment out +of this story than any he has previously done. It is a story of the +out-of-doors in this great unfenced land where a man must be a man. I +suppose, too, he enjoyed writing this work so much, partly, because it +comes so easy for him to just tell a story without the intervention of +some nerve racking problem. The only book he has heretofore written that +is purely a story is “The Shepherd of the Hills,” and I sometimes wonder +to what proportion of his readers does this Ozark story hold first +place. For all such, I am sure, “When a Man's a Man” will find a +reception of special heartiness because it is just a fine, big, +wholesome novel of simple sweetness and virile strength. + +I have written this sketch of Harold Bell Wright that you may know him +as intimately, if possible, as if you had met him in person. But should +you have the opportunity of making his acquaintance do not deny yourself +the pleasure. If you are a lover of his books I am sure you are just the +kind of person that the author himself delights to meet. + +“Relay Heights,” February 15, 1916. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Re-Creation of Brian Kent, by +Harold Bell Wright + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT *** + +***** This file should be named 3265-0.txt or 3265-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/6/3265/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/3265-0.zip b/3265-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6343678 --- /dev/null +++ b/3265-0.zip diff --git a/3265-h.zip b/3265-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d1fb24 --- /dev/null +++ b/3265-h.zip diff --git a/3265-h/3265-h.htm b/3265-h/3265-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7112bbb --- /dev/null +++ b/3265-h/3265-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9498 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Re-creation of Brian Kent, by Harold Bell Wright + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's The Re-Creation of Brian Kent, by Harold Bell Wright + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Re-Creation of Brian Kent + +Author: Harold Bell Wright + +Release Date: June 3, 2006 [EBook #3265] +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Harold Bell Wright + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + DEAR AUNTIE SUE: + </p> + <p> + I have wondered many times, while writing this simple story of life and + love, if you would ever forgive me for putting you in a book. I hope you + will, because if you do not, I shall be heartbroken, and you wouldn't + want me that way, would you, Auntie Sue? + </p> + <p> + I fancy I can hear you say: “But, Harold, how COULD you! You know I + never did the things you have made me do in your story. You know I never + lived in a little log house by the river in the Ozark Mountains! What in + the world will people think!” + </p> + <p> + Well, to tell the truth, dear, I don't care so very much what people + think if only they will love you; and that they are sure to do, because,—well, + just because—You must remember, too, that you will be eighty-seven + years old the eighteenth of next November, and it is therefore quite + time that someone put you in a book. + </p> + <p> + And, after all, Auntie Sue, are you very sure that you have never lived + in a little log house by the river,—are you very sure, Auntie Sue? + </p> + <p> + Forgive my impertinence, as you have always forgiven me everything; and + love me just the same, because I have written only in love of the + dearest Auntie Sue in the world! + </p> + <p> + Signature [Harold] + </p> + <p> + The Glenwood Mission Inn, Riverside, California, April 30, 1919. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And see the rivers, how they run + Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, + Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,— + Wave succeeding wave, they go + A various journey to the deep + Like human life to endless sleep!” + + John Dyer—“Grongar Hill.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT</b></big> + </a><br /><br /><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a><br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> + CHAPTER IV. </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a><br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> + CHAPTER VIII. </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a><br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> + CHAPTER XII. </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a><br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0016"> + CHAPTER XVI. </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a><br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> + CHAPTER XX. </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a><br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a><br /><br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> <b>BIOGRAPHY OF HAROLD BELL WRIGHT</b> </a> <big><b>ILLUSTRATIONS + (Not available)</b></big> <br /> BETTY JO “LOOK, JUDY! LOOK!” AUNTIE SUE + SAID, SOFTLY, “SHE DID NOT UNDERSTAND, BRIAN.” ...SHE MADE THE LITTLE BOOK + OF PAINFUL MEMORIES A BOOK OF JOYOUS PROMISE. <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + A REMARKABLE WOMAN. + </h3> + <p> + I remember as well as though it were yesterday the first time I met Auntie + Sue. + </p> + <p> + It happened during my first roaming visit to the Ozarks, when I had + wandered by chance, one day, into the Elbow Rock neighborhood. Twenty + years it was, at least, before the time of this story. She was standing in + the door of her little schoolhouse, the ruins of which you may still see, + halfway up the long hill from the log house by the river, where the most + of this story was lived. + </p> + <p> + It was that season of the year when the gold and brown of our Ozark Hills + is overlaid with a filmy veil of delicate blue haze and the world is + hushed with the solemn sweetness of the passing of the summer. And as the + old gentlewoman stood there in the open door of that rustic temple of + learning, with the deep-shadowed, wooded hillside in the background, and, + in front, the rude clearing with its crooked rail fence along which the + scarlet sumac flamed, I thought,—as I still think, after all these + years,—that I had never before seen such a woman. + </p> + <p> + Fifty years had gone into the making of that sterling character which was + builded upon a foundation of many generations of noble ancestors. Without + home or children of her own, the life strength of her splendid womanhood + had been given to the teaching of boys and girls. An old-maid + schoolteacher? Yes,—if you will. But, as I saw her standing there + that day,—tall and slender, dressed in a simple gown that was + fitting to her work,—there was a queenly dignity, a stately + sweetness, in her bearing that made me feel, somehow, as if I had come + unexpectedly into the presence of royalty. Not the royalty of caste and + court and station with their glittering pretenses of superiority and their + superficial claims to distinction,—I do not mean that; I mean that + true royalty which needs no caste or court or station but makes itself + felt because it IS. + </p> + <p> + She did not notice me at first, for the noise of the children at play in + the yard covered the sound of my approach, and she was looking far, far + away, over the river which lay below at the foot of the hill; over the + forest-clad mountains in the glory of their brown and gold; over the vast + sweep of the tree-crowned Ozark ridges that receded wave after wave into + the blue haze until, in the vastness of the distant sky, they were lost. + And something made me know that, in the moment's respite from her task, + the woman was looking even beyond the sky itself. + </p> + <p> + Her profile, clean-chiselled, but daintily formed, was beautiful in its + gentle strength. Her hair was soft and silvery like the gray mist of the + river in the morning. Then she turned to greet me, and I saw her eyes. Boy + that I was then, and not given overmuch to serious thought, I knew that + the high, unwavering purpose, the loving sympathy, and tender + understanding that shone in the calm depth of those eyes could belong only + to one who habitually looks unafraid beyond all earthly scenes. Only those + who have learned thus to look beyond the material horizon of our little + day have that beautiful inner light which shone in the eyes of Auntie Sue—the + teacher of a backwoods school. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue had come to the Elbow Rock neighborhood the summer preceding + that fall when I first met her. She had grown too old, she said, with her + delightful little laugh, to be of much use in the larger schools of the + more thickly populated sections of the country. But she was still far too + young, she stoutly maintained, to be altogether useless. + </p> + <p> + Tom Warden, who lived just over the ridge from the schoolhouse, and who + was blessed with the largest wife, the largest family, and the most + pretentious farm in the county, had kinsfolk somewhere in Illinois. + Through these relatives of the Ozark farmer Miss Susan Wakefield had + learned of the needs of the Elbow Rock school, and so, finally, had come + into the hills. It was the influential Tom who secured for her the modest + position. It was the motherly Mrs. Tom who made her at home in the Warden + household. It was the Warden boys and girls who first called her “Auntie + Sue.” But it was Auntie Sue herself who won so large a place in the hearts + of the simple mountain folk of the district that she held her position + year after year, until she finally gave up teaching altogether. + </p> + <p> + Not one of her Ozark friends ever came to know in detail the history of + this remarkable woman's life. It was known in a general way that she was + born in Connecticut; that she had a brother somewhere in some + South-American country; that two other brothers had been killed in the + Civil War; that she had taught in the lower and intermediate grades of + public schools in various places all the years of her womanhood. Also, it + was known that she had never married. + </p> + <p> + “And that,” said Uncle Lige Potter, voicing the unanimous opinion, of the + countryside, “is a doggone funny thing and plumb unnatural, considerin' + the kind of woman she is.” + </p> + <p> + To which Lem Jordan,—who was then living with his fourth wife, and + might therefore be held to speak with a degree of authority,—added: + “Hit sure is a dad burned shame, an' a plumb disgrace to the men of this + here country, when you come to look at the sort of wimmen most of 'em are + a marryin' most of the time.” + </p> + <p> + Another matter of universal and never-failing interest to the mountain + folk was the unprecedented number of letters that Auntie Sue received and + wrote. That some of these letters written by their backwoods teacher were + addressed to men and women of such prominence in the world that their + names were known even to that remote Ozark district was a source of no + little pride to Auntie Sue's immediate neighbors, and served to mark her + in their eyes with no small distinction. + </p> + <p> + It was during the fourth year of her life amid the scenes of this story,—as + I recall time,—that Auntie Sue invested the small savings of her + working years in the little log house by the river and the eighty acres of + land known as the “Old Bill Wilson place.” + </p> + <p> + The house was a substantial building of three rooms, a lean-to kitchen, + and a porch overlooking the river. The log barn, with “Prince,” a gentle + old horse, and “Bess,” a mild-mannered, brindle cow, completed the modest + establishment. About thirty acres of the land were cleared and under + cultivation of a sort. The remaining acreage was in timber. The price, + under the kindly and expert supervision of Tom Warden, was fifteen dollars + an acre. But Auntie Sue always laughingly insisted that she really paid + fifty cents an acre for the land and fourteen dollars and a half an acre + for the sunsets. + </p> + <p> + The tillable land, except for the garden, she “let out on shares,” always + under the friendly guardianship of neighbor Tom; while Tom's boys cared + for the little garden in season, and saw to it that the woodpile was + always ample and ready for the stove. And, in addition to these fixed and + regular homely services, there were many offerings of helpful hands + whenever other needs arose; for, as time passed, there came to be in all + the Elbow Rock district scarce a man, young or old, who did not now and + then honor himself by doing some little job for Auntie Sue; while the + women and girls, in the same neighborly spirit, brought from their own + humble households many tokens of their loving thoughtfulness. And never + did one visit that little log house by the river without the consciousness + of something received from the silvery-haired old teacher—a + something intangible, perhaps, which they could not have expressed in + words, but which, nevertheless, enriched the lives of those simple + mountain people with a very real joy and a very tangible happiness. + </p> + <p> + For six years, Auntie Sue continued teaching the Elbow Rock school;—climbing + the hill in the morning from her log house by the river to the cabin + schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side above; returning in the + late afternoon, when her day's work was over, down the winding road to her + little home, there to watch, from the porch that overlooked the river, the + sunset in the evening. And every year the daily climb grew a little + harder; the days of work grew a little longer; she went down the hill in + the afternoon a little slower. And every year the sunsets were to her eyes + more beautiful; the evening skies to her understanding glowed with richer + meaning; the twilight hours filled her heart with a deeper peace. + </p> + <p> + And so, at last, her teaching days were over; that is, she taught no more + in the log schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side. But in her + little home beside the river she continued her work; not from text-books, + indeed, but as all such souls must continue to teach, until the sun sets + for the last time upon their mortal days. + </p> + <p> + Work-worn, toil-hardened mountaineer mothers, whose narrow world denied + them so many of the finer thoughts and things, came to counsel with this + childless woman, and to learn from her a little of the art of contentment + and happiness. Strong men, of rude dress and speech, whose lives were as + rough as the hills in which they were reared, and whose thoughts were + often as crude as their half-savage and sometimes lawless customs, came to + sit at the feet of this gentle one, who received them all with such kindly + interest and instinctive understanding. And young men and girls came, + drawn by the magic that was hers, to confide in this woman who listened + with such rare tact and loving sympathy to their troubles and their + dreams, and who, in the deepest things of their young lives, was mother to + them all. + </p> + <p> + Nor were the mountain folk her only disciples. Always there were the + letters she continued to write, addressed to almost every corner of the + land. And every year there would come, for a week or a month, at different + times during the summer, men and women from the great world of larger + affairs who had need of the strength and courage and patience and hope + they never failed to find in that little log house by the river. And so, + in time, it came to be known that those letters written by Auntie Sue went + to men and women who, in their childhood school days, had received from + her their first lessons in writing; and that her visitors, many of them + distinguished in the world of railroads and cities, were of that large + circle of busy souls who had never ceased to be her pupils. + </p> + <p> + Thus it came that the garden was made a little larger, and two rooms were + added to the house, with other modest improvements, to accommodate Auntie + Sue's grown-up boys and girls when they came to visit her. But never was + there a hired servant, so that her guests must do their own household + tasks, because, Auntie Sue said, that was good for them and mostly what + they needed. + </p> + <p> + It should also be said here that among her many pupils who lived beyond + the sky-line of the far, blue hills, not one knew more of the real secret + of Auntie Sue's life and character than did the Ozark mountaineers of the + Elbow Rock district, among whom she had chosen to pass the evening of her + day. + </p> + <p> + Then came one who learned the secret. He learned—but that is my + story. I must not tell the secret here. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + THE MAN IN THE DARK. + </h3> + <p> + A man stood at a window, looking out into the night. There was no light in + the room. The stars were hidden behind a thick curtain of sullen clouds. + </p> + <p> + The house was a wretchedly constructed, long-neglected building of a type + common to those old river towns that in their many years of uselessness + have lost all civic pride, and in their own resultant squalor and filth + have buried their self-respect. A dingy, scarcely legible sign over the + treacherous board walk, in front, by the sickly light of a smoke-grimed + kerosene lantern, announced that the place was a hotel. + </p> + <p> + Dark as it was, the man at the window could see the river. The trees that + lined the bank opposite the town were mere ghostly shadows against the + gloomy masses of the low hills that rose from the water's edge, + indistinct, mysterious, and unreal, into the threatening sky. The higher + mountains that reared their crests beyond the hills were invisible. The + stream itself swept sullenly through the night,—a resistless flood + of dismal power, as if, turbid with wrecked souls, with the lost hopes and + ruined dreams of men, it was fit only to bear vessels freighted with + sorrow, misfortune, and despair. + </p> + <p> + The manner of the man at the window was as if some woeful spirit of the + melancholy scene were calling him. With head bowed, and face turned a + little to one side, he listened intently as one listens to voices that are + muffled and indistinct. He pressed his face close to the glass, and with + straining eyes tried to see more clearly the ghostly trees, the sombre + hills, and the gloomy river. Three times he turned from the window to pace + to and fro in the darkened room, and every time his steps brought him + again to the casement, as if in obedience to some insistent voice that + summoned him. The fourth time, he turned from the window more quickly, + with a gesture of assenting decision. + </p> + <p> + The crackling snap of a match broke the dead stillness. The sudden flare + of light stabbed the darkness. As he applied the tiny, wavering flame to + the wick of a lamp that stood on the cheap, old-fashioned bureau, the + man's hand shook until the chimney rattled against the wire standards of + the burner. Turning quickly from the lighted lamp, the man sprang again to + the window to jerk down the tattered, old shade. Facing about, he stood + with his back to the wall, searching the room with wide, fearful eyes. His + fists were clenched. His chest rose and fell heavily with his labored + breathing. His face worked with emotion. With trembling limbs and + twitching muscles, he crouched like some desperate creature at bay. + </p> + <p> + But, save for the wretched man himself, there was in that shabby, + dingy-papered, dirty-carpeted, poorly furnished apartment no living thing. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, the man laughed;—and it was the reckless, despairing + laughter of a soul that feels itself slipping over the brink of an abyss. + </p> + <p> + With hurried step and outstretched hands, he crossed the room to snatch a + bottle of whisky from its place beside the lamp on the bureau. With + trembling eagerness, he poured a water tumbler half-full of the red + liquor. As one dying of thirst, he drank. Drawing a deep breath, and + shaking his head with a wry smile, he spoke in hoarse confidence to the + image of himself in the dingy mirror: “They nearly had me, that time.” + Again, he poured, and drank. + </p> + <p> + The whisky steadied him for the moment, and with bottle and glass still in + hand, he regarded himself in the mirror with critical interest. + </p> + <p> + Had he stood erect, with the vigor that should have been his by right of + his years, the man would have measured just short of six feet; but his + shoulders—naturally well set—sagged with the weariness of + excessive physical indulgence; while the sunken chest, the emaciated + limbs, and the dejected posture of his misused body made him in + appearance, at least, a wretched weakling. His clothing—of good + material and well tailored—was disgustingly soiled and neglected;—the + shoes thickly coated with dried mud, and the once-white shirt, slovenly + unfastened at the throat, without collar or tie. The face which looked + back from the mirror to the man was, without question, the countenance of + a gentleman; but the broad forehead under the unkempt red-brown hair was + furrowed with anxiety; the unshaven cheeks were lined and sunken; the + finely shaped, sensitive mouth drooped with nervous weakness; and the + blue, well-placed eyes were bloodshot and glittering with the light of + near-insanity. + </p> + <p> + The poor creature looked at the hideous image of his ruined self as if + fascinated with the horror of that which had been somehow wrought. Slowly, + as one in a trance, he went closer, and, without moving his gaze from the + mirror, placed the bottle and tumbler upon the bureau. As if compelled by + those burning eyes that stared so fixedly at him, he leaned forward still + closer to the glass. Then, as he looked, the distorted features twitched + and worked grotesquely with uncontrollable emotions, while the quivering + lips formed words that were not even whispered. With trembling fingers he + felt the unshaven cheeks and touched the unkempt hair questioningly. + Suddenly, as if to shut out the horror of that which he saw in the mirror, + the man hid his face in his hands, and with a sobbing, inarticulate cry + sank to the floor. + </p> + <p> + Silently, with pitiless force, the river swept onward through the night, + following its ordained way to the mighty sea. + </p> + <p> + As if summoned again by some dark spirit that brooded over the sombre, + rushing flood, the man rose heavily to his feet. His face turned once more + toward the window. A moment he stood there, listening, listening; then + wheeling back to the whisky bottle and the glass on the bureau, he quickly + poured, and drank again. + </p> + <p> + Nodding his head in the manner of one reaching a conclusion, he looked + slowly about the room, while a frightful grin of hopeless, despairing + triumph twisted his features, and his lips moved as if he breathed + reckless defiance to an invisible ghostly company. + </p> + <p> + Moving, now, with a decision and purpose that suggested a native strength + of character, the man quickly packed a suit-case with various articles of + clothing from the bureau drawers and the closet. He was in the act of + closing the suit-case when he stopped suddenly, and, with a shrug of his + shoulders, turned away. Then, as if struck by another thought, he stooped + again over his baggage, and drew forth a fresh, untouched bottle of + whisky. + </p> + <p> + “I guess you are the only baggage I'll need where I am going,” he said, + whimsically; and, leaving the open suit-case where it lay, he crossed the + room, and extinguished the light. Cautiously, he unlocked and opened the + door. For a moment, he stood listening. Then, with the bottle hidden under + his coat, he stole softly from the room. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later, the man stood out there in the night, on the bank of + the river. Behind him the outlines of the scattered houses that made the + little town were lost against the dusk of the hillside. From the ghostly + tree-shadows that marked the opposite bank, the solemn hills rose out of + the deeper darkness of the lowlands that edged the stream in sombre + mystery. There was no break in the heavy clouds to permit the gleam of a + friendly star. There was no sound save the soft swish of the water against + the bank where he stood, the chirping of a bird in the near-by willows, + and the occasional splash of a leaping fish or water animal. But to the + man there was a feeling of sound. To the lonely human wreck standing there + in the darkness, the river called—called with fearful, insistent + power. + </p> + <p> + From under the black wall of the night the dreadful flood swept out of the + Somewhere of its beginning. Past the man the river poured its mighty + strength with resistless, smoothly flowing, terrible force. Into the + darkness it swept on its awful way to the Nowhere of its ending. For + uncounted ages, the river had poured itself thus between those walls of + hills. For untold ages to come, until the end of time itself, the stream + would continue to pour its strength past that spot where the man stood. + </p> + <p> + Out of the night, the voice of the river had called to the man, as he + stood at the window of his darkened room. And the man had come, now, to + answer the call. Cautiously, he went down the bank toward the edge of the + dark, swirling water. His purpose was unmistakable. Nor was there any hint + of faltering, now, in his manner. He had reached his decision. He knew + what he had come to do. + </p> + <p> + The man's feet were feeling the mud at the margin of the stream when his + legs touched something, and a low, rattling sound startled him. Then he + remembered. A skiff was moored there, and he had brushed against the chain + that led from the bow of the boat to the stump of a willow higher up on + the bank. The man had seen the skiff,—a rude, flat-bottomed little + craft, known to the Ozark natives as a John-boat,—just before sunset + that evening. But there had been no boat in his thoughts when he had come + to answer the call of the river, and in the preoccupation of his mind, as + he stood there in the night beside the stream, he had not noticed it, as + it lay so nearly invisible in the darkness. Mechanically, he stooped to + feel the chain with his free hand. A moment later, he had placed his + bottle of whisky carefully in the boat, and was loosing the chain painter + from the willow stump. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” he said to himself. “It will be easier in midstream,—and + more certain.” + </p> + <p> + Carefully, so that no sound should break the stillness, he stowed the + chain in the bow, and then worked the skiff around until it pointed out + into the stream. Then, with his hands grasping the sides of the little + craft, and the weight of his body on one knee in the stern, he pushed + vigorously with his free foot against the bank and so was carried well out + from the shore. As the boat lost its momentum, the strong current caught + it and whirled it away down the river. + </p> + <p> + Groping in the darkness, the man found his bottle of whisky, and working + the cork out with his pocketknife, drank long and deep. + </p> + <p> + Already, save for a single light, the town was lost in the night. As the + man watched that red spot on the black wall, the stream swung his drifting + boat around a bend, and the light vanished. The dreadful mystery of the + river drew close. The world of men was far, very far away. Centuries ago, + the man had faced himself in the mirror, and had obeyed the voice that + summoned him into the darkness. In fancy, now, he saw his empty boat swept + on and on. Through what varied scenes would it drift? To what port would + the mysterious will of the river carry it? To what end would it at last + come in its helplessness? + </p> + <p> + And the man himself,—the human soul-craft,—what of him? As he + had pushed his material boat out into the stream to drift, unguided and + helpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the shore of all + that men call life. Through what scenes would he drift? To what port would + the will of an awful invisible stream carry him? To what end would he + finally come, in his helplessness? + </p> + <p> + Again the man drank—and again. + </p> + <p> + And then, with face upturned to the leaden clouds, he laughed aloud—laughed + until the ghostly shores gave back his laughter, and the voices of the + night were hushed and still. + </p> + <p> + The laughter ended with a wild, reckless, defiant yell. + </p> + <p> + Springing to his feet in the drifting boat, the man shook his clenched + fist at the darkness, and with insane fury cursed the life he had left + behind. + </p> + <p> + The current whirled the boat around, and the man faced down the stream. He + laughed again; and, lifting his bottle high, uttered a reckless, profane + toast to the unknown toward which he was being carried by the river in the + night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + A MISSING LETTER. + </h3> + <p> + Auntie Sue's little log house by the river was placed some five hundred + yards back from the stream, on a bench of land at the foot of Schoolhouse + Hill. From this bench, the ground slopes gently to the river-bank, which, + at this point, is sheer and high enough to be well above the water at + flood periods. The road, winding down the hill, turns to the right at the + foot of the steep grade, and leads away up the river; and between the road + and the river, on the up-stream side of the house, was the garden. + </p> + <p> + At the lower corner of the garden, farthest from the house, the strong + current had cut a deep inward curve in the high shore-line, forming thus + an eddy, which was margined on one side, at a normal stage of water, by a + narrow shelf of land between the water's edge and the foot of the main + bank. A flight of rude steps led down from the garden above to this + natural landing, which, for three miles up and down the river, was the + only point, on Auntie Sue's side of the stream, where one could go ashore + from a skiff. + </p> + <p> + From the porch of the house, one, facing up the river, looked over the + gently sloping garden, over the eddy lying under the high bank, and away + over a beautiful reach of water known as The Bend,—a wide, sweeping + curve which, a mile distant, is lost behind a wooded bluff where, at + times, during the vacation or hunting season, one might see the smoke from + the stone chimney of a clubhouse which was built and used by people who + lived in the big, noisy city many miles from the peaceful Ozark scene. + From the shore of The Bend, opposite and above Auntie Sue's place, beyond + the willows that fringe the water's edge, the low bottom-lands extend back + three-quarters of a mile to the foot of a heavily timbered ridge, beyond + which rise the higher hills. But directly across from Auntie Sue's house, + this ridge curves sharply toward the stream; while less than a quarter of + a mile below, a mighty mountain-arm is thrust out from a shoulder of + Schoolhouse Hill, as if to bar the river's way. The high bluff thus formed + is known to the natives throughout all that region as Elbow Rock. + </p> + <p> + The quiet waters of The Bend move so gently on their broad course that + from the porch, looking up the stream, the eye could scarcely mark the + current. But in front of the little log house, where the restraining banks + of the river draw closer together, the lazy current awakens to quickening + movement. Looking down the stream, one could see the waters leaving the + broad and quiet reaches of The Bend above and rushing away with fast + increasing speed between the narrowing banks until, in all their vicious + might, they dashed full against the Elbow Rock cliff, where, boiling and + tossing in mad fury, they roared away at a right angle and so around the + point and on to another quiet stretch below. And many were the tales of + stirring adventure and tragic accident at this dangerous point of the + river's journey to the far-away sea. Skilled rivermen, by holding their + John-boats and canoes close to the far shore, might run the rapids with + safety. But no boat, once caught in the vicious grip of the main current + between the comparatively still waters of The Bend and that wild, roaring + tumult at Elbow Rock, had ever survived. + </p> + <p> + It was nearing the close of a late summer day, and Auntie Sue, as was her + custom, stood on the porch watching the sunset. In the vast field of sky + that arched above the softly rounded hills there was not a cloud. No wind + stirred the leaves of the far-reaching forests, or marred the bright + waters of the quiet Bend that mirrored back the green, tree-fringed banks + and blue-shadowed mountains. Faintly, through the hush, from beyond the + bottom-lands on the other side of the stream, came the long-drawn + “Wh-o-e-e! Wh-o-e-e!” of farmer Jackson calling his hogs. From the + hillside, back of the house, sounded the deep, mellow tones of a cowbell, + telling Auntie Sue that neighbor Tom's cattle were going home from their + woodland pastures. A company of crows crossed the river on leisure wing, + toward some evening rendezvous. A waterfowl flapped slowly up the stream. + And here and there the swallows wheeled in graceful circles above the + gleaming Bend, or dipped, flashlike, to break the silvery surface. As the + blue of the mountains deepened to purple, and the rosy light from below + the western hills flushed the sky, the silver sheen of the quiet water + changed with the changing tints above, and the shadows of the trees along + the bank deepened until the shore-line was lost in the dusk of the coming + night. + </p> + <p> + And even as the river gave back the light of the sky and the color of the + mountains, so the gentle face of the gray-haired woman, who watched with + such loving reverence, reflected the beauty of the scene. The peace and + quiet of the evening of her life was as the still loveliness of that + twilight hour. + </p> + <p> + And, yet, there was a suggestion of pathos in the loneliness of the + slender figure standing there. Now and again, she clasped her delicate + hands to her breast as if moved by emotions of a too-poignant sweetness, + while in her eyes shone the soft light of fondest memories and dearest + dreams. Several times she turned her head to look about, as if wishing for + some one to share with her the beauty that moved her so. At last, she + called; and her voice, low and pure-toned, had in it the quality that was + in the light of her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Judy! Judy, dear! Do come and see this wonderful, wonderful sky!” + </p> + <p> + From within the house, a shrill, querulous, drawling voice, so + characteristic of the Southern “poor-white” mountaineer, answered: + “Wha-a-t?” + </p> + <p> + A quick little smile deepened the crows'-feet at the corners of Auntie + Sue's eyes, as she called again with gentle patience: “Do come and see the + sunset, Judy, dear! It is so beautiful!” And, this time, in answer, Judy + appeared in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + From appearances, the poor creature's age might have been anywhere from + fifteen to thirty-five; for the twisted and misshapen body, angular and + hard; the scrawny, wry neck; the old-young face, thin and sallow, with + furtive, beady-black eyes, gave no hint of her years. As a matter of fact, + I happened to know that Judith Taylor, daughter of the notorious Ozark + moonshiner, Jap Taylor, was just past twenty the year she went to live + with Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + Looking obliquely at the old gentlewoman, with a curious expression of + mingled defiance, suspicion, and affection on her almost vicious face, + Judy drawled, “Was you-all a-yellin' for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Judy; I want you to help me watch the sunset,” Auntie Sue answered, + with bright animation; and, turning, she pointed toward the glowing west,—“Look!” + </p> + <p> + Judy's sly, evasive eyes did not cease to regard the illumined face of her + old companion as she returned, in her dry, high-pitched monotone: “I don't + reckon as how you-all are a-needin' much help, seein' as how you are allus + a-watchin' hit. A body'd think you-all was mighty nigh old 'nough, by now, + ter look at hit alone.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue laughed, a low, musical, chuckling laugh, and, with a hint of + loving impatience in her gentle voice, replied to Judy's observation: + “But, don't you understand, child? It adds so to one's happiness to share + lovely scenes like this. It makes it all so much—so much—well,—BIGGER, + to have some one enjoy it with you. Come, dear!” And she held out her hand + with a gesture of entreaty, and a look of yearning upon her dear old face + that no human being could have withstood. + </p> + <p> + Judy, still slyly watchful, went cautiously nearer; and Auntie Sue, + putting an arm lovingly about the crooked shoulders of the mountain girl, + pointed again toward the west as she said, in a low voice that vibrated + with emotion, “Look, Judy! Look!” + </p> + <p> + The black eyes shifted, and the old-young, expressionless face turned + toward the landscape, which lay before them in all its wondrous beauty of + glowing sky and tinted mountain and gleaming river. And there might have + been a faint touch of softness, now, in the querulous monotone as Judy + said: “I can't see as how hit could be ary bigger. Hain't ary reason, as I + kin see, why hit should be ary bigger if hit could. Lord knows there's + 'nough of hit as 't is; rough 'nough, too, as you-all 'd sure know if + you-all had ter trapse over them there hills all yer life like I've had + ter.” + </p> + <p> + “But, isn't it wonderful to-night, Judy? It seems to me I have never seen + it so perfect.” + </p> + <p> + “Hit's just like hit's allus been, so far as I kin see, 'ceptin' that the + river's higher in the spring an' more muddier,” returned the mountain + girl. “I was borned over there on yon side that there flat-topped + mountain, nigh the mouth of Red Creek. I growed up on the river, mostly;—learned + ter swim an' paddle er John-boat 'fore I kin remember. Red Creek, hit + heads over there behind that there long ridge, in Injin Holler. There's a + still—” + </p> + <p> + She checked herself suddenly, and shot a fearful sidewise look at Auntie + Sue; then turned and pointed in the opposite direction with a pretense of + excited interest. “Look down there, ma'm! See how black the old river is + where she smashes inter Elbow Rock, an' how white them waves be where the + water biles an' throws hitself. Hit'd sure git you if you was ter git + ketched in there with er John-boat, wouldn't hit? Listen, ma'm! You kin + hear hit a-roarin' like hit was mad, can't you?” + </p> + <p> + But the older woman turned to face, again, the quiet reaches of The Bend. + </p> + <p> + “I think I like The Bend best, though, Judy. See how perfectly those trees + and hills are mirrored in the river; and how the water holds the color of + the sky. Don't you think God is good to make the world so beautiful for + us, child?” + </p> + <p> + “'Beautiful'!” cried poor, deformed Judy, in a voice that shrilled in + vicious protest. “If there is a God, like you-all are allus a-talkin' + 'bout, an' if He sure 'nough made them things, like you-all sees 'em, He + sure hain't toted fair with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Judy!” pleaded Auntie Sue. “Please don't, child!” + </p> + <p> + But the mountain girl rebelliously continued: “Look at me! Just look at + me! If that there God of your'n is so all-fired good, what did He go an' + let my pap git drunk for, an' beat me like he done when I was a baby, an' + make me grow up all crooked like what I be? 'Good'? Hell! A dad burned + ornery kind of a God I call Him!” + </p> + <p> + For some time, Auntie Sue did not speak, but stood with her face upturned + to the sky. Then the low, gentle voice again broke the silence: “See, + Judy, dear; the light is almost gone now, and there is not a cloud + anywhere. Yesterday evening, you remember, we could not see the sunset at + all, the clouds were so heavy and solid. The moon will be lovely to-night. + I think I shall wait for it.” + </p> + <p> + “You-all best set down then,” said Judy, speaking again in her querulous, + drawling monotone. “I'll fetch a chair.” She brought a comfortable rustic + rocking-chair from the farther end of the porch; then disappeared into the + house, to return a moment later with a heavy shawl. “Hit'll be a-turnin' + cold directly, now the sun's plumb down,” she said, “an' you-all mustn't + get to chillin', nohow.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue thanked her with gentle courtesy, and, reaching up, caught the + girl's hand as Judy was awkwardly arranging the wrap about the thin old + shoulders. “Won't you bring a chair for yourself, and sit with me awhile, + dear?” As she spoke, Auntie Sue patted the hard, bony hand caressingly. + </p> + <p> + But Judy pulled her hand away roughly, saying: “You-all ain't got no call + ter do sich as that ter me. I'll set awhile with you but I ain't a-needin' + no chair.” And with that, she seated herself on the floor, her back + against the wall of the house. + </p> + <p> + The last of the evening was gone from the sky, now. The soft darkness of a + clear, star-light night lay over the land. A gentle breeze stole over the + mountains, rustled softly through the forest, and, drifting across the + river, touched Auntie Sue's silvery hair. + </p> + <p> + Judy was first to break the silence: “I took notice neighbor Tom brung + you-all a right smart bunch of letter mail this evenin',” she said, + curiously. + </p> + <p> + There was a troubled note in Auntie Sue's gentle voice as she returned, + “The letter from the bank did not come, Judy.” + </p> + <p> + “Hit didn't?” + </p> + <p> + “No; and, Judy, it is nearly four weeks, now, since I sent them that + money. I can't understand it.” + </p> + <p> + “I was plumb scared at the time, you oughten ter sent hit just in er + letter that a-way. Hit sure looked like a heap of money ter be a-trustin' + them there ornery post-office fellers with, even if hit was funny, + new-fangled money like that there was. Why, ma'm, you take old Tod + Stimson, down at the Ferry, now, an' that old devil'd steal anythin' what + warn't too much trouble for him ter lift.” + </p> + <p> + “Argentine notes the money was, Judy. I felt sure that it would be all + right because, you know, Brother John sent it just in a letter all the way + from Buenos Aires. And, you remember, I folded it up in extra heavy paper, + and put it in two envelopes, one over the other, and mailed it at + Thompsonville with my own hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Hit sure looks like hit ought ter be safe er nough, so long as hit warn't + mailed at the Ferry where old Stimson could git his hands on hit,” agreed + Judy. + </p> + <p> + Then, after a silence of several minutes, she added, in a more reassuring + voice: “I reckon as how hit'll be all right, ma'm. I wouldn't worry + myself, if I was you. That there bank-place, like as not, gits er right + smart lot of letters, an' hit stands ter reason the feller just naturally + can't write back ter ev'rybody at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” agreed Auntie Sue. “It is just some delay in their + acknowledgment, that is all. Perhaps they are waiting to find out if the + notes are genuine; or it may be that their letter to me went astray, and + will have to be returned to them, and then remailed all over again. I feel + sure I shall hear from them in a few days.” + </p> + <p> + So they talked until the moon appeared from behind the dark mountains + that, against her light, were silhouetted on the sky. And, as the old + gentlewoman watched the queen of the night rising higher and higher on her + royal course, and saw the dusky landscape transformed to a fairy-scene of + ethereal loveliness, Auntie Sue forgot the letter that had not come. + </p> + <p> + With the enthusiasm that never failed her, the silvery-haired teacher + tried to give the backwoods girl a little of her wealth of vision. But + though they looked at the same landscape, the eyes of twenty could not see + that which was so clear to the eyes of seventy. Poor Judy! The river, + sweeping on its winding way through the hills, from the springs of its + far-away beginnings to the ocean of its final endeavor,—in all its + varied moods and changes,—in all its beauty and its irresistible + power,—the river could never mean to Judy what it meant to Auntie + Sue. + </p> + <p> + “Hit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum huntin',” said the girl, at + last, getting to her feet and standing in her twisted attitude, with her + wry neck holding her head to one side. “Them there Jackson boys'll sure be + out.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue laughed her low chuckling laugh. + </p> + <p> + From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom-lands + across the river, came the baying of hounds. “There they be now,” said + Judy. “Hear 'em? The Billingses, 'cross from the clubhouse, 'll be out, + too, I reckon. When hit's moonlight, they're allus a-huntin' 'possum an' + 'coon. When hit's dark, they're out on the river a-giggin' for fish. Well, + I reckon I'll be a-goin' in, now, ma'm,” she concluded, with a yawn. + “Ain't no use in a body stayin' up when there ain't nothin' ter do but ter + sleep, as I kin see.” + </p> + <p> + With an awkward return to Auntie Sue's “Goodnight and sweet dreams, dear,” + the mountain girl went into the house. + </p> + <p> + For an hour longer, the old gentlewoman sat on the porch of her little log + house by the river, looking out over the moonlit scene. Nor did she now, + as when she had watched the sunset, crave human companionship. In spirit, + she was far from all earthly needs or cares,—where no troubled + thoughts could disturb her serene peace and her dearest dreams were real. + </p> + <p> + The missing letter was forgotten. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + THE WILL OF THE RIVER. + </h3> + <p> + Had Auntie Sue remained a few minutes longer on the porch, that evening, + she might have seen an object drifting down the river, in the gentle + current of The Bend. + </p> + <p> + Swinging easily around the curve above the clubhouse, it would not have + been visible at first, because of the deep shadows of the reflected trees + and mountains. But, presently, as it drifted on into the broader waters of + The Bend, it emerged from the shadows into the open moonlit space, and + then, to any one watching from the porch, the dark object, drawing nearer + and nearer in the bright moonlight, would have soon shaped itself into a + boat—an empty boat, the watcher would have said, that had broken + from its moorings somewhere up the river;—and the watcher would have + heard, through the still, night air, the dull, heavy roar of the mad + waters at Elbow Rock. + </p> + <p> + Drifting thus, helpless in the grip of the main current, the little craft + apparently was doomed to certain destruction. Gently, it would float on + the easy surface of the quiet, moonlit Bend. In front of the house, it + would move faster and faster. Where the river narrows, it would be caught + as if by mighty hands hidden beneath the rushing flood, and dragged onward + still faster and faster. About it, the racing waters would leap and boil + in their furious, headlong career, shaking and tossing the helpless victim + of their might with a vicious strength from which there would be no + escape, until, in the climax of the river's madness, the object of its + angry sport would be dashed against the cliff, and torn, and crushed, and + hammered by the terrific weight of the rushing flood against that rocky + anvil, into a battered and shapeless wreck. + </p> + <p> + The drifting boat drew nearer and nearer. It reached the point where the + curve of the opposite bank draws in to form the narrow raceway of the + rapids. It began to feel the stronger pull of those hidden hands that had + carried it so easily down The Bend. And then—and then—the + unguided, helpless craft responded to the gentle pressure of some swirl or + crosscurrent in the main flow of the stream, and swung a little to one + side. A few feet farther, and the new impulse became stronger. Yielding + easily to the current that drew it so gently across the invisible + dividing-line between safety and destruction, the boat swung in toward the + shore. A minute more, and it had drifted into that encircling curve of the + bank where the current of the eddy carried it around and around. + </p> + <p> + The boat seemed undecided. Would it hold to the harbor of safety into + which it had been drawn by the friendly current? Would it swing out, + again, into the main stream, and so to its own destruction? + </p> + <p> + Three times the bow, pointing out from the eddy, crossed the danger-line, + and, for a moment, hung on the very edge. Three times, the invisible hands + which held it drew it gently back to safety. And so, finally, the little + craft, so helpless, so alone, amid the many currents of the great river, + came to rest against the narrow shelf of land at the foot of the bank + below Auntie Sue's garden. + </p> + <p> + The light in the window of Auntie Sue's room went out. The soft moonlight + flooded mountain and valley and stream. The mad waters at Elbow Rock + roared in their wild fury. Always, always,—irresistibly, inevitably, + unceasingly,—the river poured its strength toward the sea. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN. + </h3> + <p> + Before the sun was high enough to look over Schoolhouse Hill, the next + morning, Judy went into the garden to dig some potatoes. + </p> + <p> + Tom Warden's boys would come, some day before long, and dig them all, and + put them away in the cellar for the winter. But there was no need to hurry + the gathering of the full crop, so the boys would come when it was most + convenient; and, in the meantime, Judy would continue to dig from day to + day all that were needed for the kitchen in the little log house by the + river. In spite of her poor crooked body, the mountain girl was strong and + well used to hard work, so the light task was, for her, no hardship at + all. + </p> + <p> + As one will when first coming out of doors in the morning, Judy paused a + moment to look about. The sky, so clear and bright the evening before, was + now a luminous gray. The mountains were lost in a ghostly world of fog, + through which the river moved in stealthy silence,—a dull thing of + mystery, with only here and there a touch of silvery light upon its + clouded surface. The cottonwoods and willows, on the opposite shore, were + mere dreams of trees,—gray, formless, and weird. The air was filled + with the dank earth-smell. The heavy thundering roar of the never-ending + war of the waters at Elbow Rock came louder and more menacing, but + strangely unreal, as if the mist itself were filled with threatening + sound. + </p> + <p> + But to Judy, the morning was only the beginning of another day;—she + looked, but did not see. To her, the many ever-changing moods of Nature + were without meaning. With her basket in hand, she went down to the lower + end of the garden, where she had dug potatoes the time before, and where + she had left the fork sticking upright in the ground. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes served to fill the basket; but, before starting back to the + house, the mountain girl paused again to look out over the river. Perhaps + it was some vague memory of Auntie Sue's talk, the night before, that + prompted her; perhaps it was some instinct, indefinite and obscure;—whatever + it was that influenced her, Judy left her basket, and went to the brink of + the high bank above the eddy for a closer view of the water. + </p> + <p> + The next instant, with the quick movement of an untamed creature of her + native mountain forests, the girl sprang back, and crouched close to the + ground to hide from something she had seen at the foot of the bank. Every + movement of her twisted body expressed amazement and fear. Her eyes were + wild and excited. She looked carefully about, as if for dangers that might + be hidden in the fog. Once, she opened her mouth as if to call. + Half-rising, she started as if to run to the house. But, presently, + curiosity apparently overruled her fear, and, throwing herself flat on the + ground she wormed her way back to the brink of the river-bank. Cautiously, + without making a sound, she peered through the tall grass and weeds that + fringed the rim above the eddy. + </p> + <p> + The boat, which some kindly impulse of the river had drawn so gently aside + from the stronger current that would have carried it down the rapids to + the certain destruction waiting at Elbow Rock, still rested with its bow + grounded on the shore, against which the eddying water had pushed it. But + the thing that had so startled Judy was a man who was lying, apparently + unconscious, on the wet and muddy bottom-boards of the little craft. + </p> + <p> + Breathlessly, the girl, looking down from the top of the bank, watched for + some movement; but the dirty huddled heap of wretched humanity was so + still that she could not guess whether it was living or dead. Fearfully, + she noted that there were no oars in the boat, nor gun, nor fishing-tackle + of any sort. The man's hat was missing. His clothing was muddy and + disarranged. His position was such that she could not see the face. + </p> + <p> + Drawing back, Judy looked cautiously about; then, picking up a heavy clod + of dirt from the ploughed edge of the garden, and crouching again at the + brink of the bank, ready for instant flight, she threw the clod into the + water near the boat. The still form in the boat made no movement following + the splash. Selecting a smaller clod, the girl threw the bit of dirt into + the stern of the boat itself, where it broke in fragments. And, at this, + the figure moved slightly. + </p> + <p> + “Hit's alive, all right,” commented Judy to herself, with a grin of + satisfaction, at the result of her investigation. “But hit's sure time he + was a-gittin' up.” + </p> + <p> + Carefully selecting a still smaller bit of dirt, she deliberately tossed + it at the figure itself. Her aim was true, and the clod struck the man on + the shoulder, with the result that he stirred uneasily, and, muttering + something which Judy could not hear, half-turned on his back so that the + girl saw the haggard, unshaven face. She saw, too, that, in one hand, the + man clutched an empty whisky bottle. + </p> + <p> + At sight of the bottle, the mountain girl rose to her feet with an + understanding laugh. “Hell!” she said aloud; “drunk,—that's all—dead + drunk. I'll sure fetch him out of hit.” And then, grinning with malicious + delight, she proceeded to pelt the man in the boat with clods of dirt + until he scrambled to a sitting posture, and looked up in bewildered + confusion. + </p> + <p> + “If you please,” he said, in a hoarse voice, to the sallow, old-young face + that grinned down at him from the top of the bank, “which one of the + Devil's imps are you?” + </p> + <p> + As she looked into that upturned face, Judy's grin vanished. “I sure + 'lowed as how you-all was dead,” she explained. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” returned the man in the boat, wearily, “I can assure you that it's + not in the least my fault if I disappoint you. I feel as bad about it as + you do. However, I don't think I am so much alive that it makes any + material difference.” He lifted the whisky bottle, and studied it + thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “You-all come dad burned near not bein' ary bit alive,” returned the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said the man, inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Yep; you sure did come mighty nigh hit. If your old John-boat had + a-carried you-all on down ter Elbow Rock, 'stead of bein' ketched in the + eddy here, you-all would sure 'nough been a-talkin' to the Devil by now.” + </p> + <p> + The man, looking out over the river into the fog, muttered to himself, “I + can't even make a success of dying, it seems.” + </p> + <p> + Again, he regarded the empty bottle in his hand with studied interest. + Then, tossing the bottle into the river, he looked up, once more, to the + girl on the bank above. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, sister!” he said, nervously. “Is there any place around here + where I can buy a drink? I need something rather badly. Where am I, + anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “You-all are at Auntie Sue's place,” said Judy; “an' there sure ain't no + chance for you-all ter git ary licker here. Where'd you-all come from, + anyhow? How'd you-all git here 'thout no oars ner paddle ner nothin'? + Where was you-all aimin' ter go?” + </p> + <p> + “Your questions, my good girl, are immaterial and irrelevant,” returned + the man in the boat. “The all-important matter before us for consideration + is,—how can I get a drink? I MUST have a drink, I tell you!” He held + up his hands, and they were shaking as if with palsy. “And I must have it + damned quick!” + </p> + <p> + “You-all sure do talk some powerful big words,” said Judy, with critical + interest. “You-all sure must be some eddecated. Auntie Sue, now, she talks—” + </p> + <p> + The man interrupted her: “Who is 'Auntie Sue'?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” Judy returned; “she's just Auntie Sue—that's all I + know. She sure is—” + </p> + <p> + Again the man interrupted: “I think it would be well for me to interview + this worthy aunt of yours.” And then, while he raised himself, unsteadily, + to his feet, he continued, in a muttering undertone: “You don't seem to + appreciate the situation. If I don't get some sort of liquor soon, things + are bound to happen.” + </p> + <p> + He attempted to step from the boat to the shore; but the instability of + the light, flat-bottomed skiff, together with his own unsteady weakness, + combined to land him half in the water and half on the muddy bank where he + struggled helplessly, and, in his weakened condition, would have slipped + wholly into the river had not Judy rushed down the rude steps to his + assistance. + </p> + <p> + With a strength surprising in one of her apparent weakness, the mountain + girl caught the stranger under his shoulders and literally dragged him + from the water. When she had further helped him to his feet, Judy surveyed + the wretched object of her beneficence with amused and curious interest. + </p> + <p> + The man, with his unkempt hair, unshaven, haggard face, bloodshot eyes, + and slovenly dishevelled dress, had appeared repulsive enough while in the + boat; but, now, as he stood dripping with water and covered with mud, + there was a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance that brought a grin + to the unlovely face of his rescuer, and caused her to exclaim with + unnecessary frankness: “I'll be dad burned if you-all ain't a thing ter + look at, mister!” + </p> + <p> + As the poor creature, who was shaking as if with the ague, regarded the + twisted form, the wry neck, and the sallow, old-young face of the girl, + who was laughing at him, a gleam of sardonic humor flashed in his + bloodshot eyes. “Thanks,” he said, huskily; “you are something of a vision + yourself, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + The laughter went from Judy's face as she caught the meaning of the cruel + words. “I ain't never laid no claim ter bein' a beauty,” she retorted in + her shrill, drawling monotone. “But, I kin tell you-all one thing, mister: + Hit was God-A'mighty Hisself an' my drunken pap what made me ter look like + I do. While you,—damn you!—you-all just naturally made + yourself what you be.” + </p> + <p> + At the mountain girl's illiterate words, so pregnant with meaning, a + remarkable change came over the face and manner of the man. His voice, + even, for the moment, lost its huskiness, and vibrated with sincere + feeling as he steadied himself; and, bowing with courteous deference, + said: “I beg your pardon, miss. That was unkind. You really should have + left me to the river.” + </p> + <p> + “You-all would a-drownded, sure, if I had,” she retorted, somewhat + mollified by the effect of her observation. + </p> + <p> + “Which,” he returned, “would have been so beautifully right and fitting + that it evidently could not be.” And with this cynical remark, his + momentary bearing of self-respect was gone. + </p> + <p> + “Are you-all a-meanin' ter say that you-all was a-wantin' ter drown?” + </p> + <p> + “Something like that,” he returned. And then, with a hint of ugliness in + his voice and eyes, he rasped: “But, look here, girl! do you think I'm + going to stand like this all day indulging in idle conversation with you? + Where is this aunt of yours? Can't you see that I've got to have a drink?” + </p> + <p> + He started uncertainly toward the steps that led to the top of the bank, + and Judy, holding him by his arm, helped him to climb the steep way. A + part of the ascent he made on hands and knees. Several times he would have + fallen except for the girl's support. But, at last, they gained the top, + and stood in the garden. + </p> + <p> + “That there is the house,” said Judy, pointing. “But I don't reckon as how + you-all kin git ary licker there.” + </p> + <p> + The wretched man made no reply; but, with Judy still supporting him, + stumbled forward across the rows of vegetables. + </p> + <p> + The two had nearly reached the steps at the end of the porch when Auntie + Sue came from the house to see why Judy did not return with the potatoes. + The dear old lady paused a moment, startled at the presence of the + unprepossessing stranger in her garden. Then, with an exclamation of pity, + she hurried to meet them. + </p> + <p> + The man, whose gaze as he shambled along was fixed on the ground, did not + notice Auntie Sue until, feeling Judy stop, he also paused, and raising + his head looked full at the beautiful old lady. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Judy!” cried Auntie Sue, her low, sweet voice filled with gentle + concern. “What in the world has happened?” + </p> + <p> + With an expression of questioning bewilderment and rebuke on his haggard + face, the man also turned to the mountain girl beside him. + </p> + <p> + “I found him in er John-boat what done come ashore last night, down there + in the eddy,” Judy explained to Auntie Sue. To the man, she said: “This + here is Auntie Sue, mister; but, I don't reckon as how she's got ary + licker for you.” + </p> + <p> + “'Liquor'?” questioned Auntie Sue. “What in the world do you mean, child?” + Then quickly to the stranger;—“My dear man, you are wringing wet. + You must have been in the river. Come, come right in, and let us do + something for you.” As she spoke, she went toward him with outstretched + hands. + </p> + <p> + But the wretched creature shrank back from her, as if in fear;—his + whole body shaking with emotion; his fluttering hands raised in a gesture + of imploring protest;—while the eyes that looked up at the saintly + countenance of the old gentlewoman were the eyes of a soul sunken in the + deepest hell of shame and humiliation. + </p> + <p> + Shocked with pitying horror, Auntie Sue paused. + </p> + <p> + The man's haggard, unshaven face twitched and worked with the pain of his + suffering. He bit his lips and fingered his quivering chin in a vain + effort at self-control; and then, as he looked up at her, the sunken, + bloodshot eyes filled with tears that the tormented spirit had no power to + check. + </p> + <p> + And Auntie Sue turned her face away. + </p> + <p> + For a little, they stood so. Then, as Auntie Sue faced him again, the + stranger, with a supreme effort of his will, gained a momentary control of + his shattered nerves. Drawing himself erect and standing steady and tall + before her, he raised a hand to his uncovered head as if to remove his + hat. When his hand found no hat to remove, he smiled as if at some jest at + his own expense. + </p> + <p> + “I am so sorry, madam,” he said,—and his voice was musically clear + and cultured. “Please pardon me for disturbing you? I did not know. This + young woman should have explained. You see, when she spoke of 'Auntie + Sue,' I assumed, of course,—I mean,—I expected to find a + native woman who would—” He paused, smiling again, as if to assure + her that he fully appreciated the humor of his ridiculous predicament. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear sir,” cried Auntie Sue, eagerly, “there is nothing to + pardon. Please do come into the house and let us help you.” + </p> + <p> + But the stranger drew back, shaking his head sadly. “You do not + understand, madam. It is not that my clothes are unpresentable,—it + is I, myself, who am unfit to stand in your presence, much less to enter + your house. I thank you, but I must go.” + </p> + <p> + He was turning away, when Auntie Sue reached his side and placed her + gentle old hand lightly on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Please, won't you come in, sir? I shall never forgive myself if I let you + go like this.” + </p> + <p> + The man's voice was hoarse and shaking, now, as he answered: “For God's + sake, madam, don't touch me! Let me go! You must! I—I—am not + myself! You might not be safe with me! Ask her—she knows!” He turned + to Judy. + </p> + <p> + “He's done said hit, ma'm,” said Judy, in answer to Auntie Sue's + questioning look. “My pap, he was that way when he done smashed me up agin + the wall, when I was nothin' but a baby, an' hit made me grow up all + crooked an' ugly like what I be now.” + </p> + <p> + With one shamed glance at Auntie Sue, the wretched fellow looked down at + the ground. His head drooped forward. His shoulders sagged. His whole body + seemed to shrink. Turning sadly away, he again started back toward the + river. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” Auntie Sue's voice rang out imperiously. + </p> + <p> + The man halted. + </p> + <p> + “Look at me,” she commanded. + </p> + <p> + Slowly, he raised his eyes. The gentle old teacher spoke with fine spirit, + now, but kindly still: “This is sheer nonsense, my boy. You wouldn't hurt + me. Why, you couldn't! Of course, you are not yourself; but, do you think + that I do not know a gentleman when I meet one? Come—” She held out + her hand. + </p> + <p> + A moment he stood, gazing at her in wondering awe. Then his far-overtaxed + strength failed;—his abused nerves refused to bear more,—and + he sank,—a pitiful, cowering heap at her feet. Hiding his face in + his shaking hands, he sobbed like a child. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <h3> + IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER. + </h3> + <p> + Those two women managed, somehow, to get the almost helpless stranger into + the house, where Auntie Sue, after providing him with nightclothes, left + by one of her guests, by tactful entreaty and judicial commands, persuaded + him to go to bed. + </p> + <p> + Then followed several days and nights of weary watching. There were times + when the man lay with closed eyes, so weak and exhausted that he seemed to + be drifting out from these earthly shores on the deep waters of that wide + and unknown sea into which all the streams of life finally flow. But, + always, Auntie Sue miraculously held him back. There were other times + when, by all the rules of the game, he should have worn a strait-jacket;—when + his delirium filled the room with all manner of horrid creatures from the + pit; when leering devils and loathsome serpents and gibbering apes + tormented him until his unnatural strength was the strength of a fiend, + and his tortured nerves shrieked in agony. But Auntie Sue perversely + ignored the rules of the game. And never did the man, even in his most + terrible moments, fail to recognize in the midst of the hellish crew of + his diseased imagination the silvery-haired old teacher as the angel of + his salvation. Her gentle voice had always power to soothe and calm him. + He obeyed her implicitly, and, like a frightened child, holding fast to + her hand would beg piteously for her to protect and save him. + </p> + <p> + But no word of the man's low-muttered, broken sentences, nor of his + wildest ravings, ever gave Auntie Sue a clue to his identity. She searched + his clothes, but there was not a thing to give her even his name. + </p> + <p> + And, yet, that first day, when Judy would have gone to neighbor Tom's for + help, Auntie Sue said “No.” She even positively forbade the girl to + mention the stranger's presence in the house, should she chance to talk + with passing neighbors. “The river brought him to us, Judy, dear,” she + said. “We must save him. No one shall know his shame, to humiliate and + wound his pride and drag him down after he is himself again. Until he has + recovered and is once more the man I believe him to be, no one must see + him or know that he is here; and no one must ever know how he came to us.” + </p> + <p> + And late, one evening, when Judy was fast asleep, and the man was lying + very still after a period of feverish tossing and muttering, the dear old + gentlewoman crept quietly out of the house into the night. She was gone + some time, and when she returned again to the stranger's bedside she was + breathless and trembling as from some unusual exertion. And the following + afternoon, when Judy came to her with the announcement that the boat which + had brought the man to them was no longer in the eddy below the garden, + Auntie Sue said, simply, that she was glad it was gone, and cautioned the + girl, again, that the stranger's presence in the house must not be made + known to any one. + </p> + <p> + When the mountain girl protested, saying, “You-all ain't got no call ter + be a-wearin' yourself ter the bone a-takin' care of such as him,” Auntie + Sue answered, “Hush, Judy! How do you know what the poor boy really is?” + </p> + <p> + To which Judy retorted: “He's just triflin' an' ornery an' no 'count, + that's what he is, or he sure wouldn't been a-floatin' 'round in that + there old John-boat 'thout ary gun, or fishin' lines, or hat even, ter say + nothin' of that there whisky bottle bein' plumb empty.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue made no reply to the mountain girl's harsh summing-up of the + damning evidence against the stranger, but left her and went softly to the + bedside of their guest. + </p> + <p> + It was perhaps an hour later that Judy, quietly entering the room, + happened upon a scene that caused her to stand as if rooted to the spot in + open-mouthed amazement. + </p> + <p> + The man was sleeping, and the silvery-haired old maiden-lady, seated on + the side of the bed, was bending over the unconscious stranger and gently + stroking his tumbled, red-brown hair, even as a mother might lovingly + caress her sleeping child. And then, as Judy watched, breathless with + wonder, the proud old gentlewoman, bending closer over that still form on + the bed, touched her lips—soft as a rose-petal—to the + stranger's brow. + </p> + <p> + When she arose and saw Judy standing there, Auntie Sue's delicate old + cheeks flushed with color, and her eyes were shining. With a gesture, she + commanded the girl to silence, and the two tiptoed from the room. When + they were outside, and Auntie Sue had cautiously closed the door, she + faced the speechless Judy with a deliciously defiant air that could not + wholly hide her lovely confusion. + </p> + <p> + “I—I—was thinking, Judy, how he—how he—might have + been—my son.” + </p> + <p> + “Your 'son'!” ejaculated the girl. “Why, ma'm, you-all ain't never even + been married, as I've ever hearn tell, have you?” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue drew her thin shoulders proudly erect, and, lifting her fine + old face, answered the challenging question with splendid spirit: “No, I + have never been married; but I might have been; and if I had, I suppose I + could have had a son, couldn't I?” + </p> + <p> + The vanquished Judy retreated to the kitchen, where, in safety, she sank + into a chair, convulsed with laughter, which she instinctively muffled in + her apron. + </p> + <p> + Then came the day when the man, weak and worn with his struggle, looked up + at his gentle old nurse with the light of sanity in his deep blue eyes. + Very tired eyes they were, and filled with painful memories,—filled, + too, with worshipping gratitude and wonder. + </p> + <p> + She smiled down at him with delighted triumph, and drawing a chair close + beside the bed, seated herself and placed her soft hand on his where it + lay on the coverlid. + </p> + <p> + “You are much better, this morning,” she said cheerily. “You will soon be + all right, now.” And as she looked into the eyes that regarded hers so + questioningly, there was in her face and manner no hint of doubt, or + pretense, or reproach;—only confidence and love. + </p> + <p> + He spoke slowly, as if feeling for words: “I have been in Hell; and you—you + have brought me out. Why did you do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you are mine,” she answered, with her low chuckling laugh. It was + so good to have him able to talk to her rationally after those long hours + of fighting. + </p> + <p> + “Because I am yours?” he repeated, puzzling over her words. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she returned, with a hint of determined proprietorship in her + voice; “because you belong to me. You see, that eddy where your boat + landed is my property, and so anything that drifts down the river and + lodges there belongs to me. Whatever the river brings to me, is mine. The + river brought you, and so—” She finished with another laugh,—a + laugh that was filled with tender mother-yearning. + </p> + <p> + The blue eyes smiled back at her for a moment; then she saw them darken + with painful memories. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; the river,” he said. “I wanted the river to do something for me, + and—and it did something quite different from what I wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she returned, eagerly, “the river is always like that. It + always does the thing you don't expect it to do. Just like life itself. + Don't you see? It begins somewhere away off at some little spring, and + just keeps going and going and going; and thousands and thousands of other + springs, scattered all over the country, start streams and creeks and + branches that run into it, and make it bigger and bigger, as it winds and + curves and twists along, until it finally reaches the great sea, where its + waters are united with all the waters from all the rivers in all the + world. And in all of its many, many miles, from that first tiny spring to + the sea, there are not two feet of it exactly alike. In all the centuries + of its being, there are never two hours alike. An infinite variety of days + and nights—an infinite variety of skies and light and clouds and + daybreaks and sunsets—an infinite number and variety of currents and + shoals and deep places and quiet spots and dangerous rapids and eddies—and, + along its banks, an endless change of hills and mountains and flats and + forests and meadows and farms and cities—and—” She paused, + breathless. And then, when he did not speak, but only watched her, she + continued: “Don't you see? Of course, the river never could be what you + expect, any more than life could be exactly what you want and dream it + will be.” + </p> + <p> + “Who in the world are you?” he asked, wonderingly. “And what in the world + are you doing here in the backwoods?” + </p> + <p> + Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: “I am Auntie Sue. I am + LIVING here in the backwoods.” + </p> + <p> + “But, your real name? Won't you tell me your name? I must know how to + address you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield—MISS Wakefield, if you please. I + shall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next November. And + you must call me 'Auntie Sue,'—just as every one else does.” + </p> + <p> + “Wakefield—Wakefield—where have I seen that name?” He wrinkled + his brow in an effort to remember. “Wakefield—I feel sure that I + have heard it, somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not unlikely,” she returned, lightly. “It is not at all an uncommon + name. And now that I am properly introduced, don't you think—?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated a moment, then said, deliberately, “My name is Brian Kent.” + </p> + <p> + “That is an Irish name,” she said quickly; “and that is why your hair is + so nearly red and your eyes so blue.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he returned, “from my mother. And please don't ask me more now, for + I can't lie to you, and I won't tell you the truth.” And she saw, again, + the dark shadows of painful memories come into the blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + Bending over the bed, she laid her soft hand on his brow, and pushed back + his heavy hair; and her sweet old voice was very low and gentle as she + said: “My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. The river brought you to + me, and you are mine. You must not even think of anything else, just now. + When you are stronger, and are ready, we will talk of your future; but of + your past, you—” + </p> + <p> + A loud knock sounded at the door of the living room. + </p> + <p> + “There is someone at the door,” she said hastily. “I must go. Lie still, + and go to sleep like a good boy; won't you?” + </p> + <p> + Swiftly, she leaned over, and, before he realized, he felt her lips touch + his forehead. Then she was gone, and Brian Kent's Irish eyes were filled + with tears. Turning to the wall, he hid his face in the pillow. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <h3> + OFFICERS OF THE LAW. + </h3> + <p> + As Auntie Sue was closing the door of her guest's room carefully behind + her, Judy came from the kitchen in great excitement, and the knocking at + the front door of the house was repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Hit's the Sheriff, ma'm,” whispered Judy. “I was just a-comin' ter tell + you. I seed 'em from the kitchen-winder. He's got two other men with him. + Their hosses is tied ter the fence in front. What in hell will we do, now? + They are after him in there, sure 's death!” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue's face was white, and her lips trembled,—but only for a + moment. + </p> + <p> + “Go back into the kitchen, Judy, and stay there,” she commanded, in a + whisper; and went to open the front door as calmly as if nothing unusual + had happened. + </p> + <p> + Sheriff Knox was a big man, with a bluff, kindly manner, and a voice that + made nothing of closed doors. He returned Auntie Sue's greeting heartily, + and, with one of his companions,—a quiet, business-looking + gentleman,—accepted her cordial invitation to come in. The third man + of the party remained near the saddle-horses at the gate. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Auntie Sue,” said the Sheriff, settling his ponderous bulk in one + of the old lady's rocking-chairs, which certainly was not built to carry + such a weight, “how are you? I haven't seen you in a coon's age. I'll + swear, though, you ain't a minute older than you was when you first begun + teachin' the little Elbow Rock school up there on the hill, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Sheriff,” Auntie Sue returned, with a nervous little laugh. + “I sometimes think that I am a few days older. I have watched a good many + sunsets since then, you know.” + </p> + <p> + The big officer's laughter almost shook the log walls of the house. To his + quiet companion, who had taken a chair near the window, he said: “I'll + have to tell you, Ross, that Auntie Sue owns every sunset in these Ozark + Mountains. What was it you paid for them?” He turned again to their + smiling hostess. “Oh, yes; fifty cents an acre for the land and fourteen + dollars and a half for the sunsets. You'll have to be blamed careful not + to trespass on the sunsets in this neighborhood, Ross.” Again, his hearty + laugh roared out, while his chair threatened to collapse with the quaking + of his massive body. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman seated at the window laughed quietly, in sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “You'll be all right, though, Ross,” the Sheriff continued, “as long as + you're with me. Auntie Sue and me have been friends for about twenty year, + now. I always stop to see her whenever I'm passing through the Elbow Rock + neighborhood, if I ain't in too big a hurry. Stayed with her a week, once, + five years ago, when we was after that Lewis gang. She knows I'd jail any + man on earth that would even touch one of her sunsets.” + </p> + <p> + Then, as if the jesting allusion to his office reminded him of his + professional duties, he added: “I plumb forgot, Auntie Sue, this gentleman + is Mr. Ross. He is one of William J. Burns's crack detectives. Don't be + scared, though, he ain't after you.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue, while joining in the laughter, and acknowledging the + introduction, regarded the business-looking gentleman by the window with + intense interest. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” she said, slowly,—and the sweetness of her low, cultured + voice was very marked in contrast to the Sheriff's thundering tones,—“I + think, sir, that this is the first time in my life that I ever saw a real + detective. I have read about them, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ross was captivated by the charm of this beautiful old gentlewoman, + who regarded him with such child-like interest, and who spoke with such + sweet frankness and dignity. Smilingly, he returned: + </p> + <p> + “I fear, madam, that you would find me very disappointing. No one that I + ever knew in my profession could hope to live up to the reputation given + us by the story-books. No secret service man living can remotely + approximate the deeds performed by the detectives of fiction. We are very, + very human, I can assure you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure that you, at least, must be very kind,” returned Auntie Sue, + gently. And the cheeks of the experienced officer flushed like the cheeks + of a schoolboy. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ross, Auntie Sue,” said the Sheriff, “is, as I was telling you, one + of William J. Burns's big men.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue gave her attention to her big friend: “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + The Sheriff continued: “Now, the Burns people, you see, protect the banks + all over the country.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” came, again, in a tone so low and gentle that the monosyllable was + scarcely heard. + </p> + <p> + The officer's loud voice went on: “And Mr. Ross, here, works most of his + time on these bank cases. Just now, he is trailing a fellow that got away + with a lot of money from the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, of Chicago, + about a month ago;—that is, the man disappeared about a month ago. + He had been stealing along from the bank for about a year,—worked, + for them, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “The Empire Consolidated Savings Bank!” Auntie Sue spoke the words in a + voice that was little more than a whisper. It was to the Empire + Consolidated Savings Bank that she had sent the money which she had + received from her brother in Buenos Aires; and Homer T. Ward, the + president of that bank, was one of her old pupils. Why, her stranger + guest, in the other room there, was that very moment wearing one of the + bank president's nightshirts. + </p> + <p> + “And do you”—Auntie Sue addressed the detective—“do you know + the man's name, Mr. Ross?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” returned the officer, “his name is Brian Kent.” + </p> + <p> + Some source of strength, deep-hidden in her gentle nature, enabled Auntie + Sue to control her emotions, though her voice broke a little as she slowly + repeated the man's name, “Brian Kent. And do I understand, sir, that you + have traced the man to this—neighborhood?” + </p> + <p> + The detective was too skilled not to notice Auntie Sue's manner and the + break in her voice; but he never dreamed that this old gentlewoman's + agitation was caused by a deeper interest than a quite natural fear that a + dangerous criminal might be lurking in the immediate vicinity. + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly, Mrs.—ah—” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wakefield,”—she supplied her name with a smile. + </p> + <p> + With a courteous bow, the detective continued: “We do not know for sure + that the man is in this neighborhood, Miss Wakefield. There is really no + cause for you to be alarmed. Even if he should call at your house, here, + you need not be frightened, for I assure you the man is not at all a + dangerous character.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad,” said Auntie Sue; and she laughed a little with a relief more + genuine than her callers knew. + </p> + <p> + Detective Ross continued as if anxious to finish his unpleasant duty: “It + is too bad for us to be disturbing you with this business, Miss Wakefield, + and I hope you will forgive us; but, the case is like this: We traced our + man to the little town of Borden, some forty miles up the river from here. + He disappeared from the hotel one night, leaving his suit-case and, + apparently, everything he had with him, and not a soul that we can find + has seen him since. Of course, everybody says 'suicide.' He had been + drinking heavily and acting rather queer the two or three days he was at + the hotel,—it seems. But I am not willing, yet, to accept the + suicide idea as final, because it would be too easy for him to give things + that appearance in order to throw us off; and I can't get away from the + fact that a John-boat that was tied to the bank near the hotel managed to + break loose and drift off down the river that same night. Working on my + theory, we are following down the river, trying to get trace of either the + boat or the man. So far, we haven't heard of either, which rather + strengthens me in my belief that the boat and the man went away together. + He is probably traveling nights, and lying up under the willows in + daylight. But he will be compelled to show himself somewhere, soon, in + order to get something to eat, for he couldn't have taken much with him, + trying, as he was, to create the impression that he had committed suicide. + You have a wonderful view of the river here, Miss Wakefield.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; it is beautiful from the porch.” + </p> + <p> + “You spend a good deal of time on the porch, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And you would be quite likely to notice any boat passing, wouldn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Could you see a boat at night,—in the moonlight, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I could if it were well out in the middle of the stream, away from the + shadow of the trees, along the bank.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen any boats pass lately, Miss Wakefield?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; I haven't seen a boat on the river for a month, at least.” + </p> + <p> + “Dead certain about it, are you, Auntie Sue?” asked the Sheriff. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; I am very sure,” she returned. “Judy and I were talking about + it yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is Judy?” asked the detective. + </p> + <p> + The Sheriff answered, “Just a girl that lives with Auntie Sue.” + </p> + <p> + And Auntie Sue added: “I know Judy has seen no boats passing, because, as + I say, we were talking about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said the detective. “And may I ask, Miss Wakefield, if any one—any + stranger, I mean—has called at the house lately, or if you have seen + any one in the vicinity?” + </p> + <p> + The gentle old lady hesitated. + </p> + <p> + The officers thought she was searching her memory to be sure before she + answered. + </p> + <p> + Then Auntie Sue said, deliberately: “No, sir; we have not seen a stranger + in this vicinity for several weeks. The last one was a mule-buyer, who + stopped to ask if he was on the right road to Tom Warden's; and that must + have been fully six weeks ago.” + </p> + <p> + The detective looked at Sheriff Knox. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the big officer, “I reckon we might as well push along.” + </p> + <p> + The two men arose. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but surely you will stay for dinner,” said Auntie Sue, while her dear + heart was faint with fear lest they accept, and thus bring about who could + say what disastrous consequences through their meeting with Judy. + </p> + <p> + “Not this time, Auntie Sue,” returned the Sheriff. “Mr. Ross is anxious to + get on down the river as fast as he can. He's got men on watch at White's + Crossing, and if our man ain't passed there, or if we don't strike his + trail somewhere before we get there, we will jump back on the railroad, + and get some boy to bring the horses through later.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” returned Auntie Sue. And to the detective she added, smiling: “I + am sure it must be very difficult for any one to escape you, Mr. Ross. I + have read such wonderful things about Mr. Burns and the work of his + organization; and now that I have met you,—a real live detective,—I + shall be very careful, indeed, about what I do in the future. I shouldn't + want to have you on my track, I assure you.” + </p> + <p> + The two men laughed heartily, and the detective, as he extended his hand + in farewell, returned: “I count it a great privilege to have met you, Miss + Wakefield; and if you will promise to do one thing for me, I'll agree to + be very lenient with you if I am ever assigned to a case in which you are + to be brought to justice.” + </p> + <p> + “I promise,” returned the old lady, quickly. “I really wouldn't dare to + refuse under the circumstances, would I? What do you want me to do, Mr. + Ross?” + </p> + <p> + “If this man Brian Kent should happen to appear in this vicinity, will you + get a message as quickly as possible, at any cost, to Sheriff Knox?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course,” agreed Auntie Sue. “But you have not yet told me what + the man looks like, Mr. Ross.” + </p> + <p> + “He is really a fine looking chap,” the detective answered. “Thirty years + old—fully six feet tall—rather slender, but well built—weighs + about one hundred fifty—a splendid head—smooth shaven—reddish + hair—dark blue eyes—and a high, broad forehead. He is of Irish + extraction—is cultured—very courteous in his manner and speech—dresses + well—and knows a lot about books and authors and such things.” + </p> + <p> + “I would surely know him from that description,” said Auntie Sue, thinking + of the wretched creature who had fallen, sobbing, at her feet so short a + time before. “But, you do not make him seem like a criminal at all. It is + strange that a man such as you describe should be a fugitive from the law, + is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “We come in contact with many strange things in our business, Miss + Wakefield,” the Burns operative answered—a little sadly, Auntie Sue + thought. “Life itself is so strange and complex, though you in your quiet + retreat, here, can scarcely find it so.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I find life very wonderful, Mr. Ross, even here in my little + house by the river,” she answered, slowly. + </p> + <p> + Sheriff Knox held out a newspaper to Auntie Sue: “Just happened to + remember that I had it in my pocket,” he said. “It gives a pretty full + account of this fellow Kent's case. You will notice there is a big reward + offered for his capture. If you can catch him for us, you'll make enough + money to keep you mighty nigh all the rest of your life.” And the + officer's great laugh boomed out at the thought of the old school-teacher + as a thief-catcher. + </p> + <p> + “By the way, Sheriff,” said Auntie Sue, as they were finally saying + good-bye at the door, “you didn't happen to ask at Thompsonville for my + mail, did you, as you came through?” Her voice was trembling, now, with + eagerness and anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “I'm plumb sorry, Auntie Sue, but I didn't. You see, we were so busy on + this job, I clean forgot about stopping here; and, besides, we might have + caught our man before we got this far, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” returned Auntie Sue, “I should have thought of that; but I + have been rather anxious about an important letter that seems to have been + delayed. Some of the neighbors will probably be going to the office + to-day, though. Good-bye! You know you are always welcome, Sheriff; and + you, too, Mr. Ross, if you should ever happen to be in this part of the + country again.” + </p> + <p> + “A wonderful old woman, Ross,” commented Sheriff Knox as they were riding + away. And the quiet, business-looking detective, whose life had been spent + in combating crime and deception, answered, as he waved farewell to Auntie + Sue, who watched them from the door of the little log house by the river, + “A very wonderful woman, indeed,—the loveliest old lady I have ever + met,—and the most remarkable.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <h3> + THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW. + </h3> + <p> + When she had watched Sheriff Knox and his two companions ride out of + sight, Auntie Sue turned slowly back into the house to face Judy, who + stood accusingly in the kitchen doorway. + </p> + <p> + For what seemed a long time, the old gentlewoman and the deformed mountain + girl stood silently looking at each other. Then Auntie Sue nervously + crossed the room to lay the newspaper, which the Sheriff had given her, on + the table beside her basket of sewing. + </p> + <p> + Without speaking, Judy followed her, watching every movement intently. + </p> + <p> + Turning to face her companion again, Auntie Sue stood, still speechless, + clasping and unclasping her thin old hands. + </p> + <p> + Judy spoke in her shrill, drawling monotone: “You-all have sure fixed hit + this here time, hain't you? Can't you-all see what a hell of a hole you've + done got us inter?” + </p> + <p> + When Auntie Sue apparently could not reply, Judy continued: “Just as if + hit wasn't more 'n enough for you-all ter go an' wear yourself plumb out + a-takin' keer of that there ornery, no-'count feller, what I never ought + ter dragged out of the river nohow. An', now, you-all got ter go an' just + naturally lie like you did ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive + man. I was plumb scared to death a-listenin' ter you through the crack in + the kitchen door. I 'lowed every minute they'd ketch you, sure. My + Lord-A'mighty! ma'm, can't you-all figger what'll happen ter weuns if they + ever finds out that weuns done had him hid right here in this here house + all the time? I never heard tell of such dad burned, fool doin's in all my + born days! I sure wish ter God that there old John-boat had a-tuck him off + down the river an' smashed him up agin Elbow Rock, like hit ort, an' not + a-fetched him ter our door ter git weuns in jail for savin' his worthless, + no-'count hide,—I sure do!” + </p> + <p> + “But, Judy, I never in all my life did such a thing before,” said Auntie + Sue in a tremulous whisper, too overwrought to speak aloud. + </p> + <p> + “You-all ain't a-needin' ter do hit but onct, neither. Onct is sure a heap + plenty for that there big Sheriff man. Just look what he did ter my pap! + He's jailed pap seven times, that I kin rec'lect. God-A'mighty knows how + many times he ketched him 'fore I was borned. An' pap, he didn't do so + mighty much ary time, neither.” + </p> + <p> + “I just had to do it, Judy, dear,” protested Auntie Sue. “It seemed as if + I simply could not tell the truth: something wouldn't let me.” + </p> + <p> + Judy, unheeding her companion's agitation, continued reviewing the + situation: “An' just look at all the money you-all done lost!” + </p> + <p> + “Money?” questioned Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + “Yep, 'money:'—that there reward what they'd a-paid you-all if + you-all hadn't a-lied like you did. I reckon as how there'd a-been as + much, maybe, as what was in that there letter you-all done sent ter the + bank an' ain't never heard tell of since. Hit's most likely clean gone by + now, an' here you done gone an' throw'd this other away,—plumb + throw'd hit away!” + </p> + <p> + At this, Auntie Sue's spirit suddenly flashed into fiery indignation. + </p> + <p> + “Judith Taylor,” she said sharply, “how can you suggest such a wicked + thing? Why, I would—I would—DIE before I would accept a penny + for doing such a thing!” + </p> + <p> + And it was Judy, now, who stood silent and abashed before the aroused + Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + “Don't ever speak of such a thing again!” continued the old lady. “And + remember, we must be more careful than ever, now, not to let any one—not + a soul—know that Mr.—Mr.—Burns is in the house, or that + we ever saw him!” + </p> + <p> + “That there deteckertive man said as how the feller's name was Brian Kent, + didn't be?” muttered the sullen Judy. + </p> + <p> + “I don't care what the detective man said!” retorted Auntie Sue. “I am + telling you that his name is Brian Burns, and you had better remember it! + You had better remember, too, that if anybody ever finds out the truth + about him, you and I will go right along to jail with him!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'm; I sure ain't aimin' ter forgit that,” replied the humbled + Judy; and she slouched away to the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue went to the door of Brian Kent's room. But, with her hand + outstretched toward the latch, she hesitated. Had he heard? The Sheriff's + voice had been so loud. She feared to enter, yet she knew that she must. + At last, she knocked timidly, and, when there was no answer, knocked + again, louder. Cautiously, she opened the door. + </p> + <p> + The man lay with his face to the wall,—to all appearances fast + asleep. + </p> + <p> + She tiptoed to the bed, and stood looking down upon the stranger for whom, + without a shadow of reason,—one would have said,—she had + violated one of the most deeply rooted principles of her seventy years. + </p> + <p> + To Auntie Sue, daughter of New England Puritanism, and religious to the + deeps of her being, a lie was abhorrent,—and she had lied,—deliberately, + carefully, and with painstaking skill she had lied. She had not merely + evaded the truth; she had lied,—and that to save a man of whom she + knew nothing except that he was a fugitive from the law. And the strangest + thing about it was this, that she was glad. She could not feel one twinge + of regret for her sin. She could not even feel that she had, indeed, + sinned. She had even a feeling of pride and triumph that she had lied so + successfully. She was troubled, though, about this new and wholly + unexpected development in her life. It had been so easy for her. She had + lied so naturally, so instinctively. + </p> + <p> + She remembered how she had spoken to Brian Kent of the river and of life. + She saw, now, that the river symbolized not only life as a whole, with its + many ever-changing conditions and currents, amid which the individual must + live;—the river symbolized, as truly, the individual life, with its + ever-changing moods and motives,—its ever-varying and + often-conflicting currents of instinct and training,—its infinite + variety of intellectual deeps and shallows,—its gentle places of + spiritual calm,—and its wild and turbulent rapids of dangerous + passion. + </p> + <p> + “What hitherto unsuspected currents in her life-river,” she asked herself, + “had carried her so easily into falsehood? What strange forces were + these,” she wondered, “that had set her so suddenly against honesty and + truthfulness and law and justice? And this stranger,—this wretched, + haggard-faced, drunken creature, who had been brought by the mysterious + currents of life to her door,—what was there in him that so + compelled her protecting interest? What was it within him, deeply hidden + under the repellent exterior of his being, that had so awakened in her + that strange feeling of possession,—of motherhood?” + </p> + <p> + It was not strange that, in her mental and spiritual extremity, the dear + old gentlewoman's life-long habit should lead her to kneel beside the + stranger's bed and pray for understanding and guidance. It was significant + that she did not ask her God to forgive the lie. + </p> + <p> + And, presently, as she prayed, she felt the man on the bed move. Then a + hand lightly touched her hair. She remained very still for a little,—her + head still bowed. The hand that touched so reverently the silvery gray + hair trembled a little. Slowly, the old teacher raised her face to look at + him; and the Irish blue eyes of Brian Kent were wide with wondering awe + and glowing with a light that warmed her heart and strengthened her. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you do it?” he asked. “You wonderful, wonderful woman! Why did + you do it?” + </p> + <p> + Slowly, she rose from her knees to sit beside him on the bed. “You heard?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak. + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid the Sheriff talked too loud,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “But, why did you do it?” he persisted. + </p> + <p> + “I think it was because I couldn't do anything else,” she answered, with + her little chuckling laugh. Then she added, seriously: “How could I let + them take you away? Are you not mine? Did not the river bring you to me?” + </p> + <p> + “I must tell you,” he answered, sadly, “that what the detective told you + about me is true.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” she answered, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I was a clerk in the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank,” he continued, + “and I stole money,—for nearly a year I stole,—not large sums, + but a little at a time. Then, when I knew that it was going to be + discovered, I took quite a lot, and ran away.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + “Do you not care that I am a thief?” he questioned, wonderingly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I care very much,” she returned. “But, you see, after all, your + stealing is a little thing that can be made all right. Your being a thief + is so small in comparison with other things which you might have been, but + which you are not, and of so little importance in comparison with what you + really ARE, that I can't feel so very bad about it.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but—my drinking,—my condition when—” He could + not go on. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you see,” she answered, “I can't think of THAT man as being YOU at + all. THAT was something that the accident of your being a thief did to + you,—like catching cold, and being sick, after accidentally falling + in the river.” + </p> + <p> + After a little silence, the man spoke, slowly: “I suppose every thief, + when he is caught, says the same thing; but I really never wanted to do + it. Circumstances—” he paused, biting his lip, and turning away. + </p> + <p> + “What was she like?” asked Auntie Sue, gently. + </p> + <p> + “She?” and his face reddened. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have observed that, to a man, 'circumstances' nearly always mean a + woman. To a woman, of course, it is a man.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell you about her, now,” he said. “Some day, perhaps, when I am + further away from it. But she is not at all like you.” + </p> + <p> + And this answer, for some strange reason, brought a flush of pleasure to + the face of the old schoolteacher. + </p> + <p> + “I did not mean for you to tell me now,” she returned. “I only wanted you + to know that, even though I am an old maid, I can understand.” + </p> + <p> + She left him then, and went to attend to her simple household duties. + </p> + <p> + It was not until quite late in the evening that Auntie Sue took up the + newspaper which Sheriff Knox had given her. Judy had retired to her room, + and Brian Burns—as they had agreed he should be called—was + fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow, Brian was going to sit up. His clothing had been washed and + ironed and pressed, and Auntie Sue was making some little repairs in the + way of darning and buttons. She had finished, and was putting her needle + and scissors in the sewing-basket on the table beside her, when she + noticed the paper, which she had forgotten. + </p> + <p> + The article headed “BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS” was not long. It told, in a + matter-of-fact, newspaper way, how Brian Kent had, at different times, + covering a period of several months, taken various sums from the Empire + Consolidated Savings Bank, and gave, so far as was then known, the + accumulated amount which he had taken. The dishonest clerk had employed + several methods in his operations; but the particular incident—read + Auntie Sue—which had led to the exposure of Kent's stealings was the + theft of a small sum of money in bank-notes, which had been sent to the + bank in a letter by one of the bank's smaller depositors. + </p> + <p> + The newspaper fell from Auntie Sue's hand. Mechanically, she fingered the + garment lying in her lap. + </p> + <p> + She, too, had sent a sum of money in a letter for deposit to her small + account in this bank from which Brian Kent had stolen. She would not have + sent the familiar paper currency of the United States that way; but, this + money was in Argentine notes. Her brother from far-away Buenos Aires had + sent it to her, saying that it would help to keep her during the closing + years of her life; and she had added it to her small savings with a + feeling of deepest gratitude that her last days were now fully provided + for. And she had received from the bank no acknowledgment of her letter + with its enclosures. + </p> + <p> + Taking up the paper with hands that trembled so she scarce could + distinguish the words, she read the paragraph again. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, she recalled the man's puzzled expression when she had told him + her name, and she seemed to hear him say, again, “Wakefield? Wakefield? + Where have I seen that name?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at the date of the paper. Beyond all doubt, the man sleeping + there in the other room;—the man whom she had saved from a suicide's + end in the river;—whom she had nursed through the hell of delirium + tremens;—whom she had yearned over as over her own son, and for + whom, to save from the just penalty of his crime, she had lied—beyond + all doubt that man had robbed her of the money that was to have insured to + her peace and comfort in the closing years of her life. + </p> + <p> + Carefully, Auntie Sue laid the garment she had just mended with such + loving care, with the rest of Brian Kent's clothing, on the near-by chair. + Rising, she went with slow, troubled step to the porch. + </p> + <p> + There was no moon, that night, to turn the waters of The Bend into a + stream of silvery light. But the stars were shining bright and clear, and + she could see the river where it made its dark, mysterious way between the + walls of shadowy hills; and borne to her ears on the gentle night wind + came the deep, thundering roar of the angry waters at Elbow Rock. + </p> + <p> + For a long time she stood there on the porch looking into the night, with + the light from the open door of her little house behind her; and she felt + very lonely, very tired, and very old. With her beautiful old face + upturned to the infinite sky, where shining worlds are scattered in such + lavish profusion, she listened, listened to the river that, with its + countless and complex currents, swept so irresistibly onward along the way + that was set for it by Him who swung those star-worlds in the limitless + space of that mighty arch above. And something of the spirit that broods + ever over the river must have entered into the soul of Auntie Sue. When + she turned back into the house, there was a smile on her face, though her + eyes were wet with tears. + </p> + <p> + Going to the chair that held Brian Kent's clothing, she took the garments + in her arms and pressed them to her lips. Then she carried them to his + room. + </p> + <p> + For some time she remained in that darkened chamber beside the sleeping + man. + </p> + <p> + When she returned to the living-room, she again took up the newspaper. + Very carefully, that her sleeping companions in the house might not hear + her, she went to the kitchen, the paper in her hand. Very carefully, that + no sound should betray her act, she burned the paper in the kitchen stove. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <h3> + AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION. + </h3> + <p> + During the next few days, Brian Kent rapidly regained his strength. No one + seeing the tall, self-possessed gentleman who sat with Auntie Sue on the + porch overlooking the river, or strolled about the place, could have + imagined him the wretchedly repulsive creature that Judy had dragged from + the eddy so short a time before. And no one,—exempting, perhaps, + detective Ross,—would have identified this bearded guest of Auntie + Sue's as the absconding bank clerk for whose arrest a substantial reward + was offered. + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Ross had departed from the Ozarks, to report to the Empire + Consolidated Savings Bank that, to the best of his knowledge and belief, + Brian Kent had been drowned. Homer T. Ward, himself, wrote Auntie Sue + about the case, for the detective had told the bank president about his + visit to the little log house by the river, and the banker knew that his + old teacher would wish to hear the conclusion of the affair. + </p> + <p> + The facts upon which the detective based his conclusion that Brian Kent + was dead, were, first of all, the man's general character, temperament, + habits, and ambitions,—aside from his thefts from the bank,—prior + to the time of his exposure and flight, and his known mental and physical + condition at the time he disappeared from the hotel in the little river + town of Borden. + </p> + <p> + The detective reasoned (and there are thousands of cases that could be + cited to support his contention) that by such a man as Brian Kent,—knowing, + as he must have known, the comparative certainty of his ultimate arrest + and conviction, and being in a mental and nervous condition bordering on + insanity, as a result of his constant brooding over his crime and the + excessive drinking to which he had resorted for relief,—by such a + man, death would almost inevitably be chosen rather than a life of + humiliation and disgrace and imprisonment. + </p> + <p> + Acting upon the supposition, however, that the man had gone down the river + in that missing boat, and that the appearance of suicide was planned by + the fugitive to trick his pursuers, the detectives ascertained that he had + provided no supplies for a trip down the river. The man would be compelled + to seek food. The mountain country through which he must pass was sparsely + settled, and for a distance that would have taken a boat many days to + cover, the officers visited every house and cabin and camp on either side + of the river without finding a trace of the hunted man. The river had been + watched night and day. The net set by the Burns operatives touched every + settlement and village for many miles around. And, finally, the battered + and broken wreck of the lost boat had been found some two miles below + Elbow Rock. + </p> + <p> + “. . . And so, my dear Auntie Sue,” Banker Ward wrote, in conclusion, “you + may rest in peace, secure in the certainty that my thieving bank clerk is + not lurking anywhere in your beautiful Ozarks to pounce down upon you + unawares in your little house beside the river. The man is safely dead. + There is no doubt about it. I regret, more than I can express, that you + have been in any way disturbed by the affair. Please think no more about + it. + </p> + <p> + “By the way, you made a great impression upon detective Ross. He was more + than enthusiastic over your graciousness and your beauty. I never heard + him talk so much before in all the years I have known him. Needless to + say, I indorsed everything he said about the dearest old lady in the + world, and then we celebrated by dining together and drinking a toast to + Auntie Sue. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue went with the letter to Brian, and acquainted him with that + part of the banker's communication which related to the absconding clerk; + but, about her relation to the president of the Empire Consolidated + Savings Bank, she said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it splendid!” she finished, her face glowing with delight. + </p> + <p> + “Splendid?” he echoed, looking at her with grave, questioning eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, of course!” she returned. “Aren't you glad to be so dead, under + the circumstances? Think what it means! You are free, now. No horrid old + detectives dogging your steps, or waiting behind every bush and tree to + pounce upon you. There is nothing, now, to prevent your being the kind of + man that you always meant to be,—and really ARE, too,—except + for your—your accidental tumble in the river,” she finished with her + low chuckling laugh. “And, some day,” she went on, with conviction, “when + you have established yourself,—when you have asserted your REAL + self, I mean,—and have paid back every penny of the money, Homer T. + Ward and Mr. Ross and everybody will be glad that they didn't catch you + before you had a chance to save yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “And you, Auntie Sue?” Brian's voice was deep with feeling: “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “Me? Oh, I am as glad, now, as I can ever be, because, you see, to me it + is already done.” + </p> + <p> + For a long minute he looked at her without speaking, then turned his face + away to gaze out over the river and the hills; but his eyes were the eyes + of one who looks without seeing. + </p> + <p> + Slowly, he said: “I wish I could be sure. There was a time when I was—when + I believed in myself. It seems to me, now, that it was years and years + ago. I thought, then, that nothing could shake me in my purpose; that + nothing could check me in my ambition. I saw myself going straight on to + the goal I had set for myself as certainly as—well, as your river + ever there goes on to the sea. But now—” He shook his head sadly. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue laughed. “You foolish boy. My river out there doesn't go + straight at all. It meets all sorts of obstacles, and is beset by all + sorts of conflicting influences, and so is forced to wind and twist and + work its way along; but, the big, splendid thing about the river is that + it keeps going on. It never stops to turn back. No matter what happens to + it, it never stops. It goes on and on and on unto the very end, until it + finally loses itself in the triumph of its own achievement,—the + sea.” + </p> + <p> + “And you think that I can go on?” he asked, doubtingly. + </p> + <p> + “I know you can go on,” she answered with conviction. + </p> + <p> + “But, why are you so sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” she returned, smiling, “seventy years makes one sure of some + things.” + </p> + <p> + Ho exclaimed passionately: “But you do not know—you cannot know—how + my life, my dreams, my plans, my hopes, my—everything—has been + broken into bits!” + </p> + <p> + She answered calmly, pointing to Elbow Rock: “Look there, Brian. See how + the river is broken into bits. See how its smoothly flowing, onward sweep + is suddenly changed to wild, chaotic turmoil; how it rages and fumes and + frets and smashes itself against the rocks. But it goes on just the same. + Life cannot be always calm and smoothly flowing like the peaceful Bend. + But life can always go on. Life must always go on. And you will find, my + dear boy, that a little way below Elbow Rock there is another quiet + stretch.” + </p> + <p> + When he spoke again there was a note of almost reverence in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie Sue, was there ever a break in your life? Were your dreams and + plans ever smashed into bits?” + </p> + <p> + For a little, she did not answer; then she said, bravely: “Yes, Brian; + several times. Once,—years and years ago,—I do not know how I + managed to go on. I felt, then, as you feel now; but, somehow, I managed, + and so found the calm places. The last hard spot came quite recently.” She + paused, wondering what he would do if she were to tell him how he himself + had made the hard spot. “But, now,” she continued, “I am hoping that the + rest of the way will be calm and untroubled.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could help to make it so!” he cried impulsively. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you can,” she returned quickly. “Of course you can. Perhaps that is + why the current landed your boat at my garden, instead of carrying you on + down the rapids to Elbow Rock. Who can say?” + </p> + <p> + A new light kindled in the man's eyes as his sensitive nature took fire at + Auntie Sue's words. “I could do anything for a woman like you, Auntie + Sue,” he said quietly, but with a conviction that left no room for doubt. + “But you must tell me what I am to do.” + </p> + <p> + She answered: “You are simply to go on with your life—just as if no + Elbow Rock had ever disturbed you; just as the river goes on—to the + end.” + </p> + <p> + She left him, then, to think out his problem alone; for the teacher of so + many years' experience was too wise not to know when a lesson was + finished. + </p> + <p> + But when the end of the day was come, they again sat together on the porch + and watched the miracle of the sunset hour. And no word was spoken by + them, now, of life and its problems and its meanings. As one listens to + the song of a bird without thought of musical notes or terms; as one + senses the fragrance of a flower without thought of the chemistry of + perfume; as one feels the presence of spring in the air without thought of + the day of the week, so they were conscious of the beauty, the glory, and + the peace of the evening. + </p> + <p> + Only when the soft darkness of the night lay over the land, and river and + mountain and starry sky were veiled in dreamy mystery, did Auntie Sue + speak: “Oh, it is so good to have some one to share it with,—some + one who understands. I am very lonely, sometimes, Brian. I wonder if you + know?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Auntie Sue, I know, for I have been lonely, too.” + </p> + <p> + And so the old gentlewoman, whose lifework was so nearly finished, and the + man in the flush of his manhood years, whose life had been so nearly + wrecked, were drawn very close by a something that came to them out of the + beauty and the mystery of that hour. + </p> + <p> + The next day, Brian told Auntie Sue that he would leave on the morrow. + </p> + <p> + “Leave?” she echoed in dismay. “Why, Brian, where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't exactly know,” he returned; “but, of course, I must go somewhere, + out into the world again.” + </p> + <p> + “And why must you 'go somewhere, out into the world again'?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + “To work,” he answered, smiling. “If I am to go on, as you say, I must go + where I can find something to do.” + </p> + <p> + “If that isn't just like you—you child!” cried the old teacher. “You + are all alike,—you boys and girls. You all must have something to + do; always, it is 'something to do'.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he returned, “and must we not have something to do?” + </p> + <p> + “You will do something, certainly,” she answered; “but, before you can DO + anything that is worth doing, you must BE something. Life isn't DOING;—it + is BEING.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if that was not the real reason for my wretched failures,” said + Brian, thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “It is the real reason for most of our failures,” she returned. “And so + you are not going to fail again. You are not going away somewhere, you + don't know where, to do something you don't know what. You are going to + stay right here, and just BE something. Then, when the time comes, you + will do whatever is yours to do as naturally and as inevitably as the + birds sing, as the blossoms come in the spring, or as the river finds its + way to the sea.” + </p> + <p> + And more than ever Brian Kent felt in the presence of Auntie Sue as a + little boy to whom the world had grown suddenly very big and very + wonderful. + </p> + <p> + But, after a while, he shook his head, smiling wistfully. “No, no, Auntie + Sue, that sounds all true and right enough, but it can't be. I must go + just the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Why can't it be, Brian?” + </p> + <p> + “For one thing,” he returned, “I cannot risk the danger to you. After all, + as long as I am living, there is a chance that my identity will be + discovered, and you—no, no; I must not!” + </p> + <p> + “As for that,” she answered quickly, “the chances of your being identified + are a thousand times greater if you go into the world again too soon. Some + day, of course, you must go; but you are safer now right here. And”—she + added quickly—“it would be no easier for me, dear boy, to—to—have + it happen somewhere away from me. You are mine, you know, no matter where + you go.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Auntie Sue,” he protested, “I am not a gentleman of means that I can + do nothing indefinitely; neither am I capable of living upon your + hospitality for an extended period. I must earn my bread and butter.” + </p> + <p> + The final sentence came with such a lifting of his head, such a look of + stern decision, and such an air of pride, that the gentle old + school-teacher laughed until her eyes were filled with tears; and Judy, at + the crack in the kitchen door, wondered if the mistress of the little log + house by the river were losing her mind. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Brian! Brian!” cried Auntie Sue, wiping her eyes. “I knew you would + come to the 'bread and butter' at last. That is where all our philosophies + and reasonings and arguments come at last, don't they? Just 'bread and + butter,' that is all. And I love you for it. Of course you can't live upon + my hospitality,—and I couldn't let you if you would. And if you + WOULD, I wouldn't let you if I could. I am no more a lady of means, my + haughty sir, than you are a gentleman of independent fortune. The fact is, + Brian, dear, I suspect that you and I are about the two poorest people in + the world,—to be anything like as pretentiously respectable and + properly proud as we are.” + </p> + <p> + When the man could make no reply, but only looked at her with a + much-puzzled and still-proud expression, she continued, half-laughingly, + but well pleased with him: “Please, Brian, don't look so haughtily + injured. I had no intention of insulting you by offering charity. Far from + it.” + </p> + <p> + Instantly, the man's face changed. He put out his hands protestingly, and + his blue eyes filled, as he said, impulsively. “Auntie Sue, after what you + have done for me, I—” + </p> + <p> + She answered quickly: “We are considering the future. What has been, is + past. Our river is already far beyond that point in its journey. Don't let + us try to turn the waters back. I promise you I am going to be very, very + practical, and make you pay for EVERYTHING.” + </p> + <p> + Smiling, now, he waited for her to explain. + </p> + <p> + “I must tell you, first,” she began, “that, except for a very small amount + in the—in a savings bank, I have nothing to provide for my last days + except this little farm.” + </p> + <p> + “What a shame,” Brian Kent exclaimed, “that a woman like you can give her + life to the public schools for barely enough salary to keep her alive + during her active years, and then left in her old age with no means of + support. It is a national disgrace.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue chuckled with appreciation of the rather grim humor of the + situation. What would Brian Kent, indignant at the public neglect of the + school-teacher, say of the man who had robbed her of the money that was to + provide for her closing years? “After all, most public sins are only + individual sins at the last,” she said, musingly. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said Brian, not in the least seeing the relevancy of + her words. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue came quickly back to her subject: “Only thirty acres of my + little farm is under cultivation. The remaining fifty acres is wild + timberland. If I could have that fifty acres also in cultivation, with the + money that the timber would bring,—which would not be a great deal,—I + would be fairly safe for the—for the rest of my evening,” she + finished with a smile. “Do you see?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that I—that you want me to stay here and work for you?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean,” she answered, “that, if you choose to stay for awhile, you need + not feel that you would be accepting my hospitality as charity,” she + returned gently. “I am not exactly offering you a job: I am only showing + you how you could, without sacrificing your pride, remain in this quiet + retreat for awhile before returning to the world.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be heaven, Auntie Sue,” he returned earnestly. “I want to stay + so bad that I fear myself. Let me think it over until to-morrow. Let me be + sure that I am doing the right thing, and not merely the thing I want to + do.” + </p> + <p> + She liked his answer, and did not mention the subject again until Brian + himself was ready. And, strangely enough, it was poor, twisted Judy who + helped him to set matters straight. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <h3> + BRIAN KENT DECIDES. + </h3> + <p> + Brian had walked along the river-bank below the house to a spot just above + the point where the high bluff jutting out into the river-channel forms + Elbow Rock. + </p> + <p> + The bank here is not so high above the roaring waters of the rapids, for + the spur of the mountain which forms the cliff lies at a right angle to + the river, and the greater part of the cliff is thus on the shore, with + its height growing less and less as it merges into the main slope of the + mountain-side. From the turn in the road, in front of the house, a + footpath leads down the bank of the river to the cliff, and, climbing + stairlike up the face of the steep bluff, zigzags down the easier slope of + the down-river side, to come again into the road below. The road itself, + below Elbow Rock, is forced by the steep side of the mountain-spur and the + precipitous bluff to turn inland from the river, and so, climbing by an + easier grade up past Tom Warden's place, crosses the ridge above the + schoolhouse, and comes back down the mountain again in front of Auntie + Sue's place, to its general course along the stream. The little path forms + thus a convenient short cut for any one following the river road on foot. + </p> + <p> + Brian, seated on the river-bank a little way from the path where it starts + up the bluff, was trying to decide whether it would be better for him to + follow his desire and stay with Auntie Sue for a few weeks or months, or + whether he should not, in spite of the land he might clear for her, return + to the world where he could more quickly earn the money to pay back that + which he had stolen. + </p> + <p> + And as he sat there, the man was conscious that he had reached one of + those turning-points that are found in every life where results, momentous + and far-reaching, are dependent upon comparatively unimportant and + temporary issues. He could not have told why, and yet he felt a certainty + that, for him, two widely separated futures were dependent upon his + choice. Nor could he, by thinking, discover what those futures held for + him, nor which he should choose. Even as his boat that night had hung on + the edge of the eddy,—hesitating on the dividing-line between the + two currents,—so the man himself now felt the pull of his + life-currents, and hesitated,—undecided. + </p> + <p> + Looking toward the house, he thought how like the life offered by Auntie + Sue was to the quiet waters of The Bend, and—his mind finished the + simile—how like the life to which he would go was to the rapids at + Elbow Rock; and, yet, he reflected, the waters could never reach the sea + without enduring the turmoil of the rapids. And, again, the thought came, + “The Bend is just as much the river as the troubled passage around the + rock.” + </p> + <p> + When he had given up life, and, to all intent and purpose, had left life + behind him, the river, without his will or knowledge, had mysteriously + elected to save him from the death he had chosen as his only refuge from + the utter ruin that had seemed so inevitable. As the currents of the river + had carried his boat to the eddy at the foot of Auntie Sue's garden, the + currents of life had mysteriously brought him to the saving influence of + Auntie Sue herself. Should he push out again into the stream to face the + danger he knew beset such a course? or should he wait for a season in the + secure calm of the harbor she offered until he were stronger? Brian Kent + knew, instinctively, that there was in the wisdom and love of Auntie Sue's + philosophy and faith a strength that would, if he could make it his, + insure his safe passage through every danger of life, and yet—The + man's meditations were interrupted by a chance look toward the bluff which + towered above him. + </p> + <p> + Judy was climbing the steep trail. + </p> + <p> + Curiously, Brian watched the deformed mountain girl as she made her way up + the narrow, stairlike path, and her cutting words came back to him: + “God-A'mighty and my drunken pap made me like I am. But you,—damn + you!—you made yourself what you be.” And Auntie Sue had said that + the all-important thing in life was not to DO something, but to BE + something. + </p> + <p> + The girl, who had gained a point halfway to the top of the bluff, paused + to look searchingly about, and Brian, who was half-hidden by the bushes, + started to call to her, thinking she might be looking for him; but some + impulse checked him and he remained silently watching her. Climbing + hurriedly a little higher up the path Judy again stopped to look carefully + around, as if searching the vicinity for some one. Then, once more, she + went on until she stood on top of the cliff; and now, as she looked about + over the surrounding country, she called: “Mr. Burns! Oh, Mr. Burns! + Who-o-e-e! Mr. Burns!” + </p> + <p> + Brian's lips were parted to answer the call when something happened on top + of the bluff which held him for the moment speechless. + </p> + <p> + From beyond where Judy stood on the brink of the cliff, a man's head and + shoulders appeared. Brian saw the girl start and turn to face the newcomer + as if in sudden fear. Then she whirled about to run. Before she could gain + the point where the path starts down from the top, the man caught her and + dragged her roughly back, so that the two disappeared from Brian's sight. + Brian was halfway up the bluff when he heard the girl's shrill scream. + </p> + <p> + There was no sign of weakness, now, in the man that Judy had dragged from + the river. He covered the remaining distance to the top in a breath. From + among the bushes, a little way down the mountainside, came the sound of an + angry voice mingled with Judy's pleading cries. + </p> + <p> + An instant more, and Brian reached the spot where poor Judy was crouching + on the ground, begging the brute, who stood over her with menacing fists, + not to hit her again. + </p> + <p> + The man was a vicious-looking creature, dressed in the rough garb of the + mountaineer; dirty and unkempt, with evil, close-set eyes, and a scraggly + beard that could not hide the wicked, snarling mouth. + </p> + <p> + He stood for a second looking at Brian, as if too surprised by the + latter's sudden appearance to move; then he went down, felled by as clean + a knockout as was ever delivered by an Irish fist. + </p> + <p> + “Are you hurt, Judy?” demanded Brian, as he lifted the girl to her feet. + “Did he strike you?” + </p> + <p> + “He was sure a-fixin' ter lick me somethin' awful when you-all put in,” + returned the poor girl, trembling with fear. “I know, 'cause he's done hit + to me heaps er times before. He's my pap.” + </p> + <p> + “Your father!” exclaimed Brian. + </p> + <p> + Judy nodded;—then screamed: “Look out! He'll git you, sure!” + </p> + <p> + Judy's rescuer whirled, to see the man on the ground drawing a gun. A + vigorous, well-directed kick, delivered in the nick of time, sent the gun + whirling away into the bushes and rendered the native's right arm useless. + </p> + <p> + “Get up!” commanded Brian. + </p> + <p> + The man rose to his feet, and stood nursing his damaged wrist and scowling + at Judy's companion. + </p> + <p> + “Are you this girl's father?” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I am,” came the sullen reply. “I'm Jap Taylor, an' you-all are + sure goin' to find that you can't come between a man an' his lawful child + in these here mountains, mister,—if you-all be from the city.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will find that you can't strike a crippled girl in my presence, + even if she is your daughter,—in these mountains or anywhere else,” + retorted Brian. “What are you trying to do with her, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “I aim ter take her back home with me, where she belongs.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, why didn't you go to the house for her like a man, instead of + jumping on her out here in the woods!” + </p> + <p> + “Hit ain't none of your dad burned business as I can see,” came the sullen + reply. + </p> + <p> + “I am making it my business, just the same,” returned Brian. + </p> + <p> + He turned to the girl, who had drawn back a little behind him. “Judy,” he + said, kindly, “I think perhaps you better tell me about this.” + </p> + <p> + “Pap, he was a-layin' for me in the bresh 'cause he dassn't come to the + house ter git me,” said the girl, fearfully. + </p> + <p> + “But, why does he fear to come to the house?” persisted Brian. + </p> + <p> + “'Cause he done give me ter Auntie Sue.” + </p> + <p> + “Gave you to Auntie Sue?” repeated the puzzled Brian. + </p> + <p> + Jap Taylor interrupted with, “I didn't sign ary paper, an'—” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, you!” snapped Brian. “Go on, Judy.” + </p> + <p> + “Hit was a year last corn-plantin',” explained the girl. “My maw, she + died. He used ter whip her, too. An' Auntie Sue was there helpin' weuns; + an' Tom Warden an' some other folks they was there, too; an' they done + fixed hit so that I was ter go an' live with Auntie Sue; an' pap, he give + me ter her. He sure did, Mr. Burns, an' I ain't a-wantin' ter go with him, + no more.” + </p> + <p> + The poor girl's shrill monotone broke, and her twisted body shook with her + sobs. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't sign ary paper,” repeated Judy's father, with sullen + stubbornness. “An' what's more, I sure ain't a-goin' ter. I 'lows as how + she'll just go home an' work for me, like she ort, 'stead of livin' with + that there old-maid schoolma'am. I'm her paw, I am, an' I reckon I got + rights.” + </p> + <p> + He started toward the girl, who drew closer to Brian, and begged + piteously: “Don't let him tech me! 'Fore God, Mr. Burns, he'll kill me, + sure!” + </p> + <p> + Brian drew the girl behind him as he faced the father with a brief, “Get + out!” + </p> + <p> + The mountaineer hesitated. + </p> + <p> + Brian went one step toward him: “Do you hear? Get out! And if you ever + show your dirty face in this vicinity again, I'll not leave a whole bone + in your worthless carcass!” + </p> + <p> + And Jap Taylor saw something in those Irish blue eyes that caused him to + start off down the mountain toward the river below Elbow Rock. + </p> + <p> + When he had placed a safe distance between himself and the man who + appeared so willing and able to make good his threat, Judy's father + turned, and, shaking his uninjured fist at Brian, delivered a volley of + curses, with: “I'll sure git you-all for this! Jap Taylor ain't a-lettin' + no man come between him an' his'n. I'll fix you, an' I'll fix that there + schoolma'am, too! She's nothin' but a damned old—” + </p> + <p> + But Brian started toward him, and Jap Taylor beat a hasty retreat. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Judy,” said Brian, when the native had disappeared in the + brush and timber that covered the steep mountain-side. “I'll not let him + touch you. Come, let us sit down and talk a little until you are yourself + again. Auntie Sue must not see you like this. We don't want to let her + know anything about it. You won't tell her, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “I ain't aimin' ter tell nobody,” said Judy, between sobs. “I sure ain't + a-wantin' ter make no trouble,—not for Auntie Sue, nohow. She's been + powerful good ter me.” + </p> + <p> + When they were seated on convenient rocks at the brink of the cliff + overlooking the river, Judy gradually ceased crying, and presently said, + in her normal, querulous monotone: “Did you-all mind what pap 'lowed he'd + do ter Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Judy; but don't worry, child. He is not going to harm any one while + I am around.” + </p> + <p> + “You-all are aimin' ter stay then, be you? I'm sure powerful glad,” said + Judy, simply. + </p> + <p> + Brian started. A new factor had suddenly been injected into his problem. + </p> + <p> + “I was powerful scared you-all was aimin' ter go away,” continued Judy. + “Hit was that I was a-huntin' you-all to tell you 'bout, when pap he + ketched me.” + </p> + <p> + “What were you going to tell me, Judy?” + </p> + <p> + “I 'lowed ter tell you-all 'bout Auntie Sue. She'd sure be powerful mad if + she know'd I'd said anythin' ter you, but she's a-needin' somebody like + you ter help her, mighty bad. She—she's done lost a heap of money, + lately: hit was some she sent—” + </p> + <p> + Brian interrupted: “Wait a minute, Judy. You must not tell me anything + about Auntie Sue's private affairs; you must not tell any one. Anything + she wants me to know, she will tell me. Do you understand?” he finished + with a reassuring smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; I reckon you-all are 'bout right, an' I won't tell nobody + nothin'. But 'tain't a-goin' ter hurt none ter say as how you-all ort ter + stay, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “And why do you think I ought to stay, Judy?” + </p> + <p> + “'Cause of what Auntie Sue's done for you-all,—a-nursin' you when + you was plumb crazy an' plumb dangerous from licker, an' a lyin' like she + did ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man,” returned Judy + stoutly; “an' 'cause she's so old an' is a-needin' you-all ter help her; + an' 'cause she is a-lovin' you like she does, an' is a-wantin' you-all ter + stay so bad hit's mighty nigh a-makin' her plumb sick.” + </p> + <p> + Brian Kent did not answer. The mountain girl's words had revealed to him + the selfishness of his own consideration of his problem so clearly that he + was stunned. Why had he not, in his thinking, remembered the dear old + gentlewoman who had saved him from a shameful death? + </p> + <p> + Judy went on: “Hit looks ter me like somebody just naturally's got ter + take care of Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns. All her whole life she's a-been takin' + care of everybody just like she tuck me, an' just like she tuck you-all, + besides a heap of other ways; an' now she's so old and mighty nigh plumb + wore out, hit sure looks like hit was time somebody was a-fixin' ter do + somethin' for her. That was what I was a-huntin' you-all ter tell you when + pap ketched me, Mr. Burns.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad you told me, Judy;—very glad. You see, I was not thinking + of things in just that way.” + </p> + <p> + “I 'lowed maybe you mightn't. Seems like folks mostly don't.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's all right, now!” Brian cried heartily. “You have settled it. + I'll stay. We'll take care of Auntie Sue,—you and I, Judy. Come on, + now; let's go to the house, and tell her. But we won't say anything about + your father, Judy;—that would only make her unhappy; and we must + never make Auntie Sue unhappy—never.” He was as eager and + enthusiastic, now, as a schoolboy. + </p> + <p> + “'Course,” said Judy, solemnly; “'course you just naturally got ter stay + an' take care of her now, after what pap's done said he'd do.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Judy; I've just naturally got to stay,” returned Brian. + </p> + <p> + Together they went down the steep cliff trail and to the little log house + by the river to announce Brian's decision to Auntie Sue. They found the + dear old lady in her favorite spot on the porch overlooking the river. + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course you will stay,” she returned, when Brian had told her. + “The river brought you to me, and you know, my dear boy, the river is + never wrong. Oh, yes, I know there are cross-currents and crooked spots + and sand-bars and rocks and lots of places where it SEEMS to us to be + wrong. But, just the same, it all goes on, all the time, toward the sea + for which it starts when it first begins at some little spring away over + there somewhere in the mountains. Of course you will stay with me, Brian,—until + the river carries you on again.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> + <h3> + RE-CREATION. + </h3> + <p> + From the very day of his decision, to which he had been so unexpectedly + helped by Judy, Brian Kent was another man. The gloomy, despondent, + undecided spirit that was the successor of the wretched creature that Judy + had helped to Auntie Sue's that morning was now succeeded by a cheerful, + hopeful, contented man, who went to his daily task with a song, did his + work with a smile and a merry jest, and returned, when the day was done, + with peace in his heart and laughter on his lips. + </p> + <p> + As the days of the glorious Ozark autumn passed, Brian's healthful, + outdoor work on the timbered mountain-side brought to the man of the + cities a physical grace and beauty he had lacked,—the grace of + physical strength and the beauty of clean and rugged health. The bright + autumn sun and the winds that swept over the many miles of tree-clad hills + browned his skin; while his work with the ax developed his muscles and + enforced deep breathing of the bracing mountain air, thus bringing a more + generous supply of richer blood, which touched his now firmly rounded + cheeks with color. + </p> + <p> + The gift of humor and the faculty of quaint and witty conversational + twists, with the genius of storytelling that was his from his Irish + mother, made quick friends for him of the mountain neighbors who welcomed + this new pupil of their old school-teacher with whole-hearted pleasure, + and quoted his jests and sayings throughout the country with never-failing + delight. And Judy,—it is not too much to say that Judy became his + most ardent admirer and devoted slave. + </p> + <p> + But the dear old mistress of the little log house by the river alone + recognized that these outward changes in the human wreck that the river + had brought to her were but manifestations of a more potent transformation + that was taking place in the man's inner life; and it was this inner + change that filled the teacher's loving heart with joy, and which she + watched with keen and delighted interest. + </p> + <p> + It was not, after all, a new life that was coming to this man, Auntie Sue + told herself; it was his own old and more real life that was reassuring + itself. It was the real Brian Kent that had been sojourning in a far + country that was now coming home to his own. It was the wealth of his + heart and mind and soul which had been deep-buried under an accumulation + of circumstances and environment that was now being brought to the + surface. + </p> + <p> + Might it not be that Auntie Sue's genius for absorbing beauty and making + truth her own had, in her many years of searching for truth and beauty in + whatever humanity she encountered, developed in her a peculiar + sensitiveness? And was it not this that had made her feel instinctively + the real nature of the man in whom a less discerning observer would have + recognized nothing worthy of admiration or regard? Without question, it + was the true,—the essential,—the underlying,—elements in + the character of the absconding bank clerk that had aroused in this + remarkable old gentlewoman the peculiar sense of kinship—of + possession—that had determined her attitude toward the stranger. The + law that like calls to like is not less applicable to things spiritual + than to things material. The birds of a feather that always flock together + are not of necessity material birds of material feathers. + </p> + <p> + Nor was Brian Kent himself unconscious of his Re-Creation. The man knew + what he was, as every man knows deep within himself the real self that is. + And that was the horror of the situation which had set him adrift on the + river that night when, in his last drunken despairing frenzy, he had left + the world with a curse in his heart and had faced the black unknown with + reckless laughter and a profane toast. It is to be doubted if there can be + a hell of greater torment than that experienced by one who, endowed by + nature with a capacity for great living, is betrayed by the very strength + of his genius into a situation that is intolerable of his real self, and + is forced, thus, to a continuous self-crucifixion and death. + </p> + <p> + In his new environment the man felt the awakening of this self which he + had mourned as dead. Thoughts, emotions, dreams, aspirations, which had, + as he believed, been killed, he found were not dead, but only sleeping; + and in the quickening of their vitality and strength he knew a joy as + great as had been his despair. + </p> + <p> + The beauty of nature, that had lost its power of appeal to his sodden + soul, now stirred him to the very depth of his being. The crisp, sun-sweet + air of the autumn mornings, when he went forth with his ax to the day's + clean labor, was a draught of potent magic that set every nerve of him + tingling with delight. The woodland hillside, where he worked, was a + wonderland of beautiful creations that inspired a thousand glowing + fancies. Sometimes, at his heavy task, he would pause for a moment's rest, + and so would look out and away over the vast expanse of country that from + his feet stretched in all its charm of winding river and wooded slopes, + and tree-fringed ridges to the far, blue sky-line; and the very soul of + him would answer to the call as he had thought he never could answer + again. The very clouds that drifted past on their courses to unseen ports + beyond the hills were freighted with meaning for him now. The winds that + came laden with the subtly blended perfume of ten thousand varieties of + trees and grasses and shrubs and flowers whispered words of life which he + now could hear. The loveliness of the glowing morning skies, as he saw + them when he rose for the day's work, and the glories of the sunsets, as + he watched them with Auntie Sue from the porch when the day's task was + accomplished, filled him with an exquisite gladness which he had never + hoped to know again. + </p> + <p> + Most of all, did the river speak to him; not, indeed, as it had spoken + that dreadful night, when, from the window of his darkened room, he had + listened to its call: the river spoke, now, in the full day as his eye + followed its winding length through the hills in all its varied beauty of + sunshine and shadow;—of gleaming silver and living green and + russet-brown. It talked to him in the evening when the waters gave back + the glories of the sky and the deepening twilight wrapped the world in its + dusky veil of mystery. It spoke to him in the soft darkness of the night, + as it swept on its way under the stars, or in the light of the golden + moon. And, in time, some of these things which the river said to him, he, + in turn, told to Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + And Auntie Sue, delighted with the man's awakening self, and charmed with + his power of thought and his gift of expression, led him on. With artful + suggestion and skilful question and subtle argument, she stimulated his + mind and fancy to lay hold of the truths and beauties that life and nature + offered. But ever the rare old gentlewoman was his teacher, revealing + himself to himself; guiding him to a fuller discovery and knowledge of his + own life and its meaning, which, indeed, is the true aim and end of all + right teaching. + </p> + <p> + So the days of the autumn passed. The hills changed their robes of varied + green for costumes of brown and gold, with touches here and there of + flaming scarlet and brilliant yellow. And then winter was at hand, and + that momentous evening came when Auntie Sue said to her pupil, after an + hour of most interesting talk, “Brian, why in the world don't you write a + book?” + </p> + <p> + “'A book'!” exclaimed Brian, in a startled tone. + </p> + <p> + Judy laughed. “He sure ought ter. Lord knows he talks like one.” + </p> + <p> + “I am in earnest, Brian,” said Auntie Sue, her lovely old eyes shining + with enthusiasm and her gentle voice trembling with excitement. “I have + been thinking about it for a long time, now, and, to-night, I just can't + keep it to myself any longer. Why don't you give to the world some of the + thoughts you have been wasting on Judy and me?” + </p> + <p> + “Hit's sure been a-wastin' of 'em on me,” agreed Judy. “'Fore God, I don't + sense what he's a-talkin' 'bout, more'n half the time.” + </p> + <p> + Brian laughed. “Judy is prophetic, Auntie Sue. She voices perfectly the + sentiment of the world toward any book I might write.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue detected a note of bitterness underlying the laughing comment, + and wondered. + </p> + <p> + Judy spoke again as she arose to retire to her room for the night: “I + reckon as how there's a right smart of things youuns talk that'd be mighty + fine if a body only had the learnin' ter sense 'em. An' there must be + heaps of folks where youuns come from what would know Mr. Burns's meaning + if he was to write hit all out plain. Everybody ain't like me. Hit's sure + a God's-blessin' they ain't, too.” + </p> + <p> + “And there, Brian, dear, is your answer,” said Auntie Sue, as Judy left + the room. “Any book has meaning only for those who have the peculiar + sympathy and understanding needed to interpret it. A book that means + nothing to one may be rich in meaning for another. Every writer writes for + his own peculiar readers, just as every individual has his own peculiar + friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Or enemies,” said Brian. + </p> + <p> + “Or enemies,” agreed Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + Brian went to the window, and stood for some time, looking out into the + night. Then turning, with a nervous gesture, he paced uneasily up and down + the room; while Auntie Sue watched him in silence with an expression of + loving concern on her dear old face. + </p> + <p> + At last, she spoke: “Why, Brian, what is the matter? What have I said? I + did not mean to upset you like this. Come, sit down here, and tell me + about it. What is it troubles you so?” + </p> + <p> + With a short laugh, Brian came and stood before her. “I suppose it had to + come sooner or later, Auntie Sue. I have been trying for days to muster up + courage enough to tell you about it. You have touched the one biggest + thing in my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what do you mean, Brian?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean just what we have been talking about,—writing,” answered + Brian. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she cried, with quick and delighted triumph. “Then I AM right. You + have been thinking about it, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Thinking about it!” he echoed, and in his voice she felt the nervous + intensity of his mood. “I have thought of nothing else. All day long when + I am at work, I am writing, writing, writing. It is the last thing on my + mind when I go to sleep. I dream about it all night. And, it is the first + thing I think about in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue clasped her hands to her heart with an exclamation of joyous + interest. + </p> + <p> + Brian, with a quiet smile at her enthusiasm, went on: “I know exactly what + I want to say, and why I want to say it. There is a world of people, + Auntie Sue, whose lives have been broken and spoiled by one thing or + another, and who have more or less cut themselves loose from everything, + and are just drifting, they don't care a hang where, because they think + they have failed so completely that there is nothing more in life for + them. People like me,—I don't mean thieves and criminals + necessarily,—who have had that which they know to be the best and + biggest and truest part of themselves tortured and warped and twisted and + denied and smashed and beaten and betrayed and killed; and who, because + they feel that their real selves are dead within them, don't care what + happens to that part which is left.” + </p> + <p> + He was walking the floor again now, and speaking with a depth of feeling + which he had never before revealed to his gentle companion. + </p> + <p> + “It is not so much the love of wrong-doing that makes people turn bad,”—he + continued,—“it is having their real selves misunderstood and doubted + and smothered and their realest loves and dreams and aspirations never + recognized, or else distorted and twisted and made to appear as something + they hate. I want to make the people—and there are many thousands of + them—who are suffering in the living hell that tormented me, feel + that I know and understand. And then, Auntie Sue, then I want to tell them + about you and your river. + </p> + <p> + “I would teach them the things you have taught me. I would say to every + one that I could persuade to listen: 'It doesn't in the least matter what + your experience is, the old river is still going on to the sea. No matter + if every woman you ever knew has proved untrue, virtuous womanhood still + IS. No matter if every man you ever knew has proved false, true manhood + still IS. If every friend you ever had has betrayed your friendship, loyal + friendship still IS. If you have found nothing in your experience but + dishonesty and falsehood and infidelity and hypocrisy, it is only because + you have been unfortunate in your experience; because honesty and fidelity + and sincerity are existing FACTS. They are the very foundation facts of + life, and can no more fail life than the river can fail to reach the sea. + </p> + <p> + “'Your little individual experience, my little individual experience,—what + are they? They are nothing more than the tiny bubbles, swirls, ripples, + and breaks on the surface of the great volume of water that flows so + inevitably onward. The bit of foam, the tiny wave caused by twig or branch + or blade of water-grass, or the great rocks and cliffs that make the + roaring whirlpools and rapids,—do they stay the waters, or turn the + river back on its course, or in any way prevent its onward flow? No more + can the twigs of circumstances, or the boughs of environment, or the + grasses of accident that make the tiny waves of our individual + experiences,—or even the great rocks and cliffs of national or + racial import,—such as wars, and pestilence, and famine,—finally + check or stay the river of life in its onward flow toward the sea of its + final and infinite meaning.'” + </p> + <p> + He went again to the window, and stood looking out into the night as + though listening to the voices. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Auntie Sue,” he said, turning back to the old gentlewoman,—and + his face was radiant with the earnestness of this thought,—“Auntie + Sue, there are as many currents in our river out there as there are human + lives. A comparatively few great main or dominant currents in the river + flow—a comparatively few great dominant currents in the river flow + of life. But if you look closer, you will see that in each one of those + established principal currents there are countless thousands—millions—of + tiny currents all turning and twisting across, and back, and up, and down + in every direction,—weaving themselves together,—pulling + themselves apart,—criss-crossing, clashing,—interlacing,—tangled + and confused,—and these are the individual lives. And no matter what + the conflict or confusion; no matter what direction they take for the + moment, they all, ALL, go to make up the river;—they, all together, + ARE the river,—and they all together move onward,—ceaselessly, + inevitably, irresistibly.” + </p> + <p> + He paused to stand smiling down at her, as she sat there in her low chair + beside the table with the lamplight on her silvery hair,—there in + the little log house by the river. + </p> + <p> + “That is what you have made your river mean to me, Auntie Sue; and that is + what I would give to the world.” + </p> + <p> + With trembling hands, the gentle old teacher reached for her handkerchief, + which lay in the sewing-basket on the table beside her. Smilingly, she + wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. Lovingly, she looked up at him,—standing + so tall and strong before her, with his reddish hair tumbled and tossed, + and his Irish blue eyes lighted with the fire of his inspiration. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, at last, “why don't you do it, Brian?” + </p> + <p> + As a breath of air puts out the light of a candle, so the light went from + Brian Kent's face. Dropping into his chair, he answered hopelessly, + “Because I am afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid?” echoed Auntie Sue, troubled and amazed. “What in the world are + you afraid of, Brian?” + </p> + <p> + And the bitter, bitter answer came, “I am afraid of another failure.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue's quick mind caught the significance of his words. “ANOTHER + failure, Brian? Then you,—then you have written before?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he returned. And not since his decision to remain with her had she + seen him so despondent. “To write was the dream and the passion of my + life. I tried and tried. God, how I worked and slaved at it! The only + result from my efforts was the hell from which you dragged me.” + </p> + <p> + Alter a little silence, Auntie Sue said gently: “I don't think I + understand, Brian. You have never told me about your trouble, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “It is an old, old story,” he returned. “I am only one of thousands. My + wretched experience is not at all uncommon.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” she answered. “But don't you think that perhaps you had better + tell me? Perhaps, in the mere telling of it to me, now that it is all + over, you may find the real reason for—for what happened to you.” + </p> + <p> + Wise Auntie Sue!—wise in that rarest of all wisdom,—the + sympathetic understanding of human hearts and souls. + </p> + <p> + “You know about my earlier life,” he began; “how, in my boyhood, after + mother's death, I worked at anything I could do to keep myself alive, and + how I managed to gain a little schooling. I was always dreaming of + writing, even then. I took the business course in a night-school, not + because I liked it, but because I thought it would help me to earn a + living in a way that would give me more time for what I really wanted to + do. And after I finished school, and had finally worked up to a good + position in that bank, I did have more time for my writing. But,”—he + hesitated—“I—well,—other interests had come into my + life,—and—” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue said, softly, “She did not understand, Brian.” + </p> + <p> + “No, she did not understand,” he continued, accepting Auntie Sue's + interpretation without comment. “And when my writing brought no money, + because no publisher would accept my stuff, and the conditions under which + I wrote became intolerable because of misunderstanding and opposition and + disbelief in my ability and charges of neglect, I—I—stole + money from my employers to gain temporary relief until my writing should + amount to something. You see, I could not help believing that I would + succeed, in time. I suppose all dreamers have more or less confidence in + their dreams: they must, you know, or their dreams would never be + realized. I always expected to pay back the money I took with the money I + would earn by my pen. But I failed to earn anything, you see; and then—then + the inevitable happened, and the river brought me to you.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear boy!” cried Auntie Sue, “all this that you have told me is + no reason why you should fear to write now. Indeed, it is a very good + reason why you should not fear.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her questioningly, and she continued: “You have given every + reason in the world why you failed. Your whole life was out of tune. How + could you expect to produce anything worthy from such a jangling discord? + You should have been afraid, indeed, to write THEN. But, NOW,—now, + Brian, you are ready. You are a long, long way down the river from the + place of your failures. The disturbing, distracting things are past,—just + as in the quiet reach of the river below Elbow Rock the turmoil of the + rapids is past. You say that you know exactly what you want to write, and + why you want to write it—and you do know—and because you know,—because + you have suffered,—because you have learned,—because you can + do this thing for others,—it is yours to do, and so you must do it. + What you really mean when you say you are 'afraid to write' is, that you + are AFRAID NOT TO,” she finished with a little laugh of satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + And Brian Kent, as he watched her glowing face and felt the sincerity and + confidence that vibrated in her voice, was thrilled with a new courage. + The fires of his inspiration shone again in his eyes, as he answered, with + deep conviction, “Auntie Sue, I believe you are right. What a woman you + are!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> + <h3> + AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE. + </h3> + <p> + So Brian wrote his book that winter. + </p> + <p> + When the days were fair, he worked with his ax on the mountain-side. But + his notebook was ever at hand, and many a thought that went down on the + pages of his manuscript was born while he wrought with his hands in the + wholesome labor which gave strength to his body and clearness to his + brain. In the evenings, he wrote in the little log house by the river, + with Auntie Sue sitting in her chair beside the table,—the + lamp-light on her silvery hair, and her sewing-basket within reach of her + hand,—engaged with some bit of needlework, a book, or perhaps with + one of her famous letters to some other pupil, far away. The stormy days + gave him many hours with his pen, and so the book grew. + </p> + <p> + And always as the man endeavored to shape his thoughts for the printed + pages that would carry his message to the doubting, disconsolate, and + fearful world that he knew so well, he heard in his heart the voices of + the river. From the hillside where he worked in the timber he could see + the stream winding through the snowy hills like a dark line carelessly + drawn with many a crook and curve and break on the sheet of white. From + the porch he saw the quiet Bend a belt of shining ice and snow, save for a + narrow line in the centre, which marked the course of the strongest + currents; while the waters of the rapids crashed black and dreadful + against the Elbow Rock cliff, which stood gaunt and grim amid the + surrounding whiteness; and in the deathlike hush of the winter twilight, + the roar of the turmoil sounded with persistent menace. And all that the + river said to him he put down,—so far as it was given him to do. + </p> + <p> + And that which Brian Kent wrote was good. He knew it—in his deepest, + truest self he knew. And Auntie Sue knew it; for, of course, he read to + her from his manuscript as the book grew under his hand. Even Judy caught + much of his story's meaning, and marvelled at herself because she, too, + could understand. + </p> + <p> + So the spring came, and the first writing of the book was nearly finished. + </p> + <p> + And now the question arose: What would they do about the final preparation + of the manuscript for the printers? Brian explained that he should have a + typewritten copy of his script, which he would work over, correct, and + revise, and from which perfected copy the final manuscript would be + typewritten. But neither Auntie Sue nor Brian would consider his finishing + the book anywhere but in the little log house by the river; even if there + had been no other reason why Brian should not go to the city, if it could + be avoided. + </p> + <p> + “There is only one thing to do,”—said Auntie Sue, at last, when the + matter had been discussed several times,—“we must send for Betty Jo. + She has been studying stenography in a business college in Cincinnati, + and, in her latest letter to me, she wrote that she would finish in April. + I'll just write her to come right here, and bring her typewriter along. + She will need a vacation, and she can have it and do your work at the same + time. Besides, I need to see Betty Jo. She hasn't been to visit me since + before Judy came.” + </p> + <p> + Brian thought that Auntie Sue seemed a little nervous and excited as she + spoke, but he attributed it to her combined interest in the book and in + the proposed typist. The man could not know the real cause of his gentle + old companion's agitation, nor with what anxiety she had considered the + matter for many days before she announced her plan. The fact was that + Auntie Sue was taking a big chance, and she realized it fully. But she + could find no other way to secure the services of a competent stenographer + for Brian, and, as Brian must have a competent stenographer in order to + finish his book properly, she had decided to accept the risk. + </p> + <p> + “That sounds all right, Auntie Sue,” returned Brian. “But who, pray tell, + is Betty Jo?” + </p> + <p> + “Betty Jo is,”—Auntie Sue paused and laughed with a suggestion of + embarrassed confusion,—“Betty Jo is—just Betty Jo, Brian,” she + finished. + </p> + <p> + Brian laughed now. “Fine, Auntie Sue! That describes her exactly,—tells + me her life's history and gives me a detailed account of her family,—ancestors + and all.” + </p> + <p> + “It describes her with more accuracy than you think,” retorted Auntie Sue, + smiling in return at his teasing manner. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon as how she's got more of er name than that, ain't she?” said + Judy, who was a silent, but intensely interested, listener. “I've allus + took notice that folks with funny names'll stand a right smart of + watchin'.” + </p> + <p> + Brian and Auntie Sue laughed together at this, but the old lady said, with + a show of spirit: “Judy! You know nothing about it! You never even saw + Betty Jo! You shouldn't say such things, child.” + </p> + <p> + “Might as well say 'em as ter think 'em, I reckon,” Judy returned, her + beady-black eyes stealthily watching Brian. + </p> + <p> + “What is your Betty Jo's real name, Auntie Sue?” asked Brian, curiously. + </p> + <p> + Again Auntie Sue seemed to hesitate; then—“Her name is Miss Betty Jo + Williams,” and as she spoke the old teacher looked straight at Brian. + </p> + <p> + “A perfectly good name,” Brian returned; “but I never heard of her + before.” + </p> + <p> + Judy's black eyes, with their stealthy, oblique look, were now watchfully + fixed on Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + “She is the orphan-niece of one of my old pupils,” Auntie Sue continued. + “I have known her since she was a baby. When she finished her education in + the seminary, and had travelled abroad for a few months, she decided all + at once that she wanted a course in a business college, which was just + what any one knowing her would expect her to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Sounds steady and reliable,” commented Brian. “But will she come?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, she will, and be tickled to death over the job,” returned + Auntie Sue. “I'll write her at once.” + </p> + <p> + While Auntie Sue was preparing to write her letter, Judy muttered, in a + tone which only Brian heard: “Just the same, 'tain't no name for a common + gal ter have; hit sure ain't. There's somethin' dad burned queer 'bout hit + somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! Judy,” said Brian in a low voice; “don't worry Auntie Sue.” + </p> + <p> + “I ain't aimin' ter worry her none,” returned the mountain girl; “but I'll + bet you-all a pretty that this here gal'll worry both of youuns 'fore you + are through with her;—me, too, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + For some reason, Auntie Sue's letter to Betty Jo seemed to be rather long. + In fact, she spent the entire evening at it; which led Judy to remark that + “hit sure looked like Auntie Sue was aimin' ter write a book herself.” + </p> + <p> + A neighbor who went to Thompsonville the following day with a load of hogs + for shipment, posted the letter. And, in due time, another neighbor + brought the answer. Betty Jo would come. + </p> + <p> + It was the day following the evening when Brian wrote the last page of his + book that another letter came to Auntie Sue,—a letter which, for the + second time, very nearly wrecked Brian Kent's world. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> + <h3> + JUDY TO THE RESCUE. + </h3> + <p> + Brian was working in the garden. It was early in the afternoon, and the + man, as he worked in the freshly ploughed ground, was rejoicing at the + completion of his book. + </p> + <p> + Straightening up from his labor, he drew a deep breath of the fragrant + air. About him on every side, and far away into the blue distance, the + world was dressed in the gala dress of the season. The river, which at the + breaking of the winter had been a yellow flood that washed the top of the + bank in front of the house and covered the bottom-lands on the opposite + side, was again its normal self, and its voice to him, now, was a singing + voice of triumphal gladness. + </p> + <p> + For Brian, too, the world was new, and fresh, and beautiful. The world of + his winter was gone. He had found himself in his work, and in the glorious + consciousness of the fact he felt like shouting with sheer joy of living. + </p> + <p> + “And Auntie Sue, dear Auntie Sue,” he thought, looking with love in his + eyes toward the house, how wonderful she had been in her helpful + understanding and never-failing faith in him. After all, it was Auntie + Sue's triumph more than it was his. + </p> + <p> + His happy musing was interrupted by a neighbor who, on his way home from + Thompsonville, stopped at the garden fence with the letter for Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + Brian took the letter with a jest which brought a roar of laughter from + the mountaineer, and, when the latter had gone on his way up the hill, + started toward the house to find Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + Glancing at the envelope in his hand, Brian noticed the postmark “Buenos + Aires.” He stopped suddenly, staring dumbly at the words in the circular + mark and at the name written on the envelope. Over and over, he read + “Buenos Aires,—Miss Susan Wakefield; Buenos Aires,—Miss Susan + Wakefield.” Something—His brain seemed to be numb. His hands + trembled. He looked about at the familiar surroundings, and everything + seemed suddenly strange and unreal to him. He looked again at the letter + in his hand, turning it curiously. A strange feeling of oppression and + ominous foreboding possessed him as though the bright spring sky were all + at once overcast with heavy and menacing storm-clouds. What was it? + “Buenos Aires,—Susan Wakefield?” Where had he seen that combination + before? What was it that made the name of the Argentine city in connection + with Auntie Sue's name seem so familiar? Slowly, he went on to the house, + and, finding Auntie Sue, gave her the letter. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried the old lady, as she saw the postmark on the envelope. “It + must be from brother John. It is not John's writing, though,” she added, + as she opened the envelope. + </p> + <p> + And at her words the feeling of impending disaster so oppressed Brian Kent + that only by an effort could he control himself. He was possessed of the + strange sensation of having at some time in the past lived the identical + experience through which he was at that moment passing. “Susan Wakefield;—a + brother John in Buenos Aires, Argentine;—the letter!” It was all so + familiar that the allusion was startling in its force. But that ominous + cloud,—that sense of some great trouble near that filled him with + such unaccountable dread—what could it mean? + </p> + <p> + An exclamation from Auntie Sue drew his attention. She looked at him with + tear-filled eyes, and her sweet voice broke as she said: “Brian! Brian! + John is dead! This—this letter is from the doctor who attended him.” + </p> + <p> + Tenderly, as he would have helped his own mother, Brian assisted Auntie + Sue to her room. For a little while he sat with her, trying to comfort her + with such poor words as he could find. + </p> + <p> + Briefly, she told him of the brother who had lived in Argentine for many + years. He had married a South-American woman whom Auntie Sue had never + seen, and while not wealthy had been moderately prosperous. But he had + never forgotten his sister who was so alone in the world. “Several times, + when he could, he sent me money for my savings-bank account,” she finished + simply, her sweet old voice low and tender with the memories of the years + that were gone. “John and I were always very fond of each other. He was a + good man, Brian.” + </p> + <p> + Brian Kent sat like a man stricken dumb. Auntie Sue's words, “he sent me + money for my savings-bank account,” had made the connection between the + names “Buenos Aires, Argentine; John Wakefield; Susan Wakefield,” and the + thing for which his mind had been groping with such a sense of impending + disaster. + </p> + <p> + In her grief over the death of her brother, and in her memories of their + home years so long past, dear old Auntie Sue had forgotten the peculiar + meaning her words might have for the former clerk of the Empire + Consolidated Savings Bank who sat beside her, and to whom she turned in + her sorrow as a mother to a dearly beloved son. + </p> + <p> + “But it is all right, Brian, dear,” she said with brave cheerfulness. + “When one has watched the sunsets for seventy years, one ceases to fear + the coming of the night, for always there is the morning. Just let me rest + here alone for a little while, and I will be myself again.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him with a smile, and Brian Kent, kneeling beside the + bed, bowed his head and caught the dear old hands to his lips. Without + trusting himself to speak again, the man left the room,—closing the + door. + </p> + <p> + He moved about the apartment as one in a dream. With a vividness that was + torture, he lived again that hour in the bank when, opening the afternoon + mail, he had found the letter from Susan Wakefield with the Argentine + notes, which her letter said she had received from her brother John in + Buenos Aires, and which she was sending to the bank for deposit to her + little account. It had been a very unbusinesslike letter and a very + unbusinesslike way to transmit money. It was, indeed, this nature of the + transaction that had tempted the hard-pressed clerk. + </p> + <p> + Mechanically, Brian stopped at his writing-table to finger the manuscript + which he had finished the evening before. Was it only the evening before? + Taking up the volume of closely written sheets which were bound together + by a shoestring that Auntie Sue had laughingly found for him, when he had + so joyously announced the completion of the last page of his book, he + turned the leaves idly,—reading here and there a sentence with + curious interest. The terrific mental strain of his situation completely + divorced him, as it were, from the life which he had lived during those + happy months just past, and which was so fully represented by his work. + </p> + <p> + Again the river, swinging around a sudden turn in its course, had come + upon a passage where its peaceful flow was broken by the wild turmoil of + the troubled waters. + </p> + <p> + “And Auntie Sue,”—something within the man's self was saying,—“dear + Auntie Sue, who had saved him, not only from death, but from the hell of + the life that he had formerly lived, as well; and whose loving + companionship and sympathetic understanding had so inspired and + strengthened him in the work which had been the passionate desire of his + heart;—the gentle old teacher whose life had been so completely + given to others, and who, in the helplessness of her last years, was so + alone,—Auntie Sue was depending upon that money which her brother + had sent her as the only support of the closing days of her life. Auntie + Sue believed that her money was safe in the bank. That belief was to her a + daily comfort. Auntie Sue did not know that she was almost penniless;—that + the man whom she had saved with such a wondrous salvation had robbed her, + and left her so shamefully without means for the necessities of life. + Auntie Sue did not know. But she would know,”—that inner voice went + on. “The time would come when she would learn the truth. It was certain to + come. It might come any day. Then—then—” + </p> + <p> + As one moving without conscious purpose, Brian Kent went from the house,—the + manuscript in his hand. + </p> + <p> + Judy was sitting idly on the porch steps. At sight of the mountain girl + the man knew all at once that there was one thing he must do. He must make + sure that there was no mistake. He was already sure, of course; but still, + as a condemned man at the scaffold hopes against hope for a stay of + sentence, so he caught at the shadowy suggestion of a possibility. + </p> + <p> + “Come with me, Judy,” he said, forcing himself to speak coolly; “I want to + talk with you.” + </p> + <p> + Judy arose, and, looking at him in her stealthy, oblique way, said, in her + drawling monotone: “What's happened ter Auntie Sue? Was there somethin' in + that there letter Bud Jackson give you-all for her what's upset her?” + </p> + <p> + “Auntie Sue's brother is dead, Judy,” Brian answered. “She wishes to be + alone, and we must not disturb her. She will be all right in a little + while. Come, let us walk down toward the bluff.” + </p> + <p> + When they had reached a spot on the river-bank a short distance above the + Elbow Rock cliff, Brian said to his companion: “Judy, I want you to tell + me something. Did Auntie Sue ever send money in a letter to the Empire + Consolidated Savings Bank, in Chicago?” + </p> + <p> + “The black, beady eyes shifted evasively, and the mountain girl turned her + sallow, old-young face away from Brian's direct gaze. + </p> + <p> + “Look at me, Judy.” + </p> + <p> + She sent a stealthy, oblique glance in his direction. + </p> + <p> + “You must tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “I done started ter tell you-all onct,—that time pap ketched me,—an' + you-all 'lowed as how I oughten ter tell nothin' 'bout Auntie Sue to + nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is different now, Judy,” returned Brian. “Something has happened + that makes it necessary for me to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Meanin' that there letter 'bout her brother bein' dead?” asked Judy, + shrewdly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What you-all got ter know for?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—” Brian could not finish. + </p> + <p> + Judy's beady eyes were watching him intently, now. “Hit looks like you-all + ain't a-needin' me ter tell you-all anythin',” she observed dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Then Auntie Sue did send money?” + </p> + <p> + “She sure did. I seed her fix hit in the letter, myself,” came the answer. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of money?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno,—some funny kind hit was,—what her brother done sent + her from some funny place, I dunno just where.” + </p> + <p> + “When did she send it?” + </p> + <p> + “'Bout a month 'fore you come.” + </p> + <p> + “And—and did any letter ever come from the bank to tell her that the + money was received by them all right?” + </p> + <p> + The mountain girl did not answer, but again turned her face away. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” Brian insisted. “I—I—must know, Judy,” and his + voice was harsh and broken with emotion. + </p> + <p> + The answer came reluctantly: “I reckon you-all knows where that there + money went ter.” + </p> + <p> + The girl's answer sent a new thought like a hot iron into Brian Kent's + tortured brain. He caught Judy's arm in quick and fearful excitement. + “Judy!” he gasped, imploringly, “Judy, do you—? does Auntie Sue know—? + does she know that I—?” + </p> + <p> + “How could she help knowin'? She ain't no fool. An' I done heard that + there Sheriff an' the deteckertive man tellin' her 'bout you an' the bank. + An' the Sheriff, he done give her a paper what he said told all 'bout what + you-all done, an' she must er burned the paper, or done somethin' with + hit, 'cause I couldn't never find hit after that night. An' what would she + do that for? And what for did she make me promise not ter ever say nothin' + ter you-all 'bout that there money letter? An' why ain't she said nothin' + to you 'bout the letter from the bank not comin', if she didn't know hit + was you 'stead of them what done got the money?” + </p> + <p> + The girl paused for a moment, and then went on in a tone of reverent + wonder: “An' to think that all the time she could a-turned you-all over to + that there Sheriff an' got the money-reward to pay her back what you-all + done tuck.” + </p> + <p> + Brian Kent was as one who had received a mortal hurt. His features were + distorted with suffering. With eyes that could not see, he looked down at + the manuscript to which he still unconsciously clung; and, again, he + fingered the pages of his work as though some blind instinct were sending + his tormented soul to seek relief in the message which, during the happy + months just past, he had written for others. + </p> + <p> + And the deformed mountain girl, who stood before him with twisted body and + old-young face, grew fearful as she watched the suffering of this man whom + she had come to look upon as a superior being from some world which she, + in her ignorance, could never know. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Burns,” she said at last, putting out her hand and plucking at his + sleeve, “Mr. Burns, you-all ain't got no call ter be like this. You-all + ain't plumb bad. I knows you ain't, 'count of the way you-all have been + ter me an' 'cause you kept pap from hurtin' me, an' 'cause you are takin' + care of Auntie Sue like you're doin'. Hit ain't no matter 'bout the money, + now, 'cause you-all kin take care of her allus.” + </p> + <p> + Brian looked up from the manuscript in his hand, and stared dumbly at the + girl, as if he failed to hear her clearly. + </p> + <p> + “An' just think 'bout your book,” Judy continued pleadingly. “Think 'bout + all them fine things you-all have done wrote down for everybody ter read,—'bout + the river allus a-goin' on just the same, no matter what happens, an' + 'bout Auntie Sue an'—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped, and drew away from him, frightened at the look that came into + the man's face. + </p> + <p> + “Don't, Mr. Burns! Don't!” she half-screamed. “'Fore God, you-all oughten + ter look like that!” + </p> + <p> + The man threw up his head, and laughed,—laughed as the wild, + reckless and lost Brian Kent had laughed that black night when, in the + drifting boat, he had cursed the life he was leaving and had drunk his + profane toast to the darkness into which he was being carried. + </p> + <p> + Raising the manuscript, which represented all that the past months of his + re-created life had meant to him, and grasping it in both hands, he shook + it contemptuously, as he said, with indescribable bitterness and the + reckless surrendering of every hope: “'All them fine things that I have + wrote down for everybody ter read.'” He mimicked her voice with a sneer, + and laughed again. Then: “It's all a lie, Judy, dear;—a damned lie. + Auntie Sue is a saint, and believes it. She made me believe it for a + little while,—her beautiful, impossible dream-philosophy of the + river. The river,—hell!—the river is as treacherous and cruel + and false and tricky and crooked as life itself! And I am as warped and + twisted in mind and soul as you are in body, Judy, dear. Neither of us can + help it. We were made that way by the river. To hell with the whole + impossible mess of things!” With a gesture of violent rage, he turned + toward the river, and, taking a step forward, lifted the manuscript high + above his head. + </p> + <p> + Judy screamed, “Mr. Burns, don't!” + </p> + <p> + He paused an instant, and, turning his head, looked at her with another + laugh. + </p> + <p> + “'Fore God, you dassn't do that!” she implored. + </p> + <p> + And then, as the man turned his face from her, and his arms went back + above his head for the swing that would send the manuscript far out into + the tumbling waters of the rapids, she leaped toward him, and, catching + his arm, hampered his movement so that the book fell a few feet from the + shore, where the water, checked a little in its onward rush to the cliff + by the irregular bank, boiled and eddied among the rocky ledges and huge + boulders that retarded its force. Another leap carried the mountain girl + to the edge of the bank, where she crouched like a runner ready for the + report of the starter's pistol, her black, beady eyes searching the stream + for the volume of manuscript, which had disappeared from sight, drawn down + by the troubled swirling currents. + </p> + <p> + The man, watching her, laughed in derision; but, while his mocking + laughter was still on his lips, the boiling currents brought the book, + again, to the surface, and Brian saw the girl leave the bank as if thrown + by a powerful spring. Straight and true she dived for the book, and even + as she disappeared beneath the surface her hands clutched the manuscript. + </p> + <p> + For a second, Brian Kent held his place as if paralyzed with horror. Then, + as Judy's head appeared farther down the stream, he ran with all his + strength along the bank to gain a point a little ahead of the swimming + girl before he should leap to her rescue. + </p> + <p> + But Judy, trained from her birth on that mountain river, knew better than + Brian what to do. A short distance below the point where she had plunged + into the stream, a huge boulder, some two or three feet from the shore, + caused a split in the current, one fork of which set in toward the bank. + Swimming desperately, the girl gained the advantage of this current, and, + just as Brian reached the spot, she was swept against the bank, where, + with her free hand, she caught and held fast to a projecting root. Had she + been carried past that point, nothing could have saved her from being + swept on into the wild turmoil of the waters at Elbow Rock. + </p> + <p> + It was the work of a moment for Brian to throw himself flat on the ground + at the edge of the bank and, reaching down, to grasp the girl's wrist. + Another moment, and she was safe beside him, his manuscript still tightly + held under one arm. + </p> + <p> + Not realizing, in his excitement, what he was doing, Brian shook the girl, + saying angrily: “What in the world do you mean, taking such a crazy-fool + chance as that!” + </p> + <p> + She broke away from him with: “Well, what'd you-all go an' do such a dad + burned fool thing for? Hit's you-all what's crazy yourself—plumb + crazy!” + </p> + <p> + Brian held out his hand: “Give me that manuscript!” + </p> + <p> + Judy clutched the book tighter, and drew back defiantly. “I won't. You-all + done throwed hit away onct. 'Tain't your'n no more, nohow.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what do you purpose to do with it?” said the puzzled man, in a + gentler tone. + </p> + <p> + “I aims ter give hit ter Auntie Sue,” came the startling reply. “I reckon + she'll know what ter do. Hit allus was more her'n than your'n, anyhow. You + done said so yourself. I heard you only last night when you-all was so dad + burned tickled at gittin' hit done. You-all ain't got no right ter sling + hit inter the river, an', anyway, I ain't a-goin' ter let you.” + </p> + <p> + “Which sounds very sensible to me,” came a clear voice from a few feet + distant. + </p> + <p> + Judy and Brian turned quickly, to face a young woman who stood regarding + them thoughtfully, with a suggestion of a smile on her very attractive + face. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. + </h2> + <h3> + BETTY JO CONSIDERS. + </h3> + <p> + The most careless eye would have seen instantly that the newcomer was not + a native of that backwoods district. She was not a large woman, but there + was, nevertheless, a full, rounded strength, which saved her trim and + rather slender body from appearing small. Neither would a discriminating + observer describe her by that too-common term “pretty.” She was more than + that. In her large, gray eyes, there was a look of frank, straightforward + interest that suggested an almost boyish good-fellowship, while at the + same time there was about her a general air of good breeding; with a calm, + self-possessed and businesslike alertness which, combined with a wholesome + dignity, commanded a feeling of respect and confidence. Her voice was + clear and musical, with an undertone of sympathetic humor. One felt when + she spoke that while she lacked nothing of intelligent understanding and + sympathetic interest, she was quite ready to laugh at you just the same. + </p> + <p> + When the two stood speechless, she said, looking straight at Brian: “It + seems to me, sir, that the young lady has all the best of the argument. + But I really think she should have some dry clothes as well.” + </p> + <p> + She turned to the dripping and dishevelled Judy: “You poor child. Aren't + you cold! It is rather early in the season for a dip in the river, I + should think. Let me take whatever you have there, and you make for the + house as fast as you can go,—the run will warm you.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke, she went to the mountain girl, holding out her hand to take + the manuscript, and smiling encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + But Judy backed away, her stealthy, oblique gaze fixed with watchful + surprise on the fair stranger. + </p> + <p> + “This here ain't none of your put-in,” and her shrill drawling monotone + contrasted strangely with the other's pleasing voice. “Where'd you-all + happen from, anyhow? How'd you-all git here?” + </p> + <p> + “I came over the bluff by the path,” answered the other. “You see, I left + the train from the south at White's Crossing because I knew I could drive + up from there by the river road quicker than I could go by rail away + around through the hills to Thompsonville, and then make the drive down + the river from there. When I reached Elbow Rock, I was in such a hurry, I + took the short cut, while the man with my trunk and things went by the + road over Schoolhouse Hill, you know. I arrived here just as this + gentleman was pulling you from the water.” + </p> + <p> + Before Brian could speak, Judy returned with excitement: “I know who + you-all be now. I ought ter knowed the minute I set eyes on you. You-all + are the gal with that there no-'count name, an' you've come ter work for + him, there,”—she pointed to Brian,—“a-helpin' him ter write + his book, what ain't his'n no more, nohow, 'cause he done throwed hit + away,—plumb inter the river.” + </p> + <p> + “I am Miss Williams,” returned the other. “My 'no-'count name,' I suppose, + is Betty Jo.” She laughed kindly. “Perhaps it won't seem so 'no'count' + when we are better acquainted, Judy. Won't you run along to the house, and + change to some dry clothes? You will catch your death of cold if you stand + here like this.” + </p> + <p> + “How'd you-all know I was Judy?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Auntie Sue wrote me about you, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “An' you knowed me 'cause I'm so all crooked an' ugly, I reckon,” came the + uncompromising return. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo turned to Brian: “You are Mr. Burns, are you not, for whom I am + to work?” + </p> + <p> + Brian made no reply,—he really could not speak. “And this,”—Betty + Jo included Judy, the manuscript, and the river in a graceful gesture,—“this, + I suppose, is the result of what is called 'the artistic temperament'?” + </p> + <p> + Still the man could find no words. The young woman's presence and her + reference to his work brought to him, with overwhelming vividness, the + memory of all to which he had so short a time before looked forward, and + which was now so hopelessly lost to him. He felt, too, a sense of + rebellion that she should have come at such a moment,—that she could + stand there with such calm self-possession and with such an air of + competency. Her confidence and poise in such contrast to the chaotic + turmoil of his own thoughts, and his utter helplessness in the situation + which had so suddenly burst upon him, filled him with unreasoning + resentment. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo must have read in Brian Kent's face something of the suffering + that held him there dumb and motionless before her, and so sensed a deeper + tragedy than appeared on the surface of the incident; and her own face and + voice revealed her understanding as she said, with quiet, but decisive, + force: “Mr. Burns, Judy must go to the house. Won't you persuade her?” + </p> + <p> + Brian started as one aroused from deep abstraction, and went to Judy; + while Betty Jo drew a little way apart, and stood looking out over the + river. + </p> + <p> + “Give me the manuscript, Judy,” said Brian gently, “and go on to the + house.” + </p> + <p> + “You-all ain't a-goin' ter sling hit inter the river again?” The words + were half-question and half-assertion. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Brian. “I promise not to throw it into the river again.” + </p> + <p> + As Judy gave him the manuscript, she turned her beady eyes in a stealthy, + oblique look toward Betty Jo, and whispered: “You-all best tell her 'bout + hit. I sure hate her poison-bad; but hit's easy ter see she'd sure know + what ter do.” + </p> + <p> + “Be careful that Auntie Sue doesn't see you like this, Judy,” was Brian's + only answer; and Judy started off for her much-needed change to dry + clothing. + </p> + <p> + When the mountain girl was gone, Brian stood looking at the water-stained + volume of manuscript in his hand. He had no feeling, now, of more than a + curious idle interest in this work to which, during the months just past, + he had given so without reserve the best of himself. It was, he thought, + strange how he could regard with such indifference a thing for which a few + hours before he would have given his life. Dumbly, he was conscious of the + truth of Judy's words,—that the book was no longer his. Judy was + right—this book which he had called his had always been, in reality, + Auntie Sue's. So the matter of his work, at least so far as he had to do + with it, was settled—definitely and finally settled. + </p> + <p> + But what of himself? What was to become of him? Of one thing only he was + certain about himself;—he never could face Auntie Sue again. + Knowing, now, what he had done, and knowing that she knew;—that all + the time she was nursing him back to health, all the time she had been + giving him the inspiration and strength and peace of her gentle, loving + companionship, in the safe and quiet harbor of her little house by the + river, she had known that it was he who had—A clear, matter-of-fact, + but gentle, voice interrupted his bitter thoughts: “Is it so very badly + damaged, Mr. Burns?” + </p> + <p> + He had forgotten Betty Jo, who now stood close beside him. + </p> + <p> + “Let me see?” She held out her hand as he turned slowly to face her. + </p> + <p> + Without a word, he gave her the manuscript. + </p> + <p> + Very businesslike and practical, but with an underlying feeling of + tenderness that was her most compelling charm, Betty Jo examined the + water-stained volume. + </p> + <p> + “Why, no,” she announced cheerfully; “it isn't really hurt much. You see, + the sheets being tied together so tightly, the water didn't get all the + way through. The covers and the first and last pages are pretty wet, and + the edges of the rest are rather damp. It'll be smudged somewhat, but I + don't believe there is a single word that can't be made out. It is lucky + it didn't prolong its bath, though, isn't it? All we need to do, now, is + to put it in the sun to dry for a few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + Selecting a sunny spot near by, she arranged the volume against a stone + and deftly separated the pages so that the air could circulate more freely + between them; and one would have said, from her manner of ready assurance, + that she had learned from long experience exactly how to dry a manuscript + that had been thrown in the river and rescued just in the nick of time. + That was Betty Jo's way. She always did everything without hesitation,—just + as though she had spent the twenty-three years of her life doing exactly + that particular thing. + </p> + <p> + Kneeling over the manuscript, and gently moving the wet sheets, she said, + without looking up: “Do you always bath your manuscripts like this before + you turn them over to your stenographer to type, Mr. Burns?” + </p> + <p> + In spite of his troubled state of mind, Brian smiled. + </p> + <p> + The clear, matter-of-fact voice went on, while the competent hands moved + the drying pages. “You see, I never worked for an author before. I suspect + I have a lot to learn.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him with a Betty Jo smile that went straight to his + heart, as Betty Jo's smiles had a curious way of doing. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you will be very patient with me, Mr. Burns. You will, won't you? + There is no real danger of your throwing ME in the river when the + 'artistic temperament' possesses you, is there?” + </p> + <p> + It was no use. When Betty Jo set out to make a man talk, that man talked. + Brian yielded not ungracefully: “I owe you an apology, Miss Williams,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, no,” Betty Jo returned, giving her attention to the manuscript + again. “It is easy to see that you are terribly upset about something; and + everybody is so accustomed to being upset in one way or another that + apologies for upsetments are quite an unnecessary bother, aren't they?” + </p> + <p> + That was another interestingly curious thing about Betty Jo,—the way + she could finish off a characteristic, matter-of-fact statement with a + question which had the effect of making one agree instantly whether one + agreed or not. + </p> + <p> + Brian felt himself quite unexpectedly feeling that “upsetments” were quite + common, ordinary, and to be expected events in one's life. “But I am + really in very serious trouble, Miss Williams,” he said in a way that + sounded oddly to Brian himself, as though he were trying to convince + himself that his trouble really was serious. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo rose to her feet, and looked straight at him, and there was no + mistaking the genuineness of the interest expressed in those big gray + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, are you? Is it really so serious? I am so sorry. But don't you think + you better tell me about it, Mr. Burns? If I am to work for you, I may + just as well begin right here, don't you think?” + </p> + <p> + There it was again,—that trick-question. Brian felt himself agreeing + in spite of himself, though how he was to explain his painful situation to + this young woman whom, until a few minutes before, he had never even seen, + he did not know. He answered cautiously, speaking half to himself: “That + is what Judy said.” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo did not understand, and made no pretense,—she never made a + pretense of anything. “What did Judy say?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “That I had better tell you about it,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + And the matter-of-fact Betty Jo returned: “Judy seems to be a very + particular and common-sensing sort of Judy, doesn't she?” + </p> + <p> + And Brian realized all at once that Judy was exactly what Betty Jo said. + </p> + <p> + “But,—I—I—don't see how I CAN tell you, Miss Williams.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” laughed Betty Jo. “It is perfectly simple, Mr. Burns, here, now, + I'll show you: You are to sit down there on that nice comfortable rock,—that + is your big office-chair, you know,—and I'll sit right here on this + rock,—which is my little stenography-chair,—and you will just + explain the serious business proposition to me with careful attention to + details. I must tell you that 'detailing' is one of my strong points, so + don't spare me. I really should have my notebook, shouldn't I?” + </p> + <p> + Again, in spite of himself, Brian smiled; also, before he was aware, they + were both seated as Betty Jo had directed. + </p> + <p> + “But this is not a business matter, Miss Williams,” he managed to protest + half-heartedly. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo was looking at her watch in a most matter-of-fact manner, and she + answered in a most matter-of-fact voice: “Everything is more or less a + business matter, isn't it, Mr. Burns?” + </p> + <p> + And Brian, if he had answered, would have agreed. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo slipped her watch back into her pocket, and continued: “You will + have plenty of time before that man with my trunk and things can get away + 'round over Schoolhouse Hill and down again to Auntie Sue's. He will be + obliged to stop at neighbor Tom's, and tell them all about me, of course. + We mustn't let him beat us to the house, though; so, perhaps, you better + begin, don't you think?” + </p> + <p> + That “don't-you-think?” so characteristic of Betty Jo, did its work, as + usual; and so, almost before Brian Kent realized what he was doing, it had + been decided for him that to follow Judy's advice was the best possible + thing he could do, and he was relating his whole wretched experience to + this young woman, about whom he knew nothing except that she was a niece + of an old pupil of Auntie Sue's, and that she had just finished a course + in a business college in Cincinnati. + </p> + <p> + At several points in his story Betty Jo asked straightforward questions, + or made short, matter-of-fact comments; but, always with her businesslike + air of competent interest. Indeed, she managed to treat the situation as + being wholly impersonal; while at the same time the man was never for a + moment made to feel that she was lacking in sincere and genuine sympathy. + Only when he told her that his name was Brian Kent, and mentioned the + Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, did she for the moment betray excited + surprise. When she saw that he had noticed, she said quickly: “I read of + the affair in the papers, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue had indeed taken a big chance when she decided for Betty Jo to + come to help Brian with his book. But Auntie Sue had taken no chance on + Betty Jo herself. Perhaps it was, in fact, the dear old teacher's + certainty about Betty Jo herself that had led her to accept the risk of + sending for the niece of her friend and pupil under such a peculiar + combination of circumstances. + </p> + <p> + When Brian had finished his story with the account of his discovery of the + distressing fact that he had robbed Auntie Sue and that she knew he had + robbed her, Betty Jo said: “It is really a sad story, isn't it, Mr. Burns? + But, oh, isn't Auntie Sue wonderful! Was there ever such another woman in + the world! Don't you love her? And couldn't you do anything—anything + that would make her happy? After all, when you think of Auntie Sue, and + how wonderful she has been, this whole thing isn't so bad, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I—I—don't think I see what you mean,” Brian replied, + puzzled by the unexpected turn she had given to the situation, yet + convinced by that little question with which she finished that she was + somehow right. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I mean wouldn't YOU love to do for some one what Auntie Sue has + done for you? I should if I were only big enough and good enough. It seems + to me it would make one the happiest and contentedest and peacefulest + person in the world, wouldn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Brian did not answer. While he felt himself agreeing with Betty Jo's view, + he was wondering at himself that he could discuss the matter so calmly. It + was not that he no longer felt deeply the shame of this terrible thing + that he had done; it was not that he had ceased to suffer the torment that + had caused his emotional madness, which had found expression in his + attempt to destroy his manuscript; it was only that this young woman + somehow made it possible for him to retain his self-control, and instead + of venting his emotions in violent and wholly useless expressions of + regret, and self-condemnation, and in irrational, temperamental action, to + consider coolly and sanely what he must do. He was strangely possessed, + too, of an instinctive certainty that Betty Jo knew exactly how he felt + and exactly what she was doing. + </p> + <p> + While he was thinking these things, or, rather, feeling them, Betty Jo + went to see how the manuscript was drying. She returned to her seat on the + rock presently, saying: “It is doing very nicely,—almost dry. I + think it will be done pretty soon. In the meantime, what are we going to + do about everything? You have thought of something for you to do, of + course!” + </p> + <p> + “I fear I have felt rather more than I have thought,” returned Brian. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “Yes, I know; but feeling alone never arrives anywhere. An + excess of thoughtless feeling is sheer emotional extravagance. I sound + like a book, don't I?” she laughed. “It is so just the same, Mr. Burns. + And now that you have—ah—been properly—not to say + gloriously—extravagant at poor Judy's expense, we had better do a + little thinking, don't you think?” + </p> + <p> + The man's cheeks reddened at her words; but the straightforward, downright + sincerity of those gray eyes, that looked so frankly into his, held him + steady; while the interrogation at the end of her remark carried its usual + conviction. + </p> + <p> + “There is only one possible thing left for me to do, Miss Williams,” he + said earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “And what is that?” A smile that sent a glow of courage to Brian Kent's + troubled heart accompanied the flat question. + </p> + <p> + “I can't face Auntie Sue again, knowing what I know now.” He spoke with + passion. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you would expect to feel that way, wouldn't you?” came the + matter-of-fact answer. + </p> + <p> + “The only thing I can do,” he continued, “is to give myself up, and go to + the penitentiary; arranging, somehow, to do it in such a way that the + reward will go to Auntie Sue. God knows she deserves it! Sheriff Knox + would help me fix that part, I am sure.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment there was a suspicious moisture in Betty Jo's gray eyes. Then + she said, “And you would really go to prison for Auntie Sue?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the least I can do for her now,” he returned. + </p> + <p> + And Betty Jo must have felt the sincerity of his purpose, for she said, + softly: “I am sure that it would make Auntie Sue very happy to know that + you would do that; and”—she added—“I know that you could not + possibly make her more unhappy and miserable than by doing it, could you?” + </p> + <p> + Again she had given an unexpected turn to the subject with the usual + convincing question-mark. + </p> + <p> + “But what can I do?” he demanded, letting himself go a little. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo steadied him with: “Well, suppose you listen while I consider? + Did I tell you that 'considering' was another of my strong points, Mr. + Burns? Well, it is. You may consider me while I consider, if you please. + </p> + <p> + “The first thing is, that you must make Auntie Sue happy,—as happy + as you possibly can do at any cost. The second thing is, that you must pay + her back that money, every penny of it. Now, it wouldn't make her happy + for you to go to prison, and the reward wouldn't pay back all the money; + and if you were in prison, you never could pay the rest; besides, if you + were wasting your time in prison, she would just die of miserableness, and + she wouldn't touch a penny of that reward-money—not if she was to + die for want of it. So that settles that, doesn't it?” + </p> + <p> + And Brian was forced to admit that, as Betty Jo put it, it did. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, let us consider some more: Dear Auntie Sue has been + wonderfully, gloriously happy in doing what she has for you this past + winter,—meaning your book and all. I can see that she must have + been. No one could help being happy doing such a thing as that. So you + just simply can't spoil it all, now, by letting her know that you know + what you know.” + </p> + <p> + Brian started to speak, but she checked him with: “Please, Mr. Burns, I + must not be interrupted when I am considering. Next to the prison,—which + we have agreed won't do at all,—you could do nothing that would make + Auntie Sue more unhappy than to spoil the happiness she has in your not + knowing what you have done to her. That is very clear, isn't it? And think + of her miserableness if, after all these weeks of happy anticipation, your + book should never be published. No, no, no; you can't rob Auntie Sue of + her happiness in you just because you stole her money, can you?” + </p> + <p> + And Brian knew in his heart that she was right. + </p> + <p> + “So, you see,” Betty Jo continued, “the only possible way to do is to go + right along just as if nothing had happened. And there is this final + consideration,—which must be a dark secret between you and me,—when + the book is finished, you must see to it that every penny that comes from + it goes to Auntie Sue until she is paid back all that she lost through + you. Now, isn't that pretty fine 'considering,' Mr. Burns?” + </p> + <p> + And Brian was convinced that it was. “But,” he suggested, “the book may + not earn anything. Nothing that I ever wrote before did.” + </p> + <p> + “You never wrote one before just like this, did you?” came the very + matter-of-fact answer. “And, besides, if your book never earns a cent, it + will do Auntie Sue a world more good than your going to prison for her. + That would be rather silly, now that you think of it, wouldn't it? And now + that we have our conspiracy all nicely conspired, we must hurry to the + house before that man arrives with my things.” + </p> + <p> + She went for the manuscript as she spoke. “See,” she cried, “it is quite + dry, and not a bit the worse for its temperamental experience!” She + laughed gleefully. + </p> + <p> + “But, Miss Williams,” exclaimed Brian, “I—I—can't understand + you! You don't seem to mind. What I have told you about myself doesn't + seem to—to—make any difference to you—I mean in your + attitude toward me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, it does,” she returned. “It makes me very interested in you, Mr. + Burns.” + </p> + <p> + “But, how can you have any confidence—How can you help me with my + book now that you know what I am?” he persisted, for he was sincerely + puzzled by her apparent indifference to the revelation he had made of his + character. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie Sue,”—she answered,—“just Auntie Sue. Come,—we + must go.” + </p> + <p> + “How in the world can I ever face her!” groaned Brian. + </p> + <p> + “You won't get the chance at her, for awhile, with me around;—she + will be so busy with me that she won't notice anything wrong with you. So + you will get accustomed to the conspiracy feeling before you are even + suspected of conspiring. You know, when one has once arrived at the state + of not feeling like a liar, one can lie with astonishing success. Haven't + you found it so?” + </p> + <p> + They laughed together over this as they went toward the house. + </p> + <p> + As they reached the porch, Betty Jo whispered a last word of instruction: + “You better find Judy, and fix her the first thing;—fix her good and + hard. Here is Auntie Sue now. Don't worry about her noticing anything + strange about you. I'll attend to her.” + </p> + <p> + And the next minute, Betty Jo had the dear old lady in her arms. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. + </h2> + <h3> + A MATTER OF BUSINESS. + </h3> + <p> + The weeks that followed the coming of Betty Jo to the little log house by + the river passed quickly for Brian Kent. Perhaps it was the peculiar + circumstances of their first meeting that made the man feel so strongly + that he had known her for many years, instead of for only those few short + weeks. That could easily have been the reason, because the young woman had + stepped so suddenly into his life at a very critical time;—when his + mental faculties were so confused by the turmoil and suffering of his + emotional self that the past was to him, at the moment, far more real than + the present. + </p> + <p> + And Betty Jo had not merely come into his life casually, as a + disinterested spectator; but, by the peculiar appeal of herself, she had + led Brian to take her so into his confidence that she had become + immediately a very real part of the experience through which he was then + passing, and thus was identified with his past experience out of which the + crisis of the moment had come. + </p> + <p> + Again Betty Jo, in the naturalness of her manner toward him, and by her + matter-of-fact, impersonal consideration of his perplexing situation, had + brought to his unsettled and chaotic mind a sense of stability and order; + and by subtly insinuating her own practical decisions as to the course he + should follow, had made herself a very literal part of his inner life. In + fact, Betty Jo knew Brian Kent more intimately at the close of their first + meeting than she could have known him after years of acquaintanceship + under the ordinary course of development. + </p> + <p> + Brian's consciousness of this would naturally cause him to feel toward the + young woman as though she had long been a part of his life. Still other + causes might have contributed to the intimate companionship that so + quickly became to them both an established and taken-for-granted fact; + but, the circumstances of their first meeting, given, of course, their + peculiar individualities, were, really, quite enough. The fact that it was + springtime might also have had something to do with it. + </p> + <p> + The morning after her arrival, Betty Jo set to work typing the manuscript. + Brian went to his work on the timbered hillside. In the evenings, Brian + worked over the typewitten pages,—revising, correcting, perfecting,—and + then, as Betty Jo made the final copy for the printers, they went + critically over the work together. + </p> + <p> + So the hours flew past on busy wings, and the days of the springtime drew + toward summer. The tender green of the new-born leaves and grasses changed + to a stronger, deeper tone. The air, which had been so filled with the + freshness and newness of bursting buds and rain-blessed soil, and all the + quickening life of tree and bush and plant, now carried the perfume of + strongly growing things,—the feel of maturing life. + </p> + <p> + To Brian, the voices of the river brought a fuller, deeper message, with a + subtle undertone of steady and enduring purpose. + </p> + <p> + From the beginning, Betty Jo established for herself the habit of leaving + her work at the typewriter in the afternoons, and going for a walk over + the hills. Quite incidentally, at first, her walks occasionally led her by + way of the clearing where Brian was at work with his ax, and it followed, + naturally, that as the end of the day drew near, the two would go together + down the mountain-side to the evening meal. But long before the book was + finished, the little afternoon visit and the walk together at the day's + close had become so established as a custom that they both accepted it as + a part of their day's life; and to Brian, at least, it was an hour to + which he looked forward as the most delightful hour of the twenty-four. As + for Betty Jo,—well, it was really Betty Jo who established the + custom and developed it to that point where it was of such importance. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue was too experienced from her life-long study of boys and girls + not to observe the deepening of the friendship between the man and the + woman whom she had brought together. But if the dear old lady felt any + twinges of an apprehensive conscience, when she saw the pair day after day + coming down the mountain-side through the long shadows of the late + afternoon, she very promptly banished them, and, quite consistently, with + what Brian called her “River philosophy,” made no attempt to separate + these two life currents, which, for the time at least, seemed to be + merging into one. + </p> + <p> + And often, as the three sat together on the porch after supper to watch + the sunsets, or later in the evening as Auntie Sue sat with her sewing + while they were busy with their work and unobserving, the dear old lady + would look at them with a little smile of tender meaning, and into the + gentle eyes would come that far-away look that was born of the memories + that had so sweetened the long years of her life, and of the hope and + dream of a joy unspeakable that awaited her beyond the sunset of her day. + </p> + <p> + In her long letter to Betty Jo, asking the girl to come, Auntie Sue had + told the young woman the main facts of Brian's history as she knew them, + omitting only the man's true name and the name of the bank. She had even + mentioned her conviction that there had been a woman in his trouble. But + Auntie Sue had not mentioned in her letter the money she had lost; nor did + she now know that Brian had himself told Betty Jo at the time of their + first meeting. + </p> + <p> + On the day that Betty Jo typed the last page, and the book was ready for + the printers, the young woman went earlier than usual to the clearing + where Brian was at work. The sound of his ax reached her while she was yet + some distance away, and guided her to the spot where he was chopping a big + white oak. + </p> + <p> + Brian, with his eyes fixed on the widening cut at the base of the tree, + did not notice the girl, who stood watching him. She was smiling to + herself at his ignorance of her presence and in anticipation of the moment + when he should discover her, and there was in her eyes a look of wholesome + womanly admiration for the man who swung his ax with such easy strength. + In truth, Brian Kent at his woodman's labor made a picture not at all + unattractive. + </p> + <p> + Swiftly, the cut in the tree-trunk widened as the ax bit deeply at every + skilful stroke, and the chips flew about the chopper's feet. The acrid + odor of the freshly cut oak mingled with the woodland perfume. The sun + warmly flooded the clearing with its golden light, and, splashing through + the openings in the forest foliage, formed pools of yellow beauty amid the + dark, rich green of the shadowy undergrowth. The air was filled with the + sense of life, vital and real, and strong and beautiful. + </p> + <p> + And the young woman, as she stood smiling there, was keenly conscious of + it all. Most of all, perhaps, Betty Jo was conscious of the man, who + worked with such vigor at his manly task. + </p> + <p> + Slowly, accurately, the bright ax sank deeper and deeper into the heart of + the tree. The chips increased in scattered profusion. And then, as Betty + Jo watched, the swinging ax cut through the last fibre of the tree's + strength, and the leafy top swayed gently toward its fall. Almost + imperceptibly, at first, it moved while Betty Jo watched breathlessly. + Brian swung his ax with increasing vigor, now, while the wood, still + remaining, cracked and snapped as the weight of the tree completed the + work of the chopper. Faster and faster the towering mass of foliage swung + in a wide graceful arc toward the ground. The man with the ax stepped + back, his eyes fixed on the falling tree as, with swiftly increasing + momentum, its great weight swept swiftly downward to its crashing end. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo clapped her hands in triumph; and Brian, turning, saw her + standing there. His face was flushed and glistening with perspiration; his + broad chest heaved with the deep breathing gained by his exertion, and his + eyes shone with the gladness of her presence. + </p> + <p> + “You are early, to-day!” he cried. “Have you finished? Is it actually + completed?” + </p> + <p> + “All finished,” she returned; and, going to the fallen tree, she put her + hands curiously on the trunk, which lay a little higher than her waist. + “Help me up,” she commanded. + </p> + <p> + Brian set his ax against the stump, and, laughingly, lifted her to the + seat she desired. Then he stood watching her face as she surveyed the + tangled mass of branches. + </p> + <p> + “It looks so strange from here, doesn't it?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and I confess I don't like to see it that way;” he returned. “I wish + they didn't have to be cut. I feel like a murderer,—every one I + fall.” + </p> + <p> + She looked down into his eyes, as she returned: “I know you must. YOU + would, of course. But, after all, it has to be, and I don't suppose the + tree minds so much, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I don't suppose it feels it much.” He laughed, and, throwing aside + his hat, he ran his fingers through his tumbled hair for all the world + like a schoolboy confused by being caught in some sentimental situation + which he finds not only embarrassing, but puzzling as well. + </p> + <p> + “I like you for feeling that way about it, though,” Betty Jo confessed + with characteristic frankness. “And I am sure it must be a very good thing + for the world that every one is not so intensely practical that they can + chop down trees without a pang. And that reminds me: Speaking of the + practical, now that the book is finished, what are we going to do with + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Send it to some publisher, I suppose,” answered Brian, soberly; “and + then, when they have returned it, send it to some other publisher.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you any particular publisher to whom you will send it first?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + “They are all alike, so far as my experience goes,” he returned. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it would be best if you could take your book East, and + interview the publishers personally, don't you think?” + </p> + <p> + Brian shook his head: “I am not sure that it would make any difference, + and, in any case, I couldn't do it.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Betty Jo, “and that is what I wanted to get at. Why don't + you appoint me your agent, and let me take your book East, and make the + publishing arrangements for you?” + </p> + <p> + Brian looked at her with such delighted surprise that Betty Jo smiled back + at him well pleased. + </p> + <p> + “Would you really do it?” he demanded, as though he feared she was + jesting. + </p> + <p> + “You are sure that you don't mean 'COULD I do it'?”—she returned,—“sure + you could trust me?” + </p> + <p> + To which Brian answered enthusiastically: “You could do anything! If you + undertake the job of landing a publisher for my stuff, it is as good as + done.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she said, jumping down from the tree-trunk. “Now that we have + settled it, let us go to the house and tell Auntie Sue, and I will start + in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + As they went down the hill, they discussed the matter further, and, later, + at the house, Brian took a moment, when Auntie Sue was in her room, to + hand an envelope to his assistant. “Your salary,” he said, hurriedly, “and + expense money for the trip.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” Betty Jo's exclamation was one of surprise. Then she said, in her + most matter-of-fact, businesslike tone: “Thank you. I will render a + statement of my account, but—” For once, Betty Jo seemed at a loss + for words. “You don't mind if I ask—is—is this money—?” + </p> + <p> + Brian's face was a study. “Yes,” he said, “it is really Auntie Sue's + money; but it is all I have, and I can't return it to her—without + her knowing—so I—” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo interrupted: “I understand. It is all we can do,—forgive + me?” + </p> + <p> + Brian Kent did not know that Betty Jo, a few minutes later, buried the + envelope he had given her deep in the bottom of her trunk without even + opening it. + </p> + <p> + The next day, Brian drove to Thompsonville with Betty Jo, who took the + noon train for the East. + </p> + <p> + The two were rather quiet as “Old Prince” jogged soberly along the + beautiful river road. Only now and then did they exchange a few words of + the most commonplace observation. + </p> + <p> + They were within sight of the little Ozark settlement when Brian said, + earnestly: “I wish I could tell you, Miss Williams, just what your coming + to help me with this work has meant to me.” + </p> + <p> + “It has meant a great deal to me, too, Mr. Burns,” she returned. Then she + added quickly: “I suppose the first real work one does after finishing + school always means more than any position following could possibly mean, + don't you think? Just like your book. No matter how many you may write in + the future, this will always mean more to you than any one of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said slowly. “This book will always mean more to me than all the + others I may write.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment their eyes met with unwavering frankness. Then Betty Jo + turned her face away, and Brian stiffened his shoulders, and sat a little + straighter in the seat beside her. That was all. + </p> + <p> + Very brave they were at the depot purchasing Betty Jo's ticket and + checking her trunk. With brave commonplaces they said good-bye when the + train pulled in. Bravely she waved at him from the open window of the + coach. And bravely Brian stood there watching until the train rounded the + curve and disappeared from sight between the hills. + </p> + <p> + The world through which Brian Kent drove that afternoon on his way back to + Auntie Sue and Judy in the little log house by the river was a very dull + and uninteresting world indeed. All its brightness and its beauty seemed + suddenly to have vanished. And as “Old Prince” jogged patiently on his + way, sleepily content with thoughts of his evening meal of hay and grain, + the man's mind was disturbed with thoughts which he dared not own even to + his innermost self. + </p> + <p> + “Circumstances to a man,” Auntie Sue had said, “always meant a woman.” And + Brian Kent, while he never under any pressure would have admitted it, knew + within his deepest self that it was a woman who had set him adrift on the + dark river that dreadful night when he had cursed the world which he + thought he was leaving forever. + </p> + <p> + “Circumstances” in the person of Auntie Sue had saved him from + destruction, and, in the little log house by the river, had brought about + his Re-Creation. + </p> + <p> + And then, when that revelation of his crime toward Auntie Sue had come, + and the labor of months, with all that it implied of the enduring + salvation of himself and the happiness of Auntie Sue, hung wavering in the + balance, it was the “Circumstances” of Betty Jo's coming that had set him + in the right current of action again. + </p> + <p> + What waited for him around the next bend in the river, Brian wondered,—calm + and peaceful waters, with gently flowing currents, or the wild tumult of + dangerous rapids wherein he would be forced to fight for his very + existence? Would Betty Jo succeed as his agent to the publishers? If she + did succeed in finding a publisher to accept his book, would the reading + public receive his message? And if that followed, what then? When Betty + Jo's mission in the East was accomplished, she was to return to Auntie Sue + for the summer. Then—? + </p> + <p> + “Old Prince,” of his own accord, was turning in at the gate, and Brian + awoke from his abstraction to see Auntie Sue and Judy waiting for him. + </p> + <p> + All during the evening meal and while he sat with Auntie Sue on the porch + overlooking the river, as their custom was, Brian was preoccupied and + silent; while his companion, with the wisdom of her seventy years, did not + force the conversation. + </p> + <p> + It was the time of the full moon, and when Auntie Sue at last bade him + good-night, Brian, saying that the evening was too lovely to waste in + sleep, remained on the porch. For an hour, perhaps, he sat there alone; + but his thoughts were not on the beauties of the scene that lay before him + in all its dreamy charm of shadowy hills and moonlit river. He had no ear + for the soft voices of the night. The gentle breeze carried to him the + low, deep-toned roar of the crashing waters at Elbow Rock; but he did not + hear. Moved at last by a feeling of restless longing, and the certainty + that only a sleepless bed awaited him in the house, he left the porch to + stroll along the bank of the river. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. + </h2> + <h3> + THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE. + </h3> + <p> + Brian Kent, strolling along the bank of the river in the moonlight, and + preoccupied with thoughts that were, at the last, more dreams than + thoughts, was not far from the house when a sound from behind some near-by + bushes broke in upon his reveries. A moment, he listened. Then telling + himself that it was some prowling animal, or perhaps, a bird that his + presence had disturbed, he went on. But he had gone only a few feet + farther when he was conscious of something stealthily following him. + Stepping behind the trunk of a tree, he waited, watching. Then he saw a + form moving toward him through the shadows of the bushes. Another moment, + and the form left the concealing shadow, and, in the bright moonlight, he + recognized Judy. + </p> + <p> + At first, the man's feeling was that of annoyance. He did not wish to be + disturbed at such a time by the presence of the mountain girl. But his + habitual gentleness toward poor Judy, together with a very natural + curiosity as to why she was following him at that time of the night, when + he had supposed her in bed and asleep, led him to greet her kindly as he + came from behind the tree: “Well, Judy, are you, too, out enjoying the + moonlight?” + </p> + <p> + The girl stopped suddenly and half-turned as if to run; but, at his words, + stood still. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Judy?” he asked, going to her. “What is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “There's a heap the matter!” she answered, regarding him with that sly + oblique look; while Brian noticed a feeling of intense excitement in her + voice. “I don't know what you-all are a-goin' ter think of me, but I'm + bound ter tell you just the same,—seems like I got ter,—even + if you-all was ter lick me for hit like pap used ter.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Judy, dear,” the puzzled man returned, soothingly, “you know I would + never strike you, no matter what you did. Come, sit down here on this log, + and tell me about whatever it is that troubles you; then you can go back + to sleep again.” + </p> + <p> + “I ain't a-wantin' ter set down. I ain't been asleep. Hit seems like I + can't never sleep no more.” She wrung her hands and turned her poor + twisted body about nervously; then demanded with startling abruptness: + “When do you-all 'low she'll git back?” + </p> + <p> + The wondering Brian did not at first catch her meaning, and she continued, + with an impatient jerk of her head: “Hit's that there gal with the + no-'count name, Betty Jo, I'm a-talkin' 'bout.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you mean Miss Williams,” Brian returned. “Why, I suppose she will be + back in two or three weeks, or a month, perhaps; I don't know exactly, + Judy. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “'Cause I'm a-tellin' you-all not ter let her come back here ever,” came + the startling answer, in a voice that was filled with menacing anger. + Then, before Brian could find a word to reply, the mountain girl + continued, with increasing excitement: “You-all dassn't let her come back + here, nohow, 'cause, if you do, I'll hurt her, sure. You-all have been + a-thinkin' as how I was plumb blind, I reckon; but I seen you,—every + evenin', when she'd pretend ter just go for a walk an' then'd make + straight for the clearin' where you was a-choppin', an' then you'd quit, + an' set with her up there on the hill. Youuns never knowed I was + a-watchin' from the bresh all the time, did you? Well, I was; an' when + youuns'd walk down ter the house, so slow like an' close together, I'd + sneak ahead, an' beat you home; but all the time I was a-seein' you, an' + youuns never knowed, 'cause youuns just naturally couldn't see nor hear + nothin' but each other. Don't you-all 'low as how I'd know by the way you + looked at her, while youuns was a-fixin' that there book, every night, + what you-all was a-thinkin' 'bout her? My God-A'mighty! hit was just as + plain ter me as if you was a-sayin' hit right out loud all the time,—a + heap plainer hit was than if you'd done writ' hit down in your book. I + can't make out ter read print much, nohow, like youuns kin; but I sure kin + see what I see. I—” + </p> + <p> + “Judy! Judy!” Brian broke the stream of the excited girl's talk. “What in + the world are you saying? What do you mean, child?” + </p> + <p> + “You-all knows dad burned well what I'm a-meanin'!” she retorted, with + increasing anger. “I'm a-meanin' that you-all are plumb lovin' that there + Betty Jo gal,—that's what I'm a-meanin'!—an' you-all sure + ain't got ary right for ter go an' do sich a thing, nohow!” + </p> + <p> + Brian tried to check her, but she silenced him with: “I won't neither + hush! I can't! I tell you I'm a-goin' ter say my say if you-all kills me! + I've just naturally got ter! Seems like I was all afire inside an' would + burn plumb up if I didn't! I've got rights, I reckon, if I be all crooked + an' twisted out er shape, an' ugly-faced an' no learnin', ner nothin'.” + </p> + <p> + A dry sob choked the torrent of words for an instant; but, with a savage + effort she went on: “I know I ain't nothin' alongside of her, but you-all + ain't a-goin' ter have her just the same,—not if I have ter kill her + first! You ain't got no right ter have her, nohow, 'cause hit's like's not + you-all done got a woman already somewheres, wherever 'twas you-all come + from; an' even if you ain't got no woman already, I sure ain't a-goin' ter + let you have her! What'd she ever do for you? Hit was me what dragged + you-all from the river when you was mighty nigh dead from licker an' too + plumb sick ter save yourself! Hit's me that's kept from tellin' the + Sheriff who you be an' a-takin' that there reward-money! Hit was me what + jumped inter the river above Elbow Rock just ter git your dad burned old + book, when you'd done throwed hit plumb away! + </p> + <p> + “I knowed first time I heard Auntie Sue name her what she'd do ter you! + Any fool would a-knowed what a woman with a half-gal, half-boy name like + her'n would do, an' she's done hit,—she sure has! But she ain't + a-goin' ter do no more! You-all belongs ter me a heap more'n you do ter + her,—if hit comes ter that,—though, I ain't a-foolin' myself + none a-thinkin' that sich as you could ever take up with sich as me,—me + bein' what I am. No, sir; I ain't never fooled myself ary bit like that, + Mr. Burns. But hit ain't a-makin' no difference how ugly an' crooked an' + no 'count I be outside; the inside of me is a-lovin' you like she never + could, ner nobody else, I reckon. An' I'll just go on a-lovin' you, no + matter what happens; an' I ain't a-carin' whether you got a woman already + er not, er whether you-all have robbed er killed, er what you done. An'—an'—so + I'm a-tellin' you, you'd best not let her come back here no more, 'cause—'cause + I just naturally can't stand hit ter see youuns tergether! 'Fore God, I'm + a-tellin' you true,—I'll sure hurt her!” + </p> + <p> + The girl's voice raised to a pitch of frenzied excitement, and, whirling, + she pointed to the river, as she cried: “Look out there! What do you-all + reckon your fine Betty Jo lady would do if I was ter git her ketched in + them there rapids? What do you-all reckon the Elbow Rock water would do + ter her? I'll tell you what hit'd do: Hit would smash an' grind an' tear + an' hammer that there fine, straight body of hers 'til hit was all broken + an' twisted an' crooked a heap worse'n what I be,—that's what hit + would do; an' hit would scratch an' cut an' beat up that pretty face an' + mess up her pretty hair an' choke her an' smother her 'til she was all + blue-black an' muddy, an' her eyes was red an' starin', an' she was + nothin' but just an ugly lump of dirt; an' hit wouldn't even leave her her + fine clothes neither,—the Elbow Rock water wouldn't,—hit'd + just naturally tear 'em off her, an' leave her 'thout ary thing what's + makin' you love her like you're a-doin'! An' where would all her fine + schoolin' an' smart talk an' pretty ways be then? Eh? She wouldn't be no + better, nor half as good as me, I'm a-tellin' you, onct Elbow Rock got + done with her!” + </p> + <p> + The poor creature finished in wild triumph; then suddenly, as though spent + with the very fury of her passion, she turned from the river, and said + dully: “You'd sure best not let her come back, sir! 'Fore God, I ain't + a-wantin' ter do hit, but hit seems like I can't help myself; I can't + sleep for wantin' ter fix hit so,—so's you just couldn't want ter + have her no more'n you're a-wantin' me. I—I—sure ain't + a-foolin' myself none, not ary bit, a-thinkin' you-all could ever git ter + likin' sich as me; but, I can't help sort of dreamin' 'bout hit an' + a-pretendin', an'—an' all the while I'm a-knowin', inside er me + like, that there ain't nobody,—not Auntie Sue, nor this here Betty + Jo, nor that there other woman, nor anybody,—what kin care for you + like I'm a-carin',—they just naturally couldn't care like me; 'cause—'cause, + you see, sir, I ain't got nobody else,—ain't no man but you ever + even been decent ter me. I sure ain't got nobody else—” + </p> + <p> + The distraught creature's sobs prevented further speech, and she dropped + down on the ground, weak and exhausted; her poor twisted body shaking and + writhing with the emotion she could not voice. + </p> + <p> + For a little while, Brian Kent himself was as helpless as Judy. He could + only stand dumbly, staring at her as she crouched at his feet. Then, very + gently, he lifted her from the ground, and tried as best he could to + comfort her. But he felt his words to be very shallow and inadequate, even + though his own voice was trembling with emotion. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Judy, dear,” he said, at last, when she seemed to have in a measure + regained her self-control. “Come. You must go back to the house, child.” + </p> + <p> + Drawing away from his supporting arm, she answered, quietly: “I ain't no + child, no more, Mr. Burns: I'm sure a woman, now. I'm just as much a woman + as—as—she is, if I be like what I am. I'm plumb sorry I had + ter do this; but I just naturally couldn't help hit. You ain't got no call + ter be scared I'll do hit again.” + </p> + <p> + When they were nearing the house, Judy stopped again, and, for a long + minute, looked silently out over the moonlit river, while Brian stood + watching her. + </p> + <p> + “Hit is pretty, ain't hit, Mr. Burns?” she said at last. “With the hills + all so soft an'—an' dreamy-like, an' them clouds a-floatin' 'way up + there over the top of Table Mountain; with the moon makin' 'em all silvery + an' shiny 'round the edges, an' them trees on yon side the river lookin' + like they was made er smoke er fog er somethin' like that; an' the old + river hitself a-layin' there in The Bend like—like a long strip of + shinin' gold,—hit sure is pretty! Funny, I couldn't never see hit + that a-way before,—ain't hit?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Judy; it is beautiful to-night,” he said. + </p> + <p> + But Judy, apparently without hearing him, continued: “'Seems like I can + sense a little ter-night what Auntie Sue an' youuns are allus a-talkin' + 'bout the river,—'bout hit's bein' like life an' sich as that. An' + hit 'pears like I kin kind of git a little er what you done wrote 'bout + hit in your book,—'bout the currents an' the still places an' the + rough water an' all. I reckon as how I'm a part of your river, too, ain't + I, Mr. Burns?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Judy,” he answered, wonderingly; “we are all parts of the river.” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon you're right,” she continued. “Hit sure 'pears ter be that + a-way. But I kin tell you-all somethin' else 'bout the river what you + didn't put down in your book, Mr. Burns: There's heaps an' heaps er snags + an' quicksands an' sunk rocks an' shaller places where hit looks deep an' + deep holes where hit looks shaller, an' currents what's hid 'way down + under that'll ketch an' drag you in when you ain't a-thinkin', an' drown + you sure. 'Tain't all of the river what Auntie Sue an' youuns kin see from + the porch. You see, I knows 'bout hit,—'bout them other things I + mean,—'cause I was borned and growed up a-knowin' 'bout 'em; an'—an'—the + next time you-all writes er book, Mr. Burns, I 'low you-all ought ter put + in 'bout them there snags an' things, 'cause folks sure got ter know 'bout + 'em, if they ain't a-wantin' ter git drowned.” + </p> + <p> + When Judy had gone into the house, Brian again sat alone on the porch. + </p> + <p> + An hour, perhaps, had passed when a voice behind him said: “Why, Brian, + are you still up? I supposed you were in bed long ago.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to see Auntie Sue, standing in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “And what in the world are you prowling about for, this time of the + night?” Brian retorted, bringing a chair for her. + </p> + <p> + “I am prowling because I couldn't sleep,—thinking about you, Brian,” + she answered. + </p> + <p> + “I fear that is the thing that is keeping me up, too,” he returned grimly. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” she said gently. “Sometimes, one's self does keep one awake. Is + it—is it anything you care to tell me? Would it help for me to + know?” + </p> + <p> + For some time, he did not answer; while the old teacher waited silently. + At last, he spoke, slowly: “Auntie Sue, what is the greatest wrong that a + woman can do?” + </p> + <p> + “The greatest wrong a woman can do, Brian, is the greatest wrong that a + man can do.” + </p> + <p> + “But, what is it, Auntie Sue?” he persisted. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” she answered,—“indeed I am quite sure,—that the + greatest wrong is for a woman to kill a man's faith in woman; and for a + man to kill a woman's faith in man.” + </p> + <p> + Brian Kent buried his face in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Am I right, dear?” asked the old gentlewoman, after a little. + </p> + <p> + And Brian Kent answered: “Yes, Auntie Sue, you are right—that is the + greatest wrong.” + </p> + <p> + Again they were silent. It was as though few words were needed between the + woman of seventy years and this man who, out of some great trouble, had + been so strangely brought to her by the river. + </p> + <p> + Then the silvery-haired old teacher spoke again: “Brian, have you ever + wondered that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever asked yourself why + I never married?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Auntie Sue,” he answered. “I have wondered.” + </p> + <p> + “Many people have,” she said, with simple frankness. Then—“I am + going to tell you something, dear boy, that only two people in the world + beside myself ever knew, and they are both dead, many years now. I am + going to tell you, because I feel—because I think—that, + perhaps, it may help you a little. I, too, Brian, had my dreams when I was + a girl,—my dreams of happiness,—such as every true woman hopes + for;—of a home with all that home means;—of a lover-husband;—of + little ones who would call me 'mother';—and my dreams ended, Brian, + on a battlefield of the Civil War. He went from me the very day we were + promised. He never returned. I have always felt that we were as truly one + as though the church had solemnized and the law had legalized our union. I + promised that I would wait for him.” + </p> + <p> + “And you—you have kept that promise? You have been true to that + memory?” Brian Kent asked, wonderingly. + </p> + <p> + “I have been true to him, Brian;—all the years of my life I have + been true to him.” + </p> + <p> + Brian Kent bowed his head, reverently. + </p> + <p> + Rising, the old gentlewoman went close to him, and put her hands on his + shoulders. “Brian, dear, I have told you my secret because I thought it + might help you to know. Oh, my boy—my boy,—don't—don't + let anything—don't let anyone—kill your faith in womanhood! No + matter how bitter your experience, you can believe, now, that there are + women who can be faithful and true. Surely, you can believe it now, Brian,—you + must!” + </p> + <p> + And as he caught her hands in his, and raised his face to whisper, “I do + believe, Auntie Sue,” she stooped and kissed him. + </p> + <p> + Then, again, Brian Kent was alone in the night with his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + And the river swept steadily on its shining way through the moonlit world + to the distant sea. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. + </h2> + <h3> + AN AWKWARD SITUATION. + </h3> + <p> + Frequent letters from Betty Jo informed Brian and Auntie Sue of that + practical and businesslike young woman's negotiations with various Eastern + publishers, until, at last, the matter was finally settled to Betty Jo's + satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + She had contracted with a well-known firm for the publication of the book. + The details were all arranged. The work was to begin immediately. Betty Jo + was returning to the little log house by the river. + </p> + <p> + Brian drove to Thompsonville the morning she was to arrive, and it seemed + to him that “Old Prince” had never jogged so leisurely along the winding + river road, yet he was at the little mountain station nearly an hour + before the train was due. + </p> + <p> + Those weeks had been very anxious weeks to Brian, in spite of Auntie Sue's + oft-repeated assurances that no publisher could fail to recognize the + value of his work. And, to be entirely truthful, Brian himself, deep down + in his heart, felt a certainty that his work would receive recognition. + But, still, he would argue with himself, his feeling of confidence might + very well be due to the dear old gentlewoman's enthusiastic faith in him + rather than in any merit in the book itself; and it was a well-established + fact—to all unpublished writers at least—that publishers are a + heartless folk, and exceedingly loth to extend a helpful hand to + unrecognized genius, however great the worth of its offering. He could + scarcely believe the letters which announced the good news. It did not + seem possible that this all-important first step toward the success which + Auntie Sue so confidently predicted for his book was now an accomplished + fact. + </p> + <p> + And now that Betty Jo's mission was completed, it seemed months ago that + he had said good-bye to her and had watched the train disappear between + the hills. But when at last the long whistle echoing and reechoing from + the timbered mountain-sides announced the coming of the train that was + bringing her back, and the train itself a moment later burst into view + and, with a rushing roar of steam and wheels and brakes, came to a stop at + the depot platform, and there was Betty Jo herself, it seemed that it was + only yesterday that she had gone away. + </p> + <p> + Very calm and self-possessed and well poised was Betty Jo when she stepped + from the train to meet him. She was very capable and businesslike as she + claimed her baggage and saw it safely in the spring wagon. But still there + was a something in her manner—a light in the gray eyes, perhaps, or + a quality in the clear voice—that meant worlds more to the man than + her simple statement, that she was glad to see him again. Laughingly, she + refused to tell him about her trip as they rode home, saying that Auntie + Sue must hear it all with him. And so conscious was the man of her + presence there beside him that, somehow, the prospective success or + failure of his book did not so much matter, after all. + </p> + <p> + In the excitement of the joyous meeting between Auntie Sue and Betty Jo, + Judy's stoical self-repression was unnoticed. The mountain girl went about + her part of the household work silently with apparent indifference to the + young woman's presence. But when, after the late dinner was over, Auntie + Sue and Brian listened to Betty Jo's story, Judy, unobserved, was nearby, + so that no word of the conversation escaped her. + </p> + <p> + Three times that night, when all was still in the little log house by the + river, the door of Judy's room opened cautiously, and the twisted form of + the mountain girl appeared. Each time, for a few minutes, she stood there + in the moonlight that shone through the open window into the quiet room, + listening, listening; then went stealthily to the door of the room where + Betty Jo was sleeping, and each time she paused before that closed door to + look fearfully about the dimly lighted living room. Once she crept to + Brian's door, and then to Auntie Sue's, and once she silently put her hand + on the latch of that door between her and Betty Jo; but, each time, she + went stealthily back to her own room. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo awoke early that morning. Outside her open window the birds were + singing, and the sun, which was just above the higher mountain-tops, was + flooding the world with its wealth of morning beauty. The music of the + feathery chorus and the golden beauty of the light that streamed through + the window into her room, with the fresh enticing perfume of the balmy + air, were very alluring to the young woman just returned from the cities' + stale and dingy atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo decided instantly that she must go for a before-breakfast walk. + From the window, as she dressed, she saw Brian going to the barn with the + milk-pail, and heard him greet the waiting “Bess” and exchange a cheery + good-morning with “Old Prince,” who hailed his coming with a low whinny. + </p> + <p> + Quietly, so as not to disturb Auntie Sue, Betty Jo slipped from the house + and went down the gentle slope to the river-bank, and strolled along the + margin of the stream toward Elbow Rock,—pausing sometimes to look + out over the water as her attention was drawn to some movement of the + river life, or turning aside to pluck a wild flower that caught her eye. + She had made her way thus leisurely two-thirds of the distance perhaps + from the house to Elbow Rock bluff when Judy suddenly confronted her. The + mountain girl came so unexpectedly from among the bushes that Betty Jo, + who was stooping over a flower, was startled. + </p> + <p> + “Judy!” she exclaimed. “Goodness! child, how you frightened me!” she + finished with a good-natured laugh. But as she noticed the mountain girl's + appearance, the laugh died on her lips, and her face was grave with + puzzled concern. + </p> + <p> + Poor Judy's black hair was uncombed and dishevelled. The sallow, old-young + face was distorted with passion, and the beady eyes glittered with the + light of an insane purpose. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Judy?” asked Betty Jo. “What in the world is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “What'd you-all come back for?” demanded Judy with sullen menace in every + word. “I done told him not ter let you. Hit 'pears ter me youuns ought ter + have more sense.” + </p> + <p> + Alarmed at the girl's manner, Betty Jo thought to calm her by saying, + gently: “Why, Judy, dear, you are all excited and not a bit like yourself. + Tell me what troubles you. I came back because I love to be here with + Auntie Sue, of course. Why shouldn't I some if Auntie Sue likes to have + me?” + </p> + <p> + “You-all are a-lyin',” returned Judy viciously. “But you-all sure can't + fool me. You-all come back 'cause he's here.” + </p> + <p> + A warm blush colored Betty Jo's face. + </p> + <p> + Judy's voice raised shrilly as she saw the effect of her words. + </p> + <p> + “You-all knows dad burned well that's what you come back for. But hit + ain't a-goin' ter do you no good; hit sure ain't. I done told him. I sure + warned him what'd happen if he let you come back. I heard you-all + a-talkin' yesterday evenin' all 'bout his book an' what a great man that + there publisher-feller back East 'lows he's goin' ter be. An' I kin see, + now, that you-all has knowed hit from the start, an' that's why you-all + been a-fixin' ter git him away from me. I done studied hit all out last + night; but I sure ain't a-goin' ter let you do hit.” + </p> + <p> + As she finished, the mountain girl, who had worked herself into a frenzy + of rage, moved stealthily toward Betty Jo, and her face, with those + blazing black eyes, and its frame of black unkempt hair, and its + expression of insane fury, was the face of a fiend. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo drew back, frightened at the poor creature's wild and threatening + appearance. + </p> + <p> + “Judy!” she said sharply. “Judy! What do you mean!” + </p> + <p> + With a snarling grin of malicious triumph, Judy cried: “Scared, ain't you! + You sure got reason ter be, 'cause there ain't nothin' kin stop me now. + Know what I'm a-goin' ter do? I'm a-goin' ter put you-all in the river, + just like I told him, an' old Elbow Rock is a-goin' ter make you-all + broken an' twisted an' ugly like what my pap made me. Oh, hit'll sure fix + that there fine slim body of your'n, an' that there pretty face what he + likes ter look at so, an' them fine clothes'll be all wet an' mussed an' + torn off you. You-all sure will be a-lookin' worse'n what I ever looked + the next time he sees you,—you with your no-'count, half-gal and + half-boy name!” + </p> + <p> + As the mountain girl, with the quickness of a wild thing, leaped upon her, + Betty Jo screamed—one piercing cry, that ended in a choking gasp as + Judy's hands found her throat. + </p> + <p> + Brian, who was still at the barn, busy with the morning chores, heard. + With all his might, he ran toward the spot from which the call came. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo fought desperately; but, strong as she was, she could never have + endured against the vicious strength of the frenzied mountain-bred Judy, + who was slowly and surely forcing her toward the brink of the river-bank, + against which the swift waters of the rapids swept with terrific force. + </p> + <p> + A moment more and Brian would have been too late. Throwing Judy aside, he + caught the exhausted Betty Jo in his arms, and, carrying her a little back + from the edge of the stream, placed her gently on the ground. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo did not faint; but she was too spent with her exertions to speak, + though she managed to smile at him reassuringly, and shook her head when + he asked if she was hurt. + </p> + <p> + When Brian was assured that the girl was really unharmed, he turned + angrily to face Judy. But Judy had disappeared in the brush. + </p> + <p> + Presently, as Betty Jo's breathing became normal, she arranged her + disordered hair and dress, and told Brian what the mountain girl had said; + and this, of course, forced the man to relate his experience with Judy + that night when she had told him that Betty Jo must not come back. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I should have warned you, Miss Williams,” he finished; “but the + whole thing seemed to me so impossible, I could not believe there was any + danger of the crazy creature actually attempting to carry out her wild + threat; and, besides,—well, you can see that it was rather difficult + for me to speak of it to you. I am sorry,” he ended, with embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + For a long moment, the two looked at each other silently; then Betty Jo's + practical common sense came to the rescue: “It would have been awkward for + you to try to tell me, wouldn't it, Mr. Burns? And now that it is all + over, and no harm done, we must just forget it as quickly as we can. We + won't ever mention it again, will we?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” he agreed heartily. “But I shall keep an eye on Miss + Judy, in the future, I can promise you.” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt if we ever see her again,” returned Betty Jo, thoughtfully. “I + don't see how she would dare go back to the house after this. I expect she + will return to her father. Poor thing! But we must be careful not to let + Auntie Sue know.” Then smiling up at him, she added: “It seems like Auntie + Sue is getting us into all sorts of conspiracies, doesn't it? What DO you + suppose we will be called upon to hide from her next?” + </p> + <p> + At Brian's suggestion, they went first to the barn, where he quickly + finished his work. Then, carrying the full milk-pail between them, they + proceeded, laughing and chatting, to the house, where Auntie Sue stood in + the doorway. + </p> + <p> + The dear old lady smiled when she saw them coming so, and, returning their + cheery greeting happily, added: “Have you children seen Judy anywhere? The + child is not in her room, and the fire is not even made in the + kitchen-stove yet.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. + </h2> + <h3> + BETTY JO FACES HERSELF. + </h3> + <p> + All that day Auntie Sue wondered about Judy, while Brian and Betty Jo + exhausted their inventive faculties in efforts to satisfy the dear old + lady with plausible reasons for the mountain girl's disappearance. + </p> + <p> + During the forenoon, Brian canvassed the immediate neighborhood, and + returned with the true information that Judy had stopped at the first + house below Elbow Rock for breakfast, where she had told the people that + she was going back to her father, because she was “doggone tired of + working for them there city folks what was a-livin' at Auntie Sue's.” + </p> + <p> + This was, in a way, satisfactory to Auntie Sue, because it assured her + that the girl had met with no serious accident and because she knew very + well the mountain-bred girl's ability to take care of herself in the + hills. But, still, the gentle mistress of the log house by the river was + troubled to think that Judy would leave her so without a word. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo was so occupied during the day by her efforts to relieve Auntie + Sue that she had but little time left for thought of herself or for + reflecting on the situation revealed in her encounter with Judy. But many + times during the day the mountain girl's passionate accusation came back + to her, “You-all are a-lyin'! You-all come back 'cause HE is here.” Nor + could she banish from her memory the look that was on Brian Kent's face + that morning when he was carrying her in his arms back from the brink of + the river-bank, over which the frenzied Judy had so nearly sent her to her + death. And so, when the day at last was over, and she was alone in her + room, it was not strange that Betty Jo should face herself squarely with + several definite and pointed and exceedingly personal questions. + </p> + <p> + It was like Betty Jo to be honest with herself and to demand of herself + that her problems be met squarely. + </p> + <p> + “First of all, Betty Jo,” she demanded, in her downright, straightforward + way of going most directly to the heart of a matter, “are you in love with + Brian Kent?” + </p> + <p> + Without hesitation, the answer came, “I have not permitted myself to love + him.” + </p> + <p> + “You have not permitted yourself to love him? That means that you would be + in love with him if you dared, doesn't it?” + </p> + <p> + And Betty Jo, in the safe seclusion of her room, felt her cheeks burn as + she acknowledged the truth of the deduction. + </p> + <p> + The next question was inevitable: “Is Brian Kent in love with you, Betty + Jo?” + </p> + <p> + And Betty Jo, recalling many, many things, was compelled to answer, from + the triumphant gladness of her heart: “He is trying not to be, but he + can't help himself. And”—the downright and straightforward young + woman continued—“because I know that Brian Kent is trying so hard + not to love me is the real reason why I have not permitted myself to love + him.” + </p> + <p> + But the clear-thinking, practical Betty Jo protested quickly: “You must + remember that you are wholly ignorant of Brian Kent's history, except for + the things he has chosen to tell you. And those things in his life which + he has confessed to you are certainly not the things that could win the + love of a girl like you, even though they might arouse your interest in + the man. Interest is not love, Betty Jo. Are you quite sure that you are + not making the mistake that is most commonly made by young women?” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo was compelled to answer that she was not mistaking interest for + love, because had such been the case, she would not be able to so analyze + the situation. Betty Jo's quite womanly prejudice is admitted, because the + prejudice was so womanly, and because Betty Jo herself was so womanly. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Miss Betty Jo,” the young woman continued inexorably, “you are + not permitting yourself to love Brian Kent because Brian Kent is trying + not to love you. But, why is the man trying so hard not to love you?” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo thought very hard over this question, and felt her way carefully + to the answer. “It might be, of course, that it is because he is a + fugitive from the law. A man under such circumstances could easily + convince himself that no good woman would permit herself to love him, and + he would therefore, in reasonable self-defense, prevent himself from + loving her if he could.” + </p> + <p> + But surely Brian Kent had every reason to know that Betty Jo did not at + all regard him as a criminal. Betty Jo, as Auntie Sue, recognized only the + re-created Brian Kent. If that were all, they need only wait for the + restitution which was so sure to come through his book. And Brian Kent + himself, through Auntie Sue's teaching and through his work, had come to + recognize only his real self, and not the creature of circumstances which + the river had brought to the little log house. Betty Jo felt sure that + there was more than this that was forcing the man to defend himself + against his love for her. Thus she was driven to the conclusion that there + was something in Brian Kent's history that he had not made known to her,—a + something that denied him the right to love her, and that,—reasoned + poor Betty Jo in the darkness of her room,—could only be a woman,—a + woman to whom he was bound, not by love indeed,—Betty Jo could not + believe that,—but by ties of honor and of the law. + </p> + <p> + And very clearly Betty Jo reasoned, too, that Brian's attitude toward her + evidenced unmistakably his high sense of honor. The very fact that he had + so persistently—in all their companionship, in their most intimate + moments together even—held this invisible and, to her, unknown + barrier between them, convinced her beyond a doubt of the essential + integrity of his character, and compelled her admiration and confidence. + </p> + <p> + “That is exactly it, Betty Jo,” she told herself sadly; “you love him + because he tries so hard to keep himself from loving you.” + </p> + <p> + And thus Betty Jo proved the correctness of Auntie Sue's loving estimate + of her character and justified the dear old teacher's faith in the + sterling quality of her womanhood. + </p> + <p> + Face to face with herself, fairly and squarely, the girl accepted the + truth of the situation for Brian and for herself, and determined her + course. She must go away,—she must go at once. + </p> + <p> + She wished that she had not returned to the log house by the river. She + had never fully admitted to herself the truth of her feeling toward Brian + until Judy had so unexpectedly precipitated the crisis; but, she knew, + now, that Judy was right, and that the real reason for her return was her + love for him. She knew, as well, that her very love,—which, once + fully admitted and recognized by her, demanded with all the strength of + her young womanhood the nearness and companionship of the mate her heart + had chosen,—demanded, also, that she help him to keep that fine + sense of honor and true nobility of character which had won her. + </p> + <p> + She understood instinctively that,—now that she had confessed her + love to herself,—she would, in spite of herself, tempt him in a + thousand ways to throw aside that barrier which he had so honorably + maintained between them. Her heart would plead with him to disregard his + better self, and come to her. Her very craving for the open assurance of + his love would tempt him, perhaps beyond his strength. And, yet, she knew + as truly that, if he should yield; if he should cast aside the barrier of + his honor; if he should deny his best self, and answer her call, it would + be disastrous beyond measure to them both. + </p> + <p> + To save the fineness of their love, Betty Jo must go. If it should be that + they never met again, still she must go. + </p> + <p> + But there were other currents moving in the river that night. In the + steady onward flow of the whole, Betty Jo's life-currents seemed to be + setting away from the man she loved. But other currents, unknown to the + girl, who faced herself so honestly, and who so bravely accepted the truth + she found, were moving in ways beyond her knowledge. Directed and + influenced by innumerable and unseen forces and obstacles, the currents + which, combined, made the stream of life in its entirety, were weaving + themselves together,—interlacing and separating,—drawing close + and pulling apart,—only to mingle as one again. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo saw only Brian Kent and herself, and their love which she now + acknowledged, and she had, as it were, only a momentary glimpse of those + small parts of the stream. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo could not know of those other currents that were moving so + mysteriously about her as the river poured itself onward so unceasingly to + the sea. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. + </h2> + <h3> + JUDY'S CONFESSION. + </h3> + <p> + In spite of all their care, Brian and Betty Jo did not wholly convince + Auntie Sue that there was no more in Judy's disappearance than the report + from the neighbors indicated. The dear old lady felt that there was + something known to the young people that they were keeping from her; and, + while she did not question their motives, and certainly did not worry,—for + Auntie Sue never worried,—she was not satisfied with the situation. + When she retired to her room for the night, she told herself, with some + spirit, that she would surely go to the bottom of the affair the next + morning. + </p> + <p> + It happened that Auntie Sue went to the bottom of the affair much sooner + than she expected. + </p> + <p> + It must have been about that same hour of the night when Betty Jo, after + reaching her decision to go away, retired to her bed, that Auntie Sue was + aroused by a low knocking at the open window of her room. + </p> + <p> + The old teacher listened without moving, her first thought being that her + fancy was tricking her. The sound came again, and, this time, there could + be no mistake. Sitting up in her bed, Auntie Sue looked toward the window, + and, at the sound of her movement, a low whisper came from without. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be scared, Auntie Sue. Hit ain't nobody but just me.” + </p> + <p> + As she recognized Judy's voice, she saw the mountain girl's head and + twisted shoulders outlined above the window-sill. A moment more, and + Auntie Sue was at the window. + </p> + <p> + “Sh-h-h!” cautioned Judy. “Don't wake 'em up. I just naturally got ter + tell you-all somethin', Auntie Sue; but, I ain't a-wantin' Mr. Burns an' + that there Betty Jo woman ter hear. I reckon I best come through the + winder.” + </p> + <p> + Acting upon the word, she climbed carefully into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Judy, child! What—?” + </p> + <p> + The mountain girl interrupted Auntie Sue's tremulous whisper with: “I'll + tell hit ter you, ma'm, in a little bit, if you'll just wait. I got ter + see if they are sure 'nough a-sleepin' first, though.” + </p> + <p> + She stole silently from the room, to return a few minutes later. “They are + plumb asleep, both of 'em,” she said in a low tone, when she had + cautiously closed the door. “I done opened the doors ter their rooms, an' + listened, an' shet 'em again 'thout ary one of 'em a-movin' even. I'll fix + the winder, now, an' then we kin make a light.” + </p> + <p> + Carefully, she closed the window and drew down the shade. Then she lit the + lamp. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue, who was sitting on the bed, looked at the girl in bewildered + amazement. + </p> + <p> + With a nervous laugh, Judy fingered her torn dress and dishevelled hair. + “I sure am a sight, ain't I, ma'm? I done hit a-comin' through the bresh + in the dark. But, don't—don't—look so kinder lost like; + you-all ain't got no call ter be scared of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Judy, dear, I'm not afraid of you. Come, child; tell me what is the + trouble.” + </p> + <p> + At the kindly manner and voice of the old gentlewoman, those black eyes + filled with tears, which, for the moment, the mountain girl stoically + permitted to roll down her thin sallow cheeks unheeded. Then, with a quick + resolute jerk of her twisted body, she drew her dress sleeve across her + face, and said: “I—I—reckon I couldn't hate myself no worse'n + I'm a-doin'. Hit seems like I been mighty nigh plumb crazy; but, I just + naturally had ter come back an' tell you-all, 'cause you-all been so good + ter me.” + </p> + <p> + She placed a chair for Auntie Sue, and added: “You-all best make yourself + comfertable, though, ma'm. I'm mighty nigh tuckered out myself. Hit's a + right smart way from where pap's a-livin' ter here, an' I done come in a + hurry.” + </p> + <p> + She dropped down on the floor, her back against the bed, and clasped her + knees in her hands, as Auntie Sue seated herself. + </p> + <p> + “Begin at the beginning, Judy, and tell me exactly what has happened,” + said Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'm, I will,—that's what I was aimin' ter do when I made up + ter come back.” + </p> + <p> + And she did. Starting with her observation of Brian and Betty Jo, and her + conviction of their love, she told of her interview with Brian the night + she warned him not to let Betty Jo return, and finished with the account + of her attack on Betty Jo that morning. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue listened with amazement and pity. Here, indeed, was a wayward + and troubled life-current. + </p> + <p> + “But, Judy, Judy!” exclaimed the gentle old teacher, “you would not really + have pushed Betty Jo into the river. She would have been drowned, child. + Surely, you did not mean to kill her, Judy.” + </p> + <p> + The girl wrung her hands, and her deformed body swayed to and fro in the + nervous intensity of her emotions. But she answered, stubbornly: “That + there was just what I was aimin' ter do. I'd a-killed her, sure, if Mr. + Burns hadn't a-come just when he did. I can't rightly tell how hit was, + but hit seemed like there was somethin' inside of me what was a-makin' me + do hit, an' I couldn't, somehow, help myself. An'—an'—that + ain't all, ma'm; I done worse'n that,” she continued in a low, moaning + wail. “Oh, my God-A'mighty! Why didn't Mr. Burns sling me inter the river + an' let me be smashed an' drowned at Elbow Rock while he had me, 'stead of + lettin' me git away ter do what I've gone an' done!” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue's wonderful native strength enabled her to speak calmly: “What + is it you have done, Judy? You must tell me, child.” + </p> + <p> + The older woman's voice and manner steadied the girl, and she answered + more in her usual colorless monotone, but still guarded so as not to + awaken the other members of the household: “Hit seemed like Mr. Burns + ketchin' me, like he did, an' me a-seein' him with her in his arms, made + me plumb crazy-mad, an' I 'lowed I'd fix hit so's he couldn't never have + her nohow, so I—I—done told pap 'bout him bein' Brian Kent + what had robbed that there bank, an' how there was er lot of reward-money + a-waitin' for anybody that'd tell on him.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue was too shocked to speak. Was it possible that, now, when the + real Brian Kent was so far removed from the wretched bank clerk; when his + fine natural character and genius had become so established, and his book + was—No, no! It could not be! God could not let men be so cruel as to + send Auntie Sue's Brian Kent to prison because that other Brian Kent, + tormented by wrong environment, and driven by an evil combination of + circumstances, had taken a few dollars of the bank's money! And Betty Jo—No, + no! Auntie Sue's heart cried out in protest. There must be some way. She + would find some way. The banker—Homer Ward! Auntie Sue's mind, alert + and vigorous as the mind of a woman of half her years, caught at the + thought of her old friend and pupil. She leaned forward in her chair over + the girl who sat on the floor at her feet, and her voice was strong and + clear with the strength of the spirit which dominated her frail body. + </p> + <p> + “Judy, did you tell any one else besides your father?” + </p> + <p> + “There wasn't nobody else ter tell,” came the answer. “An' pap, he 'lowed + he'd kill me if I said anythin' ter anybody 'fore he'd got the money. He + aims ter git hit all for hisself.” + </p> + <p> + “What will he do? Will he go to Sheriff Knox?” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'm; pap, he 'lowed if he done that a-way, the Sheriff he'd take + most of the money. Pap's a-goin' right ter that there bank feller + hisself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes! Go on, Judy!” + </p> + <p> + “You see, ma'm, I done remembered the name of the bank an' where hit was + an' Mr. Ward's name an' all, on 'count of that there money letter what you + done sent 'em an' us bein' so worried 'bout hit never gittin' there an' + all that. An' pap, he knows er man over in Gardner what's on the railroad, + you see, what'll let him have money enough for the trip,—a + licker-man, he is,—an' pap's aimin' ter make hit over ter Gardner + ter git the money in time ter ketch that there early mornin' train. Hit's + a right smart way over the mountains, but I reckon's how pap'll make hit. + Soon's pap left, I got ter thinkin' what I'd done, an' the more I studied + 'bout hit,—'bout Mr. Burns a-havin' ter go ter prison, an' 'bout + you-all a-carin' for him the way you does, an' 'bout how happy you was + over his book, an'—an'—how good you'd been ter me,—the + sorrier I got, 'til I just couldn't stand a-thinkin' 'bout hit no longer; + an'—an'—so I come fast as I could ter tell you. I 'lowed you'd + make out ter fix hit some way so—Mr. Burns won't have ter go ter + prison. Couldn't you-all send—send a telegraph ter the bank man, er + somethin'? I'd git it inter Thompsonville for you, ma'm; an' Mr. Burns, he + needn't never know nothin' 'bout hit.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue was dressing when Judy finished speaking. With a physical + strength that had its source in her indomitable spirit, she moved about + the room making the preparations necessary to her plan, and as she worked + she talked to the girl. + </p> + <p> + “No, Judy, a telegram won't do. I must go to Homer Ward myself. That + morning train leaves Thompsonville at six o'clock. You must slip out of + the house, and harness 'Old Prince' to the buggy as fast as you can. You + will drive with me to Thompsonville, and bring 'Prince' back. You can turn + him loose when you get near home, and he will come the rest of the way + alone. You must not let Mr. Burns nor Betty Jo see you, because they + mustn't know anything about what you have done. Do you understand, child?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'm,” said Judy, eagerly. She was on her feet now. + </p> + <p> + “You can go to the neighbors and find some place to stay until I return,” + continued Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + “You don't need ter worry none 'bout me,” said Judy. “I kin take care of + myself, I reckon. But ain't you plumb seared ter go 'way on the cars alone + an' you so old?” + </p> + <p> + “Old!” retorted Auntie Sue. “I have not felt so strong for twenty years. + There is nothing for me to fear. I will be in St. Louis to-morrow night, + and in Chicago the next forenoon. I guess I am not so helpless that I + can't make a little journey like this. Homer Ward shall never send my boy + to prison,—never,—bank or no bank! Go on, now, and get + 'Prince' and the buggy ready. We must not miss that train.” She pushed + Judy from the room, and again cautioned her not to awaken Brian or Betty + Jo. + </p> + <p> + When she had completed her preparations for the trip, Auntie Sue wrote a + short note to Betty Jo, telling her that she had been called away + suddenly, and that she would return in a few days, and that she was + obliged to borrow Betty Jo's pocket-book. Grave as she felt the situation + to be, Auntie Sue laughed to herself as she pictured the consternation of + Betty Jo and Brian in the morning. + </p> + <p> + Silently, the old lady stole into the girl's room to secure the money she + needed and to leave her letter. Then, as silently, she left the house, and + found Judy, who was waiting with “Old Prince” and the buggy, ready to + start. + </p> + <p> + The station agent at Thompsonville was not a little astonished when Auntie + Sue and Judy appeared, and, with the easy familiarity of an old + acquaintance greeted her with, “Howdy, Auntie Sue! What in thunder are you + doin' out this time of the day? No bad news, I hope?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, Mr. Jackson,” Auntie Sue answered easily. “I'm just going to + Chicago for a little visit with an old friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Sort of a vacation, eh?” returned the man behind the window, as he made + out her ticket. “Well, you sure have earned one, Auntie Sue. It's gittin' + to be vacation time now, too. Bunch of folks come in yesterday to stay at + the clubhouse for a spell. Pretty wild lot, I'd say,—wimmen as well + as the men. I reckon them clubhouse parties don't disturb you much, + though, if you be their nearest neighbor,—do they?” + </p> + <p> + “They never have yet, Mr. Jackson,” she returned. “Their place is on the + other side of the river, and a mile above my house, you know. I see them + in their boats on The Bend, though, and once in a while they call on me. + But the Elbow Rock rapids begin in front of my place, and the clubhouse + people don't usually come that far down the river.” + </p> + <p> + She turned to Judy, and, with the girl, went out of the waiting room to + the platform, where she whispered: “You must start back right away, Judy. + If your father is on the train, he might see you.” + </p> + <p> + “What if pap ketches sight of you-all?” Judy returned nervously. + </p> + <p> + “He will not be so apt to notice me as he would you,” she returned, “even + if he does catch a glimpse of me. And it can't be helped if he does. I'll + be in Chicago as quick as he will, and I know I will see Mr. Ward first. + Go on now, dear, and don't let Mr. Burns or Betty Jo see you, and be a + good girl. I feel sure that everything will be all right.” + </p> + <p> + With a sudden awkward movement, poor Judy caught the old gentlewoman's + hand and pressed it to her lips; then, turning, ran toward the buggy. + </p> + <p> + When the train arrived, the station agent came to help Auntie Sue with her + handbag aboard, and she managed to keep her friend between herself and the + coaches, in case Jap Taylor should be looking from a window. As the + conductor and the agent assisted her up the steps, the agent said: “Mind + you take good care of her, Bill. Finest old lady God-Almighty ever made! + If you was to let anything happen to her, you best never show yourself in + this neighborhood again; we'd lynch you, sure!” + </p> + <p> + The conductor found a good seat for his lovely old passenger, and made her + as comfortable as possible. As he punched her ticket, he said, with a + genial smile, which was the voluntary tribute paid to Auntie Sue by all + men: “You are not much like the passengers I usually carry in this part of + the country, ma'm. They are mostly a rather rough-lookin' lot.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled back at him, understanding perfectly his intended compliment. + “They are good people, though, sir,—most of them. Of course, there + are some who are a little wild, sometimes, I expect.” + </p> + <p> + The railroad man laughed again, shaking his head. “I should say so. You + ought to see the specimen I've got in the smoker. I picked him up back + there at Gardner. Perhaps you have heard of him—Jap Taylor. He is + about the worst in the whole country, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard of him,” she returned. “I do hope he won't come into this + coach.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he won't start anything on my train,” laughed the man in blue + reassuringly. “He would never come in here, anyhow. Them kind always stay + in the smoker. Seems like they know where they belong. He is half-scared + to death himself, anyway; he is going to Chicago, too, and I'll bet it's + the first time in his life he has ever been farther from these hills than + Springfield.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. + </h2> + <h3> + BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE. + </h3> + <p> + When Brian went to the barn the next morning he found “Old Prince” + standing at the gate. While he was still trying to find some plausible + explanation of the strange incident, after unharnessing the horse and + giving him his morning feed, an excited call from Betty Jo drew his + attention. With an answering shout, he started for the house. The excited + girl met him halfway, and gave him Auntie Sue's note. + </p> + <p> + When Brian had read the brief and wholly inadequate message, they stood + looking at each other, too mystified for speech. Brian read the note, + again, aloud, speaking every word with slow distinctness. “Well, I'll be + hanged!” he ejaculated, at the close of the remarkable communication, + staring at Betty Jo. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't in the least surprise me if we were both hanged before + night,” returned Betty Jo. “After this from Auntie Sue, I am prepared for + anything. What on earth DO you suppose has happened?” + </p> + <p> + Brian shook his head: “It is too much for me!” + </p> + <p> + Together they went to the house, and the place seemed strangely deserted. + Every possible explanation that suggested itself, they discussed and + rejected. + </p> + <p> + “One thing we can depend upon,” said Brian, at last, when they had + exhausted the resources of their combined imaginations: “Auntie Sue knows + exactly what she is doing, and she is doing exactly the right thing. I + suppose we will know all about it when she returns.” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo looked again at the note: “'I will be back in a few days,'” she + read slowly. “'Be good children, and take care of things.'” + </p> + <p> + Again, they regarded each other wonderingly. + </p> + <p> + Then Betty Jo broke the silence with an odd little laugh: “I feel like we + were cast away on some desert island, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Something like that,” Brian returned. Then, to relieve the strain of the + situation, he added: “I suppose 'Bess' will have to be milked and the + chores finished just the same.” + </p> + <p> + “And I'll get breakfast for us,” agreed Betty Jo, as he started back to + the barn. + </p> + <p> + In the safe seclusion of the stable, with no one but “Old Prince” and + “Bess” to witness his agitation, Brian endeavored to bring his confused + and unruly thoughts under some sort of control. + </p> + <p> + “Several days; several days.” The words repeated themselves with annoying + persistency. And they—Betty Jo and he, Brian Kent—were to + “take care of things”;—they were to keep house together;—they + were to live together, alone,—in the log house by the river,—alone. + She was even then preparing their breakfast. They would sit down at the + table alone. And there would be dinner and supper; and the evening,—just + for them. He would work about the place. She would attend to her household + duties. He would go to his meals, and she would be there expecting him,—waiting + for him. And when the tasks of the day were finished, they would sit on + the porch to watch the coming of the night,—Betty Jo and he, Brian + Kent—“What in God's name,” the man demanded of the indifferent + “Bess,” did Auntie Sue mean by placing him in such a situation? Did she + think him more than human? + </p> + <p> + It had not been easy for Brian to maintain that barrier between himself + and Betty Jo, even with the constant help of Auntie Sue's presence. Many, + many times he had barely saved himself from declaring his love; and, now, + he was asked to live with her in the most intimate companionship possible. + </p> + <p> + For the only time in his life Brian Kent was almost angry at Auntie Sue. + “By all that was consistent, and reasonable, and merciful, and safe,” he + told himself, “if it was absolutely necessary for the dear old lady to + disappear so mysteriously, why had she not taken Betty Jo along?” + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, while Brian was confiding his grievances to his + four-footed companions in the barn, Betty Jo was expressing herself in the + kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “Betty Jo,” she began, as she raked the ashes from the stove preparatory + to building the fire, “it appears to me that you have some serious + considering to do, and”—with a glance toward the barn, as she went + out to empty the ash-pan—“you must do it quickly before that man + comes for his breakfast. You were very right, last night, in your + decision, to go away. It is exactly what you should have done. I am more + than ever convinced of that, this morning. But you can't go now. Even if + Auntie Sue had not taken your pocket-book and every penny in it, you + couldn't run away with Auntie Sue herself gone. If she hadn't wanted you + to stay right here for some very serious reason, Betty Jo, she would have + taken you with her last night. Auntie Sue very pointedly and definitely + expects you to be here when she returns. And she will be away several + days,—several days, Betty Jo.” She repeated the words in a whisper. + “And during those several days, you are to keep house for the man you + love;—the man who loves you;—the man whom you must keep from + telling you his love,—no matter how your heart pleads for him to + tell you, you must not permit him to speak. He will be coming in to + breakfast in a few minutes, and you will sit down at the table with him,—across + the table from him,—facing him,—Betty Jo,—just like—” + </p> + <p> + She looked in the little mirror that hung beside the kitchen window, and, + with dismay, saw her face flushed with color that was not caused by the + heat of the stove. “And you will be forced to look at him across the + table, and he will look at you,—and—and you must not,—” + she stamped her foot,—“you dare not look like THAT, Betty Jo. + </p> + <p> + “And then there will be the dinner that you will cook for him, and the + supper; and the evenings on the porch. O Lord! Betty Jo, what ever will + you do? How will you ever save the fineness of your love? If you were + afraid to trust yourself with the help of Auntie Sue's presence, what in + the world can you do without her—and you actually keeping house with + him? Oh, Auntie Sue! Auntie Sue!” she groaned, “you are the dearest woman + in the world and the best and wisest, but you have blundered terribly this + time! Why DID you do such a thing! It is not fair to him! It is not fair + to me! It is not fair to our love! + </p> + <p> + “All of which,”—the practical Betty Jo declared a moment later, + wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, and going into the other room + to set the table for breakfast,—“all of which, Betty Jo, does not in + the least help matters, and only makes you more nervous and upset than you + are. + </p> + <p> + “One thing is certain sure,” she continued, while her hands were busy with + the dishes and the table preparations: “If we can endure this test, we + need never, never, never fear that anything nor anybody can ever, ever + make us doubt the genuineness of our love. Auntie Sue has certainly + arranged it most beautifully for Brian Kent and Betty Jo Williams to + become thoroughly acquainted.” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo suddenly paused in her work, and stood very still: “I wonder,” + she said slowly,—“can it be,—is it possible,—what if + Auntie Sue has brought about this situation for that very reason?” + </p> + <p> + “Breakfast ready?” cried Brian at the kitchen-door, and his voice was so + hearty and natural that the girl answered as naturally: “It will be as + soon as you are ready for it. I forget, do you like your eggs three + minutes or four?” + </p> + <p> + They really managed that breakfast very well, even if they did sit + opposite each other so that each was forced to look straight across the + table into the face of the other. Or, perhaps, it was because they looked + at each other so straight and square and frankly honest that the breakfast + went so well. + </p> + <p> + And because the breakfast went so well, they managed the dinner and the + supper also. + </p> + <p> + “I have been thinking,” said Brian at the close of their evening meal, + looking straight into the gray eyes over the table, “perhaps it might be + better for you to stay at neighbor Tom's until Auntie Sue returns. I'll + hitch up 'Old Prince' and drive you over, if you say. Or, we might find + some neighbor woman to come here to live with us, if you prefer.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't like my housekeeping, then?” asked Betty Jo. + </p> + <p> + “Like it!” exclaimed Brian; and the tone of his voice approached the + danger-point. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo said quickly: “I'll tell you exactly what I think, Mr. Burns: + Auntie Sue said we were to be good children, and take care of things until + she returned. She did not say for me to shirk my part by going to neighbor + Tom's or by having any one come here. Don't you think we can do exactly + what Auntie Sue said?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” returned Brian, heartily; “I am sure we can. And do you know,—come + to think about it,—I believe the dear old lady would be disappointed + in us both if we dodged our—well,—” he finished with emphasis,—“our + responsibilities.” + </p> + <p> + And after that, somehow, the evening on the porch went as well as the + breakfast and dinner and supper had gone. + </p> + <p> + It was the second day of their housekeeping that Betty Jo noticed smoke + coming from the stone chimney of the clubhouse up the river. She reported + her observation to Brian when he came in from his work for dinner. During + the afternoon, they both saw boats on the quiet waters of The Bend, and at + supper told each other what they had seen. And in the evening they + together watched the twinkling lights of the clubhouse windows, and once + they heard voices and laughter from somewhere on the river as though a + boating party were making merry. + </p> + <p> + Two days later, Brian and Betty Jo were just finishing dinner when a step + sounded on the porch, and a man appeared in the open doorway. + </p> + <p> + The stranger was dressed in the weird and flashy costume considered by his + class to be the proper thing for an outing in the country, and his face + betrayed the sad fact that, while he was mentally, spiritually, and + physically greatly in need of a change from the unclean atmosphere that + had made him what he was, he was incapable of benefiting by more wholesome + conditions of living. He was, in fact, a perfect specimen of that type of + clubman who, in order to enjoy fully the beautiful life of God's unspoiled + world, must needs take with him all of the sordid and vicious life of that + world wherein he is most at home. + </p> + <p> + With no word of greeting, he said, with that superior air which so many + city folk assume when addressing those who live in the country: “Have you + people any fresh vegetables or eggs to sell?” + </p> + <p> + Brian and Betty Jo arose, and Brian, stepping forward, said, with a smile: + “No, we have nothing to sell here; but I think our neighbor, Mr. Warden, + just over the hill, would be glad to supply you. Won't you come in?” + </p> + <p> + The man stared at Brian, turned an appraising eye on Betty Jo; then looked + curiously about the room. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he said, removing his cap, “I thought, when I spoke, + that you were natives. My name is Green,—Harry Green. There is a + party of us stopping at the clubhouse, up the river, there;—just out + for a bit of a good time, you know. We are from St. Louis,—first + time any of us were ever in the Ozarks,—friends of mine own the + clubhouse.” + </p> + <p> + “My name is Burns,” returned Brian. “We noticed your boats on the river. + You are enjoying your outing, are you?” + </p> + <p> + Again the man looked curiously from Brian to Betty Jo. “Oh, yes; we can + stand it for awhile,” he answered. “We're a pretty jolly bunch, you see;—know + how to keep things going. It would kill me if I had to live here in this + lonesome hole very long, though. Don't you find it rather slow, Mrs. + Burns?” + </p> + <p> + Poor Betty Jo's face turned fairly crimson. She could neither answer the + stranger nor meet his gaze, but stood with downcast eyes;—then + looked at Brian appealingly. + </p> + <p> + But Brian was as embarrassed as Betty Jo; while the stranger, as he + regarded them, smiled with an expression of insolent understanding. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I have made another mistake,” he said, with a meaning laugh. + </p> + <p> + “You have,” returned Brian, sharply, stepping forward as he spoke; for the + man's manner was unmistakable. “Be careful, sir, that you do not make + another.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Green spoke quickly, with an airy wave of his hand: “No offense; no + offense, I assure you.” Then as he moved toward the door, he added, still + with thinly veiled insolence: “I beg your pardon for intruding. I + understand, perfectly. Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns! Good-afternoon, miss!” + </p> + <p> + Brian followed him out to the porch; and the caller, as he went down the + steps, turned back with another understanding laugh: “I say, Burns, you + are a lucky devil. Don't worry about me, old man. I envy you, by Jove! + Charming little nest. Come over to the club some evening. Bring the little + girl along, and help us to have a good time. So-long!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Harry Green probably never knew how narrowly he escaped being + manhandled by the enraged but helpless Brian. + </p> + <p> + Brian remained on the porch until he saw the man, in his boat, leave the + eddy at the foot of the garden and row away up the river. + </p> + <p> + In the house, again, the two faced each other in dismay. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo was first to recover: “I am sure that it is quite time for Auntie + Sue to come home and take charge of her own household again. Don't you + think so, Mr. Burns?” + </p> + <p> + And Brian Kent most heartily agreed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. + </h2> + <h3> + THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW. + </h3> + <p> + The members of the clubhouse party were amusing themselves that afternoon + in the various ways peculiar to their kind. + </p> + <p> + At one end of the wide veranda overlooking the river a group sat at a card + table. At the other end of the roomy lounging place, men and women, lying + at careless ease in steamer-chairs and hammocks, were smoking and chatting + about such things as are of interest only to that strange class who are + educated to make idleness the chief aim and end of their existence. On the + broad steps leading down to the tree-shaded lawn, which sloped gently to + the boat landing at the river's edge, still other members of the company + were scattered in characteristic attitudes. Across the river, in the shade + of the cottonwoods that overhang the bank, a man and a woman in a boat + were ostensibly fishing. In a hammock strung between two trees, a little + way from the veranda, lay a woman, reading. + </p> + <p> + Now and then a burst of shrill laughter broke the quiet of the surrounding + forest. A man on the steps called a loud suggestive jest to the pair in + the boat, and the woman waved her handkerchief in answer. The card-players + argued and laughed over a point in their game. Some one shouted into the + house for Jim, and a negro man in white jacket appeared. When the people + on the veranda had expressed their individual tastes, the one who had + summoned the servant called to the woman in the hammock under the tree, + “What is yours, Martha?” + </p> + <p> + Without looking up from her book, the woman waved her hand, and answered, + “I am not drinking this time. Thanks.” + </p> + <p> + A chorus of derisive shouts and laughter came from the veranda. But the + woman went on reading. “Oh, let her alone!” protested some one, + good-naturedly. “She was going a little strong, last night. She'll be all + right by and by, when she gets started again.” + </p> + <p> + The negro, Jim, had returned with his loaded tray, and was passing among + the members of the company with his assortment of glasses, when some one + called attention to Harry Green, who was just pulling his boat up to the + landing after his visit to the little log house down the river. + </p> + <p> + A boisterous chorus greeted the boatman: “Hello, Harry! Did you find + anything? You're just in time. What'll you have?” + </p> + <p> + With a wave of greeting, the man fastened his boat to the landing, and + started up the slope. + </p> + <p> + “He'll have a Scotch, of course!” said some one. “Did anybody ever know + him to take anything else? Go and get it, Jim. He'll be nearly dead for a + drink after rowing all that distance.” + </p> + <p> + The woman in the hammock lowered her book, and lay watching the man as he + came up the path toward the steps. + </p> + <p> + Harry Green, who, apparently, was a person of importance among them, + seated himself in an easy chair on the veranda, and accepted the glass + proffered by Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Did you find any eggs, Harry?” demanded one. The man first refreshed + himself with a long drink; then looked around with a grin of amused + appreciation: “I didn't get any eggs,” he said; “but I found the nest all + right.” + </p> + <p> + A shout of laughter greeted the reply. + </p> + <p> + “What sort of nest, Harry? Duck? Turkey? Hen? Dove? Or rooster?” came from + different members of the chorus. + </p> + <p> + Raising his glass as though offering a toast, he answered: “Love! my + children; love!” + </p> + <p> + A yell of delight came from the company, accompanied by a volley of: “A + love-nest! Well, what do you know about that! Good boy, Harry! Takes Harry + to find a love-nest! He's the boy to send for eggs! I should say, yes! + Martha will like that! Oh, won't she!” + </p> + <p> + This last remark turned their attention toward the woman in the hammock, + and they called to her: “Martha! Oh, Martha! Come here! You better look + after Harry! Harry has found a love-nest! Told you something would happen + if you let him go away alone!” + </p> + <p> + Putting aside her book, the woman came to join the company on the veranda. + </p> + <p> + She was rather a handsome woman, but with a suggestion of coarseness in + form and features, though her face, in spite of its too-evident signs of + dissipation, was not a bad face. + </p> + <p> + Seating herself on the top step, with her back against the post in an + attitude of careless abandonment, she looked up at the negro who stood + grinning in the doorway. “Bring me a highball, Jim: you know my kind.” + Then to the company: “Somebody give me a cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + Harry tossed a silver case in her lap. Another man, who sat near, leaned + over her with a lighted match. + </p> + <p> + Expelling a generous cloud of smoke from her shapely lips, she demanded: + “What is this you are all shouting about Harry having another love-nest?” + </p> + <p> + During the answering chorus of boisterous laughter and jesting remarks, + she drank the liquor which the negro brought. + </p> + <p> + Then Harry, pointing out Auntie Sue's house, which was easily visible from + where they sat, related his experience. And among the many conjectures, + and questions, and comments offered, no one suggested even that the man + and the woman living in that little log house by the river might be + entirely innocent of the implied charge. For those who are themselves + guilty, to assume the guilt of others is very natural and altogether + human. + </p> + <p> + In the moment's quiet which followed the arrival of a fresh supply of + drinks, the woman called Martha said: “But what is the man like, Harry? + You have enthused quite enough about the girl. Suppose you tell us about + the man in the case.” + </p> + <p> + Harry gave a very good description of Brian Kent. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, damn!” suddenly cried Martha, shaking her skirt vigorously. She had + spilled some of the liquor from her glass. + </p> + <p> + A woman on the outer edge of the circle whispered to her nearest neighbor, + and a hush fell over the group. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Martha, drinking the liquor remaining in her glass, “why the + devil don't we find out who they are, if we are so curious?” + </p> + <p> + “Find out! How? We'll find out a lot! What would you do,—ask them + their names and where they are from?” came from the company. + </p> + <p> + “It is easy enough,” retorted Martha. “There is that native girl that + Molly picked up the day we landed here to help her in the kitchen. She + must belong in this neighborhood somewhere. I'll bet she can tell us + something. What is her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Judy,—Judy Taylor. Great idea! Good! Send her out here, Jim,” + responded the others. + </p> + <p> + When the deformed mountain girl appeared before them, she looked from face + to face with such a frightened and excited expression on her sallow, + old-young features, and such a wild light in her black beady eyes, that + they regarded her with silent interest. + </p> + <p> + Judy spoke first, and her shrill monotone emphasized her excited state of + mind: “That there nigger said as how Missus Kent was a-wantin' ter see me. + Be ary one of youuns sure 'nough Missus Kent?” + </p> + <p> + The group drew apart a little, and every face was turned from Judy to the + woman sitting on the top step of the veranda with her back against the + post. + </p> + <p> + Judy went slowly toward the woman, her beady eyes fixed and staring as + though at some ghostly vision. The woman rose to her feet as Judy paused + before her. + </p> + <p> + “Be you-all Brian Kent's woman?” demanded Judy. + </p> + <p> + The excited exclamation from the company and the manner of the woman + suddenly aroused the mountain girl to a realization of what she had done + in speaking Brian Kent's name. With an expression of frightened dismay, + she turned to escape; but the group of intensely interested spectators + drew closer. Every one waited for Martha to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, slowly, watching the mountain girl; “I am Mrs. Brian + Kent. Do you know my husband?” + </p> + <p> + Judy's black beady eyes shifted slyly from one face to another, and her + twisted body moved uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'm; I ain't a-sayin' I knows him exactly. I done heard tell 'bout + him nigh 'bout a year ago, when there was some men from the city come + through here a-huntin' him. Everybody 'lows as how he was drowned at Elbow + Rock.” + </p> + <p> + “The body was never found, though,” murmured one of the men in the group. + </p> + <p> + “Who lives in that little log house over there, Judy?” Harry Green asked + suddenly, pointing. + </p> + <p> + “There? Oh, that there's Auntie Sue's place. I 'lowed everybody knowed + that,” returned the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Who is Auntie Sue?” came the next question. + </p> + <p> + One of the women answered, before Judy could speak: “Auntie Sue is that + old-maid school-teacher they told us about. Don't you remember, Harry?” + </p> + <p> + “Is Auntie Sue at home now, girl?” asked Mrs. Kent. + </p> + <p> + Judy's gaze was fixed on the ground as she replied: “I don't know, ma'm. I + ain't got no truck with anybody on yon side the river.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there any one living with Auntie Sue?” asked some one; and in the same + breath from another came the question, “Who is Mr. Burns?” + </p> + <p> + Judy jerked her twisted shoulders and threw up her head with an impatient + defiance, as she returned shrilly: “I'm a-tellin' youuns I don't know + nothin' 'bout nobody. Hit ain't no sort er use for youuns ter pester me. I + don't know nothin' 'bout hit, an' I wouldn't tell youuns nothin' if I + did.” + </p> + <p> + And with this, the mountain girl escaped into the house. + </p> + <p> + While her friends on the veranda were looking at each other in questioning + silence, Mrs. Kent, without a word, turned and walked away into the woods. + </p> + <p> + As she disappeared among the trees, one of the men said, in a low tone: + “You better go after her, Harry. She is on, all right, that it's Brian + Kent. She never did believe that story about his death, you know. There is + no knowing what she'll do when she gets to thinking it all over.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a darned shame,” exclaimed one of the women, “to have our party + spoiled like this!” + </p> + <p> + “Spoiled nothing,” answered another. “Martha is too good a sport to spoil + anything. Go on, Harry. Cheer her up. Bring her back here. We'll all help + get her good and drunk to-night, and she'll be all right.” + </p> + <p> + There was a laugh at this, and some one said: “A little something wouldn't + hurt any of us just now, I'm thinking. Here, Jim!” + </p> + <p> + Harry Green found Mrs. Kent sitting on the riverbank some distance above + the boat landing. + </p> + <p> + She looked up at the sound of his approach, but did not speak. Dropping + down beside her, the man said: “I'm damned sorry about this, Martha. I + never dreamed I was starting anything, or I would have kept my mouth + shut.” + </p> + <p> + “It is Brian, all right, Harry,” she answered, slowly. “It is funny, but + he has been on my mind all day. I never dreamed that it was this part of + the country where he was supposed to have been drowned, or I wouldn't have + come here.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what does it matter, anyway?” returned the man. “I don't see that + it can make any difference. We don't need to go down there where he is, + and it is damned certain that they won't call on us.” + </p> + <p> + Looking out over the river, the woman spoke as if thinking aloud: “This is + just the sort of place he would love, Harry—the river and hills and + woods. He never cared for the city—always wanted to get away into + the country somewhere. Tell me, what is she really like? Does she look + like—like—well,—like any of our crowd?” + </p> + <p> + One by one, the man picked a number of pebbles from among the dead leaves + and the short grass within reach of his hand, as he answered: “Oh, I was + just kidding when I raved about her to the bunch.” One by one, he flipped + the bits of stone into the water. “She really doesn't amount to much. + Honestly, I hardly noticed her.” + </p> + <p> + The woman continued speaking as though thinking her thoughts aloud: “Brian + was a good man, Harry. That bank affair was really my fault. He never + would have done such a thing if I hadn't devilled him all the time for + more money, and made such a fuss about his wasting so much time in his + everlasting writing. I'd hate to have him caught and sent to the 'pen' + now.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a good sport, Martha,” he returned heartily. “I know just how you + feel about it. And I can promise you that there is not one of our crowd + that will ever whisper a thing. They are not that kind, and you know how + they all like you. Come, dear. Don't bother your head about it any more. I + don't like to see you like this. Let us go up to the house, and show them + how game you are,—shall we?” + </p> + <p> + He put his arm about her, but the woman gently pushed him away. “Don't do + that, now, Harry. Let me think.” + </p> + <p> + “That is just what you must not do,” he retorted, with a laugh. “Thinking + can't help matters. Come, let us go get a drink. That is what you need.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him some time before she answered; then, with a quick + movement, she sprang to her feet: + </p> + <p> + “All right! You're on!” she cried, with a reckless laugh. “But you'll go + some if you keep up with me to-night.” + </p> + <p> + And so, that evening, while Brian Kent and Betty Jo from the porch of the + little log house by the river watched the twinkling lights of the + clubhouse windows, the party with mad merriment tried to help a woman to + forget. + </p> + <p> + But save for the unnatural brightness of her eyes and the heightened color + in her face, drink seemed to have little effect on Martha Kent that night. + When at a late hour the other members of the wild company, in various + flushed and dishevelled stages of intoxication, finally retired to their + rooms, Martha, in her apartment, seated herself at the window to look away + over the calm waters of The Bend to a single light that showed against the + dark mountainside. The woman did not know that the light she saw was in + Brian Kent's room. + </p> + <p> + Long after Betty Jo had said good-night, Brian walked the floor in uneasy + wakefulness. The meeting with the man Green and his too-evident thoughts + as to the relations of the man and woman who were living together in the + log house by the river filled Brian with alarm; while the very presence of + the man from the city awoke old apprehensions that in his months of + undisturbed quiet in Auntie Sue's backwoods home had almost ceased to be. + Through Auntie Sue's teaching and influence; his work on his book; the + growing companionship of Betty Jo and their love, Brian had almost ceased + to think of that absconding bank clerk who had so recklessly launched + himself on a voyage to the unknown in the darkness of that dreadful night. + But, now, it all came back to him with menacing strength. + </p> + <p> + The man, Green, would talk to his companions of his visit to the log house + that afternoon. He would tell what he had discovered. Curiosity would lead + others of the clubhouse party to call. Some one might remember the story + of the bank clerk, who was supposed to have lost his life in that + neighborhood, but whose body was never found. There might even be one in + the party who knew the former clerk. Through them the story would go back + to the outside world. There would be investigations by those whose + business it was never to forget a criminal who had escaped the law. + </p> + <p> + Brian felt his Re-Creation to be fully established; but what if his + identity should be discovered before the restitution he would make should + be also accomplished? And always, as he paced to and fro in his little + room in the log house, there was, like a deep undercurrent in the flow of + his troubled thought, his love for Betty Jo. + </p> + <p> + It is little wonder that, to Brian Kent, that night, the voices of the + river were filled with fearful doubt and sullen, dreadful threatenings. + </p> + <p> + And what of the woman who watched the tiny spot of light that marked the + window of the room where the re-created Brian Kent kept his lonely vigil? + Did she, too, hear the voices of the river? Did she feel the presence of + that stream which poured its dark flood so mysteriously through the night + between herself and the man yonder? + </p> + <p> + Away back, somewhere in the past, the currents of their lives in the + onward flow of the river had drawn together. For a period of time, their + life-currents had mingled, and, with the stream, had swept onward as one. + Other influences—swirls and eddies and counter-currents of other + lives—had touched and intermingled until the current that was the + man and the current that was the woman had drawn apart. For months, they + had not touched; and, now, they were drawing nearer to each other again. + Would they touch? Would they again mingle and become one? What was this + mysterious, unseen, unknown, but always-felt, power of the river that sets + the ways of its countless currents as it sweeps ever onward in its + unceasing flow? + </p> + <p> + The door of her room opened. Harry Green entered as one assured of a + welcome. The woman at the window turned her head, but did not move. Going + to her, the man, with an endearing word, offered a caress; but she put him + aside. “Please, Harry,—please let me be alone to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Martha, dear! What is wrong?” he protested, again attempting to draw + her to him. + </p> + <p> + Resisting more vigorously, she answered: “Everything is wrong! You are + wrong! I am wrong! All life is wrong! Can't you understand? Please leave + me.” + </p> + <p> + The man drew back, and spoke roughly in a tone of disgust: “Hell! I + believe you love that bank clerk as much as you ever did!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and suppose that were true, Harry?” she answered, wearily. “Suppose + it were true,—that I did still love my husband? Could that make any + difference now? Can anything ever make any difference now? You will tire + of me before long, just as you have grown tired of the others who were + before me. Don't you suppose I know? You and our friends have taught me + many things, Harry. I know, now, that Brian's dreams were right. That his + dreams could never be realized, does not make them foolish nor wrong. His + dreams that seemed so foolish—such impossible ideals—were more + real, after all, than this life that we think so real. WE are the + dreamers,—we and our kind,—and our awakening is as sure to + come as that river out there is sure of reaching the sea.” + </p> + <p> + The man laughed harshly: “You are quite poetical, to-night. I believe I + like you better, though, when you talk sense.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry, Harry,” she returned. “Please don't be cross with me! Go now,—please + go!” + </p> + <p> + And something forced the man to silence. Slowly, he left the room. The + woman locked the door. Returning to the window, she fell on her knees, and + stretched her hands imploringly toward the tiny spot of light that still + shone against the dark shadow of the mountain-side. + </p> + <p> + Between the mighty walls of tree-clad hills that lifted their solemn + crests into the midnight sky, the dark river poured the sombre strength of + its innumerable currents,—terrible in its awful power; dreadful, in + its mysterious and unseen forces; irresistible in its ceaseless, onward + rush to the sea of its final and infinite purpose! + </p> + <p> + And here and there on the restless, ever-moving surface of the shadowy, + never-ending flood twinkled the reflection of a star. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. + </h2> + <h3> + AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK. + </h3> + <p> + The President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank looked up from the + papers on his desk as his secretary entered from the adjoining room and + stood before him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, George?” + </p> + <p> + The secretary smiled as he spoke: “Mr. Ward, there is an old lady out here + who insists that you will see her. The boys passed her on to me, because,—well, + she is not the kind of woman that can be refused. She has no card, but her + name is Wakefield. She—” + </p> + <p> + The dignified President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank + electrified his secretary by springing from his chair like a schoolboy + from his seat at the tap of the teacher's dismissing bell. “Auntie Sue! I + should say she couldn't be refused! Where is she?” And before the + secretary could collect his startled thoughts to answer, Homer T. Ward was + out of the room. + </p> + <p> + When the smiling secretary, the stenographers, and other attending + employees had witnessed a meeting between their dignified chief and the + lovely old lady, which strengthened their conviction that the great + financier was genuinely human, President Ward and Auntie Sue disappeared + into the private office. + </p> + <p> + “George,” said Mr. Ward, as he closed the door of that sacred inner + sanctuary of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, “remember I am not in + to any one;—from the Secretary of the Treasury to the Sheriff, I am + not in.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, sir,” returned the still smiling George. And from that + moment until Homer T. Ward should open the door, nothing short of a + regiment could have interrupted the interview between Auntie Sue and her + old pupil. + </p> + <p> + Placing the dear old lady tenderly in a deep, leather-upholstered chair, + Mr. Ward stood before her as though trying to convince himself that she + was real; while his teacher of those long-ago, boyhood days gazed + smilingly up at him. + </p> + <p> + “What in the name of all that is unexpected are you doing here, Auntie + Sue?” he demanded; “and why is not Betty Jo with you? Isn't the girl ever + coming home? There is nothing the matter with her, is there? Of course + not, or you would have wired me.” + </p> + <p> + It was not at all like the bank president to ask so many questions all at + once. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue looked around the private office curiously, then smilingly back + to the face of the financier. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, Homer,” she said with her chuckling little laugh, “I—I—am + almost afraid of you in here. Everything is so grand and rich-looking; and + there were so many men out there who tried to tell me you would not see + me. I—I am glad I didn't know it would be like this, or I fear I + never could have found the courage to come.” + </p> + <p> + Homer T. Ward laughed, and then—rather full-waisted as he was—went + down on one knee at the arm of her chair so as to bring his face level + with her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Look at me, Auntie Sue,” he said; “look straight through me, just as you + used to do years and years ago, and tell me what you see.” + </p> + <p> + And the dear old lady, with one thin soft hand on his heavy shoulder, + answered, as she looked: “Why, I see a rather naughty boy, whom I ought to + spank for throwing spitballs at the old schoolroom ceiling,” she retorted. + “And I am not a bit afraid to do it either. So sit right over there, sir, + and listen to me.” + </p> + <p> + They laughed together then; and if Auntie Sue wiped her eyes as the + schoolboy obediently took his seat in the big chair at the banker's desk, + Homer T. Ward's eyes were not without a suspicious moisture. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about Betty Jo first,” the man insisted. “You know, Auntie Sue, + the girl grows dearer to me every year.” + </p> + <p> + “Betty Jo is that kind of a girl, Homer,” Auntie Sue answered. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is because she is all I have to love,” he said, “but, you + know, ever since Sister Grace died and left the fatherless little kid to + me, it seems like all my plans have centered around her; and now that she + has finished her school; has travelled abroad, and gone through with that + business-college course, I am beginning to feel like we should sort of + settle down together. I am glad for her to be with you this summer, + though, for the finishing touches; and when she comes home to stay, you + are coming with her.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue shook her head, smiling: “Now, Homer, you know that is settled: + I will never leave my little log house by the river until I have watched + the last sunset. You know, my dear boy, that I would be miserable in the + city.” + </p> + <p> + It was an old point often argued by them, and the man dismissed it, now, + with a brief: “We'll see about that when the time comes. But, why didn't + you bring Betty Jo with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Because,” Auntie Sue answered, “I came away hurriedly, on a very + important trip, for only a day, and it is necessary for her to stay and + keep house while I am gone. The child must learn to cook, Homer, even if + she is to inherit all your money.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” answered the banker;—“the same as you make me work when I + visit you. But your coming to me sounds rather serious, Auntie Sue. What + is your trouble?” + </p> + <p> + The dear old lady laughed, nervously; for, to tell the truth, she did not + quite know how she was going to manage to present Brian Kent's case to + Homer T. Ward without presenting more than she was at this time ready to + reveal. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you see, Homer,” she began, “it is not really my trouble as much as + it is yours, and it is not yours as much as it is—” + </p> + <p> + “Betty Jo's?” he asked quickly, when she hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “No! no!” she cried. “The child doesn't even know why I am here. Just try + to forget her for a few minutes, Homer.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said; “but you had me worried for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue might have answered that she was somewhat worried herself; but, + instead, she plunged with desperate courage: “I came to see you about + Brian Kent, Homer.” + </p> + <p> + It is not enough to say that the President of the Empire Consolidated + Savings Bank was astonished. “Brian Kent?” he said at last. “Why, Auntie + Sue, I wrote you nearly a year ago that Brian Kent was dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know; but he was not—that is, he is not. But the Brian Kent + your detectives were hunting was—I mean—is.” + </p> + <p> + Homer T. Ward looked at his old teacher as though he feared she had + suddenly lost her mind. + </p> + <p> + “It is like this, Homer,” Auntie Sue explained: “A few days after your + detective, Mr. Ross, called on me, this stranger appeared in the + neighborhood. No one dreamed that he was Brian Kent, because, you see, he + was not a bit like the description.” + </p> + <p> + “Full beard, I suppose?” commented the banker, grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes: and every other way,” continued Auntie Sue. “And he has been working + so hard all winter; and everybody in the country respects and loves him + so; and he is one of the best and truest men I ever knew; and he is + planning and working to pay back every cent he took; and I cannot—I + will not—let you send him to prison now.” + </p> + <p> + The lovely old eyes were fixed on the banker's face with sweet anxiety. + </p> + <p> + Homer T. Ward was puzzled. Strange human problems are often presented to + men in his position; but, certainly, this was the strangest;—his old + teacher pleading for his absconding clerk who was supposed to be dead. + </p> + <p> + At last he said, with gentle kindness: “But, why did you come to tell me + about him, Auntie Sue? He is safe enough if no one knows who he is.” + </p> + <p> + “That is it!” she cried. “Some one found out about him, and is coming here + to tell you, for the reward.” + </p> + <p> + The banker whistled softly. “And you—you—grabbed a train, and + beat 'em to it!” he exclaimed. “Well, if that doesn't—” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue clasped her thin hands to her breast, and her sweet voice + trembled with anxious fear: “You won't send that poor boy to prison, now, + will you, Homer? It—it—would kill me if such a terrible thing + were to happen now. Won't you let him go free, so that he can do his work,—won't + you, Homer? I—I—” The strain of her anxiety was almost too + much for the dear old gentlewoman's physical strength, and as her voice + failed, the tears streamed down the soft cheeks unheeded. + </p> + <p> + In an instant the bank president was again on his knees beside her chair. + </p> + <p> + “Don't, Auntie Sue: don't, dear! Why, you know I would do anything in the + world you asked, even if I wanted to send the fellow up; but I don't. I + wouldn't touch him for the world. It is a thousand times better to let him + go if he is proving himself an honest man. Please, dear, don't feel so. + Why, I will be glad to let him off. I'll help him, Auntie Sue. I—I—am + as glad as you are that we didn't get him. Please don't feel so about it. + There, there,—it is all right, now.” + </p> + <p> + So he comforted and reassured her until she was able to smile through her + tears. “I knew I could depend on you, Homer.” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later, she said: “And what about that man who is coming to + claim the reward, Homer?” + </p> + <p> + “Never you mind him!” cried the banker; “I'll fix that. But, tell me, + Auntie Sue, where is young Kent now?” + </p> + <p> + “He is working in the neighborhood,” she returned. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her shrewdly. “You have seen a lot of him, have you?” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen him occasionally,” she answered. Homer T. Ward nodded his + head, as if well pleased with himself. “You don't need to tell me any + more. I understand, now, exactly. It is very clear what has reformed Brian + Kent; you have been up to your old tricks. It is a wonder you haven't + taken him into your house to live with you,—to save him from + associating with bad people.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed, and when Auntie Sue only smiled, as though humoring him in his + little joke, he added: “By the way, has Betty Jo seen this latest patient + of yours? What does she think of his chances for complete recovery?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Auntie Sue returned, calmly; “Betty Jo has seen him. But, really, + Homer, I have never asked her what she thought of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, Auntie Sue,” said the banker, reflectively, “I never did + believe that Brian Kent was a criminal at heart.” + </p> + <p> + “I know he is not,” she returned stoutly. “But, tell me, Homer, how did it + ever happen?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you see,” he answered, “young Kent had a wife who couldn't somehow + seem to fit into his life. Ross never went into the details with me, + fully, because that, of course, had no real bearing on the fact that he + stole the money from the bank. But it seems that the youngster was rather + ambitious,—studied a lot outside of business hours and that sort of + thing. I know he made his own way through business college before he came + to us. The wife didn't receive the attention she thought she should have, + I suppose. Perhaps she was right at that. Anyway, she wanted a good time;—wanted + him to take her out more, instead of spending his spare time digging away + at his books. And so it went the usual way,—she found other company. + Rather a gay set, I fancy; at least it led to her needing more money than + he was earning, and so he helped out his salary, thinking to pay it back + before he was caught, I suppose. Then the crash came,—some other + man, you know,—and Brian skipped, which, of course, put us next to + his stealing. I don't know what has become of the woman. The last Ross + knew of her she was living in St. Louis, and running with a pretty wild + bunch,—glad to get rid of Brian, I expect. She couldn't have really + cared so very much for him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, Auntie Sue, I have seen so many cases like this one. I have + been glad, many times, that I never married. And then, again, sometimes, I + have seen homes that have made me sorry I never took the chance. I am glad + you saved the boy, Auntie Sue: I am mighty glad.” + </p> + <p> + “You have made me very happy, Homer,” Auntie Sue returned. “But are you + sure you can fix it about that reward? The man who is coming to claim it + will make trouble, won't he, if he is not paid, somehow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I expect he would,” returned the president, thoughtfully. “And my + directors might have something to say. And there are the Burns people and + the Bankers' Association and all. Hum-m-m!” + </p> + <p> + Homer T. Ward considered the matter a few moments, then he laughed. “I'll + tell you what we will do, Auntie Sue; we will let Brian Kent pay the + reward himself. That would be fair, wouldn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue was sure that Brian would agree that it was a fair enough + arrangement; but she did not see how it was to be managed. + </p> + <p> + Then her old pupil explained that he would pay the reward-money to the man + who was coming to claim it, and thus satisfy him, and that the bank would + hold the amount as a part of the debt which Brian was expected to pay. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue never knew that President Ward himself paid to the bank the + full amount of the money stolen by Brian Kent in addition to the + reward-money which he personally paid to Jap Taylor, in order to quiet + him, and thus saved Brian from the publicity that surely would have + followed any other course. + </p> + <p> + It should also be said here that Judy's father never again appeared in the + Ozarks; at least, not in the Elbow Rock neighborhood. It might be that Jap + Taylor was shrewd enough to know that his reputation would not permit him + to show any considerable sum of money, where he was known, without + starting an investigation; and for men of his type investigations are + never to be desired. + </p> + <p> + Or it is not unlikely that the combination of money and the city proved + the undoing of the moonshiner, and that he came to his legitimate and + logical end among the dives and haunts of his kind, to which he would + surely gravitate. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. + </h2> + <h3> + IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS. + </h3> + <p> + The day following that night of Brian Kent's uneasy wakefulness was a hard + day for the man and the woman in the little log house by the river. + </p> + <p> + For Brian, the morning dawned with a sense of impending disaster. He left + his room while the sky was still gray behind the eastern mountains, and + the mist that veiled the brightness of the hills seemed to hide in its + ghostly depths legions of shadowy spirits that from his past had assembled + to haunt him. The sombre aisles and caverns of the dimly lighted forest + were peopled with shadowy memories of that life which he had hoped would + never again for him awake. And the river swept through its gray world to + the crashing turmoil at Elbow Rock like a thing doomed to seek forever in + its own irresistible might the destruction of its ever-living self. + </p> + <p> + As one moving in a world of dreams, he went about his morning's work. “Old + Prince” whinnied his usual greeting, but received no answer. “Bess” met + him at the barnyard gate, but he did not speak. The sun leaped above the + mountain-tops, and the world was filled with the beauty of its golden + glory. From tree and bush and swaying weed, from forest and pasture, and + garden and willow-fringed river-bank, the birds voiced their happy + greetings to the new day. But the man neither saw nor heard. + </p> + <p> + When he went to the house with his full milk-pail, and Betty Jo met him at + the kitchen-door with her cheery “Good-morning!” he tried resolutely to + free himself from the mood which possessed him, but only partially + succeeded. Several times, as the two faced each other across the breakfast + table, Brian saw the gray eyes filled with questioning anxiety, as though + Betty Jo, also, felt the presence of some forbidding spectre at the meal. + </p> + <p> + After several vain attempts to find something they could talk about, Betty + Jo boldly acknowledged the situation by saying: “What in the world is the + matter with us, this morning, Mr. Burns? I am possessed with the feeling + that there is some one or something behind me. I want to look over my + shoulder every minute.” + </p> + <p> + At her words, Brian involuntarily turned his head for a quick backward + glance. + </p> + <p> + “There!” cried Betty Jo, with a nervous laugh, not at all like her normal, + well-poised self. “You feel it, too!” + </p> + <p> + Brian forced a laugh in return: “It is the weather, I guess.” He tried to + speak with casual ease. “The atmosphere is full of electricity this + morning. We'll have a thunder-storm before night, probably.” + </p> + <p> + “And was it the electricity in the air that kept you tramping up and down + your room last night until almost morning?” she demanded abruptly, with + her characteristic opposition to any evasion of the question at issue. + </p> + <p> + Brian retorted with a smile: “And how do you know that I tramped up and + down my room last night?” + </p> + <p> + The color in Betty Jo's cheeks deepened as she answered, “I did not sleep + very well either.” + </p> + <p> + “But, I surely did not make noise enough for you to hear in your room?” + persisted Brian. + </p> + <p> + The color deepened still more in Betty Jo's checks, as she answered + honestly: “I was not in my room when I heard you.” She paused, and when he + only looked at her expectantly, but did not speak, continued, in a + hesitating manner quite unlike her matter-of-fact self: “When I could not + sleep, and felt so as though there were somebody or something in the house + that had no business here, I became afraid, and opened my door so I would + not feel so much alone; and then I saw the light under the door of your + room, and,—” she hesitated, but finished with a little air of + defiance,—“and I went and listened outside your door to see if you + were up.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Brian Kent, gently. + </p> + <p> + “And when I heard you walking up and down, I wanted to call to you; but I + thought I better not. It made me feel better, though, just to know that + you were there; and so, pretty soon, I went back to my room again.” + </p> + <p> + “And then?” said Brian. + </p> + <p> + “And then,” confessed Betty Jo, “whatever it was that was keeping me awake + came back, and went on keeping me awake until I was simply forced to go to + you for help again.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Betty Jo! She knew very well that she ought not to be saying those + things to the man who, while he listened, could not hide the love that + shone in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + And Brian Kent, as he thought of this woman, whom he loved with all the + strength of his best self, creeping to the door of his room for comfort in + the lonely night, scarcely dared trust himself to speak. At last, when + their silence was becoming unbearable, he said, gently: “You poor child! + Why didn't you call to me?” + </p> + <p> + And Betty Jo, hearing in his voice that which told her how near he was to + the surrender that would bring disaster to them both, was aroused to the + defense. The gray eyes never wavered as she answered, bravely: “I was + afraid of that, too.” + </p> + <p> + And so Betty Jo confessed her love that answered so to his need; but, in + her very confession, saved their love from themselves. If she had lowered + her eyes—Brian Kent, in reverent acknowledgment, bowed his head + before her. Then, rising, he walked to the window, where he stood for some + time looking out, but seeing nothing. + </p> + <p> + “It was that horrid man coming yesterday that has so upset us,” said Betty + Jo, at last. “We were getting on so beautifully, too. I wish he had gone + somewhere else for his vegetables and eggs and things!” + </p> + <p> + Brian was able to smile at this as he turned to face her again, and they + both knew that,—for that time, at least,—the danger-point was + safely past. + </p> + <p> + “I wish so, too,” he agreed; “but never mind; Auntie Sue will be home in a + day or two, and then everything will be all right again.” + </p> + <p> + But when he had taken his hat and was starting out for the day's work, + Betty Jo asked, “What are you doing to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “I was going to work on the fence around the clearing,” he answered. + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I—wish you could find something to do nearer the house,” + came the slow answer. “Couldn't you work in the garden, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + “I should say I could!” he returned heartily. + </p> + <p> + All that forenoon, as Betty Jo went about her household duties she felt + the presence of the thing that filled her so with fear and dread. With + vigorous determination she scolded herself for being so foolish, and + argued with herself that it was all a nervous fancy born of her restless + night. But, the next moment, she would start with a sudden fear and turn + quickly as if to face some one whose presence she felt behind her. And + Brian, too, as he worked in the garden, caught himself often in the act of + pausing to look about with nervous apprehension. + </p> + <p> + During the noonday meal they made a determined effort to laugh at + themselves, and by the time dinner was over had almost succeeded. But when + Brian, as he pushed back his chair, said, jestingly, “Well, am I to work + in the garden again this afternoon?” Betty Jo answered, emphatically, + “Indeed you are! I will not stay another minute in this house alone. + Goodness knows what I will do to-night!” + </p> + <p> + There was no jest in the man's voice as he answered: “I'll tell you what + you will do to-night,—you will go to bed and you will go to sleep. + You will leave the door to your room wide-open, and I shall lie right + there on that couch, so near that a whisper from you will reach me. We + will have no more of this midnight prowling, I promise you. If any ghost + dares appear, we—” + </p> + <p> + The reassuring words died on Brian Kent's lips. His eyes, looking over + Betty Jo's shoulders, were fixed and staring, and the look on his face + sent a chill of horror to the girl's heart. She dared not move nor look + around as he sat like a man turned to stone. + </p> + <p> + A woman's laugh broke the dead silence. + </p> + <p> + With a scream, Betty Jo sprung to her feet and whirled about. + </p> + <p> + As one in a trance, Brian Kent arose and stood beside her. + </p> + <p> + The woman, who stood in the open doorway, laughed again. + </p> + <p> + Martha Kent's heavy drinking the night before, when her clubhouse friends + in a wild debauch had tried to help her to forget, was the climax of many + months of like excesses. The mood in which she had sent the man Green from + her room was the last despairing flicker of her better instincts. Moved by + her memories of better things,—of a better love and dreams and + ideals,—she had spent a little hour or two in sentimental regret for + that which she had so recklessly cast aside. And then, because there was + within her no foundation of abiding principle for her sentiment, she had + again put on the character which had so separated her from the life of the + man to whom she was married, indeed, but with whom she was never one. With + the burning consciousness of what she might have been and of what she was + ever tormenting her, she sank, as the hours passed, deeper and deeper into + the quicksands of physical indulgence until, in her mad determination to + destroy utterly her ability to feel remorse, she lost all mental control + of herself, and responded to every insane whim of her drink-disordered + brain. + </p> + <p> + As she stood there, now, in the doorway of that little log house by the + river,—face to face with the man and the woman who, though they were + united in their love, were yet separated by the very fact of her + existence,—she was, in all her hideous, but pitiful, repulsiveness, + the legitimate creation of those life-forces which she so fitly + personified. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo instinctively drew closer to Brian's side. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Brian, dear!” said the woman, with a drunken leer. “Thought I'd + call to see you in your charming love-nest that Harry Green raved so + about. Can't you introduce me to your little sweetheart?” + </p> + <p> + “No?” she continued, and laughed again. Then coming an unsteady step + toward them, she added, thickly: “Very well, Brian, old sport; you won't + introduce me,—I'll have to introduce myself.” She grinned with + malicious triumph at Betty Jo: “Don't be frightened, my dear. It's all + right. I'm nobody of importance,—just his wife,—that's all,—just + his wife.” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo, with a little cry, turned to the man who stood as if stricken + dumb with horror. “Brian?” she said. “Oh, Brian?” + </p> + <p> + It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his given name, and + Brian Kent, as he looked, saw in those gray eyes no hint of doubt or + censure, but only the truest love and sympathy. Betty Jo had not failed in + the moment of her supreme testing. + </p> + <p> + “It's true, all right, isn't it, Brian?” said Martha Kent. “I'm his wife + fast enough, my dear. But you don't need to worry,—you two. I'm a + good sport,—I am. I've had my fun. No kick coming from me. Just + called to pay my respects,—that's all. So-long, Brian, old sport! + Good-bye, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + With an uncertain wave of her hand, she staggered through the doorway and + passed from their sight. + </p> + <p> + In the little log house by the river the two who had kept the fineness of + their love stood face to face. + </p> + <p> + For Betty Jo, the barrier which Brian Kent had maintained between them to + protect her from his love was no longer a thing unknown. But the + revelation, coming as it did, had brought no shadow of distrust or doubt + of the man to whom she had so fully entrusted herself. It had, indeed, + only strengthened her faith in him and deepened her love. + </p> + <p> + For one glorious triumphal moment the very soul of the man exulted in the + truth which Betty Jo made known to him. Then he turned slowly away, for he + dared not trust himself to look at her a moment longer. + </p> + <p> + With bowed head he paced up and down the room. He went to the table which + held Auntie Sue's sewing-basket, and fingered the trifles there. Then, + slowly, he passed through the open door to the porch, where Betty Jo, + through the window, near which she stood, saw him look away over the river + and the mountains. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, she saw him start, and stare intently at some nearer object that + had caught his attention. As Betty Jo watched, he moved to the edge of the + porch, and, stooping, grasped the railing with his hands;—his head + and shoulders were thrust forward; his lips were parted; his whole + attitude was that of the most intense and excited interest. Then, + straightening up, he threw back his head, and laughed aloud. But his + laughter alarmed the girl, who ran to the door, crying, “What is it, + Brian?” + </p> + <p> + “Look!” he shouted, madly, and pointed toward the river. “Look, Betty Jo!” + </p> + <p> + Martha Kent, alone in one of the clubhouse boats, was rowing with drunken + clumsiness toward the head of the Elbow Rock rapids. + </p> + <p> + The woman's friends had missed her, and, guessing, from some remark she + had made, where she had gone, had sent four men of the party after her; + for they realized that she was in no condition to be alone in a boat on + the river, particularly on that part of the stream near Auntie Sue's + place. After leaving Brian and Betty Jo, she had gone back to her boat in + the eddy at the foot of the garden, and was pulling out into the stream + when she saw her friends approaching. With a drunken laugh, she waved her + hand, and began rowing from them directly toward the swift water. The men + shouted for her to stop, and pulled with all their strength. But the + woman, taking their calls as a challenge, rowed the harder, while every + awkward pull of the oars carried her nearer the deadly grip of the + current. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo, as she reached Brian's side, and saw what was happening on the + river, grasped the man's arm appealingly, with a cry: “Brian! Brian! She + is going into the rapids! She will be carried down to Elbow Rock!” + </p> + <p> + But Brian Kent, for the moment, was beside himself. All that he had + suffered,—all that the woman out there on the river had cost him in + anguish of soul,—all that she had taken from him of happiness,—came + before him with blinding vividness; and now,—now,—in her + drunkenness, she was making her own way to her own destruction. + </p> + <p> + “Of course she is!” he shouted, in answer to Betty Jo. “Her friends yonder + are driving her to it! Could anything be more fitting?” + </p> + <p> + As though grasped by powerful unseen hands beneath the surface, the boat + shot forward. The woman, feeling the sudden pull of the current, stopped + rowing, and looked about as if wondering what had happened. Her friends, + not daring to follow closer to the dangerous water, were pulling madly for + the landing at the foot of the garden. The boat in the middle of the river + moved faster. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Betty Jo, look!” shouted the man on the porch, madly. “It's got her + now—the river has got her—look!” + </p> + <p> + With a scream of fear, the woman in the boat dropped her oars, and grasped + the gunwale of the little craft. + </p> + <p> + Brian Kent laughed. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo shrank back from him, her eyes, big with horror, fixed upon his + face. Then, with a quick movement, she sprang toward him again, and, + catching his arm, shook him with all her strength and struck him again and + again with her fist. + </p> + <p> + “Brian! Brian!” she cried. “You are insane!” + </p> + <p> + The man looked down at her for an instant with an expression of bewildered + astonishment on his face, as one awakened from a dream. He raised his hand + and drew it across his forehead and eyes. + </p> + <p> + The boat with the helpless woman was already past the front of the house. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo cried again as if calling the man she loved from a distance: + “Brian! Brian!” + </p> + <p> + With a sudden movement, the man jerked away from her. The next instant, he + had leaped over the railing of the porch to the ground below and was + running with all his might toward the river, at an angle which would put + him opposite or a little below the boat when he reached the bank. + </p> + <p> + With a sob, Betty Jo followed as fast as she could. + </p> + <p> + As Brian Kent raced toward the river's edge, the powerful current drew the + boat with the woman into the first rough water of the rapids, and, as the + skiff was shaken and tossed by the force that was sweeping it with + ever-increasing speed toward the wild turmoil at Elbow Rock, the woman + screamed again and again for help. + </p> + <p> + The warring forces of the stream whirled the little craft about, and she + saw the man who was nearing the bank. She rose to her feet in the rocking + boat, and stretched out her arms,—calling his name, “Brian! Brian! + Brian!” Then the impact of the boat against a larger wave of the rapids + brought her to her knees, and she clung to the thwarts with piteous cries. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo and the clubhouse men, who had overtaken her, saw Brian as he + reached the river opposite the boat. For a little way he raced the + tumbling waters until he had gained a short distance ahead of the skiff; + then they saw him, without an instant's pause, leap from the high bank far + out into the boiling stream. + </p> + <p> + Running along the bank, the helpless watchers saw the man fighting his way + toward the boat. One moment, he disappeared from sight, dragged beneath + the surface by the powerful currents with which he wrestled. The next + instant, the boiling waters would toss him high on the crest of a rolling + wave, only to drag him down again a second later. But, always, he drew + nearer and nearer the object of his struggle, while the rapids swept both + the helpless woman and the tossing boat and the swimming man onward toward + the towering cliff, and the thunder-roar of the mad waters below grew + louder and louder. + </p> + <p> + The splendid strength of arms and shoulders which Brian Kent had acquired + by his months of work with his ax on the timbered mountain-side sustained + him now in his need. With tremendous energy, he breasted the might of the + furious river. To the watchers it seemed at times that it was beyond the + power of human muscles to endure the terrific strain. Then he gained the + boat, and they saw him striving with desperate energy to drag it toward + the opposite shore and so into the currents that would carry it past the + menacing point of the cliff and perhaps to the safety of the quiet water + below. + </p> + <p> + All that human strength could do in that terrible situation, Brian Kent + did. But the task was beyond the power of mortal man. + </p> + <p> + For an instant the breathless watchers on the bank thought there was a + chance; but the waters with mad fury dragged their victims back, and, with + terrific power, hurled them forward toward the frowning rocks. + </p> + <p> + It was quickly over. + </p> + <p> + In that wild turmoil of the boiling, leaping, seething, lashing, hammering + waves, the boat, with the woman who crouched on her knees on the bottom, + and the man who clung to the side of the craft, appeared for a second + lifted high in the air. The next instant, the crash of breaking wood + sounded above the thundering roaring of the waters. The man and the woman + disappeared. The wreck of the boat was flung again and again against the + cliff, until, battered and broken, it was swept away around the point. + </p> + <p> + Against the dark wall of rock Brian Kent's head and shoulders appeared for + an instant, and they saw that he held the woman in his arms. The furious + waters closed over them. For the fraction of a second, the man's hand and + arm appeared again above the surface, and was gone. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo sank to the ground with a low cry of anguish, and hid her face. + </p> + <p> + Another moment, and she was aroused by a loud shout from one of the men + who had caught a glimpse of the river's victims farther out at the point + of the rocky cliff. + </p> + <p> + Springing to her feet, Betty Jo started madly up the trail that leads over + the bluff. The men followed. + </p> + <p> + Immediately below Elbow Rock there is a deep hole formed by the waters + that pour around the point of the cliff, and below this hole a wide + gravelly bar pushing out from the Elbow Rock side of the stream forces the + main volume of the river to the opposite bank. In the shallow water + against the upper side of the bar they found them. + </p> + <p> + With the last flicker of his consciousness, Brian Kent had felt his feet + touch the bottom where the water shoals against the bar, and, with his + last remaining strength, had dragged himself and the body of the woman + into the shallows. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo was no hysterical weakling to spend the priceless seconds of such + a time in senseless ravings. The first-aid training which she had received + at school gave her the necessary knowledge which her native strength of + character and practical common sense enabled her to apply. Under her + direction, the men from the clubhouse worked as they probably never had + worked before in all their useless lives. + </p> + <p> + But the man and the woman whose life-currents had touched and mingled,—drawn + apart to flow apparently far from each other, but drawn together again to + once more touch, and, as one, to endure the testing of the rapids,—the + man and the woman had not brought to the terrible ordeal the same + strength. + </p> + <p> + One was drawn into the Elbow Rock rapids by the careless indifference and + the reckless spirit that was born of the life she had chosen; by her + immediate associates and environment; and by the circumstances that were, + at the last analysis, of her own making. + </p> + <p> + The other braved the same dangers, strong in the splendid spirit that had + set him against such terrible odds to attempt the woman's rescue. From his + work on the timbered mountain-side, from his life in the clean atmosphere + of the hills, and from the spiritual and mental companionship of that + little log house by the river, he had brought to his testing the splendid + strength which enabled him to endure. + </p> + <p> + Somewhere in that terrible conflict with the wild waters at Elbow Rock, + while the man whose life she had so nearly ruined by her wantonness was + fighting to save her, the soul of Martha Kent went from the bruised and + battered body which Brian drew at last from the vicious grasp of the + currents. + </p> + <p> + But the man lived. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. + </h2> + <h3> + JUDY'S RETURN. + </h3> + <p> + In the early evening twilight of the day following the tragedy at Elbow + Rock, Betty Jo was sitting on the porch, to rest for a few minutes in the + fresh air, after long hours of watching beside Brian's bed. + </p> + <p> + A neighbor woman had come to help, but Betty Jo would not leave the side + of the man she loved as he fought his way slowly out of the dark shadow of + the death that had so nearly conquered him. Nor, indeed, would Brian let + her go, for even in those moments when he appeared most unconscious of the + life about him, he seemed to feel her presence. All through the long, long + hours of that anxious night and day she had watched and waited the final + issue;—feeling the dark messenger very close at times, but gaining + hope as the hours passed and her lover won his way nearer and nearer to + the light;—courageous always;—giving him the best of her + strength, so far as it was possible to give him anything;—making him + feel the steady, enduring fullness of her love. + </p> + <p> + At last, they felt that the victory was won. The doctor, satisfied that + the crisis was safely past, went his way to visit other patients. By + evening, Brian was resting so easily that the girl had stolen away for a + few minutes, leaving the neighbor to call her if he should waken. + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo had been on the porch but a short time when a step sounded on the + gravel walk that led from the porch steps around the corner of the house. + A moment more, and Judy appeared. + </p> + <p> + The mountain girl stopped when she saw Betty Jo, and the latter went to + the top of the steps. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Judy!” said Betty Jo, quietly. “Won't you come in?” + </p> + <p> + Slowly, with her black beady eyes fixed on Betty Jo's face, Judy went up + the steps. + </p> + <p> + As the mountain girl reached the level of the porch-floor, Betty Jo drew a + little back toward the door. + </p> + <p> + Judy stopped instantly, and stood still. Then, in a low tone, she said: + “You-all ain't got no call ter be afeared, Miss Betty Jo. You hain't never + goin' ter have no call ter be scared of me again, never.” + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad for you to say that, Judy,” returned Betty Jo, smiling. “I + don't want to be afraid of you, and I am not really; but—” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't you-all plumb a-hatin' me for what I done?” asked Judy, + wonderingly. + </p> + <p> + “No, no; Judy, dear, I don't hate you at all, and you must know that + Auntie Sue loves you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Judy nodded her head, thoughtfully. “Auntie Sue just naturally + loves everybody. Hit wouldn't be no more'n nature, though, for you-all ter + hate me. I sure have been poison-mean.” + </p> + <p> + “But that is all past now, Judy,” said Betty Jo, heartily. “Come and sit + down?” She started toward the chairs. + </p> + <p> + But the mountain girl did not move, except to shake her head in refusal of + the hospitable invitation. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't a-goin' ter put my foot inside this house, nor set with you-all, + nor nothin' 'til I've said what I done come ter say.” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo turned back to her again: “What is it, Judy?” + </p> + <p> + “Auntie Sue done told me not ter let you-all er Mr. Burns see me 'til she + come back. But I can't help hit, an' if I don't talk 'bout that none, I + reckon she ain't a-goin' ter mind so much. You-all don't know that I seed + Auntie Sue that night 'fore she went away, an' that hit was me took her + ter the station with 'Old Prince,' an' brung him back, did you?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Betty Jo, “I did not know; and if Auntie Sue told you not to + tell us about it, I would rather you did not, Judy.” + </p> + <p> + “I ain't aimin' ter,” Judy returned; “but Auntie Sue don't know nothin' + 'bout what's happened since she went away, an' hit's that what's a-makin' + me come ter you-all.” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo, seeing that the poor girl was laboring under some intense + emotional stress, said, gently: “What is it that you wish to tell me, + Judy? I am sure Auntie Sue will not mind, if you feel so about it.” + </p> + <p> + The mountain girl's eyes filled and the tears streamed down her sallow + cheeks, while her twisted shoulders shook with the grief she could not + suppress, as she faltered: “My God-A'mighty! Miss Betty Jo, I—I—didn't + aim ter do hit! I sure didn't! 'Fore God, I'd er let 'em kill me first, if + I'd only had time ter think. But hit—hit—was me what told that + there woman how Mr. Burns was Brian Kent. Hit's—hit's—me + what's ter blame for gittin' her killed in the river an' him so nigh + drowned. O God! O God! If he'll only git well! + </p> + <p> + “An' I ain't a-feelin' toward you-all like I did, Miss Betty Jo. I can't + no more. I done left them clubhouse folks, after I knowed what has + happened, an' all day I been hangin' 'round here in the bresh. An' Lucy + Warden she done told me, this afternoon, 'bout how you-all was takin' care + of Mr. Burns, an' how you just naturally wouldn't let him die. An'—an'—I + kin see, now, what hit is that makes Auntie Sue and him an' you-all so + different from that there clubhouse gang an' pap an' me. An' I ain't + a-wantin' ter be like I been, no more, ever. I'd a heap rather jump inter + the river an' drown myself. 'Fore God, I would! An' I want ter come back + an' help you-all take care of him; an' live with Auntie Sue; an'—an'—be + a little might like youuns, if I kin. Will you let me, Miss Betty Jo? Will + you? I most know Auntie Sue would, if she was here.” + </p> + <p> + Before the mountain girl had finished speaking, Betty Jo's arm was around + the poor twisted shoulders, and Betty Jo's eyes were answering Judy's + pleading. + </p> + <p> + And so, when Auntie Sue came home, it was Judy who met her at the station, + with “Old Prince” and the buggy; and as they drove down the winding road + to the little log house by the river, the mountain girl told the old + gentlewoman all that had happened in her absence. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. + </h2> + <h3> + THE RIVER. + </h3> + <p> + Brian Kent recovered quickly from the effects of his experience in the + Elbow Rock rapids, and was soon able again to take up his work on the + little farm. Every day he labored in the garden, or in the clearing, or at + some task which did not rightly fall to those who rented the major part of + Auntie Sue's tillable acreage. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue had told him about her visit to the President of the Empire + Consolidated Savings Bank, and of the arrangement made by the banker—as + she understood it—for Brian's protection. But while the dear old + lady explained that Homer T. Ward was one of her pupils, she did not + reveal the relation between Brian's former chief and Betty Jo. Neither + Auntie Sue nor Betty Jo, for several very good reasons, was ready for + Brian to know the whole truth about his stenographer. It was quite enough, + they reasoned, for him to love his stenographer, and for his stenographer + to love him, without raising any more obstacles in the pathway of their + happiness. + </p> + <p> + As the busy weeks passed, several letters came from the publishers of + Brian's book,—letters which made the three in the little log house + by the river very happy. Already, in the first reception of this new + writer's work, those who had undertaken to present it to the public saw + many promises of the fulfillment of their prophecies as to its success. + When the third letter came, a statement of the sales to date was enclosed, + and, that afternoon, Betty Jo went to Brian where he was at work in the + clearing. + </p> + <p> + When they were comfortably, not to say cozily, seated on a log in the + shade at the edge of the forest, she announced that she had come for a + very serious talk. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” he returned; but he really looked altogether too happy to be + exceedingly serious. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she continued, “I have. As your accredited business agent and—” + she favored him with a Betty Jo smile—“shall I say manager?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not managing owner?” he retorted. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad you confirm my promotion so readily,” she returned, with a + charming touch of color in her cheeks, “because that, you see, helps me to + present what I have to say for the good of the firm.” + </p> + <p> + “I am listening, Betty Jo.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well; tell me, first, Brian, just exactly how much do you owe that + bank, reward-money and all, and Auntie Sue, interest and everything?” + </p> + <p> + Brian went to his coat, which lay on a near-by stump, and returned with a + small pocket account-book. + </p> + <p> + “I have it all here,” he said, as he seated himself close beside her + again. And, opening the book, he showed her how he had kept a careful + record of the various sums he had taken from the bank, with the dates. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Brian, Brian!” she said with a little cry of delight, “I am so glad,—so + glad you have this! It is exactly what I want for my wedding present. It + was so thoughtful of you to fix it for me.” + </p> + <p> + Thus by a characteristic, Betty Jo turn she made the little book of + painful memories a book of joyous promise. + </p> + <p> + When they again returned to the consideration of business matters, Brian + gave her the figures which answered her questions as to his total + indebtedness. + </p> + <p> + Again Betty Jo exclaimed with delight: “Brian, do you see? Take your + pencil and figure quick your royalties on the number of books sold as + given in the publishers' statement.” + </p> + <p> + Brian laughed. “I have figured it.” + </p> + <p> + “And your book has already earned more than enough to pay everything,” + said Betty Jo. “Isn't that simply grand, Brian?” + </p> + <p> + “It is pretty 'grand,' all right,” he agreed. “The only trouble is, I must + wait so long before the money is due me from the publishers.” + </p> + <p> + “That is exactly what I came to talk about,” she returned quickly. “I + tried to have it different when I made the arrangements with them, but the + terms of payment in the contract are the very best I could get; and so I + have planned a little plan whereby you—that is, we—won't need + to wait for your freedom until the date of settlement with the + publishers.” + </p> + <p> + “You have a plan which will do that?” Brian questioned, doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + She nodded vigorously, with another Betty Jo smile. “This is the plan, and + you are not to interrupt until I have finished everything: I happen to + have some money of my very, very own, which is doing nothing but earning + interest—” + </p> + <p> + At the look on Brian's face, she stopped suddenly; but, when he started to + speak, she put her hand quickly over his mouth, saying: “You were not to + say a single word until I have finished. Play fair, Brian, dear; please!” + </p> + <p> + When he signified that he would not speak, she continued in her most + matter-of-fact and businesslike tone: “There is every reason in the world, + Brian, why you should pay off your debt to the bank and to Auntie Sue at + the earliest possible moment. You can think of several reasons yourself. + There is me, for instance. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. You have the money to your credit with the publishers; but you + can't use it yet. I have money that you can just as well use. You will + make an assignment of your royalties to me, all in proper form, to cover + the amount you need. You will pay me the same interest my money is now + earning where it is. + </p> + <p> + “I will arrange for the money to be sent to you in the form of a cashier's + cheque, payable to the banker, Homer T. Ward, so the name Brian Kent does + not appear before we are ready, you see. You will make believe to Auntie + Sue that the money is from the publishers. You will send the cheque to Mr. + Bank President personally, with a statement of your indebtedness to him + properly itemized, interest figured on everything. You will instruct him + to open an account for you with the balance. And then—then, Brian, + you will give dear Auntie Sue a cheque for what you owe her, with interest + of course. And we will all be so happy! And—and—don't you + think I am a very good managing owner? You do, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + When he hesitated, she added: “And the final and biggest reason of all is, + that I want you to do as I have planned more than I ever wanted anything + in the world, except you, and I want this so because I want you. You can't + really refuse, now, can you?” + </p> + <p> + How, indeed, could he refuse? + </p> + <p> + So they worked it out together as Betty Jo had planned; and when the time + came for the last and best part of the plan, and Brian confessed to Auntie + Sue how he had robbed her, and had known for so long that she was aware of + his crime against her, and finished his confession by giving her the + cheque, it is safe to say that there was nowhere in all the world more + happiness than in the little log house by the river. + </p> + <p> + “God-A'mighty sure helped me to do one good turn, anyway, when I jumped + inter the river after that there book when Mr. Burns done throw'd hit + away,” commented the delighted Judy. + </p> + <p> + And while they laughed together, Betty Jo hugged the deformed mountain + girl, and answered: “God Almighty was sure good to us all that day, Judy, + dear!” + </p> + <p> + It was only a day later when Auntie Sue received a letter from Homer T. + Ward which sent the dear old lady in great excitement to Betty Jo. The + banker was coming for his long-deferred vacation to the log house by the + river. + </p> + <p> + There was in his letter a kindly word for his former clerk, Brian Kent, + should Auntie Sue chance to see him; much love for his old teacher and for + the dearest girl in the world, his Betty Jo. + </p> + <p> + But that part of Homer T. Ward's letter which most excited Auntie Sue and + caused Betty Jo to laugh until she cried was this: The great financier, + who, even in his busy life of large responsibilities, found time for some + good reading, had discovered a great book, by a new and heretofore unknown + writer. The book was great because every page of it, Homer T. Ward + declared, reminded him of Auntie Sue. If the writer had known her for + years, he could not have drawn a truer picture of her character, nor + presented her philosophy of life more clearly. It was a remarkable piece + of work. It was most emphatically the sort of writing that the world + needed. This new author was a genius of the rarest and best sort. Mr. Ward + predicted boldly that this new star in the literary firmament was destined + to rank among those of the first magnitude. Already, among the banker's + closest book friends, the new book was being discussed, and praised. He + would bring a copy for Auntie Sue and Betty Jo to read. It was not only + the book of the year;—it was, in Homer T. Ward's opinion, one of the + really big books of the Century. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” commented Betty Jo, when they had read and reread that part of the + letter, “dear old Uncle Homer may be a very conservative banker, but he + certainly is more than liberal when he touches on the question of this new + author. Won't we have fun, Auntie Sue! Oh, won't we!” + </p> + <p> + Then they planned the whole thing, and proceeded to carry out their plan. + </p> + <p> + Brian was told only that Mr. Ward was coming to visit Auntie Sue, and that + he must be busy somewhere away from the house when the banker arrived, and + not come until he was sent for, because Auntie Sue must make a full + confession to her old pupil of the part she had played in the Re-Creation + of Brian Kent before Homer T. Ward should meet his former clerk. + </p> + <p> + Brian, never dreaming that there were other confessions to be made, + smilingly agreed to do exactly as he was told. + </p> + <p> + When the momentous day arrived, Betty Jo met her uncle in Thompsonville, + and all the way home she talked so continuously of her school, and asked + so many questions about his conduct and life and their many Chicago + friends, that the helpless bank president had no chance whatever of asking + her a single embarrassing question. But, when dinner was over (Brian had + taken his lunch with him to the clearing), Homer T. Ward wanted to know + things. + </p> + <p> + “Was Brian Kent still working in the neighborhood?” + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue informed him that Brian was still working in the neighborhood. + </p> + <p> + “Betty Jo had seen the bank clerk?” Betty Jo's uncle supposed. “What did + she think of the fellow?” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo thought Brian Kent was a rather nice fellow. + </p> + <p> + “And how had Betty Jo been amusing herself while her old uncle was slaving + in the city?” + </p> + <p> + Betty Jo had been doing a number of things: Helping Auntie Sue with her + housework; learning to cook; keeping up her stenographic work; reading. + </p> + <p> + “Reading?” That reminded him, and forthwith Mr. Ward went to his room, and + returned with the book. + </p> + <p> + And then those two blessed women listened and admired while he introduced + them to the new genius, and read certain favorite passages from the great + book, and grew enthusiastic on the new author, saying all that he had + written in his letter and many things more, until Betty Jo could restrain + herself no longer, but ran to him, and took the book from his hands, and, + with her arms around his neck, told him that he was the dearest uncle in + the world, because she was going to marry the man who wrote the book he so + admired. + </p> + <p> + There were long explanations after that: How the book so highly valued by + Banker Ward had actually been written in that very log house by the river; + how Auntie Sue had sent for Betty Jo to assist the author with her + typewriting; how the author, not knowing who Betty Jo was, had fallen in + love with his stenographer, and, finally, how Betty Jo's author-lover was + even then waiting to meet her guardian, still not knowing that her + guardian was the banker Homer T. Ward. + </p> + <p> + “You see, uncle, dear,” explained Betty Jo, “Auntie Sue and I were obliged + to conspire this little conspiracy against my man, because, you know, + authors are funny folk, and you never can tell exactly what they are going + to do. After giving your heart to a genius as wonderful as you yourself + know this one to be, it would be terrible to have him refuse you just + because you were the only living relative of a rich old banker;—it + would, wouldn't it, uncle, dear?” + </p> + <p> + And, really, Homer T. Ward could find reason in Betty Jo's argument, which + ended with that fatal trick question. + </p> + <p> + Taking his agreement for granted, Betty Jo continued: “And, you see, + Auntie Sue and I were simply forced to conspire a little against you, + uncle, dear, because you know perfectly well that, much as I needed the + advantage of associating with such an author-man in the actual writing of + his book, you would never, never have permitted me to fall in love with + him before you had discovered for yourself what a great man he really is, + and I simply had to fall in love with him because God made me to take care + of a genius of some sort. And if you don't believe that, you can ask Judy. + Judy has found out a lot about God lately. + </p> + <p> + “You won't think I am talking nonsense, or am belittling the occasion will + you, uncle, dear?” she added anxiously. “I am not,—truly, I am not,—I + am very serious. But I can't help being a little excited, can I? Because + it is terrible to love a banker-uncle, as I love you, and at the same time + to love a genius-man, as I love my man, and—and—not know what + you two dearest men in the world are going to do to each other.” + </p> + <p> + And, at this, the girl's arms were about his neck again, and the girl's + head went down on his shoulder; and he felt her cheek hot with blushes + against his and a very suspicious drop of moisture slipped down inside his + collar. + </p> + <p> + When he had held Betty Jo very close for a while, and had whispered + comforting things in her ear, and had smiled over her shoulder at his old + teacher, the banker sent the girl to find her lover while he should have a + serious talk with Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + The long shadows of the late afternoon were on the mountain-side when + Brian Kent and Betty Jo came down the hill to the little log house by the + river. + </p> + <p> + The girl had said to him simply, “You are to come, now, Brian;—Auntie + Sue and Mr. Ward sent me to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + She was very serious, and as they walked together clung closely to his + arm. And the man, too, seeming to feel the uselessness of words for such + an occasion, was silent. When he helped her over the rail-fence at the + lower edge of the clearing, he held her in his arms for a little; then + they went on. + </p> + <p> + They saw the beautiful, tree-clad hills lying softly outlined in the + shadows like folds of green and timeworn velvet, extending ridge on ridge + into the blue. They saw the river, their river, making its gleaming way + with many a curve and bend to the mighty sea, that was hidden somewhere + far beyond the distant sky-line of their vision; and between them and the + river, at the foot of the hill, they saw the little log house with Auntie + Sue and Homer T. Ward waiting in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + When the banker saw the man at Betty Jo's side, his mind was far from the + clerk whom he had known more than a year before in the city. His thoughts + were on the author, the scholar, the genius, whose book had so compelled + his respect and admiration. This tall fellow, with the athletic shoulders + and deeply tanned face, who was dressed in the rude garb of the + backwoodsman, with his coat over his arm, his ax on his shoulder, and his + dinner-pail in his hand,—who was he? And why was Betty Jo so + familiar with this stranger,—Betty Jo, who was usually so reserved, + with her air of competent self-possession? Homer T. Ward turned to look + inquiringly at Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + His old teacher smiled back at him without speaking. + </p> + <p> + Then, Betty Jo and Brian Kent were standing before him. + </p> + <p> + “Here he is, Uncle Homer,” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + Brian, hearing her speak those two revealing words, and seeing her go to + the bank president, who put his arm around her with the loving intimacy of + a father, stood speechless with amazement, looking from Homer T. Ward and + Betty Jo to Auntie Sue and back to the banker and the girl. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ward, still not remembering the bank clerk in this re-created Brian + Kent, was holding out his hand with a genial smile. + </p> + <p> + As the bewildered Brian mechanically took the hand so cordially extended, + the older man said: “It is an honor, sir, to meet a man who can do the + work you have done in writing that book. It is impossible to estimate the + value of such a service as you have rendered the race. You have a rare and + wonderful gift, Mr. Burns, and I predict for you a life of remarkable + usefulness.” + </p> + <p> + Brian, still confused, but realizing that Mr. Ward had not recognized him, + looked appealingly at Betty Jo and then to Auntie Sue. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue spoke: “Mr. Ward is the uncle and guardian of Betty Jo, Brian.” + </p> + <p> + “'Brian'!” ejaculated the banker. + </p> + <p> + Auntie Sue continued: “Homer, dear, Betty Jo has presented HER author, Mr. + Burns;—permit me to introduce MY Brian Kent!” + </p> + <p> + And Judy remarked that evening, when, after supper, they were all on the + porch watching the sunset: “Hit sure is dad burned funny how all tangled + an' snarled up everythin' kin git 'fore a body kin think most, an', then, + if a body'll just keep a-goin' right along, all ter onct hit's all + straightened out as purty as anythin'.” + </p> + <p> + They laughed happily at the mountain girl's words, and the dear old + teacher's sweet voice answered: “Yes, Judy; it is all just like the river, + don't you see?” + </p> + <p> + “Meanin' as how the water gits all tangled an' mixed up when hit's + a-boilin' an' a-roarin' like mad down there at Elbow Rock, an' then all + ter onct gits all smooth an' calm like again,” returned Judy. + </p> + <p> + “Meaning just that, Judy,” returned Auntie Sue. “No matter how tangled and + confused life seems to be, it will all come straight at the last, if, like + the river, we only keep going on.” + </p> + <p> + And when the dreamy Indian-summer days were come and the blue haze of + autumn lay softly over the brown and gold of the beautiful Ozark hills, + the mountain folk of the Elbow Rock neighborhood gathered one day at the + little log house by the river. + </p> + <p> + It was a simple ceremony that made the man and the woman, who were so dear + to Auntie Sue, husband and wife. But the backwoods minister was not + wanting in dignity, though his dress was rude and his words plain; and the + service lacked nothing of beauty and meaning, though the guests were but + humble mountaineers; for love was there, and sincerity, and strength, and + rugged kindliness. + </p> + <p> + And when the simple wedding feast was over, they all went down to the + river-bank, at the lower corner of the garden, where, at the eddy landing, + a staunch John-boat waited, equipped and ready. + </p> + <p> + When the last good-byes were spoken, and Brian and Betty Jo put out from + the little harbor into the stream, Auntie Sue, with Judy and Homer T. + Ward, went back to the porch of the little log house, there to watch the + beginning of the voyage. + </p> + <p> + With Brian at the oars, the boat crossed the stream to the safer waters + close to the other shore, and then, with Betty Jo waving her handkerchief, + and the neighbor men and boys running shouting along the bank, swept down + the river, past the roaring turmoil of the Elbow Rock rapids into the + quiet reaches below, and away on its winding course between the tree-clad + hills. + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad,” said Auntie Sue, her dear old face glowing with love, and + her sweet voice tremulous with feeling, “I am so glad they chose the river + for their wedding journey.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Note.—This biographical sketch of Harold Bell Wright will give the + </h2> + <p> + reader a knowledge and understanding of the life-work, aims and purposes + of the author as expressed through his books. It is reprinted on these + pages in response to popular demand.—The Publishers. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HAROLD BELL WRIGHT + </h2> + <h3> + A Biography + </h3> + <p> + By ELSBERY W. REYNOLDS + </p> + <p> + The biography of a man is of importance and interest to other men just to + the degree that his life and work touches and influences the life of his + time and the lives of individuals. + </p> + <p> + Only in a feeble way, at best, can the life story of any man be told on + the printed page. The story is better as it is written on the hearts of + men and women and the man himself does the writing. + </p> + <p> + He lives longest who lives best. He who carves deepest against corroding + time is he who touches with surest hand the greatest number of human + hearts. + </p> + <p> + He may or may not be a prodigy of physical strength. He may or may not be + a tower of mental energy. But so long as this old world stands the man + with an overpowering desire for all that is best for the race to be in the + race, whose life is in tune with the divine and with the good that is + within us all, whether he be orator, writer, artist or artisan, is a giant + among men. + </p> + <p> + That which we read makes a deeper and more lasting impression on our lives + than that which we see or hear. An author with millions of readers must be + a great central power of thought and influence, at least, in his own day + and generation. We can understand the truth of this through a study of the + aims and life purposes of Harold Bell Wright as expressed through his + books and the circumstances under which they were written. The wonderful + popularity of this author is well estimated by the millions of copies of + his books that have been sold. This is also the greatest testimonial that + can be given to the merit of his work. The great heart of the reading + public is an unprejudiced critic. “Is not the greatest voice the one to + which the greatest number of hearts listen with pleasure?” + </p> + <p> + When a man has attained to great eminence under adverse circumstances we + sometimes wonder to what heights he might have climbed under conditions + more favorable. Who can tell? It is just as easy to say what the young man + of twenty will be when a matured man of forty. The boy of poverty makes a + man of power while the boy nursed in the lap of luxury makes a man of + uneventful life, and, again, a life started with a handicap remains so + through its possible three score years and ten and the life begun with + advantages multiplies its talents ten and a hundred fold. + </p> + <p> + So, after all, is not the heart of man the real man and is it not the + guiding star of his ambition, his will, his determination, his conscience? + </p> + <p> + Harold Bell Wright, the second of four sons, was born May 4, 1872, in + Rome, Oneida County, New York. From an earlier biographer we quote the + following: + </p> + <p> + “Some essential facts must be dug from out the past where they lie + embedded in the detrital chronicles of the race. Say, then, that away back + in 1640 a ship load of Anglo-Saxon freedom landed in New England. After a + brief period some of the more venturesome spirits emigrated to the far + west and settled amid the undulations of the Mohawk valley in central New + York. Protestant France also sent westward some Gallic chivalry hungering + for freedom. The fringe of this garment of civilization spread out and + reached also into the same valley. English determination and Huguenot + aspiration touched elbows in the war for political and religious freedom, + and touched hearts and hands in the struggle for economic freedom. Their + generations were a genuine aristocracy. Mutual struggles after mutual aims + cemented casual acquaintance into enduring friendship. William Wright met, + loved and married Alma T. Watson. To them four sons were born. A carpenter + contractor, a man who builds, contrives and constructs, is joined to a + woman into whose soul of wholesome refinement come images of dainty + beauty, where they glow and grow radiant. With lavish unrestraint the life + of this French woman pours itself into her sons. The third child died in + infancy. The eldest survived his mother by some thirteen years. The + youngest is a constructive mechanical engineer. The second son is Harold + Bell Wright. + </p> + <p> + “During ten years this mother and this son live in rare intimacy. The + boy's first enduring impression of this life is the vision of the mother + bending affectionately over him while criticising the water color sketch + his unpracticed fingers had just made. Crude blendings and faulty lines + were pointed out, then touched into harmony and more accurate perspective + by her quick skill. Together their eyes watched shades dance on sunny + slopes, cloud shadows race among the hills or lie lazily in the valley + below. + </p> + <p> + “Exuberant Nature and ebullient boy loved each other from the first. + Alone, enravished, he often wandered far in sheer joy of living. He + brings, one day, from his rambles a bunch of immortelles which mother + graciously receives. Twenty years later the boy, man-grown, bows + reverently over a box of withered flowers—the same bouquet the + mother took that day and laid away as a precious memento of his boyish + love. Such was the first decade. + </p> + <p> + “A ten-year-old boy, motherless, steals from harsh labor and yet harsher + surroundings, runs to the home of sacred memories, clambers to the attic, + and spends the night in anguished solitude. This was his first Gethsemane. + For ten years buffeted and beaten, battling with adversity, sometimes + losing but never lost, snatching learning here and there, hating sham, + loving passionately, misunderstood, misapprehended, too stubbornly proud + to ask apologies or make useless explanations, fighting poverty in the + depths of privation, wrestling existence from toil he loathed, befriending + many and also befriended much, but always face to face with the grim + tragedy which has held part of the stage since Eden. + </p> + <p> + “Such was the second decade. The first was spent on hill sides where + shadows only made the light more buoyant as they fled away. The second was + passed in the valley where the shadow hung lazily till the cloud grew very + black and drenched the soil. + </p> + <p> + “Lured to college, he undertook to acquire academic culture. As is well + known, college life with its professorial anecdotes and jokes, its student + pranks and grind, is routine drudgery and cob-webbery prose. Bookish + professors and conventional students rarely have just such an animate + problem of French artistry and Bohemian experience to solve. They did + nobly, to be sure, but here was a mind which threw over them all the + glamour of romance.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wright entered the Preparatory Department of Hiram College at the age + of twenty, having previously accepted the faith and identified himself + with the Christian Church in the little quarry town of Grafton, Ohio. He + continued active in the different departments of work in his church all + during his school years with the ultimate result of his entering the + ministry. + </p> + <p> + Having no financial means, while in school he made his way by doing odd + jobs about town, house painting and decorating, sketching, etc. After two + years of school life, while laboring to gain funds in order that he might + continue his schooling, he contracted from overwork and out-door exposure + a severe case of pneumonia that left his eyesight badly impaired and his + constitution in such condition that, to the present day, he has never + fully recovered. + </p> + <p> + Air castles were tumbled and hopes blasted when his physician advised him + that it would be fatal to re-enter school for, at least, another year. + Whereupon, seeking health and a means of existence, starting from a point + on the Mahoning river, he canoed with sketch and note book, but alone, + down stream a distance of more than five hundred miles. From this point, + by train, he embarked for the Ozark mountains in southwest Missouri. Here, + for some months, while gradually regaining his strength, he secured + employment at farm work, sketching and painting at intervals. + </p> + <p> + Once more, he found himself on bed-rock, taking his last cent to pay + express charges back to Ohio on some finished pictures, but, this time, + fortune smiled promptly with a good check by return mail. + </p> + <p> + It was while in the Ozarks that Harold Bell Wright preached his first + sermon. Being a regular attendant at the services, held in the little + mountain log school house, he was asked to talk to the people, one Sunday, + when the regular preacher had failed to appear. + </p> + <p> + From this Sunday morning talk, that could hardly be called a sermon, and + others that followed, he came to feel that he could do more good in the + ministry than he could in any other field of labor, and soon thereafter + accepted a regular pastorate at Pierce City, Missouri, at a yearly salary + of four hundred dollars. True to a resolve, that his work should be that + through which he could help the most people, he had now chosen the + ministry. A further resolve that he would give up this ministry, chosen + with such earnest conviction, should another field of labor offer more + extensive measures for reaching mankind, took him, in later years, into + the field of literature. He left the ministry with many regrets but with + the same earnest conviction with which he had earlier chosen it. + </p> + <p> + Following the publication of “The Shepherd of the Hills” his publishers + assured him that he could secure greater results from his pen rather than + his pulpit and prevailed upon him to henceforth make literature his life + work. This was in every way consistent with his teaching that every man's + ministry is that work through which he can accomplish the greatest good. + </p> + <p> + In the battle of life there is always the higher ground that the many + covet but few attain. In reaching this height Mr. Wright has given to a + multitude, his time, strength and substance, that they, too, might further + advance. He is companionable, loving and loyal to his friends. He hates + sham and hypocrisy and any attempt to glorify one's self by means other + than the fruits of one's own labor. + </p> + <p> + This boy, who, from the death of his mother, was driven into a hand to + hand struggle with life for a bare existence, was necessarily forced into + contact with much that was vicious and corrupt. But he in no way became a + part of it. That same inherent love for mental cleanliness and spiritual + truths that has so distinguished the works of the man kept the boy + unstained in his unfortunate environment. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wright resigned his charge at Pierce City for the larger work at + Pittsburg, Kansas. In the second year of his pastorate—1899—he + married Frances E. Long in Buffalo, New York. This union of love had its + beginning back in the school days at Hiram. Unto them have been born three + sons, Gilbert Munger, 1901, Paul Williams, 1902, and Norman Hall, 1910. + </p> + <p> + In Pittsburg, Mr. Wright received enthusiastic support from his church + people. Finances were soon in a satisfactory condition, and church + attendance reached the capacity of the building, but still the young + pastor was not satisfied. Pittsburg was a mining town, a young men's town. + A little city with saloons and brothels doing business on every hand. His + soul was on fire for his church to do a larger work and, with the hope of + arousing his people, he conceived the idea of writing “That Printer of + Udell's,” planning to read the story, by installments, on special evenings + of successive weeks, to his congregation. + </p> + <p> + Pittsburg was made the principal scene and the church of the story was the + kind of church he wanted his Pittsburg charge to be. The teachings set + forth, through the preacher of the story, in the latter half of the book, + are the identical things the author was preaching. The first chapters of + the story are very largely colored by Mr. Wright's early life, but they + are by no means autobiographical. + </p> + <p> + “That Printer of Udell's” was written without thought or intention of + offering it for publication. During the author's ministry he made some of + the warmest and most abiding friendships of his life, and it was through + certain of these friends that he was persuaded from reading the story, as + intended, but to offer it for publication, giving it, thus, a wider + usefulness. + </p> + <p> + Having a leave of absence of several weeks from his church during the + winter of 1901-2 he accepted an invitation from the pastor of a Chicago + church to hold a special meeting, and it was during this meeting that the + author and his publisher met for the first time. Mr. Wright delivered a + sermon entitled “Sculptors of Life” that was so impressive that I sought + him out with entreaties to repeat his sermon as a lecture to a certain + company of young people. + </p> + <p> + The acquaintance thus begun very quickly became one of friendship, without + any knowledge or thought that it would in time lead to a co-operative life + work, and when the author later offered his book for publication it was + without request or thought of financial remuneration. Mr. Wright, however, + was given a contract paying him the highest royalty that was being paid + for any author's first book. + </p> + <p> + “That Printer of Udell's” was written almost entirely in the late hours of + the night and the very early hours of the morning. Great demands were + being made on the author's time in the way of requests for officiating and + speaking at public and civic functions in addition to the now heavy + requirements of his church. His aggressive activities, backed by his + splendid spirit, fearlessness and courage in combating the evils of his + little city made for him a host of admirers, alike, among his enemies and + friends. When he left to accept a pastorate in Kansas City, Missouri, his + resignation was not accepted. + </p> + <p> + After one year in Kansas City he found that he was not physically able to + carry out the great city work as he had dreamed it and planned it, on a + scale that would satisfy his longings for service, and it made him + seriously consider whether there was not some other way that would more + equally measure with his strength. He went again to the Ozarks, this time + for rest and meditation, and while there began writing “The Shepherd of + the Hills.” This Story has a peculiar significance for the author. He + feels toward it as he can not feel for any of his other books. “The + Shepherd of the Hills” was written as a test. The strength of the message + he was able to put into the story and the response it should find in the + hearts of men and women was to decide for him his ministry henceforth, + whether he would teach the precepts of the Man of Galilee by voice or pen. + It was a testing time that bore fruit not only in this simple, sweet + story, that to quote an eminent divine, “is one of the greatest sermons of + our day,” but resulted as well in the splendid volumes that have followed. + </p> + <p> + “The Shepherd of the Hills” was finished during the year of his pastorate + at Lebanon, Missouri, and but for the sympathy, encouragement and helpful + understanding of his church officers and membership, it is doubtful if the + story could ever have been completed. When Mr. Wright delivered the + manuscript to his publishers the first of the year, 1907, for publication + the next fall, he had accepted the pastorate of the Christian Church in + Redlands, California, hoping this land of sunshine would give him a larger + measure of health. + </p> + <p> + Some months later, resigning his Redlands pastorate, he went to the + Imperial Valley and there, the following year, wrote “The Calling of Dan + Matthews.” The church and its problems were weighing on the author and + affecting his life no less than when he was in the ministry and it was + only natural that he should give to the world “a picture that is true to + the four corners of the earth.” Every incident in the story has its + counterpart in real life and, with but few exceptions, came under the + author's personal observation. He did not get the real pleasure out of + writing “The Calling of Dan Matthews” that he did the story which preceded + it. But he could not, try as he would, escape it. + </p> + <p> + The publication of “The Calling of Dan Matthews” in the fall of 1909 was + just two years after the publication of “The Shepherd of the Hills.” + </p> + <p> + “The Winning of Barbara Worth” required more time and effort in the + collecting of material than any book the author had written, but probably + gave him, at least, as much pleasure. He is very careful with regard to + descriptive detail, and even while writing “The Calling of Dan Matthews” + he was making a study of the desert and this great reclamation project. + Before sending his manuscript for publication he had it checked over by + the best engineers on the Pacific coast for inaccuracies in any of his + descriptions that involved engineering or reclamation problems. + </p> + <p> + “The Winning of Barbara Worth” bears the distinction, without doubt, of + being the only book ever published that called its publisher and + illustrator from a distance of two and three thousand miles, into the + heart of a great desert, for a consultation with its author. This story of + the Imperial Valley and its reclamation was written in the same study as + was “The Calling of Dan Matthews.” A study of rude construction, about + eighteen by thirty-five feet, with thatched roof and outside covering of + native arrow-weed and built entirely by the author himself. + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Wright finished “The Winning of Barbara Worth”—so named in + honor of Ruth Barbara Reynolds—he was a sick man. He often worked + the night through, overtaxing his nerve and strength. For several months + he virtually dwelt within the four walls of his study and for a time it + was feared he would not live to finish the book. He wrote the last + chapters while confined to his bed, after which he was taken by easy + stages, through the kindness of friends, to that part of Northern Arizona + that is so delightful to all lovers of the out-of-doors. In this bracing + mile-high atmosphere he soon grew well and strong, almost to ruggedness, + and on the day his book was published he was riding in a wild-horse chase + over a country wild and rough where the writer of this sketch would only + care to go, carefully picking his way, on foot. So it was weeks after + publication before the author saw the first bound copy of his book. During + these summer and fall months, while regaining his strength, he was busy + with sketch and note book collecting material, for this part of Arizona is + the scene of his novel “When a Man's a Man.” + </p> + <p> + “Their Yesterdays” was written in Tucson, Arizona, and was published in + the fall of 1912, just one year after the publication of “The Winning of + Barbara Worth.” In order to write this story, with the least possible + strain on his nerves and vitality, Mr. Wright secluded himself in a little + cottage purchased especially for this work. His material was collected + from the observations of his thoughtful years and his intimate knowledge + of human hearts. This book is, perhaps, more representative of the real + Harold Bell Wright than anything he has done. It is the true presentation + of his views on life, love and religion. I once asked Mr. Wright, in + behalf of the faculty, to deliver an address to a graduating class of some + twenty-odd young men of the Morgan Park Academy (Chicago). He was very + busy and I suggested that without special effort he make the commonplace + remarks that one so often hears on like occasions. For the first time that + I remember he somewhat impatiently resented a suggestion from me, saying + “These young men are on the threshold of life and the very best that is + within me is due to them. I can give to them only such a message as I + would, were I to stand before judgment on the morrow.” It was with just + this spirit that the author wrote “Their Yesterdays.” + </p> + <p> + Following “Their Yesterdays” the next book in order of publication was + “The Eyes of the World,” published in the fall of 1914. It was written in + the same arrow-weed study on Tecolote Rancho in the Imperial Valley where + he wrote “The Calling of Dan Matthews” and “The Winning of Barbara Worth.” + Being fully in sympathy with the author's purpose in writing this story, + the campaign of advertising was of such educational character and so + eventful in many ways, that it will long be remembered by authors, + publishers and reading public, and, we trust, make for cleaner books and + pictures. + </p> + <p> + As it was in the writing of “The Calling of Dan Matthews” so it was in the + writing of “The Eyes of the World,” the sense of duty stood highest. The + modern trend in books and music and art and drama had so incensed the + author that “The Eyes of the World” was the result of his all impelling + desire for cleaner living and thinking. As is true of all writers, there + are sometimes those who fail to catch the message in Mr. Wright's books. + He is occasionally misunderstood, and that was especially true with “The + Eyes of the World.” To the great majority of people, clean living and + thinking, the message was not to be misinterpreted and to them the book is + blessed. To that small minority it was convicting and, from a few such, it + brought forth condemnation which, in a fellow author here and there, was + pronounced and emphasized by envy and jealousy. To critics of this class + Mr. Wright makes no reply and is not in the least disturbed. + </p> + <p> + “The Uncrowned King,” a small volume—an allegory—published in + 1910, to me, is one of the most delightful of Mr. Wright's books. + Possibly, it has an added charm because of certain peculiar conditions. It + was written in Redlands, California, during the winter of 1909-10, + although the notion for the little volume occurred to the author while + living in Kansas City. It was one of those times when the longing and will + to do a work greater than the physical would permit seemed almost + overpowering when, unconsciously coming to his aid, a young woman talking + to a company of Christian Endeavorers chanced to remark, “After all, the + real kings of earth are seldom crowned.” All through the evening service + thoughts that this inspired kept running through the author's mind and + late that same night he wrote the outline which was only completed some + years later and given to his publishers to enrich the world. + </p> + <p> + His first four novels in order of publication have been dramatized and + enjoyed by thousands from before the footlights and it has been a delight + to renew acquaintances with old friends in this way. It remained for “The + Eyes of the World” to be the first of his books to be presented in a + feature production of motion pictures. + </p> + <p> + The likes and dislikes of Harold Bell Wright are quite pronounced. He is + unpretending, cares not for the lime-light and avoids interviews for the + public press. Loud, boisterous conversation is but little less offensive + to him than vulgarity in speech or action. His friends are strong, + clean-minded men who are doing things in the world and are as necessary to + his being as the air to his existence, and his generosity to them is no + less marked than his caring and providing for his family, which is almost + a passion. He is extremely fond of most forms of out-door life. The desert + with its vast expanse, fierce solitude and varied colors is no less + attractive to him than the peaceful quiet of wooded dells, the beauty of + flowering meadows or the rugged mountains with their roaring trout streams + that furnish him hours of sport with rod and line. He enjoys hunting, + horse-back riding or long tramps afoot. But when there is work to be done + it is the one thing that bulks largest and all else must wait. + </p> + <p> + After finishing “The Eyes of the World,” Mr. Wright embarked on the + building of a home in the Santa Monica mountains near Hollywood, + California. So in the summer of 1915 the little family of five began + making their residence in the new canyon home, one of nature's delightful + spots. + </p> + <p> + Then again, the author went into camp in the Arizona desert while writing + “When a Man's a Man.” For he finds it very helpful to live in the + atmosphere of his story while doing the actual writing and he also avoids + frequent interruption. I think he got more real enjoyment out of this + story than any he has previously done. It is a story of the out-of-doors + in this great unfenced land where a man must be a man. I suppose, too, he + enjoyed writing this work so much, partly, because it comes so easy for + him to just tell a story without the intervention of some nerve racking + problem. The only book he has heretofore written that is purely a story is + “The Shepherd of the Hills,” and I sometimes wonder to what proportion of + his readers does this Ozark story hold first place. For all such, I am + sure, “When a Man's a Man” will find a reception of special heartiness + because it is just a fine, big, wholesome novel of simple sweetness and + virile strength. + </p> + <p> + I have written this sketch of Harold Bell Wright that you may know him as + intimately, if possible, as if you had met him in person. But should you + have the opportunity of making his acquaintance do not deny yourself the + pleasure. If you are a lover of his books I am sure you are just the kind + of person that the author himself delights to meet. + </p> + <p> + “Relay Heights,” February 15, 1916. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Re-Creation of Brian Kent, by +Harold Bell Wright + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT *** + +***** This file should be named 3265-h.htm or 3265-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/6/3265/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Re-Creation of Brian Kent + +Author: Harold Bell Wright + +Release Date: June 3, 2006 [EBook #3265] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson + + + + + +THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT + + +By Harold Bell Wright + + + +DEAR AUNTIE SUE: + +I have wondered many times, while writing this simple story of life and +love, if you would ever forgive me for putting you in a book. I hope you +will, because if you do not, I shall be heartbroken, and you wouldn't +want me that way, would you, Auntie Sue? + +I fancy I can hear you say: "But, Harold, how COULD you! You know I +never did the things you have made me do in your story. You know I never +lived in a little log house by the river in the Ozark Mountains! What in +the world will people think!" + +Well, to tell the truth, dear, I don't care so very much what people +think if only they will love you; and that they are sure to do, +because,--well, just because--You must remember, too, that you will +be eighty-seven years old the eighteenth of next November, and it is +therefore quite time that someone put you in a book. + +And, after all, Auntie Sue, are you very sure that you have never lived +in a little log house by the river,--are you very sure, Auntie Sue? + +Forgive my impertinence, as you have always forgiven me everything; +and love me just the same, because I have written only in love of the +dearest Auntie Sue in the world! + +Signature [Harold] + +The Glenwood Mission Inn, Riverside, California, April 30, 1919. + + + + "And see the rivers, how they run + Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, + Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,-- + Wave succeeding wave, they go + A various journey to the deep + Like human life to endless sleep!" + + John Dyer--"Grongar Hill." + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + +I. A REMARKABLE WOMAN + +II. THE MAN IN THE DARK + +III. A MISSING LETTER + +IV. THE WILL OF THE RIVER + +V. AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN + +VI. IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER + +VII. OFFICERS OF THE LAW + +VIII. THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW + +IX. AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION + +X. BRIAN KENT DECIDES + +XI. RE-CREATION + +XII. AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE + +XIII. JUDY TO THE RESCUE + +XIV. BETTY JO CONSIDERS + +XV. A MATTER OF BUSINESS + +XVI. THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE + +XVII. AN AWKWARD SITUATION + +XVIII. BETTY JO FACES HERSELF + +XIX. JUDY'S CONFESSION + +XX. BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE + +XXI. THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW + +XXII. AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK + +XXIII. IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS + +XXIV. JUDY'S RETURN + +XXV. THE RIVER + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + +BETTY JO + +"LOOK, JUDY! LOOK!" + +AUNTIE SUE SAID, SOFTLY, "SHE DID NOT UNDERSTAND, BRIAN." + +...SHE MADE THE LITTLE BOOK OF PAINFUL MEMORIES A BOOK OF JOYOUS +PROMISE. + + + + +THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A REMARKABLE WOMAN. + + +I remember as well as though it were yesterday the first time I met +Auntie Sue. + +It happened during my first roaming visit to the Ozarks, when I had +wandered by chance, one day, into the Elbow Rock neighborhood. Twenty +years it was, at least, before the time of this story. She was standing +in the door of her little schoolhouse, the ruins of which you may still +see, halfway up the long hill from the log house by the river, where the +most of this story was lived. + +It was that season of the year when the gold and brown of our Ozark +Hills is overlaid with a filmy veil of delicate blue haze and the world +is hushed with the solemn sweetness of the passing of the summer. And as +the old gentlewoman stood there in the open door of that rustic temple +of learning, with the deep-shadowed, wooded hillside in the background, +and, in front, the rude clearing with its crooked rail fence along which +the scarlet sumac flamed, I thought,--as I still think, after all these +years,--that I had never before seen such a woman. + +Fifty years had gone into the making of that sterling character which +was builded upon a foundation of many generations of noble ancestors. +Without home or children of her own, the life strength of her splendid +womanhood had been given to the teaching of boys and girls. An old-maid +schoolteacher? Yes,--if you will. But, as I saw her standing there that +day,--tall and slender, dressed in a simple gown that was fitting to her +work,--there was a queenly dignity, a stately sweetness, in her bearing +that made me feel, somehow, as if I had come unexpectedly into the +presence of royalty. Not the royalty of caste and court and station with +their glittering pretenses of superiority and their superficial claims +to distinction,--I do not mean that; I mean that true royalty which +needs no caste or court or station but makes itself felt because it IS. + +She did not notice me at first, for the noise of the children at play in +the yard covered the sound of my approach, and she was looking far, far +away, over the river which lay below at the foot of the hill; over the +forest-clad mountains in the glory of their brown and gold; over the +vast sweep of the tree-crowned Ozark ridges that receded wave after wave +into the blue haze until, in the vastness of the distant sky, they were +lost. And something made me know that, in the moment's respite from her +task, the woman was looking even beyond the sky itself. + +Her profile, clean-chiselled, but daintily formed, was beautiful in its +gentle strength. Her hair was soft and silvery like the gray mist of the +river in the morning. Then she turned to greet me, and I saw her eyes. +Boy that I was then, and not given overmuch to serious thought, I knew +that the high, unwavering purpose, the loving sympathy, and tender +understanding that shone in the calm depth of those eyes could belong +only to one who habitually looks unafraid beyond all earthly scenes. +Only those who have learned thus to look beyond the material horizon of +our little day have that beautiful inner light which shone in the eyes +of Auntie Sue--the teacher of a backwoods school. + +Auntie Sue had come to the Elbow Rock neighborhood the summer preceding +that fall when I first met her. She had grown too old, she said, with +her delightful little laugh, to be of much use in the larger schools of +the more thickly populated sections of the country. But she was still +far too young, she stoutly maintained, to be altogether useless. + +Tom Warden, who lived just over the ridge from the schoolhouse, and +who was blessed with the largest wife, the largest family, and the most +pretentious farm in the county, had kinsfolk somewhere in Illinois. +Through these relatives of the Ozark farmer Miss Susan Wakefield had +learned of the needs of the Elbow Rock school, and so, finally, had +come into the hills. It was the influential Tom who secured for her the +modest position. It was the motherly Mrs. Tom who made her at home in +the Warden household. It was the Warden boys and girls who first called +her "Auntie Sue." But it was Auntie Sue herself who won so large a place +in the hearts of the simple mountain folk of the district that she +held her position year after year, until she finally gave up teaching +altogether. + +Not one of her Ozark friends ever came to know in detail the history of +this remarkable woman's life. It was known in a general way that she +was born in Connecticut; that she had a brother somewhere in some +South-American country; that two other brothers had been killed in the +Civil War; that she had taught in the lower and intermediate grades of +public schools in various places all the years of her womanhood. Also, +it was known that she had never married. + +"And that," said Uncle Lige Potter, voicing the unanimous opinion, +of the countryside, "is a doggone funny thing and plumb unnatural, +considerin' the kind of woman she is." + +To which Lem Jordan,--who was then living with his fourth wife, and +might therefore be held to speak with a degree of authority,--added: +"Hit sure is a dad burned shame, an' a plumb disgrace to the men of this +here country, when you come to look at the sort of wimmen most of 'em +are a marryin' most of the time." + +Another matter of universal and never-failing interest to the mountain +folk was the unprecedented number of letters that Auntie Sue received +and wrote. That some of these letters written by their backwoods teacher +were addressed to men and women of such prominence in the world that +their names were known even to that remote Ozark district was a source +of no little pride to Auntie Sue's immediate neighbors, and served to +mark her in their eyes with no small distinction. + +It was during the fourth year of her life amid the scenes of this +story,--as I recall time,--that Auntie Sue invested the small savings +of her working years in the little log house by the river and the eighty +acres of land known as the "Old Bill Wilson place." + +The house was a substantial building of three rooms, a lean-to kitchen, +and a porch overlooking the river. The log barn, with "Prince," a gentle +old horse, and "Bess," a mild-mannered, brindle cow, completed the +modest establishment. About thirty acres of the land were cleared and +under cultivation of a sort. The remaining acreage was in timber. +The price, under the kindly and expert supervision of Tom Warden, was +fifteen dollars an acre. But Auntie Sue always laughingly insisted that +she really paid fifty cents an acre for the land and fourteen dollars +and a half an acre for the sunsets. + +The tillable land, except for the garden, she "let out on shares," +always under the friendly guardianship of neighbor Tom; while Tom's boys +cared for the little garden in season, and saw to it that the woodpile +was always ample and ready for the stove. And, in addition to these +fixed and regular homely services, there were many offerings of helpful +hands whenever other needs arose; for, as time passed, there came to be +in all the Elbow Rock district scarce a man, young or old, who did not +now and then honor himself by doing some little job for Auntie Sue; +while the women and girls, in the same neighborly spirit, brought from +their own humble households many tokens of their loving thoughtfulness. +And never did one visit that little log house by the river without +the consciousness of something received from the silvery-haired old +teacher--a something intangible, perhaps, which they could not have +expressed in words, but which, nevertheless, enriched the lives of +those simple mountain people with a very real joy and a very tangible +happiness. + +For six years, Auntie Sue continued teaching the Elbow Rock +school;--climbing the hill in the morning from her log house by the +river to the cabin schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side +above; returning in the late afternoon, when her day's work was over, +down the winding road to her little home, there to watch, from the porch +that overlooked the river, the sunset in the evening. And every year the +daily climb grew a little harder; the days of work grew a little longer; +she went down the hill in the afternoon a little slower. And every year +the sunsets were to her eyes more beautiful; the evening skies to her +understanding glowed with richer meaning; the twilight hours filled her +heart with a deeper peace. + +And so, at last, her teaching days were over; that is, she taught no +more in the log schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side. But +in her little home beside the river she continued her work; not from +text-books, indeed, but as all such souls must continue to teach, until +the sun sets for the last time upon their mortal days. + +Work-worn, toil-hardened mountaineer mothers, whose narrow world denied +them so many of the finer thoughts and things, came to counsel with +this childless woman, and to learn from her a little of the art of +contentment and happiness. Strong men, of rude dress and speech, whose +lives were as rough as the hills in which they were reared, and whose +thoughts were often as crude as their half-savage and sometimes lawless +customs, came to sit at the feet of this gentle one, who received them +all with such kindly interest and instinctive understanding. And young +men and girls came, drawn by the magic that was hers, to confide in +this woman who listened with such rare tact and loving sympathy to their +troubles and their dreams, and who, in the deepest things of their young +lives, was mother to them all. + +Nor were the mountain folk her only disciples. Always there were the +letters she continued to write, addressed to almost every corner of +the land. And every year there would come, for a week or a month, at +different times during the summer, men and women from the great world of +larger affairs who had need of the strength and courage and patience and +hope they never failed to find in that little log house by the river. +And so, in time, it came to be known that those letters written by +Auntie Sue went to men and women who, in their childhood school days, +had received from her their first lessons in writing; and that her +visitors, many of them distinguished in the world of railroads and +cities, were of that large circle of busy souls who had never ceased to +be her pupils. + +Thus it came that the garden was made a little larger, and two rooms +were added to the house, with other modest improvements, to accommodate +Auntie Sue's grown-up boys and girls when they came to visit her. But +never was there a hired servant, so that her guests must do their own +household tasks, because, Auntie Sue said, that was good for them and +mostly what they needed. + +It should also be said here that among her many pupils who lived beyond +the sky-line of the far, blue hills, not one knew more of the +real secret of Auntie Sue's life and character than did the Ozark +mountaineers of the Elbow Rock district, among whom she had chosen to +pass the evening of her day. + +Then came one who learned the secret. He learned--but that is my story. +I must not tell the secret here. + + + +CHAPTER II. + +THE MAN IN THE DARK. + + +A man stood at a window, looking out into the night. There was no light +in the room. The stars were hidden behind a thick curtain of sullen +clouds. + +The house was a wretchedly constructed, long-neglected building of +a type common to those old river towns that in their many years of +uselessness have lost all civic pride, and in their own resultant +squalor and filth have buried their self-respect. A dingy, scarcely +legible sign over the treacherous board walk, in front, by the sickly +light of a smoke-grimed kerosene lantern, announced that the place was a +hotel. + +Dark as it was, the man at the window could see the river. The trees +that lined the bank opposite the town were mere ghostly shadows against +the gloomy masses of the low hills that rose from the water's edge, +indistinct, mysterious, and unreal, into the threatening sky. The higher +mountains that reared their crests beyond the hills were invisible. The +stream itself swept sullenly through the night,--a resistless flood of +dismal power, as if, turbid with wrecked souls, with the lost hopes and +ruined dreams of men, it was fit only to bear vessels freighted with +sorrow, misfortune, and despair. + +The manner of the man at the window was as if some woeful spirit of the +melancholy scene were calling him. With head bowed, and face turned a +little to one side, he listened intently as one listens to voices that +are muffled and indistinct. He pressed his face close to the glass, and +with straining eyes tried to see more clearly the ghostly trees, the +sombre hills, and the gloomy river. Three times he turned from the +window to pace to and fro in the darkened room, and every time his steps +brought him again to the casement, as if in obedience to some insistent +voice that summoned him. The fourth time, he turned from the window more +quickly, with a gesture of assenting decision. + +The crackling snap of a match broke the dead stillness. The sudden flare +of light stabbed the darkness. As he applied the tiny, wavering flame +to the wick of a lamp that stood on the cheap, old-fashioned bureau, the +man's hand shook until the chimney rattled against the wire standards of +the burner. Turning quickly from the lighted lamp, the man sprang again +to the window to jerk down the tattered, old shade. Facing about, he +stood with his back to the wall, searching the room with wide, fearful +eyes. His fists were clenched. His chest rose and fell heavily with his +labored breathing. His face worked with emotion. With trembling limbs +and twitching muscles, he crouched like some desperate creature at bay. + +But, save for the wretched man himself, there was in that shabby, +dingy-papered, dirty-carpeted, poorly furnished apartment no living +thing. + +Suddenly, the man laughed;--and it was the reckless, despairing laughter +of a soul that feels itself slipping over the brink of an abyss. + +With hurried step and outstretched hands, he crossed the room to snatch +a bottle of whisky from its place beside the lamp on the bureau. With +trembling eagerness, he poured a water tumbler half-full of the red +liquor. As one dying of thirst, he drank. Drawing a deep breath, and +shaking his head with a wry smile, he spoke in hoarse confidence to the +image of himself in the dingy mirror: "They nearly had me, that time." +Again, he poured, and drank. + +The whisky steadied him for the moment, and with bottle and glass still +in hand, he regarded himself in the mirror with critical interest. + +Had he stood erect, with the vigor that should have been his by right of +his years, the man would have measured just short of six feet; but his +shoulders--naturally well set--sagged with the weariness of excessive +physical indulgence; while the sunken chest, the emaciated limbs, and +the dejected posture of his misused body made him in appearance, at +least, a wretched weakling. His clothing--of good material and well +tailored--was disgustingly soiled and neglected;--the shoes thickly +coated with dried mud, and the once-white shirt, slovenly unfastened at +the throat, without collar or tie. The face which looked back from the +mirror to the man was, without question, the countenance of a gentleman; +but the broad forehead under the unkempt red-brown hair was furrowed +with anxiety; the unshaven cheeks were lined and sunken; the finely +shaped, sensitive mouth drooped with nervous weakness; and the blue, +well-placed eyes were bloodshot and glittering with the light of +near-insanity. + +The poor creature looked at the hideous image of his ruined self as +if fascinated with the horror of that which had been somehow wrought. +Slowly, as one in a trance, he went closer, and, without moving his gaze +from the mirror, placed the bottle and tumbler upon the bureau. As if +compelled by those burning eyes that stared so fixedly at him, he leaned +forward still closer to the glass. Then, as he looked, the distorted +features twitched and worked grotesquely with uncontrollable emotions, +while the quivering lips formed words that were not even whispered. With +trembling fingers he felt the unshaven cheeks and touched the unkempt +hair questioningly. Suddenly, as if to shut out the horror of that which +he saw in the mirror, the man hid his face in his hands, and with a +sobbing, inarticulate cry sank to the floor. + +Silently, with pitiless force, the river swept onward through the night, +following its ordained way to the mighty sea. + +As if summoned again by some dark spirit that brooded over the sombre, +rushing flood, the man rose heavily to his feet. His face turned once +more toward the window. A moment he stood there, listening, listening; +then wheeling back to the whisky bottle and the glass on the bureau, he +quickly poured, and drank again. + +Nodding his head in the manner of one reaching a conclusion, he looked +slowly about the room, while a frightful grin of hopeless, despairing +triumph twisted his features, and his lips moved as if he breathed +reckless defiance to an invisible ghostly company. + +Moving, now, with a decision and purpose that suggested a native +strength of character, the man quickly packed a suit-case with various +articles of clothing from the bureau drawers and the closet. He was in +the act of closing the suit-case when he stopped suddenly, and, with +a shrug of his shoulders, turned away. Then, as if struck by another +thought, he stooped again over his baggage, and drew forth a fresh, +untouched bottle of whisky. + +"I guess you are the only baggage I'll need where I am going," he said, +whimsically; and, leaving the open suit-case where it lay, he crossed +the room, and extinguished the light. Cautiously, he unlocked and opened +the door. For a moment, he stood listening. Then, with the bottle hidden +under his coat, he stole softly from the room. + +A few minutes later, the man stood out there in the night, on the bank +of the river. Behind him the outlines of the scattered houses that made +the little town were lost against the dusk of the hillside. From the +ghostly tree-shadows that marked the opposite bank, the solemn hills +rose out of the deeper darkness of the lowlands that edged the stream +in sombre mystery. There was no break in the heavy clouds to permit the +gleam of a friendly star. There was no sound save the soft swish of the +water against the bank where he stood, the chirping of a bird in the +near-by willows, and the occasional splash of a leaping fish or water +animal. But to the man there was a feeling of sound. To the lonely human +wreck standing there in the darkness, the river called--called with +fearful, insistent power. + +From under the black wall of the night the dreadful flood swept out of +the Somewhere of its beginning. Past the man the river poured its mighty +strength with resistless, smoothly flowing, terrible force. Into the +darkness it swept on its awful way to the Nowhere of its ending. For +uncounted ages, the river had poured itself thus between those walls of +hills. For untold ages to come, until the end of time itself, the stream +would continue to pour its strength past that spot where the man stood. + +Out of the night, the voice of the river had called to the man, as he +stood at the window of his darkened room. And the man had come, now, to +answer the call. Cautiously, he went down the bank toward the edge of +the dark, swirling water. His purpose was unmistakable. Nor was there +any hint of faltering, now, in his manner. He had reached his decision. +He knew what he had come to do. + +The man's feet were feeling the mud at the margin of the stream when his +legs touched something, and a low, rattling sound startled him. Then +he remembered. A skiff was moored there, and he had brushed against the +chain that led from the bow of the boat to the stump of a willow higher +up on the bank. The man had seen the skiff,--a rude, flat-bottomed +little craft, known to the Ozark natives as a John-boat,--just before +sunset that evening. But there had been no boat in his thoughts when he +had come to answer the call of the river, and in the preoccupation of +his mind, as he stood there in the night beside the stream, he had not +noticed it, as it lay so nearly invisible in the darkness. Mechanically, +he stooped to feel the chain with his free hand. A moment later, he had +placed his bottle of whisky carefully in the boat, and was loosing the +chain painter from the willow stump. + +"Why not?" he said to himself. "It will be easier in midstream,--and +more certain." + +Carefully, so that no sound should break the stillness, he stowed the +chain in the bow, and then worked the skiff around until it pointed out +into the stream. Then, with his hands grasping the sides of the little +craft, and the weight of his body on one knee in the stern, he pushed +vigorously with his free foot against the bank and so was carried well +out from the shore. As the boat lost its momentum, the strong current +caught it and whirled it away down the river. + +Groping in the darkness, the man found his bottle of whisky, and working +the cork out with his pocketknife, drank long and deep. + +Already, save for a single light, the town was lost in the night. As +the man watched that red spot on the black wall, the stream swung +his drifting boat around a bend, and the light vanished. The dreadful +mystery of the river drew close. The world of men was far, very far +away. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in the mirror, and had +obeyed the voice that summoned him into the darkness. In fancy, now, he +saw his empty boat swept on and on. Through what varied scenes would it +drift? To what port would the mysterious will of the river carry it? To +what end would it at last come in its helplessness? + +And the man himself,--the human soul-craft,--what of him? As he had +pushed his material boat out into the stream to drift, unguided and +helpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the shore of +all that men call life. Through what scenes would he drift? To what port +would the will of an awful invisible stream carry him? To what end would +he finally come, in his helplessness? + +Again the man drank--and again. + +And then, with face upturned to the leaden clouds, he laughed +aloud--laughed until the ghostly shores gave back his laughter, and the +voices of the night were hushed and still. + +The laughter ended with a wild, reckless, defiant yell. + +Springing to his feet in the drifting boat, the man shook his clenched +fist at the darkness, and with insane fury cursed the life he had left +behind. + +The current whirled the boat around, and the man faced down the stream. +He laughed again; and, lifting his bottle high, uttered a reckless, +profane toast to the unknown toward which he was being carried by the +river in the night. + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A MISSING LETTER. + + +Auntie Sue's little log house by the river was placed some five +hundred yards back from the stream, on a bench of land at the foot +of Schoolhouse Hill. From this bench, the ground slopes gently to the +river-bank, which, at this point, is sheer and high enough to be well +above the water at flood periods. The road, winding down the hill, +turns to the right at the foot of the steep grade, and leads away up the +river; and between the road and the river, on the up-stream side of the +house, was the garden. + +At the lower corner of the garden, farthest from the house, the strong +current had cut a deep inward curve in the high shore-line, forming thus +an eddy, which was margined on one side, at a normal stage of water, by +a narrow shelf of land between the water's edge and the foot of the +main bank. A flight of rude steps led down from the garden above to this +natural landing, which, for three miles up and down the river, was +the only point, on Auntie Sue's side of the stream, where one could go +ashore from a skiff. + +From the porch of the house, one, facing up the river, looked over the +gently sloping garden, over the eddy lying under the high bank, and away +over a beautiful reach of water known as The Bend,--a wide, sweeping +curve which, a mile distant, is lost behind a wooded bluff where, at +times, during the vacation or hunting season, one might see the smoke +from the stone chimney of a clubhouse which was built and used by people +who lived in the big, noisy city many miles from the peaceful Ozark +scene. From the shore of The Bend, opposite and above Auntie Sue's +place, beyond the willows that fringe the water's edge, the low +bottom-lands extend back three-quarters of a mile to the foot of a +heavily timbered ridge, beyond which rise the higher hills. But directly +across from Auntie Sue's house, this ridge curves sharply toward the +stream; while less than a quarter of a mile below, a mighty mountain-arm +is thrust out from a shoulder of Schoolhouse Hill, as if to bar +the river's way. The high bluff thus formed is known to the natives +throughout all that region as Elbow Rock. + +The quiet waters of The Bend move so gently on their broad course that +from the porch, looking up the stream, the eye could scarcely mark the +current. But in front of the little log house, where the restraining +banks of the river draw closer together, the lazy current awakens to +quickening movement. Looking down the stream, one could see the waters +leaving the broad and quiet reaches of The Bend above and rushing away +with fast increasing speed between the narrowing banks until, in all +their vicious might, they dashed full against the Elbow Rock cliff, +where, boiling and tossing in mad fury, they roared away at a right +angle and so around the point and on to another quiet stretch below. And +many were the tales of stirring adventure and tragic accident at this +dangerous point of the river's journey to the far-away sea. Skilled +rivermen, by holding their John-boats and canoes close to the far +shore, might run the rapids with safety. But no boat, once caught in the +vicious grip of the main current between the comparatively still waters +of The Bend and that wild, roaring tumult at Elbow Rock, had ever +survived. + +It was nearing the close of a late summer day, and Auntie Sue, as was +her custom, stood on the porch watching the sunset. In the vast field of +sky that arched above the softly rounded hills there was not a cloud. +No wind stirred the leaves of the far-reaching forests, or marred +the bright waters of the quiet Bend that mirrored back the green, +tree-fringed banks and blue-shadowed mountains. Faintly, through the +hush, from beyond the bottom-lands on the other side of the stream, came +the long-drawn "Wh-o-e-e! Wh-o-e-e!" of farmer Jackson calling his hogs. +From the hillside, back of the house, sounded the deep, mellow tones of +a cowbell, telling Auntie Sue that neighbor Tom's cattle were going home +from their woodland pastures. A company of crows crossed the river on +leisure wing, toward some evening rendezvous. A waterfowl flapped slowly +up the stream. And here and there the swallows wheeled in graceful +circles above the gleaming Bend, or dipped, flashlike, to break the +silvery surface. As the blue of the mountains deepened to purple, and +the rosy light from below the western hills flushed the sky, the silver +sheen of the quiet water changed with the changing tints above, and the +shadows of the trees along the bank deepened until the shore-line was +lost in the dusk of the coming night. + +And even as the river gave back the light of the sky and the color of +the mountains, so the gentle face of the gray-haired woman, who watched +with such loving reverence, reflected the beauty of the scene. The peace +and quiet of the evening of her life was as the still loveliness of that +twilight hour. + +And, yet, there was a suggestion of pathos in the loneliness of the +slender figure standing there. Now and again, she clasped her delicate +hands to her breast as if moved by emotions of a too-poignant sweetness, +while in her eyes shone the soft light of fondest memories and dearest +dreams. Several times she turned her head to look about, as if wishing +for some one to share with her the beauty that moved her so. At last, +she called; and her voice, low and pure-toned, had in it the quality +that was in the light of her eyes. + +"Judy! Judy, dear! Do come and see this wonderful, wonderful sky!" + +From within the house, a shrill, querulous, drawling voice, so +characteristic of the Southern "poor-white" mountaineer, answered: +"Wha-a-t?" + +A quick little smile deepened the crows'-feet at the corners of Auntie +Sue's eyes, as she called again with gentle patience: "Do come and see +the sunset, Judy, dear! It is so beautiful!" And, this time, in answer, +Judy appeared in the doorway. + +From appearances, the poor creature's age might have been anywhere from +fifteen to thirty-five; for the twisted and misshapen body, angular and +hard; the scrawny, wry neck; the old-young face, thin and sallow, with +furtive, beady-black eyes, gave no hint of her years. As a matter of +fact, I happened to know that Judith Taylor, daughter of the notorious +Ozark moonshiner, Jap Taylor, was just past twenty the year she went to +live with Auntie Sue. + +Looking obliquely at the old gentlewoman, with a curious expression of +mingled defiance, suspicion, and affection on her almost vicious face, +Judy drawled, "Was you-all a-yellin' for me?" + +"Yes, Judy; I want you to help me watch the sunset," Auntie Sue +answered, with bright animation; and, turning, she pointed toward the +glowing west,--"Look!" + +Judy's sly, evasive eyes did not cease to regard the illumined face of +her old companion as she returned, in her dry, high-pitched monotone: "I +don't reckon as how you-all are a-needin' much help, seein' as how you +are allus a-watchin' hit. A body'd think you-all was mighty nigh old +'nough, by now, ter look at hit alone." + +Auntie Sue laughed, a low, musical, chuckling laugh, and, with a hint +of loving impatience in her gentle voice, replied to Judy's observation: +"But, don't you understand, child? It adds so to one's happiness +to share lovely scenes like this. It makes it all so much--so +much--well,--BIGGER, to have some one enjoy it with you. Come, dear!" +And she held out her hand with a gesture of entreaty, and a look +of yearning upon her dear old face that no human being could have +withstood. + +Judy, still slyly watchful, went cautiously nearer; and Auntie Sue, +putting an arm lovingly about the crooked shoulders of the mountain +girl, pointed again toward the west as she said, in a low voice that +vibrated with emotion, "Look, Judy! Look!" + +The black eyes shifted, and the old-young, expressionless face turned +toward the landscape, which lay before them in all its wondrous beauty +of glowing sky and tinted mountain and gleaming river. And there might +have been a faint touch of softness, now, in the querulous monotone +as Judy said: "I can't see as how hit could be ary bigger. Hain't ary +reason, as I kin see, why hit should be ary bigger if hit could. Lord +knows there's 'nough of hit as 't is; rough 'nough, too, as you-all 'd +sure know if you-all had ter trapse over them there hills all yer life +like I've had ter." + +"But, isn't it wonderful to-night, Judy? It seems to me I have never +seen it so perfect." + +"Hit's just like hit's allus been, so far as I kin see, 'ceptin' +that the river's higher in the spring an' more muddier," returned +the mountain girl. "I was borned over there on yon side that there +flat-topped mountain, nigh the mouth of Red Creek. I growed up on the +river, mostly;--learned ter swim an' paddle er John-boat 'fore I kin +remember. Red Creek, hit heads over there behind that there long ridge, +in Injin Holler. There's a still--" + +She checked herself suddenly, and shot a fearful sidewise look at Auntie +Sue; then turned and pointed in the opposite direction with a pretense +of excited interest. "Look down there, ma'm! See how black the old river +is where she smashes inter Elbow Rock, an' how white them waves be where +the water biles an' throws hitself. Hit'd sure git you if you was ter +git ketched in there with er John-boat, wouldn't hit? Listen, ma'm! You +kin hear hit a-roarin' like hit was mad, can't you?" + +But the older woman turned to face, again, the quiet reaches of The +Bend. + +"I think I like The Bend best, though, Judy. See how perfectly those +trees and hills are mirrored in the river; and how the water holds +the color of the sky. Don't you think God is good to make the world so +beautiful for us, child?" + +"'Beautiful'!" cried poor, deformed Judy, in a voice that shrilled in +vicious protest. "If there is a God, like you-all are allus a-talkin' +'bout, an' if He sure 'nough made them things, like you-all sees 'em, He +sure hain't toted fair with me." + +"Hush, Judy!" pleaded Auntie Sue. "Please don't, child!" + +But the mountain girl rebelliously continued: "Look at me! Just look at +me! If that there God of your'n is so all-fired good, what did He go an' +let my pap git drunk for, an' beat me like he done when I was a baby, +an' make me grow up all crooked like what I be? 'Good'? Hell! A dad +burned ornery kind of a God I call Him!" + +For some time, Auntie Sue did not speak, but stood with her face +upturned to the sky. Then the low, gentle voice again broke the silence: +"See, Judy, dear; the light is almost gone now, and there is not a cloud +anywhere. Yesterday evening, you remember, we could not see the sunset +at all, the clouds were so heavy and solid. The moon will be lovely +to-night. I think I shall wait for it." + +"You-all best set down then," said Judy, speaking again in her +querulous, drawling monotone. "I'll fetch a chair." She brought a +comfortable rustic rocking-chair from the farther end of the porch; then +disappeared into the house, to return a moment later with a heavy shawl. +"Hit'll be a-turnin' cold directly, now the sun's plumb down," she said, +"an' you-all mustn't get to chillin', nohow." + +Auntie Sue thanked her with gentle courtesy, and, reaching up, caught +the girl's hand as Judy was awkwardly arranging the wrap about the thin +old shoulders. "Won't you bring a chair for yourself, and sit with +me awhile, dear?" As she spoke, Auntie Sue patted the hard, bony hand +caressingly. + +But Judy pulled her hand away roughly, saying: "You-all ain't got no +call ter do sich as that ter me. I'll set awhile with you but I ain't +a-needin' no chair." And with that, she seated herself on the floor, her +back against the wall of the house. + +The last of the evening was gone from the sky, now. The soft darkness of +a clear, star-light night lay over the land. A gentle breeze stole over +the mountains, rustled softly through the forest, and, drifting across +the river, touched Auntie Sue's silvery hair. + +Judy was first to break the silence: "I took notice neighbor Tom brung +you-all a right smart bunch of letter mail this evenin'," she said, +curiously. + +There was a troubled note in Auntie Sue's gentle voice as she returned, +"The letter from the bank did not come, Judy." + +"Hit didn't?" + +"No; and, Judy, it is nearly four weeks, now, since I sent them that +money. I can't understand it." + +"I was plumb scared at the time, you oughten ter sent hit just in +er letter that a-way. Hit sure looked like a heap of money ter be +a-trustin' them there ornery post-office fellers with, even if hit was +funny, new-fangled money like that there was. Why, ma'm, you take old +Tod Stimson, down at the Ferry, now, an' that old devil'd steal anythin' +what warn't too much trouble for him ter lift." + +"Argentine notes the money was, Judy. I felt sure that it would be all +right because, you know, Brother John sent it just in a letter all the +way from Buenos Aires. And, you remember, I folded it up in extra heavy +paper, and put it in two envelopes, one over the other, and mailed it at +Thompsonville with my own hands." + +"Hit sure looks like hit ought ter be safe er nough, so long as hit +warn't mailed at the Ferry where old Stimson could git his hands on +hit," agreed Judy. + +Then, after a silence of several minutes, she added, in a more +reassuring voice: "I reckon as how hit'll be all right, ma'm. I wouldn't +worry myself, if I was you. That there bank-place, like as not, gits er +right smart lot of letters, an' hit stands ter reason the feller just +naturally can't write back ter ev'rybody at once." + +"Of course," agreed Auntie Sue. "It is just some delay in their +acknowledgment, that is all. Perhaps they are waiting to find out if the +notes are genuine; or it may be that their letter to me went astray, and +will have to be returned to them, and then remailed all over again. I +feel sure I shall hear from them in a few days." + +So they talked until the moon appeared from behind the dark mountains +that, against her light, were silhouetted on the sky. And, as the old +gentlewoman watched the queen of the night rising higher and higher +on her royal course, and saw the dusky landscape transformed to a +fairy-scene of ethereal loveliness, Auntie Sue forgot the letter that +had not come. + +With the enthusiasm that never failed her, the silvery-haired teacher +tried to give the backwoods girl a little of her wealth of vision. But +though they looked at the same landscape, the eyes of twenty could +not see that which was so clear to the eyes of seventy. Poor Judy! The +river, sweeping on its winding way through the hills, from the springs +of its far-away beginnings to the ocean of its final endeavor,--in all +its varied moods and changes,--in all its beauty and its irresistible +power,--the river could never mean to Judy what it meant to Auntie Sue. + +"Hit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum huntin'," said the girl, at +last, getting to her feet and standing in her twisted attitude, with her +wry neck holding her head to one side. "Them there Jackson boys'll sure +be out." + +Auntie Sue laughed her low chuckling laugh. + +From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom-lands +across the river, came the baying of hounds. "There they be now," said +Judy. "Hear 'em? The Billingses, 'cross from the clubhouse, 'll be out, +too, I reckon. When hit's moonlight, they're allus a-huntin' 'possum +an' 'coon. When hit's dark, they're out on the river a-giggin' for fish. +Well, I reckon I'll be a-goin' in, now, ma'm," she concluded, with a +yawn. "Ain't no use in a body stayin' up when there ain't nothin' ter do +but ter sleep, as I kin see." + +With an awkward return to Auntie Sue's "Goodnight and sweet dreams, +dear," the mountain girl went into the house. + +For an hour longer, the old gentlewoman sat on the porch of her little +log house by the river, looking out over the moonlit scene. Nor did she +now, as when she had watched the sunset, crave human companionship. In +spirit, she was far from all earthly needs or cares,--where no troubled +thoughts could disturb her serene peace and her dearest dreams were +real. + +The missing letter was forgotten. + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE WILL OF THE RIVER. + + +Had Auntie Sue remained a few minutes longer on the porch, that evening, +she might have seen an object drifting down the river, in the gentle +current of The Bend. + +Swinging easily around the curve above the clubhouse, it would not have +been visible at first, because of the deep shadows of the reflected +trees and mountains. But, presently, as it drifted on into the broader +waters of The Bend, it emerged from the shadows into the open moonlit +space, and then, to any one watching from the porch, the dark object, +drawing nearer and nearer in the bright moonlight, would have soon +shaped itself into a boat--an empty boat, the watcher would have said, +that had broken from its moorings somewhere up the river;--and the +watcher would have heard, through the still, night air, the dull, heavy +roar of the mad waters at Elbow Rock. + +Drifting thus, helpless in the grip of the main current, the little +craft apparently was doomed to certain destruction. Gently, it would +float on the easy surface of the quiet, moonlit Bend. In front of the +house, it would move faster and faster. Where the river narrows, it +would be caught as if by mighty hands hidden beneath the rushing flood, +and dragged onward still faster and faster. About it, the racing waters +would leap and boil in their furious, headlong career, shaking and +tossing the helpless victim of their might with a vicious strength from +which there would be no escape, until, in the climax of the river's +madness, the object of its angry sport would be dashed against the +cliff, and torn, and crushed, and hammered by the terrific weight of the +rushing flood against that rocky anvil, into a battered and shapeless +wreck. + +The drifting boat drew nearer and nearer. It reached the point where the +curve of the opposite bank draws in to form the narrow raceway of the +rapids. It began to feel the stronger pull of those hidden hands +that had carried it so easily down The Bend. And then--and then--the +unguided, helpless craft responded to the gentle pressure of some swirl +or crosscurrent in the main flow of the stream, and swung a little +to one side. A few feet farther, and the new impulse became stronger. +Yielding easily to the current that drew it so gently across the +invisible dividing-line between safety and destruction, the boat +swung in toward the shore. A minute more, and it had drifted into that +encircling curve of the bank where the current of the eddy carried it +around and around. + +The boat seemed undecided. Would it hold to the harbor of safety into +which it had been drawn by the friendly current? Would it swing out, +again, into the main stream, and so to its own destruction? + +Three times the bow, pointing out from the eddy, crossed the +danger-line, and, for a moment, hung on the very edge. Three times, the +invisible hands which held it drew it gently back to safety. And so, +finally, the little craft, so helpless, so alone, amid the many currents +of the great river, came to rest against the narrow shelf of land at the +foot of the bank below Auntie Sue's garden. + +The light in the window of Auntie Sue's room went out. The soft +moonlight flooded mountain and valley and stream. The mad waters at +Elbow Rock roared in their wild fury. Always, always,--irresistibly, +inevitably, unceasingly,--the river poured its strength toward the sea. + + + +CHAPTER V. + +AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN. + + +Before the sun was high enough to look over Schoolhouse Hill, the next +morning, Judy went into the garden to dig some potatoes. + +Tom Warden's boys would come, some day before long, and dig them all, +and put them away in the cellar for the winter. But there was no need to +hurry the gathering of the full crop, so the boys would come when it was +most convenient; and, in the meantime, Judy would continue to dig from +day to day all that were needed for the kitchen in the little log house +by the river. In spite of her poor crooked body, the mountain girl was +strong and well used to hard work, so the light task was, for her, no +hardship at all. + +As one will when first coming out of doors in the morning, Judy paused +a moment to look about. The sky, so clear and bright the evening before, +was now a luminous gray. The mountains were lost in a ghostly world of +fog, through which the river moved in stealthy silence,--a dull thing +of mystery, with only here and there a touch of silvery light upon its +clouded surface. The cottonwoods and willows, on the opposite shore, +were mere dreams of trees,--gray, formless, and weird. The air was +filled with the dank earth-smell. The heavy thundering roar of the +never-ending war of the waters at Elbow Rock came louder and more +menacing, but strangely unreal, as if the mist itself were filled with +threatening sound. + +But to Judy, the morning was only the beginning of another day;--she +looked, but did not see. To her, the many ever-changing moods of Nature +were without meaning. With her basket in hand, she went down to the +lower end of the garden, where she had dug potatoes the time before, and +where she had left the fork sticking upright in the ground. + +A few minutes served to fill the basket; but, before starting back to +the house, the mountain girl paused again to look out over the river. +Perhaps it was some vague memory of Auntie Sue's talk, the night +before, that prompted her; perhaps it was some instinct, indefinite and +obscure;--whatever it was that influenced her, Judy left her basket, and +went to the brink of the high bank above the eddy for a closer view of +the water. + +The next instant, with the quick movement of an untamed creature of her +native mountain forests, the girl sprang back, and crouched close to +the ground to hide from something she had seen at the foot of the bank. +Every movement of her twisted body expressed amazement and fear. Her +eyes were wild and excited. She looked carefully about, as if for +dangers that might be hidden in the fog. Once, she opened her mouth as +if to call. Half-rising, she started as if to run to the house. But, +presently, curiosity apparently overruled her fear, and, throwing +herself flat on the ground she wormed her way back to the brink of the +river-bank. Cautiously, without making a sound, she peered through the +tall grass and weeds that fringed the rim above the eddy. + +The boat, which some kindly impulse of the river had drawn so gently +aside from the stronger current that would have carried it down the +rapids to the certain destruction waiting at Elbow Rock, still rested +with its bow grounded on the shore, against which the eddying water had +pushed it. But the thing that had so startled Judy was a man who was +lying, apparently unconscious, on the wet and muddy bottom-boards of the +little craft. + +Breathlessly, the girl, looking down from the top of the bank, watched +for some movement; but the dirty huddled heap of wretched humanity +was so still that she could not guess whether it was living or dead. +Fearfully, she noted that there were no oars in the boat, nor gun, nor +fishing-tackle of any sort. The man's hat was missing. His clothing was +muddy and disarranged. His position was such that she could not see the +face. + +Drawing back, Judy looked cautiously about; then, picking up a heavy +clod of dirt from the ploughed edge of the garden, and crouching again +at the brink of the bank, ready for instant flight, she threw the +clod into the water near the boat. The still form in the boat made no +movement following the splash. Selecting a smaller clod, the girl threw +the bit of dirt into the stern of the boat itself, where it broke in +fragments. And, at this, the figure moved slightly. + +"Hit's alive, all right," commented Judy to herself, with a grin of +satisfaction, at the result of her investigation. "But hit's sure time +he was a-gittin' up." + +Carefully selecting a still smaller bit of dirt, she deliberately tossed +it at the figure itself. Her aim was true, and the clod struck the +man on the shoulder, with the result that he stirred uneasily, and, +muttering something which Judy could not hear, half-turned on his back +so that the girl saw the haggard, unshaven face. She saw, too, that, in +one hand, the man clutched an empty whisky bottle. + +At sight of the bottle, the mountain girl rose to her feet with an +understanding laugh. "Hell!" she said aloud; "drunk,--that's all--dead +drunk. I'll sure fetch him out of hit." And then, grinning with +malicious delight, she proceeded to pelt the man in the boat with +clods of dirt until he scrambled to a sitting posture, and looked up in +bewildered confusion. + +"If you please," he said, in a hoarse voice, to the sallow, old-young +face that grinned down at him from the top of the bank, "which one of +the Devil's imps are you?" + +As she looked into that upturned face, Judy's grin vanished. "I sure +'lowed as how you-all was dead," she explained. + +"Well," returned the man in the boat, wearily, "I can assure you that +it's not in the least my fault if I disappoint you. I feel as bad about +it as you do. However, I don't think I am so much alive that it makes +any material difference." He lifted the whisky bottle, and studied it +thoughtfully. + +"You-all come dad burned near not bein' ary bit alive," returned the +girl. + +"Yes?" said the man, inquiringly. + +"Yep; you sure did come mighty nigh hit. If your old John-boat had +a-carried you-all on down ter Elbow Rock, 'stead of bein' ketched in +the eddy here, you-all would sure 'nough been a-talkin' to the Devil by +now." + +The man, looking out over the river into the fog, muttered to himself, +"I can't even make a success of dying, it seems." + +Again, he regarded the empty bottle in his hand with studied interest. +Then, tossing the bottle into the river, he looked up, once more, to the +girl on the bank above. + +"Listen, sister!" he said, nervously. "Is there any place around here +where I can buy a drink? I need something rather badly. Where am I, +anyway?" + +"You-all are at Auntie Sue's place," said Judy; "an' there sure ain't no +chance for you-all ter git ary licker here. Where'd you-all come from, +anyhow? How'd you-all git here 'thout no oars ner paddle ner nothin'? +Where was you-all aimin' ter go?" + +"Your questions, my good girl, are immaterial and irrelevant," +returned the man in the boat. "The all-important matter before us for +consideration is,--how can I get a drink? I MUST have a drink, I tell +you!" He held up his hands, and they were shaking as if with palsy. "And +I must have it damned quick!" + +"You-all sure do talk some powerful big words," said Judy, with critical +interest. "You-all sure must be some eddecated. Auntie Sue, now, she +talks--" + +The man interrupted her: "Who is 'Auntie Sue'?" + +"I don't know," Judy returned; "she's just Auntie Sue--that's all I +know. She sure is--" + +Again the man interrupted: "I think it would be well for me to +interview this worthy aunt of yours." And then, while he raised himself, +unsteadily, to his feet, he continued, in a muttering undertone: "You +don't seem to appreciate the situation. If I don't get some sort of +liquor soon, things are bound to happen." + +He attempted to step from the boat to the shore; but the instability of +the light, flat-bottomed skiff, together with his own unsteady weakness, +combined to land him half in the water and half on the muddy bank where +he struggled helplessly, and, in his weakened condition, would have +slipped wholly into the river had not Judy rushed down the rude steps to +his assistance. + +With a strength surprising in one of her apparent weakness, the mountain +girl caught the stranger under his shoulders and literally dragged +him from the water. When she had further helped him to his feet, Judy +surveyed the wretched object of her beneficence with amused and curious +interest. + +The man, with his unkempt hair, unshaven, haggard face, bloodshot eyes, +and slovenly dishevelled dress, had appeared repulsive enough while in +the boat; but, now, as he stood dripping with water and covered with +mud, there was a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance that brought +a grin to the unlovely face of his rescuer, and caused her to exclaim +with unnecessary frankness: "I'll be dad burned if you-all ain't a thing +ter look at, mister!" + +As the poor creature, who was shaking as if with the ague, regarded the +twisted form, the wry neck, and the sallow, old-young face of the +girl, who was laughing at him, a gleam of sardonic humor flashed in +his bloodshot eyes. "Thanks," he said, huskily; "you are something of a +vision yourself, aren't you?" + +The laughter went from Judy's face as she caught the meaning of the +cruel words. "I ain't never laid no claim ter bein' a beauty," she +retorted in her shrill, drawling monotone. "But, I kin tell you-all one +thing, mister: Hit was God-A'mighty Hisself an' my drunken pap what made +me ter look like I do. While you,--damn you!--you-all just naturally +made yourself what you be." + +At the mountain girl's illiterate words, so pregnant with meaning, a +remarkable change came over the face and manner of the man. His voice, +even, for the moment, lost its huskiness, and vibrated with sincere +feeling as he steadied himself; and, bowing with courteous deference, +said: "I beg your pardon, miss. That was unkind. You really should have +left me to the river." + +"You-all would a-drownded, sure, if I had," she retorted, somewhat +mollified by the effect of her observation. + +"Which," he returned, "would have been so beautifully right and fitting +that it evidently could not be." And with this cynical remark, his +momentary bearing of self-respect was gone. + +"Are you-all a-meanin' ter say that you-all was a-wantin' ter drown?" + +"Something like that," he returned. And then, with a hint of ugliness in +his voice and eyes, he rasped: "But, look here, girl! do you think I'm +going to stand like this all day indulging in idle conversation with +you? Where is this aunt of yours? Can't you see that I've got to have a +drink?" + +He started uncertainly toward the steps that led to the top of the bank, +and Judy, holding him by his arm, helped him to climb the steep way. A +part of the ascent he made on hands and knees. Several times he would +have fallen except for the girl's support. But, at last, they gained the +top, and stood in the garden. + +"That there is the house," said Judy, pointing. "But I don't reckon as +how you-all kin git ary licker there." + +The wretched man made no reply; but, with Judy still supporting him, +stumbled forward across the rows of vegetables. + +The two had nearly reached the steps at the end of the porch when +Auntie Sue came from the house to see why Judy did not return with the +potatoes. The dear old lady paused a moment, startled at the presence of +the unprepossessing stranger in her garden. Then, with an exclamation of +pity, she hurried to meet them. + +The man, whose gaze as he shambled along was fixed on the ground, did +not notice Auntie Sue until, feeling Judy stop, he also paused, and +raising his head looked full at the beautiful old lady. + +"Why, Judy!" cried Auntie Sue, her low, sweet voice filled with gentle +concern. "What in the world has happened?" + +With an expression of questioning bewilderment and rebuke on his haggard +face, the man also turned to the mountain girl beside him. + +"I found him in er John-boat what done come ashore last night, down +there in the eddy," Judy explained to Auntie Sue. To the man, she said: +"This here is Auntie Sue, mister; but, I don't reckon as how she's got +ary licker for you." + +"'Liquor'?" questioned Auntie Sue. "What in the world do you mean, +child?" Then quickly to the stranger;--"My dear man, you are wringing +wet. You must have been in the river. Come, come right in, and let us do +something for you." As she spoke, she went toward him with outstretched +hands. + +But the wretched creature shrank back from her, as if in fear;--his +whole body shaking with emotion; his fluttering hands raised in a +gesture of imploring protest;--while the eyes that looked up at the +saintly countenance of the old gentlewoman were the eyes of a soul +sunken in the deepest hell of shame and humiliation. + +Shocked with pitying horror, Auntie Sue paused. + +The man's haggard, unshaven face twitched and worked with the pain of +his suffering. He bit his lips and fingered his quivering chin in a vain +effort at self-control; and then, as he looked up at her, the sunken, +bloodshot eyes filled with tears that the tormented spirit had no power +to check. + +And Auntie Sue turned her face away. + +For a little, they stood so. Then, as Auntie Sue faced him again, the +stranger, with a supreme effort of his will, gained a momentary control +of his shattered nerves. Drawing himself erect and standing steady and +tall before her, he raised a hand to his uncovered head as if to remove +his hat. When his hand found no hat to remove, he smiled as if at some +jest at his own expense. + +"I am so sorry, madam," he said,--and his voice was musically clear and +cultured. "Please pardon me for disturbing you? I did not know. This +young woman should have explained. You see, when she spoke of 'Auntie +Sue,' I assumed, of course,--I mean,--I expected to find a native woman +who would--" He paused, smiling again, as if to assure her that he fully +appreciated the humor of his ridiculous predicament. + +"But, my dear sir," cried Auntie Sue, eagerly, "there is nothing to +pardon. Please do come into the house and let us help you." + +But the stranger drew back, shaking his head sadly. "You do not +understand, madam. It is not that my clothes are unpresentable,--it is +I, myself, who am unfit to stand in your presence, much less to enter +your house. I thank you, but I must go." + +He was turning away, when Auntie Sue reached his side and placed her +gentle old hand lightly on his arm. + +"Please, won't you come in, sir? I shall never forgive myself if I let +you go like this." + +The man's voice was hoarse and shaking, now, as he answered: "For God's +sake, madam, don't touch me! Let me go! You must! I--I--am not myself! +You might not be safe with me! Ask her--she knows!" He turned to Judy. + +"He's done said hit, ma'm," said Judy, in answer to Auntie Sue's +questioning look. "My pap, he was that way when he done smashed me up +agin the wall, when I was nothin' but a baby, an' hit made me grow up +all crooked an' ugly like what I be now." + +With one shamed glance at Auntie Sue, the wretched fellow looked down +at the ground. His head drooped forward. His shoulders sagged. His whole +body seemed to shrink. Turning sadly away, he again started back toward +the river. + +"Stop!" Auntie Sue's voice rang out imperiously. + +The man halted. + +"Look at me," she commanded. + +Slowly, he raised his eyes. The gentle old teacher spoke with fine +spirit, now, but kindly still: "This is sheer nonsense, my boy. You +wouldn't hurt me. Why, you couldn't! Of course, you are not yourself; +but, do you think that I do not know a gentleman when I meet one? +Come--" She held out her hand. + +A moment he stood, gazing at her in wondering awe. Then his +far-overtaxed strength failed;--his abused nerves refused to bear +more,--and he sank,--a pitiful, cowering heap at her feet. Hiding his +face in his shaking hands, he sobbed like a child. + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER. + + +Those two women managed, somehow, to get the almost helpless stranger +into the house, where Auntie Sue, after providing him with nightclothes, +left by one of her guests, by tactful entreaty and judicial commands, +persuaded him to go to bed. + +Then followed several days and nights of weary watching. There were +times when the man lay with closed eyes, so weak and exhausted that he +seemed to be drifting out from these earthly shores on the deep waters +of that wide and unknown sea into which all the streams of life finally +flow. But, always, Auntie Sue miraculously held him back. There were +other times when, by all the rules of the game, he should have worn a +strait-jacket;--when his delirium filled the room with all manner +of horrid creatures from the pit; when leering devils and loathsome +serpents and gibbering apes tormented him until his unnatural strength +was the strength of a fiend, and his tortured nerves shrieked in agony. +But Auntie Sue perversely ignored the rules of the game. And never did +the man, even in his most terrible moments, fail to recognize in the +midst of the hellish crew of his diseased imagination the silvery-haired +old teacher as the angel of his salvation. Her gentle voice had always +power to soothe and calm him. He obeyed her implicitly, and, like a +frightened child, holding fast to her hand would beg piteously for her +to protect and save him. + +But no word of the man's low-muttered, broken sentences, nor of his +wildest ravings, ever gave Auntie Sue a clue to his identity. She +searched his clothes, but there was not a thing to give her even his +name. + +And, yet, that first day, when Judy would have gone to neighbor Tom's +for help, Auntie Sue said "No." She even positively forbade the girl to +mention the stranger's presence in the house, should she chance to talk +with passing neighbors. "The river brought him to us, Judy, dear," she +said. "We must save him. No one shall know his shame, to humiliate and +wound his pride and drag him down after he is himself again. Until he +has recovered and is once more the man I believe him to be, no one must +see him or know that he is here; and no one must ever know how he came +to us." + +And late, one evening, when Judy was fast asleep, and the man was lying +very still after a period of feverish tossing and muttering, the dear +old gentlewoman crept quietly out of the house into the night. She was +gone some time, and when she returned again to the stranger's bedside +she was breathless and trembling as from some unusual exertion. And the +following afternoon, when Judy came to her with the announcement that +the boat which had brought the man to them was no longer in the eddy +below the garden, Auntie Sue said, simply, that she was glad it was +gone, and cautioned the girl, again, that the stranger's presence in the +house must not be made known to any one. + +When the mountain girl protested, saying, "You-all ain't got no call ter +be a-wearin' yourself ter the bone a-takin' care of such as him," Auntie +Sue answered, "Hush, Judy! How do you know what the poor boy really is?" + +To which Judy retorted: "He's just triflin' an' ornery an' no 'count, +that's what he is, or he sure wouldn't been a-floatin' 'round in that +there old John-boat 'thout ary gun, or fishin' lines, or hat even, ter +say nothin' of that there whisky bottle bein' plumb empty." + +Auntie Sue made no reply to the mountain girl's harsh summing-up of the +damning evidence against the stranger, but left her and went softly to +the bedside of their guest. + +It was perhaps an hour later that Judy, quietly entering the room, +happened upon a scene that caused her to stand as if rooted to the spot +in open-mouthed amazement. + +The man was sleeping, and the silvery-haired old maiden-lady, seated +on the side of the bed, was bending over the unconscious stranger and +gently stroking his tumbled, red-brown hair, even as a mother might +lovingly caress her sleeping child. And then, as Judy watched, +breathless with wonder, the proud old gentlewoman, bending closer over +that still form on the bed, touched her lips--soft as a rose-petal--to +the stranger's brow. + +When she arose and saw Judy standing there, Auntie Sue's delicate old +cheeks flushed with color, and her eyes were shining. With a gesture, +she commanded the girl to silence, and the two tiptoed from the room. +When they were outside, and Auntie Sue had cautiously closed the door, +she faced the speechless Judy with a deliciously defiant air that could +not wholly hide her lovely confusion. + +"I--I--was thinking, Judy, how he--how he--might have been--my son." + +"Your 'son'!" ejaculated the girl. "Why, ma'm, you-all ain't never even +been married, as I've ever hearn tell, have you?" + +Auntie Sue drew her thin shoulders proudly erect, and, lifting her fine +old face, answered the challenging question with splendid spirit: "No, I +have never been married; but I might have been; and if I had, I suppose +I could have had a son, couldn't I?" + +The vanquished Judy retreated to the kitchen, where, in safety, she sank +into a chair, convulsed with laughter, which she instinctively muffled +in her apron. + +Then came the day when the man, weak and worn with his struggle, looked +up at his gentle old nurse with the light of sanity in his deep +blue eyes. Very tired eyes they were, and filled with painful +memories,--filled, too, with worshipping gratitude and wonder. + +She smiled down at him with delighted triumph, and drawing a chair close +beside the bed, seated herself and placed her soft hand on his where it +lay on the coverlid. + +"You are much better, this morning," she said cheerily. "You will soon +be all right, now." And as she looked into the eyes that regarded hers +so questioningly, there was in her face and manner no hint of doubt, or +pretense, or reproach;--only confidence and love. + +He spoke slowly, as if feeling for words: "I have been in Hell; and +you--you have brought me out. Why did you do it?" + +"Because you are mine," she answered, with her low chuckling laugh. It +was so good to have him able to talk to her rationally after those long +hours of fighting. + +"Because I am yours?" he repeated, puzzling over her words. + +"Yes," she returned, with a hint of determined proprietorship in her +voice; "because you belong to me. You see, that eddy where your boat +landed is my property, and so anything that drifts down the river and +lodges there belongs to me. Whatever the river brings to me, is mine. +The river brought you, and so--" She finished with another laugh,--a +laugh that was filled with tender mother-yearning. + +The blue eyes smiled back at her for a moment; then she saw them darken +with painful memories. + +"Oh, yes; the river," he said. "I wanted the river to do something for +me, and--and it did something quite different from what I wanted." + +"Of course," she returned, eagerly, "the river is always like that. It +always does the thing you don't expect it to do. Just like life itself. +Don't you see? It begins somewhere away off at some little spring, and +just keeps going and going and going; and thousands and thousands of +other springs, scattered all over the country, start streams and creeks +and branches that run into it, and make it bigger and bigger, as it +winds and curves and twists along, until it finally reaches the great +sea, where its waters are united with all the waters from all the rivers +in all the world. And in all of its many, many miles, from that first +tiny spring to the sea, there are not two feet of it exactly alike. +In all the centuries of its being, there are never two hours alike. An +infinite variety of days and nights--an infinite variety of skies and +light and clouds and daybreaks and sunsets--an infinite number and +variety of currents and shoals and deep places and quiet spots and +dangerous rapids and eddies--and, along its banks, an endless change +of hills and mountains and flats and forests and meadows and farms and +cities--and--" She paused, breathless. And then, when he did not speak, +but only watched her, she continued: "Don't you see? Of course, the +river never could be what you expect, any more than life could be +exactly what you want and dream it will be." + +"Who in the world are you?" he asked, wonderingly. "And what in the +world are you doing here in the backwoods?" + +Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: "I am Auntie Sue. I am +LIVING here in the backwoods." + +"But, your real name? Won't you tell me your name? I must know how to +address you." + +"Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield--MISS Wakefield, if you please. I +shall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next November. And +you must call me 'Auntie Sue,'--just as every one else does." + +"Wakefield--Wakefield--where have I seen that name?" He wrinkled his +brow in an effort to remember. "Wakefield--I feel sure that I have heard +it, somewhere." + +"It is not unlikely," she returned, lightly. "It is not at all an +uncommon name. And now that I am properly introduced, don't you +think--?" + +He hesitated a moment, then said, deliberately, "My name is Brian Kent." + +"That is an Irish name," she said quickly; "and that is why your hair is +so nearly red and your eyes so blue." + +"Yes," he returned, "from my mother. And please don't ask me more now, +for I can't lie to you, and I won't tell you the truth." And she saw, +again, the dark shadows of painful memories come into the blue eyes. + +Bending over the bed, she laid her soft hand on his brow, and pushed +back his heavy hair; and her sweet old voice was very low and gentle as +she said: "My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. The river brought +you to me, and you are mine. You must not even think of anything else, +just now. When you are stronger, and are ready, we will talk of your +future; but of your past, you--" + +A loud knock sounded at the door of the living room. + +"There is someone at the door," she said hastily. "I must go. Lie still, +and go to sleep like a good boy; won't you?" + +Swiftly, she leaned over, and, before he realized, he felt her lips +touch his forehead. Then she was gone, and Brian Kent's Irish eyes were +filled with tears. Turning to the wall, he hid his face in the pillow. + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +OFFICERS OF THE LAW. + + +As Auntie Sue was closing the door of her guest's room carefully behind +her, Judy came from the kitchen in great excitement, and the knocking at +the front door of the house was repeated. + +"Hit's the Sheriff, ma'm," whispered Judy. "I was just a-comin' ter tell +you. I seed 'em from the kitchen-winder. He's got two other men with +him. Their hosses is tied ter the fence in front. What in hell will we +do, now? They are after him in there, sure 's death!" + +Auntie Sue's face was white, and her lips trembled,--but only for a +moment. + +"Go back into the kitchen, Judy, and stay there," she commanded, in a +whisper; and went to open the front door as calmly as if nothing unusual +had happened. + +Sheriff Knox was a big man, with a bluff, kindly manner, and a voice +that made nothing of closed doors. He returned Auntie Sue's greeting +heartily, and, with one of his companions,--a quiet, business-looking +gentleman,--accepted her cordial invitation to come in. The third man of +the party remained near the saddle-horses at the gate. + +"Well, Auntie Sue," said the Sheriff, settling his ponderous bulk in one +of the old lady's rocking-chairs, which certainly was not built to carry +such a weight, "how are you? I haven't seen you in a coon's age. I'll +swear, though, you ain't a minute older than you was when you first +begun teachin' the little Elbow Rock school up there on the hill, are +you?" + +"I don't know, Sheriff," Auntie Sue returned, with a nervous little +laugh. "I sometimes think that I am a few days older. I have watched a +good many sunsets since then, you know." + +The big officer's laughter almost shook the log walls of the house. To +his quiet companion, who had taken a chair near the window, he said: +"I'll have to tell you, Ross, that Auntie Sue owns every sunset in these +Ozark Mountains. What was it you paid for them?" He turned again to +their smiling hostess. "Oh, yes; fifty cents an acre for the land and +fourteen dollars and a half for the sunsets. You'll have to be blamed +careful not to trespass on the sunsets in this neighborhood, Ross." +Again, his hearty laugh roared out, while his chair threatened to +collapse with the quaking of his massive body. + +The gentleman seated at the window laughed quietly, in sympathy. + +"You'll be all right, though, Ross," the Sheriff continued, "as long +as you're with me. Auntie Sue and me have been friends for about twenty +year, now. I always stop to see her whenever I'm passing through the +Elbow Rock neighborhood, if I ain't in too big a hurry. Stayed with her +a week, once, five years ago, when we was after that Lewis gang. +She knows I'd jail any man on earth that would even touch one of her +sunsets." + +Then, as if the jesting allusion to his office reminded him of his +professional duties, he added: "I plumb forgot, Auntie Sue, this +gentleman is Mr. Ross. He is one of William J. Burns's crack detectives. +Don't be scared, though, he ain't after you." + +Auntie Sue, while joining in the laughter, and acknowledging the +introduction, regarded the business-looking gentleman by the window with +intense interest. + +"I think," she said, slowly,--and the sweetness of her low, cultured +voice was very marked in contrast to the Sheriff's thundering tones,--"I +think, sir, that this is the first time in my life that I ever saw a +real detective. I have read about them, of course." + +Mr. Ross was captivated by the charm of this beautiful old gentlewoman, +who regarded him with such child-like interest, and who spoke with such +sweet frankness and dignity. Smilingly, he returned: + +"I fear, madam, that you would find me very disappointing. No one that I +ever knew in my profession could hope to live up to the reputation +given us by the story-books. No secret service man living can remotely +approximate the deeds performed by the detectives of fiction. We are +very, very human, I can assure you." + +"I am sure that you, at least, must be very kind," returned Auntie +Sue, gently. And the cheeks of the experienced officer flushed like the +cheeks of a schoolboy. + +"Mr. Ross, Auntie Sue," said the Sheriff, "is, as I was telling you, one +of William J. Burns's big men." + +Auntie Sue gave her attention to her big friend: "Yes?" + +The Sheriff continued: "Now, the Burns people, you see, protect the +banks all over the country." + +"Yes?" came, again, in a tone so low and gentle that the monosyllable +was scarcely heard. + +The officer's loud voice went on: "And Mr. Ross, here, works most of +his time on these bank cases. Just now, he is trailing a fellow that got +away with a lot of money from the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, of +Chicago, about a month ago;--that is, the man disappeared about a month +ago. He had been stealing along from the bank for about a year,--worked, +for them, you see." + +"The Empire Consolidated Savings Bank!" Auntie Sue spoke the words in +a voice that was little more than a whisper. It was to the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank that she had sent the money which she had +received from her brother in Buenos Aires; and Homer T. Ward, the +president of that bank, was one of her old pupils. Why, her stranger +guest, in the other room there, was that very moment wearing one of the +bank president's nightshirts. + +"And do you"--Auntie Sue addressed the detective--"do you know the man's +name, Mr. Ross?" + +"Oh, yes," returned the officer, "his name is Brian Kent." + +Some source of strength, deep-hidden in her gentle nature, enabled +Auntie Sue to control her emotions, though her voice broke a little as +she slowly repeated the man's name, "Brian Kent. And do I understand, +sir, that you have traced the man to this--neighborhood?" + +The detective was too skilled not to notice Auntie Sue's manner and the +break in her voice; but he never dreamed that this old gentlewoman's +agitation was caused by a deeper interest than a quite natural fear that +a dangerous criminal might be lurking in the immediate vicinity. + +"Not exactly, Mrs.--ah--" + +"Miss Wakefield,"--she supplied her name with a smile. + +With a courteous bow, the detective continued: "We do not know for sure +that the man is in this neighborhood, Miss Wakefield. There is really no +cause for you to be alarmed. Even if he should call at your house, here, +you need not be frightened, for I assure you the man is not at all a +dangerous character." + +"I am glad," said Auntie Sue; and she laughed a little with a relief +more genuine than her callers knew. + +Detective Ross continued as if anxious to finish his unpleasant duty: +"It is too bad for us to be disturbing you with this business, Miss +Wakefield, and I hope you will forgive us; but, the case is like this: +We traced our man to the little town of Borden, some forty miles up the +river from here. He disappeared from the hotel one night, leaving his +suit-case and, apparently, everything he had with him, and not a +soul that we can find has seen him since. Of course, everybody says +'suicide.' He had been drinking heavily and acting rather queer the two +or three days he was at the hotel,--it seems. But I am not willing, yet, +to accept the suicide idea as final, because it would be too easy for +him to give things that appearance in order to throw us off; and I can't +get away from the fact that a John-boat that was tied to the bank near +the hotel managed to break loose and drift off down the river that same +night. Working on my theory, we are following down the river, trying +to get trace of either the boat or the man. So far, we haven't heard of +either, which rather strengthens me in my belief that the boat and the +man went away together. He is probably traveling nights, and lying up +under the willows in daylight. But he will be compelled to show himself +somewhere, soon, in order to get something to eat, for he couldn't have +taken much with him, trying, as he was, to create the impression that he +had committed suicide. You have a wonderful view of the river here, Miss +Wakefield." + +"Yes, sir; it is beautiful from the porch." + +"You spend a good deal of time on the porch, do you?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"And you would be quite likely to notice any boat passing, wouldn't +you?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Could you see a boat at night,--in the moonlight, I mean?" + +"I could if it were well out in the middle of the stream, away from the +shadow of the trees, along the bank." + +"Have you seen any boats pass lately, Miss Wakefield?" + +"No, sir; I haven't seen a boat on the river for a month, at least." + +"Dead certain about it, are you, Auntie Sue?" asked the Sheriff. + +"Yes, sir; I am very sure," she returned. "Judy and I were talking about +it yesterday." + +"Who is Judy?" asked the detective. + +The Sheriff answered, "Just a girl that lives with Auntie Sue." + +And Auntie Sue added: "I know Judy has seen no boats passing, because, +as I say, we were talking about it." + +"I see," said the detective. "And may I ask, Miss Wakefield, if any +one--any stranger, I mean--has called at the house lately, or if you +have seen any one in the vicinity?" + +The gentle old lady hesitated. + +The officers thought she was searching her memory to be sure before she +answered. + +Then Auntie Sue said, deliberately: "No, sir; we have not seen a +stranger in this vicinity for several weeks. The last one was a +mule-buyer, who stopped to ask if he was on the right road to Tom +Warden's; and that must have been fully six weeks ago." + +The detective looked at Sheriff Knox. + +"Well," said the big officer, "I reckon we might as well push along." + +The two men arose. + +"Oh, but surely you will stay for dinner," said Auntie Sue, while her +dear heart was faint with fear lest they accept, and thus bring about +who could say what disastrous consequences through their meeting with +Judy. + +"Not this time, Auntie Sue," returned the Sheriff. "Mr. Ross is anxious +to get on down the river as fast as he can. He's got men on watch at +White's Crossing, and if our man ain't passed there, or if we don't +strike his trail somewhere before we get there, we will jump back on the +railroad, and get some boy to bring the horses through later." + +"I see," returned Auntie Sue. And to the detective she added, smiling: +"I am sure it must be very difficult for any one to escape you, Mr. +Ross. I have read such wonderful things about Mr. Burns and the work +of his organization; and now that I have met you,--a real live +detective,--I shall be very careful, indeed, about what I do in the +future. I shouldn't want to have you on my track, I assure you." + +The two men laughed heartily, and the detective, as he extended his hand +in farewell, returned: "I count it a great privilege to have met you, +Miss Wakefield; and if you will promise to do one thing for me, I'll +agree to be very lenient with you if I am ever assigned to a case in +which you are to be brought to justice." + +"I promise," returned the old lady, quickly. "I really wouldn't dare to +refuse under the circumstances, would I? What do you want me to do, Mr. +Ross?" + +"If this man Brian Kent should happen to appear in this vicinity, will +you get a message as quickly as possible, at any cost, to Sheriff Knox?" + +"Why, of course," agreed Auntie Sue. "But you have not yet told me what +the man looks like, Mr. Ross." + +"He is really a fine looking chap," the detective answered. "Thirty +years old--fully six feet tall--rather slender, but well built--weighs +about one hundred fifty--a splendid head--smooth shaven--reddish +hair--dark blue eyes--and a high, broad forehead. He is of +Irish extraction--is cultured--very courteous in his manner and +speech--dresses well--and knows a lot about books and authors and such +things." + +"I would surely know him from that description," said Auntie Sue, +thinking of the wretched creature who had fallen, sobbing, at her feet +so short a time before. "But, you do not make him seem like a criminal +at all. It is strange that a man such as you describe should be a +fugitive from the law, is it not?" + +"We come in contact with many strange things in our business, Miss +Wakefield," the Burns operative answered--a little sadly, Auntie Sue +thought. "Life itself is so strange and complex, though you in your +quiet retreat, here, can scarcely find it so." + +"Indeed, I find life very wonderful, Mr. Ross, even here in my little +house by the river," she answered, slowly. + +Sheriff Knox held out a newspaper to Auntie Sue: "Just happened to +remember that I had it in my pocket," he said. "It gives a pretty full +account of this fellow Kent's case. You will notice there is a big +reward offered for his capture. If you can catch him for us, you'll make +enough money to keep you mighty nigh all the rest of your life." And +the officer's great laugh boomed out at the thought of the old +school-teacher as a thief-catcher. + +"By the way, Sheriff," said Auntie Sue, as they were finally saying +good-bye at the door, "you didn't happen to ask at Thompsonville for my +mail, did you, as you came through?" Her voice was trembling, now, with +eagerness and anxiety. + +"I'm plumb sorry, Auntie Sue, but I didn't. You see, we were so busy +on this job, I clean forgot about stopping here; and, besides, we might +have caught our man before we got this far, you see." + +"Of course," returned Auntie Sue, "I should have thought of that; but +I have been rather anxious about an important letter that seems to have +been delayed. Some of the neighbors will probably be going to the office +to-day, though. Good-bye! You know you are always welcome, Sheriff; and +you, too, Mr. Ross, if you should ever happen to be in this part of the +country again." + +"A wonderful old woman, Ross," commented Sheriff Knox as they were +riding away. And the quiet, business-looking detective, whose life +had been spent in combating crime and deception, answered, as he waved +farewell to Auntie Sue, who watched them from the door of the little log +house by the river, "A very wonderful woman, indeed,--the loveliest old +lady I have ever met,--and the most remarkable." + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW. + + +When she had watched Sheriff Knox and his two companions ride out of +sight, Auntie Sue turned slowly back into the house to face Judy, who +stood accusingly in the kitchen doorway. + +For what seemed a long time, the old gentlewoman and the deformed +mountain girl stood silently looking at each other. Then Auntie Sue +nervously crossed the room to lay the newspaper, which the Sheriff had +given her, on the table beside her basket of sewing. + +Without speaking, Judy followed her, watching every movement intently. + +Turning to face her companion again, Auntie Sue stood, still speechless, +clasping and unclasping her thin old hands. + +Judy spoke in her shrill, drawling monotone: "You-all have sure fixed +hit this here time, hain't you? Can't you-all see what a hell of a hole +you've done got us inter?" + +When Auntie Sue apparently could not reply, Judy continued: "Just as if +hit wasn't more 'n enough for you-all ter go an' wear yourself plumb out +a-takin' keer of that there ornery, no-'count feller, what I never ought +ter dragged out of the river nohow. An', now, you-all got ter go +an' just naturally lie like you did ter the Sheriff an' that there +deteckertive man. I was plumb scared to death a-listenin' ter you +through the crack in the kitchen door. I 'lowed every minute they'd +ketch you, sure. My Lord-A'mighty! ma'm, can't you-all figger what'll +happen ter weuns if they ever finds out that weuns done had him hid +right here in this here house all the time? I never heard tell of such +dad burned, fool doin's in all my born days! I sure wish ter God that +there old John-boat had a-tuck him off down the river an' smashed him +up agin Elbow Rock, like hit ort, an' not a-fetched him ter our door ter +git weuns in jail for savin' his worthless, no-'count hide,--I sure do!" + +"But, Judy, I never in all my life did such a thing before," said Auntie +Sue in a tremulous whisper, too overwrought to speak aloud. + +"You-all ain't a-needin' ter do hit but onct, neither. Onct is sure a +heap plenty for that there big Sheriff man. Just look what he did ter +my pap! He's jailed pap seven times, that I kin rec'lect. God-A'mighty +knows how many times he ketched him 'fore I was borned. An' pap, he +didn't do so mighty much ary time, neither." + +"I just had to do it, Judy, dear," protested Auntie Sue. "It seemed as +if I simply could not tell the truth: something wouldn't let me." + +Judy, unheeding her companion's agitation, continued reviewing the +situation: "An' just look at all the money you-all done lost!" + +"Money?" questioned Auntie Sue. + +"Yep, 'money:'--that there reward what they'd a-paid you-all if you-all +hadn't a-lied like you did. I reckon as how there'd a-been as much, +maybe, as what was in that there letter you-all done sent ter the bank +an' ain't never heard tell of since. Hit's most likely clean gone by +now, an' here you done gone an' throw'd this other away,--plumb throw'd +hit away!" + +At this, Auntie Sue's spirit suddenly flashed into fiery indignation. + +"Judith Taylor," she said sharply, "how can you suggest such a wicked +thing? Why, I would--I would--DIE before I would accept a penny for +doing such a thing!" + +And it was Judy, now, who stood silent and abashed before the aroused +Auntie Sue. + +"Don't ever speak of such a thing again!" continued the old lady. +"And remember, we must be more careful than ever, now, not to let any +one--not a soul--know that Mr.--Mr.--Burns is in the house, or that we +ever saw him!" + +"That there deteckertive man said as how the feller's name was Brian +Kent, didn't be?" muttered the sullen Judy. + +"I don't care what the detective man said!" retorted Auntie Sue. "I am +telling you that his name is Brian Burns, and you had better remember +it! You had better remember, too, that if anybody ever finds out the +truth about him, you and I will go right along to jail with him!" + +"Yes, ma'm; I sure ain't aimin' ter forgit that," replied the humbled +Judy; and she slouched away to the kitchen. + +Auntie Sue went to the door of Brian Kent's room. But, with her +hand outstretched toward the latch, she hesitated. Had he heard? The +Sheriff's voice had been so loud. She feared to enter, yet she knew that +she must. At last, she knocked timidly, and, when there was no answer, +knocked again, louder. Cautiously, she opened the door. + +The man lay with his face to the wall,--to all appearances fast asleep. + +She tiptoed to the bed, and stood looking down upon the stranger +for whom, without a shadow of reason,--one would have said,--she had +violated one of the most deeply rooted principles of her seventy years. + +To Auntie Sue, daughter of New England Puritanism, and religious to +the deeps of her being, a lie was abhorrent,--and she had +lied,--deliberately, carefully, and with painstaking skill she had lied. +She had not merely evaded the truth; she had lied,--and that to save a +man of whom she knew nothing except that he was a fugitive from the law. +And the strangest thing about it was this, that she was glad. She could +not feel one twinge of regret for her sin. She could not even feel that +she had, indeed, sinned. She had even a feeling of pride and triumph +that she had lied so successfully. She was troubled, though, about this +new and wholly unexpected development in her life. It had been so easy +for her. She had lied so naturally, so instinctively. + +She remembered how she had spoken to Brian Kent of the river and of +life. She saw, now, that the river symbolized not only life as a whole, +with its many ever-changing conditions and currents, amid which the +individual must live;--the river symbolized, as truly, the individual +life, with its ever-changing moods and motives,--its ever-varying and +often-conflicting currents of instinct and training,--its infinite +variety of intellectual deeps and shallows,--its gentle places of +spiritual calm,--and its wild and turbulent rapids of dangerous passion. + +"What hitherto unsuspected currents in her life-river," she asked +herself, "had carried her so easily into falsehood? What strange forces +were these," she wondered, "that had set her so suddenly against honesty +and truthfulness and law and justice? And this stranger,--this wretched, +haggard-faced, drunken creature, who had been brought by the mysterious +currents of life to her door,--what was there in him that so compelled +her protecting interest? What was it within him, deeply hidden under +the repellent exterior of his being, that had so awakened in her that +strange feeling of possession,--of motherhood?" + +It was not strange that, in her mental and spiritual extremity, the dear +old gentlewoman's life-long habit should lead her to kneel beside +the stranger's bed and pray for understanding and guidance. It was +significant that she did not ask her God to forgive the lie. + +And, presently, as she prayed, she felt the man on the bed move. Then +a hand lightly touched her hair. She remained very still for a +little,--her head still bowed. The hand that touched so reverently the +silvery gray hair trembled a little. Slowly, the old teacher raised her +face to look at him; and the Irish blue eyes of Brian Kent were wide +with wondering awe and glowing with a light that warmed her heart and +strengthened her. + +"Why did you do it?" he asked. "You wonderful, wonderful woman! Why did +you do it?" + +Slowly, she rose from her knees to sit beside him on the bed. "You +heard?" + +He nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak. + +"I was afraid the Sheriff talked too loud," she said. + +"But, why did you do it?" he persisted. + +"I think it was because I couldn't do anything else," she answered, with +her little chuckling laugh. Then she added, seriously: "How could I let +them take you away? Are you not mine? Did not the river bring you to +me?" + +"I must tell you," he answered, sadly, "that what the detective told you +about me is true." + +"Yes?" she answered, smiling. + +"I was a clerk in the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank," he continued, +"and I stole money,--for nearly a year I stole,--not large sums, but a +little at a time. Then, when I knew that it was going to be discovered, +I took quite a lot, and ran away." + +"Yes?" said Auntie Sue. + +"Do you not care that I am a thief?" he questioned, wonderingly. + +"Oh, yes; I care very much," she returned. "But, you see, after all, +your stealing is a little thing that can be made all right. Your being +a thief is so small in comparison with other things which you might have +been, but which you are not, and of so little importance in comparison +with what you really ARE, that I can't feel so very bad about it." + +"But--but--my drinking,--my condition when--" He could not go on. + +"Why, you see," she answered, "I can't think of THAT man as being YOU at +all. THAT was something that the accident of your being a thief did to +you,--like catching cold, and being sick, after accidentally falling in +the river." + +After a little silence, the man spoke, slowly: "I suppose every thief, +when he is caught, says the same thing; but I really never wanted to do +it. Circumstances--" he paused, biting his lip, and turning away. + +"What was she like?" asked Auntie Sue, gently. + +"She?" and his face reddened. + +"Yes, I have observed that, to a man, 'circumstances' nearly always mean +a woman. To a woman, of course, it is a man." + +"I cannot tell you about her, now," he said. "Some day, perhaps, when I +am further away from it. But she is not at all like you." + +And this answer, for some strange reason, brought a flush of pleasure to +the face of the old schoolteacher. + +"I did not mean for you to tell me now," she returned. "I only wanted +you to know that, even though I am an old maid, I can understand." + +She left him then, and went to attend to her simple household duties. + +It was not until quite late in the evening that Auntie Sue took up the +newspaper which Sheriff Knox had given her. Judy had retired to her +room, and Brian Burns--as they had agreed he should be called--was fast +asleep. + +To-morrow, Brian was going to sit up. His clothing had been washed and +ironed and pressed, and Auntie Sue was making some little repairs in the +way of darning and buttons. She had finished, and was putting her needle +and scissors in the sewing-basket on the table beside her, when she +noticed the paper, which she had forgotten. + +The article headed "BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS" was not long. It told, in a +matter-of-fact, newspaper way, how Brian Kent had, at different times, +covering a period of several months, taken various sums from the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank, and gave, so far as was then known, the +accumulated amount which he had taken. The dishonest clerk had employed +several methods in his operations; but the particular incident--read +Auntie Sue--which had led to the exposure of Kent's stealings was the +theft of a small sum of money in bank-notes, which had been sent to the +bank in a letter by one of the bank's smaller depositors. + +The newspaper fell from Auntie Sue's hand. Mechanically, she fingered +the garment lying in her lap. + +She, too, had sent a sum of money in a letter for deposit to her small +account in this bank from which Brian Kent had stolen. She would not +have sent the familiar paper currency of the United States that way; +but, this money was in Argentine notes. Her brother from far-away Buenos +Aires had sent it to her, saying that it would help to keep her during +the closing years of her life; and she had added it to her small savings +with a feeling of deepest gratitude that her last days were now fully +provided for. And she had received from the bank no acknowledgment of +her letter with its enclosures. + +Taking up the paper with hands that trembled so she scarce could +distinguish the words, she read the paragraph again. + +Suddenly, she recalled the man's puzzled expression when she had +told him her name, and she seemed to hear him say, again, "Wakefield? +Wakefield? Where have I seen that name?" + +She looked at the date of the paper. Beyond all doubt, the man sleeping +there in the other room;--the man whom she had saved from a suicide's +end in the river;--whom she had nursed through the hell of delirium +tremens;--whom she had yearned over as over her own son, and for whom, +to save from the just penalty of his crime, she had lied--beyond all +doubt that man had robbed her of the money that was to have insured to +her peace and comfort in the closing years of her life. + +Carefully, Auntie Sue laid the garment she had just mended with such +loving care, with the rest of Brian Kent's clothing, on the near-by +chair. Rising, she went with slow, troubled step to the porch. + +There was no moon, that night, to turn the waters of The Bend into a +stream of silvery light. But the stars were shining bright and clear, +and she could see the river where it made its dark, mysterious way +between the walls of shadowy hills; and borne to her ears on the gentle +night wind came the deep, thundering roar of the angry waters at Elbow +Rock. + +For a long time she stood there on the porch looking into the night, +with the light from the open door of her little house behind her; and +she felt very lonely, very tired, and very old. With her beautiful old +face upturned to the infinite sky, where shining worlds are scattered +in such lavish profusion, she listened, listened to the river that, with +its countless and complex currents, swept so irresistibly onward along +the way that was set for it by Him who swung those star-worlds in the +limitless space of that mighty arch above. And something of the spirit +that broods ever over the river must have entered into the soul of +Auntie Sue. When she turned back into the house, there was a smile on +her face, though her eyes were wet with tears. + +Going to the chair that held Brian Kent's clothing, she took the +garments in her arms and pressed them to her lips. Then she carried them +to his room. + +For some time she remained in that darkened chamber beside the sleeping +man. + +When she returned to the living-room, she again took up the newspaper. +Very carefully, that her sleeping companions in the house might not hear +her, she went to the kitchen, the paper in her hand. Very carefully, +that no sound should betray her act, she burned the paper in the kitchen +stove. + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION. + + +During the next few days, Brian Kent rapidly regained his strength. No +one seeing the tall, self-possessed gentleman who sat with Auntie Sue on +the porch overlooking the river, or strolled about the place, could have +imagined him the wretchedly repulsive creature that Judy had dragged +from the eddy so short a time before. And no one,--exempting, perhaps, +detective Ross,--would have identified this bearded guest of Auntie +Sue's as the absconding bank clerk for whose arrest a substantial reward +was offered. + +But Mr. Ross had departed from the Ozarks, to report to the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank that, to the best of his knowledge and belief, +Brian Kent had been drowned. Homer T. Ward, himself, wrote Auntie Sue +about the case, for the detective had told the bank president about his +visit to the little log house by the river, and the banker knew that his +old teacher would wish to hear the conclusion of the affair. + +The facts upon which the detective based his conclusion that Brian Kent +was dead, were, first of all, the man's general character, temperament, +habits, and ambitions,--aside from his thefts from the bank,--prior to +the time of his exposure and flight, and his known mental and physical +condition at the time he disappeared from the hotel in the little river +town of Borden. + +The detective reasoned (and there are thousands of cases that could +be cited to support his contention) that by such a man as Brian +Kent,--knowing, as he must have known, the comparative certainty of +his ultimate arrest and conviction, and being in a mental and nervous +condition bordering on insanity, as a result of his constant brooding +over his crime and the excessive drinking to which he had resorted for +relief,--by such a man, death would almost inevitably be chosen rather +than a life of humiliation and disgrace and imprisonment. + +Acting upon the supposition, however, that the man had gone down the +river in that missing boat, and that the appearance of suicide +was planned by the fugitive to trick his pursuers, the detectives +ascertained that he had provided no supplies for a trip down the river. +The man would be compelled to seek food. The mountain country through +which he must pass was sparsely settled, and for a distance that would +have taken a boat many days to cover, the officers visited every house +and cabin and camp on either side of the river without finding a trace +of the hunted man. The river had been watched night and day. The net set +by the Burns operatives touched every settlement and village for many +miles around. And, finally, the battered and broken wreck of the lost +boat had been found some two miles below Elbow Rock. + +". . . And so, my dear Auntie Sue," Banker Ward wrote, in conclusion, +"you may rest in peace, secure in the certainty that my thieving bank +clerk is not lurking anywhere in your beautiful Ozarks to pounce down +upon you unawares in your little house beside the river. The man is +safely dead. There is no doubt about it. I regret, more than I can +express, that you have been in any way disturbed by the affair. Please +think no more about it. + +"By the way, you made a great impression upon detective Ross. He was +more than enthusiastic over your graciousness and your beauty. I +never heard him talk so much before in all the years I have known him. +Needless to say, I indorsed everything he said about the dearest +old lady in the world, and then we celebrated by dining together and +drinking a toast to Auntie Sue. . . ." + +Auntie Sue went with the letter to Brian, and acquainted him with that +part of the banker's communication which related to the absconding +clerk; but, about her relation to the president of the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank, she said nothing. + +"Isn't it splendid!" she finished, her face glowing with delight. + +"Splendid?" he echoed, looking at her with grave, questioning eyes. + +"Why, yes, of course!" she returned. "Aren't you glad to be so dead, +under the circumstances? Think what it means! You are free, now. No +horrid old detectives dogging your steps, or waiting behind every bush +and tree to pounce upon you. There is nothing, now, to prevent your +being the kind of man that you always meant to be,--and really ARE, +too,--except for your--your accidental tumble in the river," she +finished with her low chuckling laugh. "And, some day," she went on, +with conviction, "when you have established yourself,--when you have +asserted your REAL self, I mean,--and have paid back every penny of the +money, Homer T. Ward and Mr. Ross and everybody will be glad that they +didn't catch you before you had a chance to save yourself." + +"And you, Auntie Sue?" Brian's voice was deep with feeling: "And you?" + +"Me? Oh, I am as glad, now, as I can ever be, because, you see, to me it +is already done." + +For a long minute he looked at her without speaking, then turned his +face away to gaze out over the river and the hills; but his eyes were +the eyes of one who looks without seeing. + +Slowly, he said: "I wish I could be sure. There was a time when I +was--when I believed in myself. It seems to me, now, that it was years +and years ago. I thought, then, that nothing could shake me in my +purpose; that nothing could check me in my ambition. I saw myself going +straight on to the goal I had set for myself as certainly as--well, as +your river ever there goes on to the sea. But now--" He shook his head +sadly. + +Auntie Sue laughed. "You foolish boy. My river out there doesn't go +straight at all. It meets all sorts of obstacles, and is beset by all +sorts of conflicting influences, and so is forced to wind and twist and +work its way along; but, the big, splendid thing about the river is that +it keeps going on. It never stops to turn back. No matter what happens +to it, it never stops. It goes on and on and on unto the very end, until +it finally loses itself in the triumph of its own achievement,--the +sea." + +"And you think that I can go on?" he asked, doubtingly. + +"I know you can go on," she answered with conviction. + +"But, why are you so sure?" + +"Perhaps," she returned, smiling, "seventy years makes one sure of some +things." + +Ho exclaimed passionately: "But you do not know--you cannot know--how +my life, my dreams, my plans, my hopes, my--everything--has been broken +into bits!" + +She answered calmly, pointing to Elbow Rock: "Look there, Brian. See +how the river is broken into bits. See how its smoothly flowing, onward +sweep is suddenly changed to wild, chaotic turmoil; how it rages and +fumes and frets and smashes itself against the rocks. But it goes on +just the same. Life cannot be always calm and smoothly flowing like the +peaceful Bend. But life can always go on. Life must always go on. And +you will find, my dear boy, that a little way below Elbow Rock there is +another quiet stretch." + +When he spoke again there was a note of almost reverence in his voice. + +"Auntie Sue, was there ever a break in your life? Were your dreams and +plans ever smashed into bits?" + +For a little, she did not answer; then she said, bravely: "Yes, Brian; +several times. Once,--years and years ago,--I do not know how I managed +to go on. I felt, then, as you feel now; but, somehow, I managed, and +so found the calm places. The last hard spot came quite recently." +She paused, wondering what he would do if she were to tell him how he +himself had made the hard spot. "But, now," she continued, "I am hoping +that the rest of the way will be calm and untroubled." + +"I wish I could help to make it so!" he cried impulsively. + +"Why, you can," she returned quickly. "Of course you can. Perhaps that +is why the current landed your boat at my garden, instead of carrying +you on down the rapids to Elbow Rock. Who can say?" + +A new light kindled in the man's eyes as his sensitive nature took fire +at Auntie Sue's words. "I could do anything for a woman like you, Auntie +Sue," he said quietly, but with a conviction that left no room for +doubt. "But you must tell me what I am to do." + +She answered: "You are simply to go on with your life--just as if no +Elbow Rock had ever disturbed you; just as the river goes on--to the +end." + +She left him, then, to think out his problem alone; for the teacher of +so many years' experience was too wise not to know when a lesson was +finished. + +But when the end of the day was come, they again sat together on the +porch and watched the miracle of the sunset hour. And no word was spoken +by them, now, of life and its problems and its meanings. As one listens +to the song of a bird without thought of musical notes or terms; as one +senses the fragrance of a flower without thought of the chemistry of +perfume; as one feels the presence of spring in the air without thought +of the day of the week, so they were conscious of the beauty, the glory, +and the peace of the evening. + +Only when the soft darkness of the night lay over the land, and river +and mountain and starry sky were veiled in dreamy mystery, did Auntie +Sue speak: "Oh, it is so good to have some one to share it with,--some +one who understands. I am very lonely, sometimes, Brian. I wonder if you +know?" + +"Yes, Auntie Sue, I know, for I have been lonely, too." + +And so the old gentlewoman, whose lifework was so nearly finished, and +the man in the flush of his manhood years, whose life had been so nearly +wrecked, were drawn very close by a something that came to them out of +the beauty and the mystery of that hour. + +The next day, Brian told Auntie Sue that he would leave on the morrow. + +"Leave?" she echoed in dismay. "Why, Brian, where are you going?" + +"I don't exactly know," he returned; "but, of course, I must go +somewhere, out into the world again." + +"And why must you 'go somewhere, out into the world again'?" she +demanded. + +"To work," he answered, smiling. "If I am to go on, as you say, I must +go where I can find something to do." + +"If that isn't just like you--you child!" cried the old teacher. "You +are all alike,--you boys and girls. You all must have something to do; +always, it is 'something to do'." + +"Well," he returned, "and must we not have something to do?" + +"You will do something, certainly," she answered; "but, before you +can DO anything that is worth doing, you must BE something. Life isn't +DOING;--it is BEING." + +"I wonder if that was not the real reason for my wretched failures," +said Brian, thoughtfully. + +"It is the real reason for most of our failures," she returned. "And so +you are not going to fail again. You are not going away somewhere, you +don't know where, to do something you don't know what. You are going to +stay right here, and just BE something. Then, when the time comes, you +will do whatever is yours to do as naturally and as inevitably as the +birds sing, as the blossoms come in the spring, or as the river finds +its way to the sea." + +And more than ever Brian Kent felt in the presence of Auntie Sue as +a little boy to whom the world had grown suddenly very big and very +wonderful. + +But, after a while, he shook his head, smiling wistfully. "No, no, +Auntie Sue, that sounds all true and right enough, but it can't be. I +must go just the same." + +"Why can't it be, Brian?" + +"For one thing," he returned, "I cannot risk the danger to you. After +all, as long as I am living, there is a chance that my identity will be +discovered, and you--no, no; I must not!" + +"As for that," she answered quickly, "the chances of your being +identified are a thousand times greater if you go into the world again +too soon. Some day, of course, you must go; but you are safer now right +here. And"--she added quickly--"it would be no easier for me, dear boy, +to--to--have it happen somewhere away from me. You are mine, you know, +no matter where you go." + +"But, Auntie Sue," he protested, "I am not a gentleman of means that I +can do nothing indefinitely; neither am I capable of living upon your +hospitality for an extended period. I must earn my bread and butter." + +The final sentence came with such a lifting of his head, such a look +of stern decision, and such an air of pride, that the gentle old +school-teacher laughed until her eyes were filled with tears; and Judy, +at the crack in the kitchen door, wondered if the mistress of the little +log house by the river were losing her mind. + +"Oh, Brian! Brian!" cried Auntie Sue, wiping her eyes. "I knew you +would come to the 'bread and butter' at last. That is where all our +philosophies and reasonings and arguments come at last, don't they? Just +'bread and butter,' that is all. And I love you for it. Of course you +can't live upon my hospitality,--and I couldn't let you if you would. +And if you WOULD, I wouldn't let you if I could. I am no more a lady of +means, my haughty sir, than you are a gentleman of independent fortune. +The fact is, Brian, dear, I suspect that you and I are about the two +poorest people in the world,--to be anything like as pretentiously +respectable and properly proud as we are." + +When the man could make no reply, but only looked at her with a +much-puzzled and still-proud expression, she continued, half-laughingly, +but well pleased with him: "Please, Brian, don't look so haughtily +injured. I had no intention of insulting you by offering charity. Far +from it." + +Instantly, the man's face changed. He put out his hands protestingly, +and his blue eyes filled, as he said, impulsively. "Auntie Sue, after +what you have done for me, I--" + +She answered quickly: "We are considering the future. What has been, is +past. Our river is already far beyond that point in its journey. Don't +let us try to turn the waters back. I promise you I am going to be very, +very practical, and make you pay for EVERYTHING." + +Smiling, now, he waited for her to explain. + +"I must tell you, first," she began, "that, except for a very small +amount in the--in a savings bank, I have nothing to provide for my last +days except this little farm." + +"What a shame," Brian Kent exclaimed, "that a woman like you can give +her life to the public schools for barely enough salary to keep her +alive during her active years, and then left in her old age with no +means of support. It is a national disgrace." + +Auntie Sue chuckled with appreciation of the rather grim humor of the +situation. What would Brian Kent, indignant at the public neglect of the +school-teacher, say of the man who had robbed her of the money that was +to provide for her closing years? "After all, most public sins are only +individual sins at the last," she said, musingly. + +"I beg your pardon," said Brian, not in the least seeing the relevancy +of her words. + +Auntie Sue came quickly back to her subject: "Only thirty acres of my +little farm is under cultivation. The remaining fifty acres is wild +timberland. If I could have that fifty acres also in cultivation, with +the money that the timber would bring,--which would not be a great +deal,--I would be fairly safe for the--for the rest of my evening," she +finished with a smile. "Do you see?" + +"You mean that I--that you want me to stay here and work for you?" + +"I mean," she answered, "that, if you choose to stay for awhile, you +need not feel that you would be accepting my hospitality as charity," +she returned gently. "I am not exactly offering you a job: I am only +showing you how you could, without sacrificing your pride, remain in +this quiet retreat for awhile before returning to the world." + +"It would be heaven, Auntie Sue," he returned earnestly. "I want to stay +so bad that I fear myself. Let me think it over until to-morrow. Let me +be sure that I am doing the right thing, and not merely the thing I want +to do." + +She liked his answer, and did not mention the subject again until Brian +himself was ready. And, strangely enough, it was poor, twisted Judy who +helped him to set matters straight. + + + +CHAPTER X. + +BRIAN KENT DECIDES. + + +Brian had walked along the river-bank below the house to a spot just +above the point where the high bluff jutting out into the river-channel +forms Elbow Rock. + +The bank here is not so high above the roaring waters of the rapids, for +the spur of the mountain which forms the cliff lies at a right angle to +the river, and the greater part of the cliff is thus on the shore, with +its height growing less and less as it merges into the main slope of +the mountain-side. From the turn in the road, in front of the house, a +footpath leads down the bank of the river to the cliff, and, climbing +stairlike up the face of the steep bluff, zigzags down the easier slope +of the down-river side, to come again into the road below. The +road itself, below Elbow Rock, is forced by the steep side of the +mountain-spur and the precipitous bluff to turn inland from the river, +and so, climbing by an easier grade up past Tom Warden's place, crosses +the ridge above the schoolhouse, and comes back down the mountain again +in front of Auntie Sue's place, to its general course along the stream. +The little path forms thus a convenient short cut for any one following +the river road on foot. + +Brian, seated on the river-bank a little way from the path where it +starts up the bluff, was trying to decide whether it would be better +for him to follow his desire and stay with Auntie Sue for a few weeks +or months, or whether he should not, in spite of the land he might clear +for her, return to the world where he could more quickly earn the money +to pay back that which he had stolen. + +And as he sat there, the man was conscious that he had reached one +of those turning-points that are found in every life where results, +momentous and far-reaching, are dependent upon comparatively unimportant +and temporary issues. He could not have told why, and yet he felt a +certainty that, for him, two widely separated futures were dependent +upon his choice. Nor could he, by thinking, discover what those futures +held for him, nor which he should choose. Even as his boat that night +had hung on the edge of the eddy,--hesitating on the dividing-line +between the two currents,--so the man himself now felt the pull of his +life-currents, and hesitated,--undecided. + +Looking toward the house, he thought how like the life offered by Auntie +Sue was to the quiet waters of The Bend, and--his mind finished the +simile--how like the life to which he would go was to the rapids at +Elbow Rock; and, yet, he reflected, the waters could never reach the +sea without enduring the turmoil of the rapids. And, again, the thought +came, "The Bend is just as much the river as the troubled passage around +the rock." + +When he had given up life, and, to all intent and purpose, had left life +behind him, the river, without his will or knowledge, had mysteriously +elected to save him from the death he had chosen as his only refuge from +the utter ruin that had seemed so inevitable. As the currents of the +river had carried his boat to the eddy at the foot of Auntie Sue's +garden, the currents of life had mysteriously brought him to the saving +influence of Auntie Sue herself. Should he push out again into the +stream to face the danger he knew beset such a course? or should he wait +for a season in the secure calm of the harbor she offered until he were +stronger? Brian Kent knew, instinctively, that there was in the wisdom +and love of Auntie Sue's philosophy and faith a strength that would, if +he could make it his, insure his safe passage through every danger of +life, and yet--The man's meditations were interrupted by a chance look +toward the bluff which towered above him. + +Judy was climbing the steep trail. + +Curiously, Brian watched the deformed mountain girl as she made her way +up the narrow, stairlike path, and her cutting words came back to him: +"God-A'mighty and my drunken pap made me like I am. But you,--damn +you!--you made yourself what you be." And Auntie Sue had said that +the all-important thing in life was not to DO something, but to BE +something. + +The girl, who had gained a point halfway to the top of the bluff, paused +to look searchingly about, and Brian, who was half-hidden by the bushes, +started to call to her, thinking she might be looking for him; but some +impulse checked him and he remained silently watching her. Climbing +hurriedly a little higher up the path Judy again stopped to look +carefully around, as if searching the vicinity for some one. Then, once +more, she went on until she stood on top of the cliff; and now, as she +looked about over the surrounding country, she called: "Mr. Burns! Oh, +Mr. Burns! Who-o-e-e! Mr. Burns!" + +Brian's lips were parted to answer the call when something happened on +top of the bluff which held him for the moment speechless. + +From beyond where Judy stood on the brink of the cliff, a man's head +and shoulders appeared. Brian saw the girl start and turn to face the +newcomer as if in sudden fear. Then she whirled about to run. Before she +could gain the point where the path starts down from the top, the man +caught her and dragged her roughly back, so that the two disappeared +from Brian's sight. Brian was halfway up the bluff when he heard the +girl's shrill scream. + +There was no sign of weakness, now, in the man that Judy had dragged +from the river. He covered the remaining distance to the top in a +breath. From among the bushes, a little way down the mountainside, came +the sound of an angry voice mingled with Judy's pleading cries. + +An instant more, and Brian reached the spot where poor Judy was +crouching on the ground, begging the brute, who stood over her with +menacing fists, not to hit her again. + +The man was a vicious-looking creature, dressed in the rough garb of +the mountaineer; dirty and unkempt, with evil, close-set eyes, and a +scraggly beard that could not hide the wicked, snarling mouth. + +He stood for a second looking at Brian, as if too surprised by the +latter's sudden appearance to move; then he went down, felled by as +clean a knockout as was ever delivered by an Irish fist. + +"Are you hurt, Judy?" demanded Brian, as he lifted the girl to her feet. +"Did he strike you?" + +"He was sure a-fixin' ter lick me somethin' awful when you-all put in," +returned the poor girl, trembling with fear. "I know, 'cause he's done +hit to me heaps er times before. He's my pap." + +"Your father!" exclaimed Brian. + +Judy nodded;--then screamed: "Look out! He'll git you, sure!" + +Judy's rescuer whirled, to see the man on the ground drawing a gun. A +vigorous, well-directed kick, delivered in the nick of time, sent the +gun whirling away into the bushes and rendered the native's right arm +useless. + +"Get up!" commanded Brian. + +The man rose to his feet, and stood nursing his damaged wrist and +scowling at Judy's companion. + +"Are you this girl's father?" + +"I reckon I am," came the sullen reply. "I'm Jap Taylor, an' you-all +are sure goin' to find that you can't come between a man an' his lawful +child in these here mountains, mister,--if you-all be from the city." + +"And you will find that you can't strike a crippled girl in my presence, +even if she is your daughter,--in these mountains or anywhere else," +retorted Brian. "What are you trying to do with her, anyway?" + +"I aim ter take her back home with me, where she belongs." + +"Well, why didn't you go to the house for her like a man, instead of +jumping on her out here in the woods!" + +"Hit ain't none of your dad burned business as I can see," came the +sullen reply. + +"I am making it my business, just the same," returned Brian. + +He turned to the girl, who had drawn back a little behind him. "Judy," +he said, kindly, "I think perhaps you better tell me about this." + +"Pap, he was a-layin' for me in the bresh 'cause he dassn't come to the +house ter git me," said the girl, fearfully. + +"But, why does he fear to come to the house?" persisted Brian. + +"'Cause he done give me ter Auntie Sue." + +"Gave you to Auntie Sue?" repeated the puzzled Brian. + +Jap Taylor interrupted with, "I didn't sign ary paper, an'--" + +"Shut up, you!" snapped Brian. "Go on, Judy." + +"Hit was a year last corn-plantin'," explained the girl. "My maw, she +died. He used ter whip her, too. An' Auntie Sue was there helpin' weuns; +an' Tom Warden an' some other folks they was there, too; an' they done +fixed hit so that I was ter go an' live with Auntie Sue; an' pap, he +give me ter her. He sure did, Mr. Burns, an' I ain't a-wantin' ter go +with him, no more." + +The poor girl's shrill monotone broke, and her twisted body shook with +her sobs. + +"I didn't sign ary paper," repeated Judy's father, with sullen +stubbornness. "An' what's more, I sure ain't a-goin' ter. I 'lows as how +she'll just go home an' work for me, like she ort, 'stead of livin' with +that there old-maid schoolma'am. I'm her paw, I am, an' I reckon I got +rights." + +He started toward the girl, who drew closer to Brian, and begged +piteously: "Don't let him tech me! 'Fore God, Mr. Burns, he'll kill me, +sure!" + +Brian drew the girl behind him as he faced the father with a brief, "Get +out!" + +The mountaineer hesitated. + +Brian went one step toward him: "Do you hear? Get out! And if you ever +show your dirty face in this vicinity again, I'll not leave a whole bone +in your worthless carcass!" + +And Jap Taylor saw something in those Irish blue eyes that caused him to +start off down the mountain toward the river below Elbow Rock. + +When he had placed a safe distance between himself and the man who +appeared so willing and able to make good his threat, Judy's father +turned, and, shaking his uninjured fist at Brian, delivered a volley +of curses, with: "I'll sure git you-all for this! Jap Taylor ain't +a-lettin' no man come between him an' his'n. I'll fix you, an' I'll fix +that there schoolma'am, too! She's nothin' but a damned old--" + +But Brian started toward him, and Jap Taylor beat a hasty retreat. + +"Never mind, Judy," said Brian, when the native had disappeared in the +brush and timber that covered the steep mountain-side. "I'll not let +him touch you. Come, let us sit down and talk a little until you are +yourself again. Auntie Sue must not see you like this. We don't want to +let her know anything about it. You won't tell her, will you?" + +"I ain't aimin' ter tell nobody," said Judy, between sobs. "I sure ain't +a-wantin' ter make no trouble,--not for Auntie Sue, nohow. She's been +powerful good ter me." + +When they were seated on convenient rocks at the brink of the cliff +overlooking the river, Judy gradually ceased crying, and presently said, +in her normal, querulous monotone: "Did you-all mind what pap 'lowed +he'd do ter Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns?" + +"Yes, Judy; but don't worry, child. He is not going to harm any one +while I am around." + +"You-all are aimin' ter stay then, be you? I'm sure powerful glad," said +Judy, simply. + +Brian started. A new factor had suddenly been injected into his problem. + +"I was powerful scared you-all was aimin' ter go away," continued Judy. +"Hit was that I was a-huntin' you-all to tell you 'bout, when pap he +ketched me." + +"What were you going to tell me, Judy?" + +"I 'lowed ter tell you-all 'bout Auntie Sue. She'd sure be powerful mad +if she know'd I'd said anythin' ter you, but she's a-needin' somebody +like you ter help her, mighty bad. She--she's done lost a heap of money, +lately: hit was some she sent--" + +Brian interrupted: "Wait a minute, Judy. You must not tell me anything +about Auntie Sue's private affairs; you must not tell any one. Anything +she wants me to know, she will tell me. Do you understand?" he finished +with a reassuring smile. + +"Yes, sir; I reckon you-all are 'bout right, an' I won't tell nobody +nothin'. But 'tain't a-goin' ter hurt none ter say as how you-all ort +ter stay, I reckon." + +"And why do you think I ought to stay, Judy?" + +"'Cause of what Auntie Sue's done for you-all,--a-nursin' you when you +was plumb crazy an' plumb dangerous from licker, an' a lyin' like she +did ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man," returned Judy +stoutly; "an' 'cause she's so old an' is a-needin' you-all ter help her; +an' 'cause she is a-lovin' you like she does, an' is a-wantin' you-all +ter stay so bad hit's mighty nigh a-makin' her plumb sick." + +Brian Kent did not answer. The mountain girl's words had revealed to him +the selfishness of his own consideration of his problem so clearly that +he was stunned. Why had he not, in his thinking, remembered the dear old +gentlewoman who had saved him from a shameful death? + +Judy went on: "Hit looks ter me like somebody just naturally's got ter +take care of Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns. All her whole life she's a-been +takin' care of everybody just like she tuck me, an' just like she tuck +you-all, besides a heap of other ways; an' now she's so old and mighty +nigh plumb wore out, hit sure looks like hit was time somebody was +a-fixin' ter do somethin' for her. That was what I was a-huntin' you-all +ter tell you when pap ketched me, Mr. Burns." + +"I am glad you told me, Judy;--very glad. You see, I was not thinking of +things in just that way." + +"I 'lowed maybe you mightn't. Seems like folks mostly don't." + +"But it's all right, now!" Brian cried heartily. "You have settled it. +I'll stay. We'll take care of Auntie Sue,--you and I, Judy. Come on, +now; let's go to the house, and tell her. But we won't say anything +about your father, Judy;--that would only make her unhappy; and we must +never make Auntie Sue unhappy--never." He was as eager and enthusiastic, +now, as a schoolboy. + +"'Course," said Judy, solemnly; "'course you just naturally got ter stay +an' take care of her now, after what pap's done said he'd do." + +"Yes, Judy; I've just naturally got to stay," returned Brian. + +Together they went down the steep cliff trail and to the little log +house by the river to announce Brian's decision to Auntie Sue. They +found the dear old lady in her favorite spot on the porch overlooking +the river. + +"Why, of course you will stay," she returned, when Brian had told her. +"The river brought you to me, and you know, my dear boy, the river is +never wrong. Oh, yes, I know there are cross-currents and crooked spots +and sand-bars and rocks and lots of places where it SEEMS to us to be +wrong. But, just the same, it all goes on, all the time, toward the sea +for which it starts when it first begins at some little spring away +over there somewhere in the mountains. Of course you will stay with me, +Brian,--until the river carries you on again." + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +RE-CREATION. + + +From the very day of his decision, to which he had been so unexpectedly +helped by Judy, Brian Kent was another man. The gloomy, despondent, +undecided spirit that was the successor of the wretched creature that +Judy had helped to Auntie Sue's that morning was now succeeded by a +cheerful, hopeful, contented man, who went to his daily task with a +song, did his work with a smile and a merry jest, and returned, when the +day was done, with peace in his heart and laughter on his lips. + +As the days of the glorious Ozark autumn passed, Brian's healthful, +outdoor work on the timbered mountain-side brought to the man of the +cities a physical grace and beauty he had lacked,--the grace of physical +strength and the beauty of clean and rugged health. The bright autumn +sun and the winds that swept over the many miles of tree-clad hills +browned his skin; while his work with the ax developed his muscles and +enforced deep breathing of the bracing mountain air, thus bringing +a more generous supply of richer blood, which touched his now firmly +rounded cheeks with color. + +The gift of humor and the faculty of quaint and witty conversational +twists, with the genius of storytelling that was his from his Irish +mother, made quick friends for him of the mountain neighbors who +welcomed this new pupil of their old school-teacher with whole-hearted +pleasure, and quoted his jests and sayings throughout the country with +never-failing delight. And Judy,--it is not too much to say that Judy +became his most ardent admirer and devoted slave. + +But the dear old mistress of the little log house by the river alone +recognized that these outward changes in the human wreck that the +river had brought to her were but manifestations of a more potent +transformation that was taking place in the man's inner life; and it was +this inner change that filled the teacher's loving heart with joy, and +which she watched with keen and delighted interest. + +It was not, after all, a new life that was coming to this man, Auntie +Sue told herself; it was his own old and more real life that was +reassuring itself. It was the real Brian Kent that had been sojourning +in a far country that was now coming home to his own. It was the wealth +of his heart and mind and soul which had been deep-buried under an +accumulation of circumstances and environment that was now being brought +to the surface. + +Might it not be that Auntie Sue's genius for absorbing beauty and making +truth her own had, in her many years of searching for truth and beauty +in whatever humanity she encountered, developed in her a peculiar +sensitiveness? And was it not this that had made her feel instinctively +the real nature of the man in whom a less discerning observer would have +recognized nothing worthy of admiration or regard? Without question, +it was the true,--the essential,--the underlying,--elements in the +character of the absconding bank clerk that had aroused in this +remarkable old gentlewoman the peculiar sense of kinship--of +possession--that had determined her attitude toward the stranger. The +law that like calls to like is not less applicable to things spiritual +than to things material. The birds of a feather that always flock +together are not of necessity material birds of material feathers. + +Nor was Brian Kent himself unconscious of his Re-Creation. The man knew +what he was, as every man knows deep within himself the real self that +is. And that was the horror of the situation which had set him adrift on +the river that night when, in his last drunken despairing frenzy, he had +left the world with a curse in his heart and had faced the black unknown +with reckless laughter and a profane toast. It is to be doubted if +there can be a hell of greater torment than that experienced by one who, +endowed by nature with a capacity for great living, is betrayed by the +very strength of his genius into a situation that is intolerable of his +real self, and is forced, thus, to a continuous self-crucifixion and +death. + +In his new environment the man felt the awakening of this self which he +had mourned as dead. Thoughts, emotions, dreams, aspirations, which had, +as he believed, been killed, he found were not dead, but only sleeping; +and in the quickening of their vitality and strength he knew a joy as +great as had been his despair. + +The beauty of nature, that had lost its power of appeal to his sodden +soul, now stirred him to the very depth of his being. The crisp, +sun-sweet air of the autumn mornings, when he went forth with his ax +to the day's clean labor, was a draught of potent magic that set every +nerve of him tingling with delight. The woodland hillside, where he +worked, was a wonderland of beautiful creations that inspired a thousand +glowing fancies. Sometimes, at his heavy task, he would pause for a +moment's rest, and so would look out and away over the vast expanse of +country that from his feet stretched in all its charm of winding river +and wooded slopes, and tree-fringed ridges to the far, blue sky-line; +and the very soul of him would answer to the call as he had thought he +never could answer again. The very clouds that drifted past on their +courses to unseen ports beyond the hills were freighted with meaning for +him now. The winds that came laden with the subtly blended perfume +of ten thousand varieties of trees and grasses and shrubs and flowers +whispered words of life which he now could hear. The loveliness of the +glowing morning skies, as he saw them when he rose for the day's work, +and the glories of the sunsets, as he watched them with Auntie Sue +from the porch when the day's task was accomplished, filled him with an +exquisite gladness which he had never hoped to know again. + +Most of all, did the river speak to him; not, indeed, as it had spoken +that dreadful night, when, from the window of his darkened room, he had +listened to its call: the river spoke, now, in the full day as his eye +followed its winding length through the hills in all its varied beauty +of sunshine and shadow;--of gleaming silver and living green and +russet-brown. It talked to him in the evening when the waters gave back +the glories of the sky and the deepening twilight wrapped the world in +its dusky veil of mystery. It spoke to him in the soft darkness of the +night, as it swept on its way under the stars, or in the light of the +golden moon. And, in time, some of these things which the river said to +him, he, in turn, told to Auntie Sue. + +And Auntie Sue, delighted with the man's awakening self, and charmed +with his power of thought and his gift of expression, led him on. +With artful suggestion and skilful question and subtle argument, she +stimulated his mind and fancy to lay hold of the truths and beauties +that life and nature offered. But ever the rare old gentlewoman was his +teacher, revealing himself to himself; guiding him to a fuller discovery +and knowledge of his own life and its meaning, which, indeed, is the +true aim and end of all right teaching. + +So the days of the autumn passed. The hills changed their robes of +varied green for costumes of brown and gold, with touches here and there +of flaming scarlet and brilliant yellow. And then winter was at hand, +and that momentous evening came when Auntie Sue said to her pupil, after +an hour of most interesting talk, "Brian, why in the world don't you +write a book?" + +"'A book'!" exclaimed Brian, in a startled tone. + +Judy laughed. "He sure ought ter. Lord knows he talks like one." + +"I am in earnest, Brian," said Auntie Sue, her lovely old eyes shining +with enthusiasm and her gentle voice trembling with excitement. "I have +been thinking about it for a long time, now, and, to-night, I just can't +keep it to myself any longer. Why don't you give to the world some of +the thoughts you have been wasting on Judy and me?" + +"Hit's sure been a-wastin' of 'em on me," agreed Judy. "'Fore God, I +don't sense what he's a-talkin' 'bout, more'n half the time." + +Brian laughed. "Judy is prophetic, Auntie Sue. She voices perfectly the +sentiment of the world toward any book I might write." + +Auntie Sue detected a note of bitterness underlying the laughing +comment, and wondered. + +Judy spoke again as she arose to retire to her room for the night: "I +reckon as how there's a right smart of things youuns talk that'd be +mighty fine if a body only had the learnin' ter sense 'em. An' there +must be heaps of folks where youuns come from what would know Mr. +Burns's meaning if he was to write hit all out plain. Everybody ain't +like me. Hit's sure a God's-blessin' they ain't, too." + +"And there, Brian, dear, is your answer," said Auntie Sue, as Judy left +the room. "Any book has meaning only for those who have the peculiar +sympathy and understanding needed to interpret it. A book that means +nothing to one may be rich in meaning for another. Every writer writes +for his own peculiar readers, just as every individual has his own +peculiar friends." + +"Or enemies," said Brian. + +"Or enemies," agreed Auntie Sue. + +Brian went to the window, and stood for some time, looking out into the +night. Then turning, with a nervous gesture, he paced uneasily up +and down the room; while Auntie Sue watched him in silence with an +expression of loving concern on her dear old face. + +At last, she spoke: "Why, Brian, what is the matter? What have I said? +I did not mean to upset you like this. Come, sit down here, and tell me +about it. What is it troubles you so?" + +With a short laugh, Brian came and stood before her. "I suppose it had +to come sooner or later, Auntie Sue. I have been trying for days to +muster up courage enough to tell you about it. You have touched the one +biggest thing in my life." + +"Why, what do you mean, Brian?" + +"I mean just what we have been talking about,--writing," answered Brian. + +"Oh!" she cried, with quick and delighted triumph. "Then I AM right. You +have been thinking about it, too." + +"Thinking about it!" he echoed, and in his voice she felt the nervous +intensity of his mood. "I have thought of nothing else. All day long +when I am at work, I am writing, writing, writing. It is the last thing +on my mind when I go to sleep. I dream about it all night. And, it is +the first thing I think about in the morning." + +Auntie Sue clasped her hands to her heart with an exclamation of joyous +interest. + +Brian, with a quiet smile at her enthusiasm, went on: "I know exactly +what I want to say, and why I want to say it. There is a world of +people, Auntie Sue, whose lives have been broken and spoiled by one +thing or another, and who have more or less cut themselves loose from +everything, and are just drifting, they don't care a hang where, because +they think they have failed so completely that there is nothing more +in life for them. People like me,--I don't mean thieves and criminals +necessarily,--who have had that which they know to be the best and +biggest and truest part of themselves tortured and warped and twisted +and denied and smashed and beaten and betrayed and killed; and who, +because they feel that their real selves are dead within them, don't +care what happens to that part which is left." + +He was walking the floor again now, and speaking with a depth of feeling +which he had never before revealed to his gentle companion. + +"It is not so much the love of wrong-doing that makes people turn +bad,"--he continued,--"it is having their real selves misunderstood and +doubted and smothered and their realest loves and dreams and aspirations +never recognized, or else distorted and twisted and made to appear +as something they hate. I want to make the people--and there are many +thousands of them--who are suffering in the living hell that tormented +me, feel that I know and understand. And then, Auntie Sue, then I want +to tell them about you and your river. + +"I would teach them the things you have taught me. I would say to every +one that I could persuade to listen: 'It doesn't in the least matter +what your experience is, the old river is still going on to the sea. +No matter if every woman you ever knew has proved untrue, virtuous +womanhood still IS. No matter if every man you ever knew has proved +false, true manhood still IS. If every friend you ever had has betrayed +your friendship, loyal friendship still IS. If you have found nothing +in your experience but dishonesty and falsehood and infidelity and +hypocrisy, it is only because you have been unfortunate in your +experience; because honesty and fidelity and sincerity are existing +FACTS. They are the very foundation facts of life, and can no more fail +life than the river can fail to reach the sea. + +"'Your little individual experience, my little individual +experience,--what are they? They are nothing more than the tiny bubbles, +swirls, ripples, and breaks on the surface of the great volume of water +that flows so inevitably onward. The bit of foam, the tiny wave caused +by twig or branch or blade of water-grass, or the great rocks and cliffs +that make the roaring whirlpools and rapids,--do they stay the waters, +or turn the river back on its course, or in any way prevent its +onward flow? No more can the twigs of circumstances, or the boughs of +environment, or the grasses of accident that make the tiny waves of our +individual experiences,--or even the great rocks and cliffs of national +or racial import,--such as wars, and pestilence, and famine,--finally +check or stay the river of life in its onward flow toward the sea of its +final and infinite meaning.'" + +He went again to the window, and stood looking out into the night as +though listening to the voices. + +"Why, Auntie Sue," he said, turning back to the old gentlewoman,--and +his face was radiant with the earnestness of this thought,--"Auntie Sue, +there are as many currents in our river out there as there are human +lives. A comparatively few great main or dominant currents in the river +flow--a comparatively few great dominant currents in the river flow of +life. But if you look closer, you will see that in each one of +those established principal currents there are countless +thousands--millions--of tiny currents all turning and twisting across, +and back, and up, and down in every direction,--weaving +themselves together,--pulling themselves apart,--criss-crossing, +clashing,--interlacing,--tangled and confused,--and these are the +individual lives. And no matter what the conflict or confusion; no +matter what direction they take for the moment, they all, ALL, go to +make up the river;--they, all together, ARE the river,--and they all +together move onward,--ceaselessly, inevitably, irresistibly." + +He paused to stand smiling down at her, as she sat there in her low +chair beside the table with the lamplight on her silvery hair,--there in +the little log house by the river. + +"That is what you have made your river mean to me, Auntie Sue; and that +is what I would give to the world." + +With trembling hands, the gentle old teacher reached for her +handkerchief, which lay in the sewing-basket on the table beside her. +Smilingly, she wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. Lovingly, +she looked up at him,--standing so tall and strong before her, with his +reddish hair tumbled and tossed, and his Irish blue eyes lighted with +the fire of his inspiration. + +"Well," she said, at last, "why don't you do it, Brian?" + +As a breath of air puts out the light of a candle, so the light went +from Brian Kent's face. Dropping into his chair, he answered hopelessly, +"Because I am afraid." + +"Afraid?" echoed Auntie Sue, troubled and amazed. "What in the world are +you afraid of, Brian?" + +And the bitter, bitter answer came, "I am afraid of another failure." + +Auntie Sue's quick mind caught the significance of his words. "ANOTHER +failure, Brian? Then you,--then you have written before?" + +"Yes," he returned. And not since his decision to remain with her had +she seen him so despondent. "To write was the dream and the passion of +my life. I tried and tried. God, how I worked and slaved at it! The only +result from my efforts was the hell from which you dragged me." + +Alter a little silence, Auntie Sue said gently: "I don't think I +understand, Brian. You have never told me about your trouble, you know." + +"It is an old, old story," he returned. "I am only one of thousands. My +wretched experience is not at all uncommon." + +"I know," she answered. "But don't you think that perhaps you had better +tell me? Perhaps, in the mere telling of it to me, now that it is all +over, you may find the real reason for--for what happened to you." + +Wise Auntie Sue!--wise in that rarest of all wisdom,--the sympathetic +understanding of human hearts and souls. + +"You know about my earlier life," he began; "how, in my boyhood, after +mother's death, I worked at anything I could do to keep myself alive, +and how I managed to gain a little schooling. I was always dreaming of +writing, even then. I took the business course in a night-school, not +because I liked it, but because I thought it would help me to earn a +living in a way that would give me more time for what I really wanted +to do. And after I finished school, and had finally worked up to a good +position in that bank, I did have more time for my writing. But,"--he +hesitated--"I--well,--other interests had come into my life,--and--" + +Auntie Sue said, softly, "She did not understand, Brian." + +"No, she did not understand," he continued, accepting Auntie Sue's +interpretation without comment. "And when my writing brought no money, +because no publisher would accept my stuff, and the conditions under +which I wrote became intolerable because of misunderstanding and +opposition and disbelief in my ability and charges of neglect, +I--I--stole money from my employers to gain temporary relief until my +writing should amount to something. You see, I could not help believing +that I would succeed, in time. I suppose all dreamers have more or less +confidence in their dreams: they must, you know, or their dreams would +never be realized. I always expected to pay back the money I took with +the money I would earn by my pen. But I failed to earn anything, you +see; and then--then the inevitable happened, and the river brought me to +you." + +"But, my dear boy!" cried Auntie Sue, "all this that you have told me +is no reason why you should fear to write now. Indeed, it is a very good +reason why you should not fear." + +He looked at her questioningly, and she continued: "You have given every +reason in the world why you failed. Your whole life was out of tune. +How could you expect to produce anything worthy from such a jangling +discord? You should have been afraid, indeed, to write THEN. But, +NOW,--now, Brian, you are ready. You are a long, long way down the river +from the place of your failures. The disturbing, distracting things +are past,--just as in the quiet reach of the river below Elbow Rock the +turmoil of the rapids is past. You say that you know exactly what +you want to write, and why you want to write it--and you do know--and +because you know,--because you have suffered,--because you have +learned,--because you can do this thing for others,--it is yours to do, +and so you must do it. What you really mean when you say you are 'afraid +to write' is, that you are AFRAID NOT TO," she finished with a little +laugh of satisfaction. + +And Brian Kent, as he watched her glowing face and felt the sincerity +and confidence that vibrated in her voice, was thrilled with a new +courage. The fires of his inspiration shone again in his eyes, as he +answered, with deep conviction, "Auntie Sue, I believe you are right. +What a woman you are!" + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE. + + +So Brian wrote his book that winter. + +When the days were fair, he worked with his ax on the mountain-side. But +his notebook was ever at hand, and many a thought that went down on the +pages of his manuscript was born while he wrought with his hands in the +wholesome labor which gave strength to his body and clearness to his +brain. In the evenings, he wrote in the little log house by the river, +with Auntie Sue sitting in her chair beside the table,--the lamp-light +on her silvery hair, and her sewing-basket within reach of her +hand,--engaged with some bit of needlework, a book, or perhaps with one +of her famous letters to some other pupil, far away. The stormy days +gave him many hours with his pen, and so the book grew. + +And always as the man endeavored to shape his thoughts for the printed +pages that would carry his message to the doubting, disconsolate, and +fearful world that he knew so well, he heard in his heart the voices of +the river. From the hillside where he worked in the timber he could see +the stream winding through the snowy hills like a dark line carelessly +drawn with many a crook and curve and break on the sheet of white. From +the porch he saw the quiet Bend a belt of shining ice and snow, save for +a narrow line in the centre, which marked the course of the strongest +currents; while the waters of the rapids crashed black and dreadful +against the Elbow Rock cliff, which stood gaunt and grim amid the +surrounding whiteness; and in the deathlike hush of the winter twilight, +the roar of the turmoil sounded with persistent menace. And all that the +river said to him he put down,--so far as it was given him to do. + +And that which Brian Kent wrote was good. He knew it--in his deepest, +truest self he knew. And Auntie Sue knew it; for, of course, he read +to her from his manuscript as the book grew under his hand. Even Judy +caught much of his story's meaning, and marvelled at herself because +she, too, could understand. + +So the spring came, and the first writing of the book was nearly +finished. + +And now the question arose: What would they do about the final +preparation of the manuscript for the printers? Brian explained that he +should have a typewritten copy of his script, which he would work over, +correct, and revise, and from which perfected copy the final manuscript +would be typewritten. But neither Auntie Sue nor Brian would consider +his finishing the book anywhere but in the little log house by the +river; even if there had been no other reason why Brian should not go to +the city, if it could be avoided. + +"There is only one thing to do,"--said Auntie Sue, at last, when the +matter had been discussed several times,--"we must send for Betty Jo. +She has been studying stenography in a business college in Cincinnati, +and, in her latest letter to me, she wrote that she would finish in +April. I'll just write her to come right here, and bring her typewriter +along. She will need a vacation, and she can have it and do your work at +the same time. Besides, I need to see Betty Jo. She hasn't been to visit +me since before Judy came." + +Brian thought that Auntie Sue seemed a little nervous and excited as she +spoke, but he attributed it to her combined interest in the book and in +the proposed typist. The man could not know the real cause of his gentle +old companion's agitation, nor with what anxiety she had considered the +matter for many days before she announced her plan. The fact was that +Auntie Sue was taking a big chance, and she realized it fully. But +she could find no other way to secure the services of a competent +stenographer for Brian, and, as Brian must have a competent stenographer +in order to finish his book properly, she had decided to accept the +risk. + +"That sounds all right, Auntie Sue," returned Brian. "But who, pray +tell, is Betty Jo?" + +"Betty Jo is,"--Auntie Sue paused and laughed with a suggestion of +embarrassed confusion,--"Betty Jo is--just Betty Jo, Brian," she +finished. + +Brian laughed now. "Fine, Auntie Sue! That describes her exactly,--tells +me her life's history and gives me a detailed account of her +family,--ancestors and all." + +"It describes her with more accuracy than you think," retorted Auntie +Sue, smiling in return at his teasing manner. + +"I reckon as how she's got more of er name than that, ain't she?" said +Judy, who was a silent, but intensely interested, listener. "I've +allus took notice that folks with funny names'll stand a right smart of +watchin'." + +Brian and Auntie Sue laughed together at this, but the old lady said, +with a show of spirit: "Judy! You know nothing about it! You never even +saw Betty Jo! You shouldn't say such things, child." + +"Might as well say 'em as ter think 'em, I reckon," Judy returned, her +beady-black eyes stealthily watching Brian. + +"What is your Betty Jo's real name, Auntie Sue?" asked Brian, curiously. + +Again Auntie Sue seemed to hesitate; then--"Her name is Miss Betty Jo +Williams," and as she spoke the old teacher looked straight at Brian. + +"A perfectly good name," Brian returned; "but I never heard of her +before." + +Judy's black eyes, with their stealthy, oblique look, were now +watchfully fixed on Auntie Sue. + +"She is the orphan-niece of one of my old pupils," Auntie Sue continued. +"I have known her since she was a baby. When she finished her education +in the seminary, and had travelled abroad for a few months, she decided +all at once that she wanted a course in a business college, which was +just what any one knowing her would expect her to do." + +"Sounds steady and reliable," commented Brian. "But will she come?" + +"Yes, indeed, she will, and be tickled to death over the job," returned +Auntie Sue. "I'll write her at once." + +While Auntie Sue was preparing to write her letter, Judy muttered, in +a tone which only Brian heard: "Just the same, 'tain't no name for a +common gal ter have; hit sure ain't. There's somethin' dad burned queer +'bout hit somewhere." + +"Nonsense! Judy," said Brian in a low voice; "don't worry Auntie Sue." + +"I ain't aimin' ter worry her none," returned the mountain girl; "but +I'll bet you-all a pretty that this here gal'll worry both of youuns +'fore you are through with her;--me, too, I reckon." + +For some reason, Auntie Sue's letter to Betty Jo seemed to be rather +long. In fact, she spent the entire evening at it; which led Judy to +remark that "hit sure looked like Auntie Sue was aimin' ter write a book +herself." + +A neighbor who went to Thompsonville the following day with a load of +hogs for shipment, posted the letter. And, in due time, another neighbor +brought the answer. Betty Jo would come. + +It was the day following the evening when Brian wrote the last page of +his book that another letter came to Auntie Sue,--a letter which, for +the second time, very nearly wrecked Brian Kent's world. + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +JUDY TO THE RESCUE. + + +Brian was working in the garden. It was early in the afternoon, and the +man, as he worked in the freshly ploughed ground, was rejoicing at the +completion of his book. + +Straightening up from his labor, he drew a deep breath of the fragrant +air. About him on every side, and far away into the blue distance, the +world was dressed in the gala dress of the season. The river, which at +the breaking of the winter had been a yellow flood that washed the top +of the bank in front of the house and covered the bottom-lands on the +opposite side, was again its normal self, and its voice to him, now, was +a singing voice of triumphal gladness. + +For Brian, too, the world was new, and fresh, and beautiful. The world +of his winter was gone. He had found himself in his work, and in the +glorious consciousness of the fact he felt like shouting with sheer joy +of living. + +"And Auntie Sue, dear Auntie Sue," he thought, looking with love in +his eyes toward the house, how wonderful she had been in her helpful +understanding and never-failing faith in him. After all, it was Auntie +Sue's triumph more than it was his. + +His happy musing was interrupted by a neighbor who, on his way home from +Thompsonville, stopped at the garden fence with the letter for Auntie +Sue. + +Brian took the letter with a jest which brought a roar of laughter from +the mountaineer, and, when the latter had gone on his way up the hill, +started toward the house to find Auntie Sue. + +Glancing at the envelope in his hand, Brian noticed the postmark "Buenos +Aires." He stopped suddenly, staring dumbly at the words in the circular +mark and at the name written on the envelope. Over and over, he +read "Buenos Aires,--Miss Susan Wakefield; Buenos Aires,--Miss Susan +Wakefield." Something--His brain seemed to be numb. His hands trembled. +He looked about at the familiar surroundings, and everything seemed +suddenly strange and unreal to him. He looked again at the letter in his +hand, turning it curiously. A strange feeling of oppression and ominous +foreboding possessed him as though the bright spring sky were all at +once overcast with heavy and menacing storm-clouds. What was it? "Buenos +Aires,--Susan Wakefield?" Where had he seen that combination before? +What was it that made the name of the Argentine city in connection with +Auntie Sue's name seem so familiar? Slowly, he went on to the house, +and, finding Auntie Sue, gave her the letter. + +"Oh!" cried the old lady, as she saw the postmark on the envelope. "It +must be from brother John. It is not John's writing, though," she added, +as she opened the envelope. + +And at her words the feeling of impending disaster so oppressed Brian +Kent that only by an effort could he control himself. He was possessed +of the strange sensation of having at some time in the past lived the +identical experience through which he was at that moment passing. "Susan +Wakefield;--a brother John in Buenos Aires, Argentine;--the letter!" It +was all so familiar that the allusion was startling in its force. But +that ominous cloud,--that sense of some great trouble near that filled +him with such unaccountable dread--what could it mean? + +An exclamation from Auntie Sue drew his attention. She looked at him +with tear-filled eyes, and her sweet voice broke as she said: "Brian! +Brian! John is dead! This--this letter is from the doctor who attended +him." + +Tenderly, as he would have helped his own mother, Brian assisted Auntie +Sue to her room. For a little while he sat with her, trying to comfort +her with such poor words as he could find. + +Briefly, she told him of the brother who had lived in Argentine for many +years. He had married a South-American woman whom Auntie Sue had never +seen, and while not wealthy had been moderately prosperous. But he +had never forgotten his sister who was so alone in the world. "Several +times, when he could, he sent me money for my savings-bank account," she +finished simply, her sweet old voice low and tender with the memories +of the years that were gone. "John and I were always very fond of each +other. He was a good man, Brian." + +Brian Kent sat like a man stricken dumb. Auntie Sue's words, "he sent me +money for my savings-bank account," had made the connection between the +names "Buenos Aires, Argentine; John Wakefield; Susan Wakefield," and +the thing for which his mind had been groping with such a sense of +impending disaster. + +In her grief over the death of her brother, and in her memories of their +home years so long past, dear old Auntie Sue had forgotten the peculiar +meaning her words might have for the former clerk of the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank who sat beside her, and to whom she turned in +her sorrow as a mother to a dearly beloved son. + +"But it is all right, Brian, dear," she said with brave cheerfulness. +"When one has watched the sunsets for seventy years, one ceases to fear +the coming of the night, for always there is the morning. Just let me +rest here alone for a little while, and I will be myself again." + +She looked up at him with a smile, and Brian Kent, kneeling beside the +bed, bowed his head and caught the dear old hands to his lips. Without +trusting himself to speak again, the man left the room,--closing the +door. + +He moved about the apartment as one in a dream. With a vividness that +was torture, he lived again that hour in the bank when, opening the +afternoon mail, he had found the letter from Susan Wakefield with the +Argentine notes, which her letter said she had received from her brother +John in Buenos Aires, and which she was sending to the bank for deposit +to her little account. It had been a very unbusinesslike letter and a +very unbusinesslike way to transmit money. It was, indeed, this nature +of the transaction that had tempted the hard-pressed clerk. + +Mechanically, Brian stopped at his writing-table to finger the +manuscript which he had finished the evening before. Was it only the +evening before? Taking up the volume of closely written sheets which +were bound together by a shoestring that Auntie Sue had laughingly found +for him, when he had so joyously announced the completion of the last +page of his book, he turned the leaves idly,--reading here and there +a sentence with curious interest. The terrific mental strain of his +situation completely divorced him, as it were, from the life which he +had lived during those happy months just past, and which was so fully +represented by his work. + +Again the river, swinging around a sudden turn in its course, had come +upon a passage where its peaceful flow was broken by the wild turmoil of +the troubled waters. + +"And Auntie Sue,"--something within the man's self was saying,--"dear +Auntie Sue, who had saved him, not only from death, but from the hell +of the life that he had formerly lived, as well; and whose loving +companionship and sympathetic understanding had so inspired and +strengthened him in the work which had been the passionate desire of his +heart;--the gentle old teacher whose life had been so completely given +to others, and who, in the helplessness of her last years, was so +alone,--Auntie Sue was depending upon that money which her brother had +sent her as the only support of the closing days of her life. Auntie Sue +believed that her money was safe in the bank. That belief was to her +a daily comfort. Auntie Sue did not know that she was almost +penniless;--that the man whom she had saved with such a wondrous +salvation had robbed her, and left her so shamefully without means +for the necessities of life. Auntie Sue did not know. But she would +know,"--that inner voice went on. "The time would come when she +would learn the truth. It was certain to come. It might come any day. +Then--then--" + +As one moving without conscious purpose, Brian Kent went from the +house,--the manuscript in his hand. + +Judy was sitting idly on the porch steps. At sight of the mountain girl +the man knew all at once that there was one thing he must do. He must +make sure that there was no mistake. He was already sure, of course; but +still, as a condemned man at the scaffold hopes against hope for a stay +of sentence, so he caught at the shadowy suggestion of a possibility. + +"Come with me, Judy," he said, forcing himself to speak coolly; "I want +to talk with you." + +Judy arose, and, looking at him in her stealthy, oblique way, said, +in her drawling monotone: "What's happened ter Auntie Sue? Was there +somethin' in that there letter Bud Jackson give you-all for her what's +upset her?" + +"Auntie Sue's brother is dead, Judy," Brian answered. "She wishes to be +alone, and we must not disturb her. She will be all right in a little +while. Come, let us walk down toward the bluff." + +When they had reached a spot on the river-bank a short distance above +the Elbow Rock cliff, Brian said to his companion: "Judy, I want you +to tell me something. Did Auntie Sue ever send money in a letter to the +Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, in Chicago?" + +"The black, beady eyes shifted evasively, and the mountain girl turned +her sallow, old-young face away from Brian's direct gaze. + +"Look at me, Judy." + +She sent a stealthy, oblique glance in his direction. + +"You must tell me." + +"I done started ter tell you-all onct,--that time pap ketched me,--an' +you-all 'lowed as how I oughten ter tell nothin' 'bout Auntie Sue to +nobody." + +"But it is different now, Judy," returned Brian. "Something has happened +that makes it necessary for me to know." + +"Meanin' that there letter 'bout her brother bein' dead?" asked Judy, +shrewdly. + +"Yes." + +"What you-all got ter know for?" + +"Because--" Brian could not finish. + +Judy's beady eyes were watching him intently, now. "Hit looks like +you-all ain't a-needin' me ter tell you-all anythin'," she observed +dryly. + +"Then Auntie Sue did send money?" + +"She sure did. I seed her fix hit in the letter, myself," came the +answer. + +"What kind of money?" + +"I dunno,--some funny kind hit was,--what her brother done sent her from +some funny place, I dunno just where." + +"When did she send it?" + +"'Bout a month 'fore you come." + +"And--and did any letter ever come from the bank to tell her that the +money was received by them all right?" + +The mountain girl did not answer, but again turned her face away. + +"Tell me," Brian insisted. "I--I--must know, Judy," and his voice was +harsh and broken with emotion. + +The answer came reluctantly: "I reckon you-all knows where that there +money went ter." + +The girl's answer sent a new thought like a hot iron into Brian Kent's +tortured brain. He caught Judy's arm in quick and fearful excitement. +"Judy!" he gasped, imploringly, "Judy, do you--? does Auntie Sue know--? +does she know that I--?" + +"How could she help knowin'? She ain't no fool. An' I done heard that +there Sheriff an' the deteckertive man tellin' her 'bout you an' the +bank. An' the Sheriff, he done give her a paper what he said told all +'bout what you-all done, an' she must er burned the paper, or done +somethin' with hit, 'cause I couldn't never find hit after that night. +An' what would she do that for? And what for did she make me promise not +ter ever say nothin' ter you-all 'bout that there money letter? An' why +ain't she said nothin' to you 'bout the letter from the bank not comin', +if she didn't know hit was you 'stead of them what done got the money?" + +The girl paused for a moment, and then went on in a tone of reverent +wonder: "An' to think that all the time she could a-turned you-all over +to that there Sheriff an' got the money-reward to pay her back what +you-all done tuck." + +Brian Kent was as one who had received a mortal hurt. His features were +distorted with suffering. With eyes that could not see, he looked down +at the manuscript to which he still unconsciously clung; and, again, +he fingered the pages of his work as though some blind instinct were +sending his tormented soul to seek relief in the message which, during +the happy months just past, he had written for others. + +And the deformed mountain girl, who stood before him with twisted body +and old-young face, grew fearful as she watched the suffering of this +man whom she had come to look upon as a superior being from some world +which she, in her ignorance, could never know. + +"Mr. Burns," she said at last, putting out her hand and plucking at his +sleeve, "Mr. Burns, you-all ain't got no call ter be like this. You-all +ain't plumb bad. I knows you ain't, 'count of the way you-all have +been ter me an' 'cause you kept pap from hurtin' me, an' 'cause you are +takin' care of Auntie Sue like you're doin'. Hit ain't no matter 'bout +the money, now, 'cause you-all kin take care of her allus." + +Brian looked up from the manuscript in his hand, and stared dumbly at +the girl, as if he failed to hear her clearly. + +"An' just think 'bout your book," Judy continued pleadingly. "Think +'bout all them fine things you-all have done wrote down for everybody +ter read,--'bout the river allus a-goin' on just the same, no matter +what happens, an' 'bout Auntie Sue an'--" + +She stopped, and drew away from him, frightened at the look that came +into the man's face. + +"Don't, Mr. Burns! Don't!" she half-screamed. "'Fore God, you-all +oughten ter look like that!" + +The man threw up his head, and laughed,--laughed as the wild, reckless +and lost Brian Kent had laughed that black night when, in the drifting +boat, he had cursed the life he was leaving and had drunk his profane +toast to the darkness into which he was being carried. + +Raising the manuscript, which represented all that the past months of +his re-created life had meant to him, and grasping it in both hands, he +shook it contemptuously, as he said, with indescribable bitterness and +the reckless surrendering of every hope: "'All them fine things that I +have wrote down for everybody ter read.'" He mimicked her voice with a +sneer, and laughed again. Then: "It's all a lie, Judy, dear;--a damned +lie. Auntie Sue is a saint, and believes it. She made me believe it +for a little while,--her beautiful, impossible dream-philosophy of the +river. The river,--hell!--the river is as treacherous and cruel and +false and tricky and crooked as life itself! And I am as warped and +twisted in mind and soul as you are in body, Judy, dear. Neither of us +can help it. We were made that way by the river. To hell with the whole +impossible mess of things!" With a gesture of violent rage, he turned +toward the river, and, taking a step forward, lifted the manuscript high +above his head. + +Judy screamed, "Mr. Burns, don't!" + +He paused an instant, and, turning his head, looked at her with another +laugh. + +"'Fore God, you dassn't do that!" she implored. + +And then, as the man turned his face from her, and his arms went back +above his head for the swing that would send the manuscript far out into +the tumbling waters of the rapids, she leaped toward him, and, catching +his arm, hampered his movement so that the book fell a few feet from the +shore, where the water, checked a little in its onward rush to the cliff +by the irregular bank, boiled and eddied among the rocky ledges and huge +boulders that retarded its force. Another leap carried the mountain girl +to the edge of the bank, where she crouched like a runner ready for +the report of the starter's pistol, her black, beady eyes searching the +stream for the volume of manuscript, which had disappeared from sight, +drawn down by the troubled swirling currents. + +The man, watching her, laughed in derision; but, while his mocking +laughter was still on his lips, the boiling currents brought the book, +again, to the surface, and Brian saw the girl leave the bank as if +thrown by a powerful spring. Straight and true she dived for the book, +and even as she disappeared beneath the surface her hands clutched the +manuscript. + +For a second, Brian Kent held his place as if paralyzed with horror. +Then, as Judy's head appeared farther down the stream, he ran with +all his strength along the bank to gain a point a little ahead of the +swimming girl before he should leap to her rescue. + +But Judy, trained from her birth on that mountain river, knew better +than Brian what to do. A short distance below the point where she had +plunged into the stream, a huge boulder, some two or three feet from the +shore, caused a split in the current, one fork of which set in toward +the bank. Swimming desperately, the girl gained the advantage of this +current, and, just as Brian reached the spot, she was swept against +the bank, where, with her free hand, she caught and held fast to a +projecting root. Had she been carried past that point, nothing could +have saved her from being swept on into the wild turmoil of the waters +at Elbow Rock. + +It was the work of a moment for Brian to throw himself flat on the +ground at the edge of the bank and, reaching down, to grasp the girl's +wrist. Another moment, and she was safe beside him, his manuscript still +tightly held under one arm. + +Not realizing, in his excitement, what he was doing, Brian shook the +girl, saying angrily: "What in the world do you mean, taking such a +crazy-fool chance as that!" + +She broke away from him with: "Well, what'd you-all go an' do such a +dad burned fool thing for? Hit's you-all what's crazy yourself--plumb +crazy!" + +Brian held out his hand: "Give me that manuscript!" + +Judy clutched the book tighter, and drew back defiantly. "I won't. +You-all done throwed hit away onct. 'Tain't your'n no more, nohow." + +"Well, what do you purpose to do with it?" said the puzzled man, in a +gentler tone. + +"I aims ter give hit ter Auntie Sue," came the startling reply. "I +reckon she'll know what ter do. Hit allus was more her'n than your'n, +anyhow. You done said so yourself. I heard you only last night when +you-all was so dad burned tickled at gittin' hit done. You-all ain't got +no right ter sling hit inter the river, an', anyway, I ain't a-goin' ter +let you." + +"Which sounds very sensible to me," came a clear voice from a few feet +distant. + +Judy and Brian turned quickly, to face a young woman who stood regarding +them thoughtfully, with a suggestion of a smile on her very attractive +face. + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +BETTY JO CONSIDERS. + + +The most careless eye would have seen instantly that the newcomer was +not a native of that backwoods district. She was not a large woman, but +there was, nevertheless, a full, rounded strength, which saved her +trim and rather slender body from appearing small. Neither would a +discriminating observer describe her by that too-common term "pretty." +She was more than that. In her large, gray eyes, there was a look +of frank, straightforward interest that suggested an almost boyish +good-fellowship, while at the same time there was about her a general +air of good breeding; with a calm, self-possessed and businesslike +alertness which, combined with a wholesome dignity, commanded a feeling +of respect and confidence. Her voice was clear and musical, with an +undertone of sympathetic humor. One felt when she spoke that while she +lacked nothing of intelligent understanding and sympathetic interest, +she was quite ready to laugh at you just the same. + +When the two stood speechless, she said, looking straight at Brian: "It +seems to me, sir, that the young lady has all the best of the argument. +But I really think she should have some dry clothes as well." + +She turned to the dripping and dishevelled Judy: "You poor child. Aren't +you cold! It is rather early in the season for a dip in the river, I +should think. Let me take whatever you have there, and you make for the +house as fast as you can go,--the run will warm you." + +As she spoke, she went to the mountain girl, holding out her hand to +take the manuscript, and smiling encouragingly. + +But Judy backed away, her stealthy, oblique gaze fixed with watchful +surprise on the fair stranger. + +"This here ain't none of your put-in," and her shrill drawling monotone +contrasted strangely with the other's pleasing voice. "Where'd you-all +happen from, anyhow? How'd you-all git here?" + +"I came over the bluff by the path," answered the other. "You see, I +left the train from the south at White's Crossing because I knew I could +drive up from there by the river road quicker than I could go by rail +away around through the hills to Thompsonville, and then make the drive +down the river from there. When I reached Elbow Rock, I was in such a +hurry, I took the short cut, while the man with my trunk and things went +by the road over Schoolhouse Hill, you know. I arrived here just as this +gentleman was pulling you from the water." + +Before Brian could speak, Judy returned with excitement: "I know who +you-all be now. I ought ter knowed the minute I set eyes on you. You-all +are the gal with that there no-'count name, an' you've come ter work for +him, there,"--she pointed to Brian,--"a-helpin' him ter write his book, +what ain't his'n no more, nohow, 'cause he done throwed hit away,--plumb +inter the river." + +"I am Miss Williams," returned the other. "My 'no-'count name,' I +suppose, is Betty Jo." She laughed kindly. "Perhaps it won't seem so +'no'count' when we are better acquainted, Judy. Won't you run along to +the house, and change to some dry clothes? You will catch your death of +cold if you stand here like this." + +"How'd you-all know I was Judy?" + +"Why, Auntie Sue wrote me about you, of course." + +"An' you knowed me 'cause I'm so all crooked an' ugly, I reckon," came +the uncompromising return. + +Betty Jo turned to Brian: "You are Mr. Burns, are you not, for whom I am +to work?" + +Brian made no reply,--he really could not speak. "And this,"--Betty +Jo included Judy, the manuscript, and the river in a graceful +gesture,--"this, I suppose, is the result of what is called 'the +artistic temperament'?" + +Still the man could find no words. The young woman's presence and her +reference to his work brought to him, with overwhelming vividness, the +memory of all to which he had so short a time before looked forward, +and which was now so hopelessly lost to him. He felt, too, a sense of +rebellion that she should have come at such a moment,--that she could +stand there with such calm self-possession and with such an air of +competency. Her confidence and poise in such contrast to the chaotic +turmoil of his own thoughts, and his utter helplessness in the situation +which had so suddenly burst upon him, filled him with unreasoning +resentment. + +Betty Jo must have read in Brian Kent's face something of the suffering +that held him there dumb and motionless before her, and so sensed a +deeper tragedy than appeared on the surface of the incident; and her own +face and voice revealed her understanding as she said, with quiet, +but decisive, force: "Mr. Burns, Judy must go to the house. Won't you +persuade her?" + +Brian started as one aroused from deep abstraction, and went to Judy; +while Betty Jo drew a little way apart, and stood looking out over the +river. + +"Give me the manuscript, Judy," said Brian gently, "and go on to the +house." + +"You-all ain't a-goin' ter sling hit inter the river again?" The words +were half-question and half-assertion. + +"No," said Brian. "I promise not to throw it into the river again." + +As Judy gave him the manuscript, she turned her beady eyes in a +stealthy, oblique look toward Betty Jo, and whispered: "You-all best +tell her 'bout hit. I sure hate her poison-bad; but hit's easy ter see +she'd sure know what ter do." + +"Be careful that Auntie Sue doesn't see you like this, Judy," was +Brian's only answer; and Judy started off for her much-needed change to +dry clothing. + +When the mountain girl was gone, Brian stood looking at the +water-stained volume of manuscript in his hand. He had no feeling, now, +of more than a curious idle interest in this work to which, during the +months just past, he had given so without reserve the best of himself. +It was, he thought, strange how he could regard with such indifference a +thing for which a few hours before he would have given his life. Dumbly, +he was conscious of the truth of Judy's words,--that the book was no +longer his. Judy was right--this book which he had called his had always +been, in reality, Auntie Sue's. So the matter of his work, at least +so far as he had to do with it, was settled--definitely and finally +settled. + +But what of himself? What was to become of him? Of one thing only he was +certain about himself;--he never could face Auntie Sue again. Knowing, +now, what he had done, and knowing that she knew;--that all the time she +was nursing him back to health, all the time she had been giving him the +inspiration and strength and peace of her gentle, loving companionship, +in the safe and quiet harbor of her little house by the river, she had +known that it was he who had--A clear, matter-of-fact, but gentle, +voice interrupted his bitter thoughts: "Is it so very badly damaged, Mr. +Burns?" + +He had forgotten Betty Jo, who now stood close beside him. + +"Let me see?" She held out her hand as he turned slowly to face her. + +Without a word, he gave her the manuscript. + +Very businesslike and practical, but with an underlying feeling of +tenderness that was her most compelling charm, Betty Jo examined the +water-stained volume. + +"Why, no," she announced cheerfully; "it isn't really hurt much. You +see, the sheets being tied together so tightly, the water didn't get all +the way through. The covers and the first and last pages are pretty wet, +and the edges of the rest are rather damp. It'll be smudged somewhat, +but I don't believe there is a single word that can't be made out. It is +lucky it didn't prolong its bath, though, isn't it? All we need to do, +now, is to put it in the sun to dry for a few minutes." + +Selecting a sunny spot near by, she arranged the volume against a stone +and deftly separated the pages so that the air could circulate more +freely between them; and one would have said, from her manner of ready +assurance, that she had learned from long experience exactly how to dry +a manuscript that had been thrown in the river and rescued just in the +nick of time. That was Betty Jo's way. She always did everything without +hesitation,--just as though she had spent the twenty-three years of her +life doing exactly that particular thing. + +Kneeling over the manuscript, and gently moving the wet sheets, she +said, without looking up: "Do you always bath your manuscripts like this +before you turn them over to your stenographer to type, Mr. Burns?" + +In spite of his troubled state of mind, Brian smiled. + +The clear, matter-of-fact voice went on, while the competent hands +moved the drying pages. "You see, I never worked for an author before. I +suspect I have a lot to learn." + +She looked up at him with a Betty Jo smile that went straight to his +heart, as Betty Jo's smiles had a curious way of doing. + +"I hope you will be very patient with me, Mr. Burns. You will, won't +you? There is no real danger of your throwing ME in the river when the +'artistic temperament' possesses you, is there?" + +It was no use. When Betty Jo set out to make a man talk, that man +talked. Brian yielded not ungracefully: "I owe you an apology, Miss +Williams," he said. + +"Indeed, no," Betty Jo returned, giving her attention to the manuscript +again. "It is easy to see that you are terribly upset about something; +and everybody is so accustomed to being upset in one way or another that +apologies for upsetments are quite an unnecessary bother, aren't they?" + +That was another interestingly curious thing about Betty Jo,--the way +she could finish off a characteristic, matter-of-fact statement with a +question which had the effect of making one agree instantly whether one +agreed or not. + +Brian felt himself quite unexpectedly feeling that "upsetments" were +quite common, ordinary, and to be expected events in one's life. "But I +am really in very serious trouble, Miss Williams," he said in a way that +sounded oddly to Brian himself, as though he were trying to convince +himself that his trouble really was serious. + +Betty Jo rose to her feet, and looked straight at him, and there was no +mistaking the genuineness of the interest expressed in those big gray +eyes. + +"Oh, are you? Is it really so serious? I am so sorry. But don't you +think you better tell me about it, Mr. Burns? If I am to work for you, I +may just as well begin right here, don't you think?" + +There it was again,--that trick-question. Brian felt himself agreeing in +spite of himself, though how he was to explain his painful situation +to this young woman whom, until a few minutes before, he had never even +seen, he did not know. He answered cautiously, speaking half to himself: +"That is what Judy said." + +Betty Jo did not understand, and made no pretense,--she never made a +pretense of anything. "What did Judy say?" she asked. + +"That I had better tell you about it," he answered. + +And the matter-of-fact Betty Jo returned: "Judy seems to be a very +particular and common-sensing sort of Judy, doesn't she?" + +And Brian realized all at once that Judy was exactly what Betty Jo said. + +"But,--I--I--don't see how I CAN tell you, Miss Williams." + +"Why?" laughed Betty Jo. "It is perfectly simple, Mr. Burns, here, +now, I'll show you: You are to sit down there on that nice comfortable +rock,--that is your big office-chair, you know,--and I'll sit right here +on this rock,--which is my little stenography-chair,--and you will just +explain the serious business proposition to me with careful attention to +details. I must tell you that 'detailing' is one of my strong points, so +don't spare me. I really should have my notebook, shouldn't I?" + +Again, in spite of himself, Brian smiled; also, before he was aware, +they were both seated as Betty Jo had directed. + +"But this is not a business matter, Miss Williams," he managed to +protest half-heartedly. + +Betty Jo was looking at her watch in a most matter-of-fact manner, and +she answered in a most matter-of-fact voice: "Everything is more or less +a business matter, isn't it, Mr. Burns?" + +And Brian, if he had answered, would have agreed. + +Betty Jo slipped her watch back into her pocket, and continued: "You +will have plenty of time before that man with my trunk and things can +get away 'round over Schoolhouse Hill and down again to Auntie Sue's. He +will be obliged to stop at neighbor Tom's, and tell them all about me, +of course. We mustn't let him beat us to the house, though; so, perhaps, +you better begin, don't you think?" + +That "don't-you-think?" so characteristic of Betty Jo, did its work, as +usual; and so, almost before Brian Kent realized what he was doing, +it had been decided for him that to follow Judy's advice was the best +possible thing he could do, and he was relating his whole wretched +experience to this young woman, about whom he knew nothing except that +she was a niece of an old pupil of Auntie Sue's, and that she had just +finished a course in a business college in Cincinnati. + +At several points in his story Betty Jo asked straightforward +questions, or made short, matter-of-fact comments; but, always with her +businesslike air of competent interest. Indeed, she managed to treat the +situation as being wholly impersonal; while at the same time the man +was never for a moment made to feel that she was lacking in sincere and +genuine sympathy. Only when he told her that his name was Brian Kent, +and mentioned the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, did she for the +moment betray excited surprise. When she saw that he had noticed, she +said quickly: "I read of the affair in the papers, of course." + +Auntie Sue had indeed taken a big chance when she decided for Betty Jo +to come to help Brian with his book. But Auntie Sue had taken no chance +on Betty Jo herself. Perhaps it was, in fact, the dear old teacher's +certainty about Betty Jo herself that had led her to accept the risk +of sending for the niece of her friend and pupil under such a peculiar +combination of circumstances. + +When Brian had finished his story with the account of his discovery of +the distressing fact that he had robbed Auntie Sue and that she knew he +had robbed her, Betty Jo said: "It is really a sad story, isn't it, Mr. +Burns? But, oh, isn't Auntie Sue wonderful! Was there ever such +another woman in the world! Don't you love her? And couldn't you do +anything--anything that would make her happy? After all, when you think +of Auntie Sue, and how wonderful she has been, this whole thing isn't so +bad, is it?" + +"Why, I--I--don't think I see what you mean," Brian replied, puzzled +by the unexpected turn she had given to the situation, yet convinced by +that little question with which she finished that she was somehow right. + +"Well, I mean wouldn't YOU love to do for some one what Auntie Sue has +done for you? I should if I were only big enough and good enough. +It seems to me it would make one the happiest and contentedest and +peacefulest person in the world, wouldn't it?" + +Brian did not answer. While he felt himself agreeing with Betty Jo's +view, he was wondering at himself that he could discuss the matter +so calmly. It was not that he no longer felt deeply the shame of this +terrible thing that he had done; it was not that he had ceased to suffer +the torment that had caused his emotional madness, which had found +expression in his attempt to destroy his manuscript; it was only +that this young woman somehow made it possible for him to retain his +self-control, and instead of venting his emotions in violent and wholly +useless expressions of regret, and self-condemnation, and in irrational, +temperamental action, to consider coolly and sanely what he must do. He +was strangely possessed, too, of an instinctive certainty that Betty Jo +knew exactly how he felt and exactly what she was doing. + +While he was thinking these things, or, rather, feeling them, Betty Jo +went to see how the manuscript was drying. She returned to her seat on +the rock presently, saying: "It is doing very nicely,--almost dry. I +think it will be done pretty soon. In the meantime, what are we going +to do about everything? You have thought of something for you to do, of +course!" + +"I fear I have felt rather more than I have thought," returned Brian. + +She nodded. "Yes, I know; but feeling alone never arrives anywhere. An +excess of thoughtless feeling is sheer emotional extravagance. I sound +like a book, don't I?" she laughed. "It is so just the same, Mr. +Burns. And now that you have--ah--been properly--not to say +gloriously--extravagant at poor Judy's expense, we had better do a +little thinking, don't you think?" + +The man's cheeks reddened at her words; but the straightforward, +downright sincerity of those gray eyes, that looked so frankly into +his, held him steady; while the interrogation at the end of her remark +carried its usual conviction. + +"There is only one possible thing left for me to do, Miss Williams," he +said earnestly. + +"And what is that?" A smile that sent a glow of courage to Brian Kent's +troubled heart accompanied the flat question. + +"I can't face Auntie Sue again, knowing what I know now." He spoke with +passion. + +"Of course you would expect to feel that way, wouldn't you?" came the +matter-of-fact answer. + +"The only thing I can do," he continued, "is to give myself up, and go +to the penitentiary; arranging, somehow, to do it in such a way that the +reward will go to Auntie Sue. God knows she deserves it! Sheriff Knox +would help me fix that part, I am sure." + +For a moment there was a suspicious moisture in Betty Jo's gray eyes. +Then she said, "And you would really go to prison for Auntie Sue?" + +"It is the least I can do for her now," he returned. + +And Betty Jo must have felt the sincerity of his purpose, for she said, +softly: "I am sure that it would make Auntie Sue very happy to know that +you would do that; and"--she added--"I know that you could not possibly +make her more unhappy and miserable than by doing it, could you?" + +Again she had given an unexpected turn to the subject with the usual +convincing question-mark. + +"But what can I do?" he demanded, letting himself go a little. + +Betty Jo steadied him with: "Well, suppose you listen while I consider? +Did I tell you that 'considering' was another of my strong points, Mr. +Burns? Well, it is. You may consider me while I consider, if you please. + +"The first thing is, that you must make Auntie Sue happy,--as happy as +you possibly can do at any cost. The second thing is, that you must pay +her back that money, every penny of it. Now, it wouldn't make her happy +for you to go to prison, and the reward wouldn't pay back all the money; +and if you were in prison, you never could pay the rest; besides, if you +were wasting your time in prison, she would just die of miserableness, +and she wouldn't touch a penny of that reward-money--not if she was to +die for want of it. So that settles that, doesn't it?" + +And Brian was forced to admit that, as Betty Jo put it, it did. + +"Very well, let us consider some more: Dear Auntie Sue has been +wonderfully, gloriously happy in doing what she has for you this past +winter,--meaning your book and all. I can see that she must have been. +No one could help being happy doing such a thing as that. So you just +simply can't spoil it all, now, by letting her know that you know what +you know." + +Brian started to speak, but she checked him with: "Please, Mr. Burns, +I must not be interrupted when I am considering. Next to the +prison,--which we have agreed won't do at all,--you could do nothing +that would make Auntie Sue more unhappy than to spoil the happiness she +has in your not knowing what you have done to her. That is very clear, +isn't it? And think of her miserableness if, after all these weeks of +happy anticipation, your book should never be published. No, no, no; you +can't rob Auntie Sue of her happiness in you just because you stole her +money, can you?" + +And Brian knew in his heart that she was right. + +"So, you see," Betty Jo continued, "the only possible way to do is to +go right along just as if nothing had happened. And there is this final +consideration,--which must be a dark secret between you and me,--when +the book is finished, you must see to it that every penny that comes +from it goes to Auntie Sue until she is paid back all that she lost +through you. Now, isn't that pretty fine 'considering,' Mr. Burns?" + +And Brian was convinced that it was. "But," he suggested, "the book may +not earn anything. Nothing that I ever wrote before did." + +"You never wrote one before just like this, did you?" came the very +matter-of-fact answer. "And, besides, if your book never earns a cent, +it will do Auntie Sue a world more good than your going to prison for +her. That would be rather silly, now that you think of it, wouldn't it? +And now that we have our conspiracy all nicely conspired, we must hurry +to the house before that man arrives with my things." + +She went for the manuscript as she spoke. "See," she cried, "it is quite +dry, and not a bit the worse for its temperamental experience!" She +laughed gleefully. + +"But, Miss Williams," exclaimed Brian, "I--I--can't understand you! +You don't seem to mind. What I have told you about myself doesn't seem +to--to--make any difference to you--I mean in your attitude toward me." + +"Oh, yes, it does," she returned. "It makes me very interested in you, +Mr. Burns." + +"But, how can you have any confidence--How can you help me with my book +now that you know what I am?" he persisted, for he was sincerely puzzled +by her apparent indifference to the revelation he had made of his +character. + +"Auntie Sue,"--she answered,--"just Auntie Sue. Come,--we must go." + +"How in the world can I ever face her!" groaned Brian. + +"You won't get the chance at her, for awhile, with me around;--she will +be so busy with me that she won't notice anything wrong with you. So +you will get accustomed to the conspiracy feeling before you are even +suspected of conspiring. You know, when one has once arrived at the +state of not feeling like a liar, one can lie with astonishing success. +Haven't you found it so?" + +They laughed together over this as they went toward the house. + +As they reached the porch, Betty Jo whispered a last word of +instruction: "You better find Judy, and fix her the first thing;--fix +her good and hard. Here is Auntie Sue now. Don't worry about her +noticing anything strange about you. I'll attend to her." + +And the next minute, Betty Jo had the dear old lady in her arms. + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +A MATTER OF BUSINESS. + + +The weeks that followed the coming of Betty Jo to the little log house +by the river passed quickly for Brian Kent. Perhaps it was the peculiar +circumstances of their first meeting that made the man feel so strongly +that he had known her for many years, instead of for only those few +short weeks. That could easily have been the reason, because the +young woman had stepped so suddenly into his life at a very critical +time;--when his mental faculties were so confused by the turmoil and +suffering of his emotional self that the past was to him, at the moment, +far more real than the present. + +And Betty Jo had not merely come into his life casually, as a +disinterested spectator; but, by the peculiar appeal of herself, she +had led Brian to take her so into his confidence that she had become +immediately a very real part of the experience through which he was then +passing, and thus was identified with his past experience out of which +the crisis of the moment had come. + +Again Betty Jo, in the naturalness of her manner toward him, and by her +matter-of-fact, impersonal consideration of his perplexing situation, +had brought to his unsettled and chaotic mind a sense of stability and +order; and by subtly insinuating her own practical decisions as to the +course he should follow, had made herself a very literal part of his +inner life. In fact, Betty Jo knew Brian Kent more intimately at the +close of their first meeting than she could have known him after years +of acquaintanceship under the ordinary course of development. + +Brian's consciousness of this would naturally cause him to feel toward +the young woman as though she had long been a part of his life. Still +other causes might have contributed to the intimate companionship that +so quickly became to them both an established and taken-for-granted +fact; but, the circumstances of their first meeting, given, of course, +their peculiar individualities, were, really, quite enough. The fact +that it was springtime might also have had something to do with it. + +The morning after her arrival, Betty Jo set to work typing the +manuscript. Brian went to his work on the timbered hillside. In the +evenings, Brian worked over the typewitten pages,--revising, correcting, +perfecting,--and then, as Betty Jo made the final copy for the printers, +they went critically over the work together. + +So the hours flew past on busy wings, and the days of the springtime +drew toward summer. The tender green of the new-born leaves and grasses +changed to a stronger, deeper tone. The air, which had been so filled +with the freshness and newness of bursting buds and rain-blessed soil, +and all the quickening life of tree and bush and plant, now carried the +perfume of strongly growing things,--the feel of maturing life. + +To Brian, the voices of the river brought a fuller, deeper message, with +a subtle undertone of steady and enduring purpose. + +From the beginning, Betty Jo established for herself the habit of +leaving her work at the typewriter in the afternoons, and going for +a walk over the hills. Quite incidentally, at first, her walks +occasionally led her by way of the clearing where Brian was at work +with his ax, and it followed, naturally, that as the end of the day drew +near, the two would go together down the mountain-side to the evening +meal. But long before the book was finished, the little afternoon visit +and the walk together at the day's close had become so established as a +custom that they both accepted it as a part of their day's life; and to +Brian, at least, it was an hour to which he looked forward as the most +delightful hour of the twenty-four. As for Betty Jo,--well, it was +really Betty Jo who established the custom and developed it to that +point where it was of such importance. + +Auntie Sue was too experienced from her life-long study of boys and +girls not to observe the deepening of the friendship between the man and +the woman whom she had brought together. But if the dear old lady felt +any twinges of an apprehensive conscience, when she saw the pair day +after day coming down the mountain-side through the long shadows of +the late afternoon, she very promptly banished them, and, quite +consistently, with what Brian called her "River philosophy," made no +attempt to separate these two life currents, which, for the time at +least, seemed to be merging into one. + +And often, as the three sat together on the porch after supper to watch +the sunsets, or later in the evening as Auntie Sue sat with her sewing +while they were busy with their work and unobserving, the dear old lady +would look at them with a little smile of tender meaning, and into the +gentle eyes would come that far-away look that was born of the memories +that had so sweetened the long years of her life, and of the hope and +dream of a joy unspeakable that awaited her beyond the sunset of her +day. + +In her long letter to Betty Jo, asking the girl to come, Auntie Sue had +told the young woman the main facts of Brian's history as she knew them, +omitting only the man's true name and the name of the bank. She had even +mentioned her conviction that there had been a woman in his trouble. But +Auntie Sue had not mentioned in her letter the money she had lost; nor +did she now know that Brian had himself told Betty Jo at the time of +their first meeting. + +On the day that Betty Jo typed the last page, and the book was ready for +the printers, the young woman went earlier than usual to the clearing +where Brian was at work. The sound of his ax reached her while she was +yet some distance away, and guided her to the spot where he was chopping +a big white oak. + +Brian, with his eyes fixed on the widening cut at the base of the tree, +did not notice the girl, who stood watching him. She was smiling to +herself at his ignorance of her presence and in anticipation of the +moment when he should discover her, and there was in her eyes a look of +wholesome womanly admiration for the man who swung his ax with such easy +strength. In truth, Brian Kent at his woodman's labor made a picture not +at all unattractive. + +Swiftly, the cut in the tree-trunk widened as the ax bit deeply at every +skilful stroke, and the chips flew about the chopper's feet. The acrid +odor of the freshly cut oak mingled with the woodland perfume. The +sun warmly flooded the clearing with its golden light, and, splashing +through the openings in the forest foliage, formed pools of yellow +beauty amid the dark, rich green of the shadowy undergrowth. The air was +filled with the sense of life, vital and real, and strong and beautiful. + +And the young woman, as she stood smiling there, was keenly conscious +of it all. Most of all, perhaps, Betty Jo was conscious of the man, who +worked with such vigor at his manly task. + +Slowly, accurately, the bright ax sank deeper and deeper into the heart +of the tree. The chips increased in scattered profusion. And then, as +Betty Jo watched, the swinging ax cut through the last fibre of the +tree's strength, and the leafy top swayed gently toward its fall. Almost +imperceptibly, at first, it moved while Betty Jo watched breathlessly. +Brian swung his ax with increasing vigor, now, while the wood, still +remaining, cracked and snapped as the weight of the tree completed the +work of the chopper. Faster and faster the towering mass of foliage +swung in a wide graceful arc toward the ground. The man with the ax +stepped back, his eyes fixed on the falling tree as, with swiftly +increasing momentum, its great weight swept swiftly downward to its +crashing end. + +Betty Jo clapped her hands in triumph; and Brian, turning, saw her +standing there. His face was flushed and glistening with perspiration; +his broad chest heaved with the deep breathing gained by his exertion, +and his eyes shone with the gladness of her presence. + +"You are early, to-day!" he cried. "Have you finished? Is it actually +completed?" + +"All finished," she returned; and, going to the fallen tree, she put her +hands curiously on the trunk, which lay a little higher than her waist. +"Help me up," she commanded. + +Brian set his ax against the stump, and, laughingly, lifted her to the +seat she desired. Then he stood watching her face as she surveyed the +tangled mass of branches. + +"It looks so strange from here, doesn't it?" she said. + +"Yes; and I confess I don't like to see it that way;" he returned. "I +wish they didn't have to be cut. I feel like a murderer,--every one I +fall." + +She looked down into his eyes, as she returned: "I know you must. YOU +would, of course. But, after all, it has to be, and I don't suppose the +tree minds so much, do you?" + +"No; I don't suppose it feels it much." He laughed, and, throwing aside +his hat, he ran his fingers through his tumbled hair for all the world +like a schoolboy confused by being caught in some sentimental situation +which he finds not only embarrassing, but puzzling as well. + +"I like you for feeling that way about it, though," Betty Jo confessed +with characteristic frankness. "And I am sure it must be a very good +thing for the world that every one is not so intensely practical that +they can chop down trees without a pang. And that reminds me: Speaking +of the practical, now that the book is finished, what are we going to do +with it?" + +"Send it to some publisher, I suppose," answered Brian, soberly; "and +then, when they have returned it, send it to some other publisher." + +"Have you any particular publisher to whom you will send it first?" she +asked. + +"They are all alike, so far as my experience goes," he returned. + +"I suppose it would be best if you could take your book East, and +interview the publishers personally, don't you think?" + +Brian shook his head: "I am not sure that it would make any difference, +and, in any case, I couldn't do it." + +"I know," said Betty Jo, "and that is what I wanted to get at. Why don't +you appoint me your agent, and let me take your book East, and make the +publishing arrangements for you?" + +Brian looked at her with such delighted surprise that Betty Jo smiled +back at him well pleased. + +"Would you really do it?" he demanded, as though he feared she was +jesting. + +"You are sure that you don't mean 'COULD I do it'?"--she +returned,--"sure you could trust me?" + +To which Brian answered enthusiastically: "You could do anything! If you +undertake the job of landing a publisher for my stuff, it is as good as +done." + +"Thank you," she said, jumping down from the tree-trunk. "Now that we +have settled it, let us go to the house and tell Auntie Sue, and I will +start in the morning." + +As they went down the hill, they discussed the matter further, and, +later, at the house, Brian took a moment, when Auntie Sue was in her +room, to hand an envelope to his assistant. "Your salary," he said, +hurriedly, "and expense money for the trip." + +"Oh!" Betty Jo's exclamation was one of surprise. Then she said, in +her most matter-of-fact, businesslike tone: "Thank you. I will render a +statement of my account, but--" For once, Betty Jo seemed at a loss for +words. "You don't mind if I ask--is--is this money--?" + +Brian's face was a study. "Yes," he said, "it is really Auntie Sue's +money; but it is all I have, and I can't return it to her--without her +knowing--so I--" + +Betty Jo interrupted: "I understand. It is all we can do,--forgive me?" + +Brian Kent did not know that Betty Jo, a few minutes later, buried the +envelope he had given her deep in the bottom of her trunk without even +opening it. + +The next day, Brian drove to Thompsonville with Betty Jo, who took the +noon train for the East. + +The two were rather quiet as "Old Prince" jogged soberly along the +beautiful river road. Only now and then did they exchange a few words of +the most commonplace observation. + +They were within sight of the little Ozark settlement when Brian said, +earnestly: "I wish I could tell you, Miss Williams, just what your +coming to help me with this work has meant to me." + +"It has meant a great deal to me, too, Mr. Burns," she returned. +Then she added quickly: "I suppose the first real work one does after +finishing school always means more than any position following could +possibly mean, don't you think? Just like your book. No matter how many +you may write in the future, this will always mean more to you than any +one of them." + +"Yes," he said slowly. "This book will always mean more to me than all +the others I may write." + +For a moment their eyes met with unwavering frankness. Then Betty Jo +turned her face away, and Brian stiffened his shoulders, and sat a +little straighter in the seat beside her. That was all. + +Very brave they were at the depot purchasing Betty Jo's ticket and +checking her trunk. With brave commonplaces they said good-bye when the +train pulled in. Bravely she waved at him from the open window of the +coach. And bravely Brian stood there watching until the train rounded +the curve and disappeared from sight between the hills. + +The world through which Brian Kent drove that afternoon on his way back +to Auntie Sue and Judy in the little log house by the river was a very +dull and uninteresting world indeed. All its brightness and its beauty +seemed suddenly to have vanished. And as "Old Prince" jogged patiently +on his way, sleepily content with thoughts of his evening meal of hay +and grain, the man's mind was disturbed with thoughts which he dared not +own even to his innermost self. + +"Circumstances to a man," Auntie Sue had said, "always meant a woman." +And Brian Kent, while he never under any pressure would have admitted +it, knew within his deepest self that it was a woman who had set him +adrift on the dark river that dreadful night when he had cursed the +world which he thought he was leaving forever. + +"Circumstances" in the person of Auntie Sue had saved him from +destruction, and, in the little log house by the river, had brought +about his Re-Creation. + +And then, when that revelation of his crime toward Auntie Sue had +come, and the labor of months, with all that it implied of the enduring +salvation of himself and the happiness of Auntie Sue, hung wavering in +the balance, it was the "Circumstances" of Betty Jo's coming that had +set him in the right current of action again. + +What waited for him around the next bend in the river, Brian +wondered,--calm and peaceful waters, with gently flowing currents, or +the wild tumult of dangerous rapids wherein he would be forced to fight +for his very existence? Would Betty Jo succeed as his agent to the +publishers? If she did succeed in finding a publisher to accept +his book, would the reading public receive his message? And if +that followed, what then? When Betty Jo's mission in the East was +accomplished, she was to return to Auntie Sue for the summer. Then--? + +"Old Prince," of his own accord, was turning in at the gate, and Brian +awoke from his abstraction to see Auntie Sue and Judy waiting for him. + +All during the evening meal and while he sat with Auntie Sue on the +porch overlooking the river, as their custom was, Brian was preoccupied +and silent; while his companion, with the wisdom of her seventy years, +did not force the conversation. + +It was the time of the full moon, and when Auntie Sue at last bade him +good-night, Brian, saying that the evening was too lovely to waste in +sleep, remained on the porch. For an hour, perhaps, he sat there alone; +but his thoughts were not on the beauties of the scene that lay before +him in all its dreamy charm of shadowy hills and moonlit river. He had +no ear for the soft voices of the night. The gentle breeze carried to +him the low, deep-toned roar of the crashing waters at Elbow Rock; but +he did not hear. Moved at last by a feeling of restless longing, and the +certainty that only a sleepless bed awaited him in the house, he left +the porch to stroll along the bank of the river. + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE. + + +Brian Kent, strolling along the bank of the river in the moonlight, +and preoccupied with thoughts that were, at the last, more dreams than +thoughts, was not far from the house when a sound from behind some +near-by bushes broke in upon his reveries. A moment, he listened. Then +telling himself that it was some prowling animal, or perhaps, a bird +that his presence had disturbed, he went on. But he had gone only a few +feet farther when he was conscious of something stealthily following +him. Stepping behind the trunk of a tree, he waited, watching. Then he +saw a form moving toward him through the shadows of the bushes. Another +moment, and the form left the concealing shadow, and, in the bright +moonlight, he recognized Judy. + +At first, the man's feeling was that of annoyance. He did not wish to be +disturbed at such a time by the presence of the mountain girl. But +his habitual gentleness toward poor Judy, together with a very natural +curiosity as to why she was following him at that time of the night, +when he had supposed her in bed and asleep, led him to greet her kindly +as he came from behind the tree: "Well, Judy, are you, too, out enjoying +the moonlight?" + +The girl stopped suddenly and half-turned as if to run; but, at his +words, stood still. + +"What is it, Judy?" he asked, going to her. "What is the matter?" + +"There's a heap the matter!" she answered, regarding him with that sly +oblique look; while Brian noticed a feeling of intense excitement in her +voice. "I don't know what you-all are a-goin' ter think of me, but +I'm bound ter tell you just the same,--seems like I got ter,--even if +you-all was ter lick me for hit like pap used ter." + +"Why, Judy, dear," the puzzled man returned, soothingly, "you know I +would never strike you, no matter what you did. Come, sit down here on +this log, and tell me about whatever it is that troubles you; then you +can go back to sleep again." + +"I ain't a-wantin' ter set down. I ain't been asleep. Hit seems like +I can't never sleep no more." She wrung her hands and turned her poor +twisted body about nervously; then demanded with startling abruptness: +"When do you-all 'low she'll git back?" + +The wondering Brian did not at first catch her meaning, and she +continued, with an impatient jerk of her head: "Hit's that there gal +with the no-'count name, Betty Jo, I'm a-talkin' 'bout." + +"Oh, you mean Miss Williams," Brian returned. "Why, I suppose she +will be back in two or three weeks, or a month, perhaps; I don't know +exactly, Judy. Why?" + +"'Cause I'm a-tellin' you-all not ter let her come back here ever," came +the startling answer, in a voice that was filled with menacing anger. +Then, before Brian could find a word to reply, the mountain girl +continued, with increasing excitement: "You-all dassn't let her come +back here, nohow, 'cause, if you do, I'll hurt her, sure. You-all +have been a-thinkin' as how I was plumb blind, I reckon; but I seen +you,--every evenin', when she'd pretend ter just go for a walk an' +then'd make straight for the clearin' where you was a-choppin', an' then +you'd quit, an' set with her up there on the hill. Youuns never knowed +I was a-watchin' from the bresh all the time, did you? Well, I was; an' +when youuns'd walk down ter the house, so slow like an' close together, +I'd sneak ahead, an' beat you home; but all the time I was a-seein' you, +an' youuns never knowed, 'cause youuns just naturally couldn't see nor +hear nothin' but each other. Don't you-all 'low as how I'd know by the +way you looked at her, while youuns was a-fixin' that there book, every +night, what you-all was a-thinkin' 'bout her? My God-A'mighty! hit was +just as plain ter me as if you was a-sayin' hit right out loud all the +time,--a heap plainer hit was than if you'd done writ' hit down in your +book. I can't make out ter read print much, nohow, like youuns kin; but +I sure kin see what I see. I--" + +"Judy! Judy!" Brian broke the stream of the excited girl's talk. "What +in the world are you saying? What do you mean, child?" + +"You-all knows dad burned well what I'm a-meanin'!" she retorted, with +increasing anger. "I'm a-meanin' that you-all are plumb lovin' that +there Betty Jo gal,--that's what I'm a-meanin'!--an' you-all sure ain't +got ary right for ter go an' do sich a thing, nohow!" + +Brian tried to check her, but she silenced him with: "I won't neither +hush! I can't! I tell you I'm a-goin' ter say my say if you-all kills +me! I've just naturally got ter! Seems like I was all afire inside an' +would burn plumb up if I didn't! I've got rights, I reckon, if I be all +crooked an' twisted out er shape, an' ugly-faced an' no learnin', ner +nothin'." + +A dry sob choked the torrent of words for an instant; but, with a +savage effort she went on: "I know I ain't nothin' alongside of her, +but you-all ain't a-goin' ter have her just the same,--not if I have ter +kill her first! You ain't got no right ter have her, nohow, 'cause hit's +like's not you-all done got a woman already somewheres, wherever 'twas +you-all come from; an' even if you ain't got no woman already, I sure +ain't a-goin' ter let you have her! What'd she ever do for you? Hit was +me what dragged you-all from the river when you was mighty nigh dead +from licker an' too plumb sick ter save yourself! Hit's me that's +kept from tellin' the Sheriff who you be an' a-takin' that there +reward-money! Hit was me what jumped inter the river above Elbow Rock +just ter git your dad burned old book, when you'd done throwed hit plumb +away! + +"I knowed first time I heard Auntie Sue name her what she'd do ter you! +Any fool would a-knowed what a woman with a half-gal, half-boy name like +her'n would do, an' she's done hit,--she sure has! But she ain't a-goin' +ter do no more! You-all belongs ter me a heap more'n you do ter her,--if +hit comes ter that,--though, I ain't a-foolin' myself none a-thinkin' +that sich as you could ever take up with sich as me,--me bein' what I +am. No, sir; I ain't never fooled myself ary bit like that, Mr. Burns. +But hit ain't a-makin' no difference how ugly an' crooked an' no 'count +I be outside; the inside of me is a-lovin' you like she never could, ner +nobody else, I reckon. An' I'll just go on a-lovin' you, no matter what +happens; an' I ain't a-carin' whether you got a woman already er not, +er whether you-all have robbed er killed, er what you done. An'--an'--so +I'm a-tellin' you, you'd best not let her come back here no more, +'cause--'cause I just naturally can't stand hit ter see youuns +tergether! 'Fore God, I'm a-tellin' you true,--I'll sure hurt her!" + +The girl's voice raised to a pitch of frenzied excitement, and, +whirling, she pointed to the river, as she cried: "Look out there! What +do you-all reckon your fine Betty Jo lady would do if I was ter git +her ketched in them there rapids? What do you-all reckon the Elbow Rock +water would do ter her? I'll tell you what hit'd do: Hit would smash an' +grind an' tear an' hammer that there fine, straight body of hers +'til hit was all broken an' twisted an' crooked a heap worse'n what I +be,--that's what hit would do; an' hit would scratch an' cut an' beat up +that pretty face an' mess up her pretty hair an' choke her an' smother +her 'til she was all blue-black an' muddy, an' her eyes was red an' +starin', an' she was nothin' but just an ugly lump of dirt; an' hit +wouldn't even leave her her fine clothes neither,--the Elbow Rock water +wouldn't,--hit'd just naturally tear 'em off her, an' leave her 'thout +ary thing what's makin' you love her like you're a-doin'! An' where +would all her fine schoolin' an' smart talk an' pretty ways be then? Eh? +She wouldn't be no better, nor half as good as me, I'm a-tellin' you, +onct Elbow Rock got done with her!" + +The poor creature finished in wild triumph; then suddenly, as though +spent with the very fury of her passion, she turned from the river, and +said dully: "You'd sure best not let her come back, sir! 'Fore God, I +ain't a-wantin' ter do hit, but hit seems like I can't help myself; I +can't sleep for wantin' ter fix hit so,--so's you just couldn't want +ter have her no more'n you're a-wantin' me. I--I--sure ain't a-foolin' +myself none, not ary bit, a-thinkin' you-all could ever git ter +likin' sich as me; but, I can't help sort of dreamin' 'bout hit an' +a-pretendin', an'--an' all the while I'm a-knowin', inside er me like, +that there ain't nobody,--not Auntie Sue, nor this here Betty Jo, nor +that there other woman, nor anybody,--what kin care for you like I'm +a-carin',--they just naturally couldn't care like me; 'cause--'cause, +you see, sir, I ain't got nobody else,--ain't no man but you ever even +been decent ter me. I sure ain't got nobody else--" + +The distraught creature's sobs prevented further speech, and she dropped +down on the ground, weak and exhausted; her poor twisted body shaking +and writhing with the emotion she could not voice. + +For a little while, Brian Kent himself was as helpless as Judy. He could +only stand dumbly, staring at her as she crouched at his feet. Then, +very gently, he lifted her from the ground, and tried as best he could +to comfort her. But he felt his words to be very shallow and inadequate, +even though his own voice was trembling with emotion. + +"Come, Judy, dear," he said, at last, when she seemed to have in a +measure regained her self-control. "Come. You must go back to the house, +child." + +Drawing away from his supporting arm, she answered, quietly: "I ain't +no child, no more, Mr. Burns: I'm sure a woman, now. I'm just as much a +woman as--as--she is, if I be like what I am. I'm plumb sorry I had ter +do this; but I just naturally couldn't help hit. You ain't got no call +ter be scared I'll do hit again." + +When they were nearing the house, Judy stopped again, and, for a long +minute, looked silently out over the moonlit river, while Brian stood +watching her. + +"Hit is pretty, ain't hit, Mr. Burns?" she said at last. "With the hills +all so soft an'--an' dreamy-like, an' them clouds a-floatin' 'way up +there over the top of Table Mountain; with the moon makin' 'em all +silvery an' shiny 'round the edges, an' them trees on yon side the river +lookin' like they was made er smoke er fog er somethin' like that; an' +the old river hitself a-layin' there in The Bend like--like a long strip +of shinin' gold,--hit sure is pretty! Funny, I couldn't never see hit +that a-way before,--ain't hit?" + +"Yes, Judy; it is beautiful to-night," he said. + +But Judy, apparently without hearing him, continued: "'Seems like I can +sense a little ter-night what Auntie Sue an' youuns are allus a-talkin' +'bout the river,--'bout hit's bein' like life an' sich as that. An' hit +'pears like I kin kind of git a little er what you done wrote 'bout hit +in your book,--'bout the currents an' the still places an' the rough +water an' all. I reckon as how I'm a part of your river, too, ain't I, +Mr. Burns?" + +"Yes, Judy," he answered, wonderingly; "we are all parts of the river." + +"I reckon you're right," she continued. "Hit sure 'pears ter be that +a-way. But I kin tell you-all somethin' else 'bout the river what you +didn't put down in your book, Mr. Burns: There's heaps an' heaps er +snags an' quicksands an' sunk rocks an' shaller places where hit looks +deep an' deep holes where hit looks shaller, an' currents what's hid +'way down under that'll ketch an' drag you in when you ain't a-thinkin', +an' drown you sure. 'Tain't all of the river what Auntie Sue an' youuns +kin see from the porch. You see, I knows 'bout hit,--'bout them other +things I mean,--'cause I was borned and growed up a-knowin' 'bout +'em; an'--an'--the next time you-all writes er book, Mr. Burns, I 'low +you-all ought ter put in 'bout them there snags an' things, 'cause folks +sure got ter know 'bout 'em, if they ain't a-wantin' ter git drowned." + +When Judy had gone into the house, Brian again sat alone on the porch. + +An hour, perhaps, had passed when a voice behind him said: "Why, Brian, +are you still up? I supposed you were in bed long ago." + +He turned to see Auntie Sue, standing in the doorway. + +"And what in the world are you prowling about for, this time of the +night?" Brian retorted, bringing a chair for her. + +"I am prowling because I couldn't sleep,--thinking about you, Brian," +she answered. + +"I fear that is the thing that is keeping me up, too," he returned +grimly. + +"I know," she said gently. "Sometimes, one's self does keep one awake. +Is it--is it anything you care to tell me? Would it help for me to +know?" + +For some time, he did not answer; while the old teacher waited silently. +At last, he spoke, slowly: "Auntie Sue, what is the greatest wrong that +a woman can do?" + +"The greatest wrong a woman can do, Brian, is the greatest wrong that a +man can do." + +"But, what is it, Auntie Sue?" he persisted. + +"I think," she answered,--"indeed I am quite sure,--that the greatest +wrong is for a woman to kill a man's faith in woman; and for a man to +kill a woman's faith in man." + +Brian Kent buried his face in his hands. + +"Am I right, dear?" asked the old gentlewoman, after a little. + +And Brian Kent answered: "Yes, Auntie Sue, you are right--that is the +greatest wrong." + +Again they were silent. It was as though few words were needed between +the woman of seventy years and this man who, out of some great trouble, +had been so strangely brought to her by the river. + +Then the silvery-haired old teacher spoke again: "Brian, have you ever +wondered that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever asked yourself +why I never married?" + +"Yes, Auntie Sue," he answered. "I have wondered." + +"Many people have," she said, with simple frankness. Then--"I am going +to tell you something, dear boy, that only two people in the world +beside myself ever knew, and they are both dead, many years now. I am +going to tell you, because I feel--because I think--that, perhaps, +it may help you a little. I, too, Brian, had my dreams when I was a +girl,--my dreams of happiness,--such as every true woman hopes for;--of +a home with all that home means;--of a lover-husband;--of little +ones who would call me 'mother';--and my dreams ended, Brian, on a +battlefield of the Civil War. He went from me the very day we were +promised. He never returned. I have always felt that we were as truly +one as though the church had solemnized and the law had legalized our +union. I promised that I would wait for him." + +"And you--you have kept that promise? You have been true to that +memory?" Brian Kent asked, wonderingly. + +"I have been true to him, Brian;--all the years of my life I have been +true to him." + +Brian Kent bowed his head, reverently. + +Rising, the old gentlewoman went close to him, and put her hands on his +shoulders. "Brian, dear, I have told you my secret because I thought +it might help you to know. Oh, my boy--my boy,--don't--don't let +anything--don't let anyone--kill your faith in womanhood! No matter how +bitter your experience, you can believe, now, that there are women who +can be faithful and true. Surely, you can believe it now, Brian,--you +must!" + +And as he caught her hands in his, and raised his face to whisper, "I do +believe, Auntie Sue," she stooped and kissed him. + +Then, again, Brian Kent was alone in the night with his thoughts. + +And the river swept steadily on its shining way through the moonlit +world to the distant sea. + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +AN AWKWARD SITUATION. + + +Frequent letters from Betty Jo informed Brian and Auntie Sue of that +practical and businesslike young woman's negotiations with various +Eastern publishers, until, at last, the matter was finally settled to +Betty Jo's satisfaction. + +She had contracted with a well-known firm for the publication of the +book. The details were all arranged. The work was to begin immediately. +Betty Jo was returning to the little log house by the river. + +Brian drove to Thompsonville the morning she was to arrive, and it +seemed to him that "Old Prince" had never jogged so leisurely along the +winding river road, yet he was at the little mountain station nearly an +hour before the train was due. + +Those weeks had been very anxious weeks to Brian, in spite of Auntie +Sue's oft-repeated assurances that no publisher could fail to recognize +the value of his work. And, to be entirely truthful, Brian himself, +deep down in his heart, felt a certainty that his work would receive +recognition. But, still, he would argue with himself, his feeling +of confidence might very well be due to the dear old gentlewoman's +enthusiastic faith in him rather than in any merit in the book itself; +and it was a well-established fact--to all unpublished writers at +least--that publishers are a heartless folk, and exceedingly loth to +extend a helpful hand to unrecognized genius, however great the worth of +its offering. He could scarcely believe the letters which announced the +good news. It did not seem possible that this all-important first step +toward the success which Auntie Sue so confidently predicted for his +book was now an accomplished fact. + +And now that Betty Jo's mission was completed, it seemed months ago that +he had said good-bye to her and had watched the train disappear between +the hills. But when at last the long whistle echoing and reechoing from +the timbered mountain-sides announced the coming of the train that was +bringing her back, and the train itself a moment later burst into view +and, with a rushing roar of steam and wheels and brakes, came to a stop +at the depot platform, and there was Betty Jo herself, it seemed that it +was only yesterday that she had gone away. + +Very calm and self-possessed and well poised was Betty Jo when +she stepped from the train to meet him. She was very capable and +businesslike as she claimed her baggage and saw it safely in the spring +wagon. But still there was a something in her manner--a light in the +gray eyes, perhaps, or a quality in the clear voice--that meant worlds +more to the man than her simple statement, that she was glad to see him +again. Laughingly, she refused to tell him about her trip as they rode +home, saying that Auntie Sue must hear it all with him. And so conscious +was the man of her presence there beside him that, somehow, the +prospective success or failure of his book did not so much matter, after +all. + +In the excitement of the joyous meeting between Auntie Sue and Betty +Jo, Judy's stoical self-repression was unnoticed. The mountain girl went +about her part of the household work silently with apparent indifference +to the young woman's presence. But when, after the late dinner was over, +Auntie Sue and Brian listened to Betty Jo's story, Judy, unobserved, was +nearby, so that no word of the conversation escaped her. + +Three times that night, when all was still in the little log house by +the river, the door of Judy's room opened cautiously, and the twisted +form of the mountain girl appeared. Each time, for a few minutes, she +stood there in the moonlight that shone through the open window into the +quiet room, listening, listening; then went stealthily to the door of +the room where Betty Jo was sleeping, and each time she paused before +that closed door to look fearfully about the dimly lighted living room. +Once she crept to Brian's door, and then to Auntie Sue's, and once she +silently put her hand on the latch of that door between her and Betty +Jo; but, each time, she went stealthily back to her own room. + +Betty Jo awoke early that morning. Outside her open window the +birds were singing, and the sun, which was just above the higher +mountain-tops, was flooding the world with its wealth of morning beauty. +The music of the feathery chorus and the golden beauty of the light +that streamed through the window into her room, with the fresh enticing +perfume of the balmy air, were very alluring to the young woman just +returned from the cities' stale and dingy atmosphere. + +Betty Jo decided instantly that she must go for a before-breakfast walk. +From the window, as she dressed, she saw Brian going to the barn with +the milk-pail, and heard him greet the waiting "Bess" and exchange a +cheery good-morning with "Old Prince," who hailed his coming with a low +whinny. + +Quietly, so as not to disturb Auntie Sue, Betty Jo slipped from the +house and went down the gentle slope to the river-bank, and strolled +along the margin of the stream toward Elbow Rock,--pausing sometimes to +look out over the water as her attention was drawn to some movement of +the river life, or turning aside to pluck a wild flower that caught +her eye. She had made her way thus leisurely two-thirds of the distance +perhaps from the house to Elbow Rock bluff when Judy suddenly confronted +her. The mountain girl came so unexpectedly from among the bushes that +Betty Jo, who was stooping over a flower, was startled. + +"Judy!" she exclaimed. "Goodness! child, how you frightened me!" she +finished with a good-natured laugh. But as she noticed the mountain +girl's appearance, the laugh died on her lips, and her face was grave +with puzzled concern. + +Poor Judy's black hair was uncombed and dishevelled. The sallow, +old-young face was distorted with passion, and the beady eyes glittered +with the light of an insane purpose. + +"What is it, Judy?" asked Betty Jo. "What in the world is the matter?" + +"What'd you-all come back for?" demanded Judy with sullen menace in +every word. "I done told him not ter let you. Hit 'pears ter me youuns +ought ter have more sense." + +Alarmed at the girl's manner, Betty Jo thought to calm her by saying, +gently: "Why, Judy, dear, you are all excited and not a bit like +yourself. Tell me what troubles you. I came back because I love to be +here with Auntie Sue, of course. Why shouldn't I some if Auntie Sue +likes to have me?" + +"You-all are a-lyin'," returned Judy viciously. "But you-all sure can't +fool me. You-all come back 'cause he's here." + +A warm blush colored Betty Jo's face. + +Judy's voice raised shrilly as she saw the effect of her words. + +"You-all knows dad burned well that's what you come back for. But hit +ain't a-goin' ter do you no good; hit sure ain't. I done told him. I +sure warned him what'd happen if he let you come back. I heard you-all +a-talkin' yesterday evenin' all 'bout his book an' what a great man that +there publisher-feller back East 'lows he's goin' ter be. An' I kin see, +now, that you-all has knowed hit from the start, an' that's why you-all +been a-fixin' ter git him away from me. I done studied hit all out last +night; but I sure ain't a-goin' ter let you do hit." + +As she finished, the mountain girl, who had worked herself into a frenzy +of rage, moved stealthily toward Betty Jo, and her face, with those +blazing black eyes, and its frame of black unkempt hair, and its +expression of insane fury, was the face of a fiend. + +Betty Jo drew back, frightened at the poor creature's wild and +threatening appearance. + +"Judy!" she said sharply. "Judy! What do you mean!" + +With a snarling grin of malicious triumph, Judy cried: "Scared, ain't +you! You sure got reason ter be, 'cause there ain't nothin' kin stop me +now. Know what I'm a-goin' ter do? I'm a-goin' ter put you-all in the +river, just like I told him, an' old Elbow Rock is a-goin' ter make +you-all broken an' twisted an' ugly like what my pap made me. Oh, hit'll +sure fix that there fine slim body of your'n, an' that there pretty face +what he likes ter look at so, an' them fine clothes'll be all wet an' +mussed an' torn off you. You-all sure will be a-lookin' worse'n what +I ever looked the next time he sees you,--you with your no-'count, +half-gal and half-boy name!" + +As the mountain girl, with the quickness of a wild thing, leaped upon +her, Betty Jo screamed--one piercing cry, that ended in a choking gasp +as Judy's hands found her throat. + +Brian, who was still at the barn, busy with the morning chores, heard. +With all his might, he ran toward the spot from which the call came. + +Betty Jo fought desperately; but, strong as she was, she could never +have endured against the vicious strength of the frenzied mountain-bred +Judy, who was slowly and surely forcing her toward the brink of the +river-bank, against which the swift waters of the rapids swept with +terrific force. + +A moment more and Brian would have been too late. Throwing Judy aside, +he caught the exhausted Betty Jo in his arms, and, carrying her a little +back from the edge of the stream, placed her gently on the ground. + +Betty Jo did not faint; but she was too spent with her exertions to +speak, though she managed to smile at him reassuringly, and shook her +head when he asked if she was hurt. + +When Brian was assured that the girl was really unharmed, he turned +angrily to face Judy. But Judy had disappeared in the brush. + +Presently, as Betty Jo's breathing became normal, she arranged her +disordered hair and dress, and told Brian what the mountain girl had +said; and this, of course, forced the man to relate his experience with +Judy that night when she had told him that Betty Jo must not come back. + +"I suppose I should have warned you, Miss Williams," he finished; "but +the whole thing seemed to me so impossible, I could not believe there +was any danger of the crazy creature actually attempting to carry out +her wild threat; and, besides,--well, you can see that it was rather +difficult for me to speak of it to you. I am sorry," he ended, with +embarrassment. + +For a long moment, the two looked at each other silently; then Betty +Jo's practical common sense came to the rescue: "It would have been +awkward for you to try to tell me, wouldn't it, Mr. Burns? And now that +it is all over, and no harm done, we must just forget it as quickly as +we can. We won't ever mention it again, will we?" + +"Certainly not," he agreed heartily. "But I shall keep an eye on Miss +Judy, in the future, I can promise you." + +"I doubt if we ever see her again," returned Betty Jo, thoughtfully. "I +don't see how she would dare go back to the house after this. I expect +she will return to her father. Poor thing! But we must be careful not to +let Auntie Sue know." Then smiling up at him, she added: "It seems like +Auntie Sue is getting us into all sorts of conspiracies, doesn't it? +What DO you suppose we will be called upon to hide from her next?" + +At Brian's suggestion, they went first to the barn, where he quickly +finished his work. Then, carrying the full milk-pail between them, they +proceeded, laughing and chatting, to the house, where Auntie Sue stood +in the doorway. + +The dear old lady smiled when she saw them coming so, and, returning +their cheery greeting happily, added: "Have you children seen Judy +anywhere? The child is not in her room, and the fire is not even made in +the kitchen-stove yet." + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +BETTY JO FACES HERSELF. + + +All that day Auntie Sue wondered about Judy, while Brian and Betty Jo +exhausted their inventive faculties in efforts to satisfy the dear old +lady with plausible reasons for the mountain girl's disappearance. + +During the forenoon, Brian canvassed the immediate neighborhood, and +returned with the true information that Judy had stopped at the first +house below Elbow Rock for breakfast, where she had told the people +that she was going back to her father, because she was "doggone tired of +working for them there city folks what was a-livin' at Auntie Sue's." + +This was, in a way, satisfactory to Auntie Sue, because it assured her +that the girl had met with no serious accident and because she knew very +well the mountain-bred girl's ability to take care of herself in the +hills. But, still, the gentle mistress of the log house by the river was +troubled to think that Judy would leave her so without a word. + +Betty Jo was so occupied during the day by her efforts to relieve Auntie +Sue that she had but little time left for thought of herself or for +reflecting on the situation revealed in her encounter with Judy. But +many times during the day the mountain girl's passionate accusation came +back to her, "You-all are a-lyin'! You-all come back 'cause HE is here." +Nor could she banish from her memory the look that was on Brian Kent's +face that morning when he was carrying her in his arms back from the +brink of the river-bank, over which the frenzied Judy had so nearly sent +her to her death. And so, when the day at last was over, and she was +alone in her room, it was not strange that Betty Jo should face herself +squarely with several definite and pointed and exceedingly personal +questions. + +It was like Betty Jo to be honest with herself and to demand of herself +that her problems be met squarely. + +"First of all, Betty Jo," she demanded, in her downright, +straightforward way of going most directly to the heart of a matter, +"are you in love with Brian Kent?" + +Without hesitation, the answer came, "I have not permitted myself to +love him." + +"You have not permitted yourself to love him? That means that you would +be in love with him if you dared, doesn't it?" + +And Betty Jo, in the safe seclusion of her room, felt her cheeks burn as +she acknowledged the truth of the deduction. + +The next question was inevitable: "Is Brian Kent in love with you, Betty +Jo?" + +And Betty Jo, recalling many, many things, was compelled to answer, from +the triumphant gladness of her heart: "He is trying not to be, but he +can't help himself. And"--the downright and straightforward young woman +continued--"because I know that Brian Kent is trying so hard not to love +me is the real reason why I have not permitted myself to love him." + +But the clear-thinking, practical Betty Jo protested quickly: "You must +remember that you are wholly ignorant of Brian Kent's history, except +for the things he has chosen to tell you. And those things in his life +which he has confessed to you are certainly not the things that could +win the love of a girl like you, even though they might arouse your +interest in the man. Interest is not love, Betty Jo. Are you quite sure +that you are not making the mistake that is most commonly made by young +women?" + +Betty Jo was compelled to answer that she was not mistaking interest +for love, because had such been the case, she would not be able to so +analyze the situation. Betty Jo's quite womanly prejudice is admitted, +because the prejudice was so womanly, and because Betty Jo herself was +so womanly. + +"Very well, Miss Betty Jo," the young woman continued inexorably, "you +are not permitting yourself to love Brian Kent because Brian Kent is +trying not to love you. But, why is the man trying so hard not to love +you?" + +Betty Jo thought very hard over this question, and felt her way +carefully to the answer. "It might be, of course, that it is because he +is a fugitive from the law. A man under such circumstances could easily +convince himself that no good woman would permit herself to love him, +and he would therefore, in reasonable self-defense, prevent himself from +loving her if he could." + +But surely Brian Kent had every reason to know that Betty Jo did not at +all regard him as a criminal. Betty Jo, as Auntie Sue, recognized only +the re-created Brian Kent. If that were all, they need only wait for the +restitution which was so sure to come through his book. And Brian Kent +himself, through Auntie Sue's teaching and through his work, had come +to recognize only his real self, and not the creature of circumstances +which the river had brought to the little log house. Betty Jo felt sure +that there was more than this that was forcing the man to defend himself +against his love for her. Thus she was driven to the conclusion that +there was something in Brian Kent's history that he had not made +known to her,--a something that denied him the right to love her, and +that,--reasoned poor Betty Jo in the darkness of her room,--could only +be a woman,--a woman to whom he was bound, not by love indeed,--Betty Jo +could not believe that,--but by ties of honor and of the law. + +And very clearly Betty Jo reasoned, too, that Brian's attitude toward +her evidenced unmistakably his high sense of honor. The very fact +that he had so persistently--in all their companionship, in their most +intimate moments together even--held this invisible and, to her, unknown +barrier between them, convinced her beyond a doubt of the essential +integrity of his character, and compelled her admiration and confidence. + +"That is exactly it, Betty Jo," she told herself sadly; "you love him +because he tries so hard to keep himself from loving you." + +And thus Betty Jo proved the correctness of Auntie Sue's loving estimate +of her character and justified the dear old teacher's faith in the +sterling quality of her womanhood. + +Face to face with herself, fairly and squarely, the girl accepted the +truth of the situation for Brian and for herself, and determined her +course. She must go away,--she must go at once. + +She wished that she had not returned to the log house by the river. +She had never fully admitted to herself the truth of her feeling toward +Brian until Judy had so unexpectedly precipitated the crisis; but, she +knew, now, that Judy was right, and that the real reason for her return +was her love for him. She knew, as well, that her very love,--which, +once fully admitted and recognized by her, demanded with all the +strength of her young womanhood the nearness and companionship of the +mate her heart had chosen,--demanded, also, that she help him to keep +that fine sense of honor and true nobility of character which had won +her. + +She understood instinctively that,--now that she had confessed her love +to herself,--she would, in spite of herself, tempt him in a thousand +ways to throw aside that barrier which he had so honorably maintained +between them. Her heart would plead with him to disregard his better +self, and come to her. Her very craving for the open assurance of his +love would tempt him, perhaps beyond his strength. And, yet, she knew as +truly that, if he should yield; if he should cast aside the barrier +of his honor; if he should deny his best self, and answer her call, it +would be disastrous beyond measure to them both. + +To save the fineness of their love, Betty Jo must go. If it should be +that they never met again, still she must go. + +But there were other currents moving in the river that night. In the +steady onward flow of the whole, Betty Jo's life-currents seemed to be +setting away from the man she loved. But other currents, unknown to the +girl, who faced herself so honestly, and who so bravely accepted the +truth she found, were moving in ways beyond her knowledge. Directed and +influenced by innumerable and unseen forces and obstacles, the currents +which, combined, made the stream of life in its entirety, were weaving +themselves together,--interlacing and separating,--drawing close and +pulling apart,--only to mingle as one again. + +Betty Jo saw only Brian Kent and herself, and their love which she now +acknowledged, and she had, as it were, only a momentary glimpse of those +small parts of the stream. + +Betty Jo could not know of those other currents that were moving so +mysteriously about her as the river poured itself onward so unceasingly +to the sea. + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +JUDY'S CONFESSION. + + +In spite of all their care, Brian and Betty Jo did not wholly convince +Auntie Sue that there was no more in Judy's disappearance than the +report from the neighbors indicated. The dear old lady felt that there +was something known to the young people that they were keeping from her; +and, while she did not question their motives, and certainly did not +worry,--for Auntie Sue never worried,--she was not satisfied with the +situation. When she retired to her room for the night, she told herself, +with some spirit, that she would surely go to the bottom of the affair +the next morning. + +It happened that Auntie Sue went to the bottom of the affair much sooner +than she expected. + +It must have been about that same hour of the night when Betty Jo, after +reaching her decision to go away, retired to her bed, that Auntie Sue +was aroused by a low knocking at the open window of her room. + +The old teacher listened without moving, her first thought being that +her fancy was tricking her. The sound came again, and, this time, there +could be no mistake. Sitting up in her bed, Auntie Sue looked toward +the window, and, at the sound of her movement, a low whisper came from +without. + +"Don't be scared, Auntie Sue. Hit ain't nobody but just me." + +As she recognized Judy's voice, she saw the mountain girl's head and +twisted shoulders outlined above the window-sill. A moment more, and +Auntie Sue was at the window. + +"Sh-h-h!" cautioned Judy. "Don't wake 'em up. I just naturally got ter +tell you-all somethin', Auntie Sue; but, I ain't a-wantin' Mr. Burns +an' that there Betty Jo woman ter hear. I reckon I best come through the +winder." + +Acting upon the word, she climbed carefully into the room. + +"Judy, child! What--?" + +The mountain girl interrupted Auntie Sue's tremulous whisper with: "I'll +tell hit ter you, ma'm, in a little bit, if you'll just wait. I got ter +see if they are sure 'nough a-sleepin' first, though." + +She stole silently from the room, to return a few minutes later. "They +are plumb asleep, both of 'em," she said in a low tone, when she had +cautiously closed the door. "I done opened the doors ter their rooms, +an' listened, an' shet 'em again 'thout ary one of 'em a-movin' even. +I'll fix the winder, now, an' then we kin make a light." + +Carefully, she closed the window and drew down the shade. Then she lit +the lamp. + +Auntie Sue, who was sitting on the bed, looked at the girl in bewildered +amazement. + +With a nervous laugh, Judy fingered her torn dress and dishevelled hair. +"I sure am a sight, ain't I, ma'm? I done hit a-comin' through the bresh +in the dark. But, don't--don't--look so kinder lost like; you-all ain't +got no call ter be scared of me." + +"Why, Judy, dear, I'm not afraid of you. Come, child; tell me what is +the trouble." + +At the kindly manner and voice of the old gentlewoman, those black eyes +filled with tears, which, for the moment, the mountain girl stoically +permitted to roll down her thin sallow cheeks unheeded. Then, with +a quick resolute jerk of her twisted body, she drew her dress sleeve +across her face, and said: "I--I--reckon I couldn't hate myself no +worse'n I'm a-doin'. Hit seems like I been mighty nigh plumb crazy; but, +I just naturally had ter come back an' tell you-all, 'cause you-all been +so good ter me." + +She placed a chair for Auntie Sue, and added: "You-all best make +yourself comfertable, though, ma'm. I'm mighty nigh tuckered out myself. +Hit's a right smart way from where pap's a-livin' ter here, an' I done +come in a hurry." + +She dropped down on the floor, her back against the bed, and clasped her +knees in her hands, as Auntie Sue seated herself. + +"Begin at the beginning, Judy, and tell me exactly what has happened," +said Auntie Sue. + +"Yes, ma'm, I will,--that's what I was aimin' ter do when I made up ter +come back." + +And she did. Starting with her observation of Brian and Betty Jo, and +her conviction of their love, she told of her interview with Brian the +night she warned him not to let Betty Jo return, and finished with the +account of her attack on Betty Jo that morning. + +Auntie Sue listened with amazement and pity. Here, indeed, was a wayward +and troubled life-current. + +"But, Judy, Judy!" exclaimed the gentle old teacher, "you would not +really have pushed Betty Jo into the river. She would have been drowned, +child. Surely, you did not mean to kill her, Judy." + +The girl wrung her hands, and her deformed body swayed to and fro in the +nervous intensity of her emotions. But she answered, stubbornly: "That +there was just what I was aimin' ter do. I'd a-killed her, sure, if Mr. +Burns hadn't a-come just when he did. I can't rightly tell how hit was, +but hit seemed like there was somethin' inside of me what was a-makin' +me do hit, an' I couldn't, somehow, help myself. An'--an'--that ain't +all, ma'm; I done worse'n that," she continued in a low, moaning wail. +"Oh, my God-A'mighty! Why didn't Mr. Burns sling me inter the river an' +let me be smashed an' drowned at Elbow Rock while he had me, 'stead of +lettin' me git away ter do what I've gone an' done!" + +Auntie Sue's wonderful native strength enabled her to speak calmly: +"What is it you have done, Judy? You must tell me, child." + +The older woman's voice and manner steadied the girl, and she answered +more in her usual colorless monotone, but still guarded so as not to +awaken the other members of the household: "Hit seemed like Mr. Burns +ketchin' me, like he did, an' me a-seein' him with her in his arms, made +me plumb crazy-mad, an' I 'lowed I'd fix hit so's he couldn't never have +her nohow, so I--I--done told pap 'bout him bein' Brian Kent what +had robbed that there bank, an' how there was er lot of reward-money +a-waitin' for anybody that'd tell on him." + +Auntie Sue was too shocked to speak. Was it possible that, now, when the +real Brian Kent was so far removed from the wretched bank clerk; when +his fine natural character and genius had become so established, and his +book was--No, no! It could not be! God could not let men be so cruel as +to send Auntie Sue's Brian Kent to prison because that other Brian Kent, +tormented by wrong environment, and driven by an evil combination of +circumstances, had taken a few dollars of the bank's money! And Betty +Jo--No, no! Auntie Sue's heart cried out in protest. There must be some +way. She would find some way. The banker--Homer Ward! Auntie Sue's mind, +alert and vigorous as the mind of a woman of half her years, caught at +the thought of her old friend and pupil. She leaned forward in her chair +over the girl who sat on the floor at her feet, and her voice was strong +and clear with the strength of the spirit which dominated her frail +body. + +"Judy, did you tell any one else besides your father?" + +"There wasn't nobody else ter tell," came the answer. "An' pap, he +'lowed he'd kill me if I said anythin' ter anybody 'fore he'd got the +money. He aims ter git hit all for hisself." + +"What will he do? Will he go to Sheriff Knox?" + +"No, ma'm; pap, he 'lowed if he done that a-way, the Sheriff he'd +take most of the money. Pap's a-goin' right ter that there bank feller +hisself." + +"Yes, yes! Go on, Judy!" + +"You see, ma'm, I done remembered the name of the bank an' where hit was +an' Mr. Ward's name an' all, on 'count of that there money letter what +you done sent 'em an' us bein' so worried 'bout hit never gittin' there +an' all that. An' pap, he knows er man over in Gardner what's on the +railroad, you see, what'll let him have money enough for the trip,--a +licker-man, he is,--an' pap's aimin' ter make hit over ter Gardner ter +git the money in time ter ketch that there early mornin' train. Hit's a +right smart way over the mountains, but I reckon's how pap'll make +hit. Soon's pap left, I got ter thinkin' what I'd done, an' the more +I studied 'bout hit,--'bout Mr. Burns a-havin' ter go ter prison, an' +'bout you-all a-carin' for him the way you does, an' 'bout how happy you +was over his book, an'--an'--how good you'd been ter me,--the sorrier +I got, 'til I just couldn't stand a-thinkin' 'bout hit no longer; +an'--an'--so I come fast as I could ter tell you. I 'lowed you'd make +out ter fix hit some way so--Mr. Burns won't have ter go ter prison. +Couldn't you-all send--send a telegraph ter the bank man, er somethin'? +I'd git it inter Thompsonville for you, ma'm; an' Mr. Burns, he needn't +never know nothin' 'bout hit." + +Auntie Sue was dressing when Judy finished speaking. With a physical +strength that had its source in her indomitable spirit, she moved about +the room making the preparations necessary to her plan, and as she +worked she talked to the girl. + +"No, Judy, a telegram won't do. I must go to Homer Ward myself. That +morning train leaves Thompsonville at six o'clock. You must slip out of +the house, and harness 'Old Prince' to the buggy as fast as you can. You +will drive with me to Thompsonville, and bring 'Prince' back. You can +turn him loose when you get near home, and he will come the rest of the +way alone. You must not let Mr. Burns nor Betty Jo see you, because +they mustn't know anything about what you have done. Do you understand, +child?" + +"Yes, ma'm," said Judy, eagerly. She was on her feet now. + +"You can go to the neighbors and find some place to stay until I +return," continued Auntie Sue. + +"You don't need ter worry none 'bout me," said Judy. "I kin take care +of myself, I reckon. But ain't you plumb seared ter go 'way on the cars +alone an' you so old?" + +"Old!" retorted Auntie Sue. "I have not felt so strong for twenty years. +There is nothing for me to fear. I will be in St. Louis to-morrow night, +and in Chicago the next forenoon. I guess I am not so helpless that I +can't make a little journey like this. Homer Ward shall never send my +boy to prison,--never,--bank or no bank! Go on, now, and get 'Prince' +and the buggy ready. We must not miss that train." She pushed Judy from +the room, and again cautioned her not to awaken Brian or Betty Jo. + +When she had completed her preparations for the trip, Auntie Sue wrote +a short note to Betty Jo, telling her that she had been called away +suddenly, and that she would return in a few days, and that she +was obliged to borrow Betty Jo's pocket-book. Grave as she felt the +situation to be, Auntie Sue laughed to herself as she pictured the +consternation of Betty Jo and Brian in the morning. + +Silently, the old lady stole into the girl's room to secure the money +she needed and to leave her letter. Then, as silently, she left the +house, and found Judy, who was waiting with "Old Prince" and the buggy, +ready to start. + +The station agent at Thompsonville was not a little astonished when +Auntie Sue and Judy appeared, and, with the easy familiarity of an old +acquaintance greeted her with, "Howdy, Auntie Sue! What in thunder are +you doin' out this time of the day? No bad news, I hope?" + +"Oh, no, Mr. Jackson," Auntie Sue answered easily. "I'm just going to +Chicago for a little visit with an old friend." + +"Sort of a vacation, eh?" returned the man behind the window, as he +made out her ticket. "Well, you sure have earned one, Auntie Sue. It's +gittin' to be vacation time now, too. Bunch of folks come in yesterday +to stay at the clubhouse for a spell. Pretty wild lot, I'd say,--wimmen +as well as the men. I reckon them clubhouse parties don't disturb you +much, though, if you be their nearest neighbor,--do they?" + +"They never have yet, Mr. Jackson," she returned. "Their place is on the +other side of the river, and a mile above my house, you know. I see them +in their boats on The Bend, though, and once in a while they call on me. +But the Elbow Rock rapids begin in front of my place, and the clubhouse +people don't usually come that far down the river." + +She turned to Judy, and, with the girl, went out of the waiting room +to the platform, where she whispered: "You must start back right away, +Judy. If your father is on the train, he might see you." + +"What if pap ketches sight of you-all?" Judy returned nervously. + +"He will not be so apt to notice me as he would you," she returned, +"even if he does catch a glimpse of me. And it can't be helped if he +does. I'll be in Chicago as quick as he will, and I know I will see Mr. +Ward first. Go on now, dear, and don't let Mr. Burns or Betty Jo see +you, and be a good girl. I feel sure that everything will be all right." + +With a sudden awkward movement, poor Judy caught the old gentlewoman's +hand and pressed it to her lips; then, turning, ran toward the buggy. + +When the train arrived, the station agent came to help Auntie Sue with +her handbag aboard, and she managed to keep her friend between herself +and the coaches, in case Jap Taylor should be looking from a window. As +the conductor and the agent assisted her up the steps, the agent said: +"Mind you take good care of her, Bill. Finest old lady God-Almighty +ever made! If you was to let anything happen to her, you best never show +yourself in this neighborhood again; we'd lynch you, sure!" + +The conductor found a good seat for his lovely old passenger, and made +her as comfortable as possible. As he punched her ticket, he said, with +a genial smile, which was the voluntary tribute paid to Auntie Sue by +all men: "You are not much like the passengers I usually carry in this +part of the country, ma'm. They are mostly a rather rough-lookin' lot." + +She smiled back at him, understanding perfectly his intended compliment. +"They are good people, though, sir,--most of them. Of course, there are +some who are a little wild, sometimes, I expect." + +The railroad man laughed again, shaking his head. "I should say so. You +ought to see the specimen I've got in the smoker. I picked him up back +there at Gardner. Perhaps you have heard of him--Jap Taylor. He is about +the worst in the whole country, I reckon." + +"I have heard of him," she returned. "I do hope he won't come into this +coach." + +"Oh, he won't start anything on my train," laughed the man in blue +reassuringly. "He would never come in here, anyhow. Them kind always +stay in the smoker. Seems like they know where they belong. He is +half-scared to death himself, anyway; he is going to Chicago, too, and +I'll bet it's the first time in his life he has ever been farther from +these hills than Springfield." + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE. + + +When Brian went to the barn the next morning he found "Old Prince" +standing at the gate. While he was still trying to find some plausible +explanation of the strange incident, after unharnessing the horse and +giving him his morning feed, an excited call from Betty Jo drew his +attention. With an answering shout, he started for the house. The +excited girl met him halfway, and gave him Auntie Sue's note. + +When Brian had read the brief and wholly inadequate message, they stood +looking at each other, too mystified for speech. Brian read the note, +again, aloud, speaking every word with slow distinctness. "Well, I'll +be hanged!" he ejaculated, at the close of the remarkable communication, +staring at Betty Jo. + +"It wouldn't in the least surprise me if we were both hanged before +night," returned Betty Jo. "After this from Auntie Sue, I am prepared +for anything. What on earth DO you suppose has happened?" + +Brian shook his head: "It is too much for me!" + +Together they went to the house, and the place seemed strangely +deserted. Every possible explanation that suggested itself, they +discussed and rejected. + +"One thing we can depend upon," said Brian, at last, when they had +exhausted the resources of their combined imaginations: "Auntie Sue +knows exactly what she is doing, and she is doing exactly the right +thing. I suppose we will know all about it when she returns." + +Betty Jo looked again at the note: "'I will be back in a few days,'" she +read slowly. "'Be good children, and take care of things.'" + +Again, they regarded each other wonderingly. + +Then Betty Jo broke the silence with an odd little laugh: "I feel like +we were cast away on some desert island, don't you?" + +"Something like that," Brian returned. Then, to relieve the strain of +the situation, he added: "I suppose 'Bess' will have to be milked and +the chores finished just the same." + +"And I'll get breakfast for us," agreed Betty Jo, as he started back to +the barn. + +In the safe seclusion of the stable, with no one but "Old Prince" and +"Bess" to witness his agitation, Brian endeavored to bring his confused +and unruly thoughts under some sort of control. + +"Several days; several days." The words repeated themselves with +annoying persistency. And they--Betty Jo and he, Brian Kent--were to +"take care of things";--they were to keep house together;--they were to +live together, alone,--in the log house by the river,--alone. She was +even then preparing their breakfast. They would sit down at the table +alone. And there would be dinner and supper; and the evening,--just for +them. He would work about the place. She would attend to her household +duties. He would go to his meals, and she would be there expecting +him,--waiting for him. And when the tasks of the day were finished, they +would sit on the porch to watch the coming of the night,--Betty Jo +and he, Brian Kent--"What in God's name," the man demanded of the +indifferent "Bess," did Auntie Sue mean by placing him in such a +situation? Did she think him more than human? + +It had not been easy for Brian to maintain that barrier between himself +and Betty Jo, even with the constant help of Auntie Sue's presence. +Many, many times he had barely saved himself from declaring his +love; and, now, he was asked to live with her in the most intimate +companionship possible. + +For the only time in his life Brian Kent was almost angry at Auntie Sue. +"By all that was consistent, and reasonable, and merciful, and safe," he +told himself, "if it was absolutely necessary for the dear old lady to +disappear so mysteriously, why had she not taken Betty Jo along?" + +In the meantime, while Brian was confiding his grievances to his +four-footed companions in the barn, Betty Jo was expressing herself in +the kitchen. + +"Betty Jo," she began, as she raked the ashes from the stove preparatory +to building the fire, "it appears to me that you have some serious +considering to do, and"--with a glance toward the barn, as she went out +to empty the ash-pan--"you must do it quickly before that man comes for +his breakfast. You were very right, last night, in your decision, to +go away. It is exactly what you should have done. I am more than ever +convinced of that, this morning. But you can't go now. Even if Auntie +Sue had not taken your pocket-book and every penny in it, you couldn't +run away with Auntie Sue herself gone. If she hadn't wanted you to stay +right here for some very serious reason, Betty Jo, she would have +taken you with her last night. Auntie Sue very pointedly and definitely +expects you to be here when she returns. And she will be away several +days,--several days, Betty Jo." She repeated the words in a whisper. +"And during those several days, you are to keep house for the man you +love;--the man who loves you;--the man whom you must keep from telling +you his love,--no matter how your heart pleads for him to tell you, you +must not permit him to speak. He will be coming in to breakfast in a few +minutes, and you will sit down at the table with him,--across the table +from him,--facing him,--Betty Jo,--just like--" + +She looked in the little mirror that hung beside the kitchen window, +and, with dismay, saw her face flushed with color that was not caused by +the heat of the stove. "And you will be forced to look at him across the +table, and he will look at you,--and--and you must not,--" she stamped +her foot,--"you dare not look like THAT, Betty Jo. + +"And then there will be the dinner that you will cook for him, and the +supper; and the evenings on the porch. O Lord! Betty Jo, what ever will +you do? How will you ever save the fineness of your love? If you were +afraid to trust yourself with the help of Auntie Sue's presence, what +in the world can you do without her--and you actually keeping house +with him? Oh, Auntie Sue! Auntie Sue!" she groaned, "you are the dearest +woman in the world and the best and wisest, but you have blundered +terribly this time! Why DID you do such a thing! It is not fair to him! +It is not fair to me! It is not fair to our love! + +"All of which,"--the practical Betty Jo declared a moment later, wiping +her eyes on the corner of her apron, and going into the other room to +set the table for breakfast,--"all of which, Betty Jo, does not in the +least help matters, and only makes you more nervous and upset than you +are. + +"One thing is certain sure," she continued, while her hands were busy +with the dishes and the table preparations: "If we can endure this test, +we need never, never, never fear that anything nor anybody can ever, +ever make us doubt the genuineness of our love. Auntie Sue has certainly +arranged it most beautifully for Brian Kent and Betty Jo Williams to +become thoroughly acquainted." + +Betty Jo suddenly paused in her work, and stood very still: "I wonder," +she said slowly,--"can it be,--is it possible,--what if Auntie Sue has +brought about this situation for that very reason?" + +"Breakfast ready?" cried Brian at the kitchen-door, and his voice was so +hearty and natural that the girl answered as naturally: "It will be +as soon as you are ready for it. I forget, do you like your eggs three +minutes or four?" + +They really managed that breakfast very well, even if they did sit +opposite each other so that each was forced to look straight across +the table into the face of the other. Or, perhaps, it was because they +looked at each other so straight and square and frankly honest that the +breakfast went so well. + +And because the breakfast went so well, they managed the dinner and the +supper also. + +"I have been thinking," said Brian at the close of their evening meal, +looking straight into the gray eyes over the table, "perhaps it might be +better for you to stay at neighbor Tom's until Auntie Sue returns. I'll +hitch up 'Old Prince' and drive you over, if you say. Or, we might find +some neighbor woman to come here to live with us, if you prefer." + +"You don't like my housekeeping, then?" asked Betty Jo. + +"Like it!" exclaimed Brian; and the tone of his voice approached the +danger-point. + +Betty Jo said quickly: "I'll tell you exactly what I think, Mr. Burns: +Auntie Sue said we were to be good children, and take care of things +until she returned. She did not say for me to shirk my part by going to +neighbor Tom's or by having any one come here. Don't you think we can do +exactly what Auntie Sue said?" + +"Yes," returned Brian, heartily; "I am sure we can. And do you +know,--come to think about it,--I believe the dear old lady would be +disappointed in us both if we dodged our--well,--" he finished with +emphasis,--"our responsibilities." + +And after that, somehow, the evening on the porch went as well as the +breakfast and dinner and supper had gone. + +It was the second day of their housekeeping that Betty Jo noticed +smoke coming from the stone chimney of the clubhouse up the river. She +reported her observation to Brian when he came in from his work for +dinner. During the afternoon, they both saw boats on the quiet waters of +The Bend, and at supper told each other what they had seen. And in the +evening they together watched the twinkling lights of the clubhouse +windows, and once they heard voices and laughter from somewhere on the +river as though a boating party were making merry. + +Two days later, Brian and Betty Jo were just finishing dinner when a +step sounded on the porch, and a man appeared in the open doorway. + +The stranger was dressed in the weird and flashy costume considered by +his class to be the proper thing for an outing in the country, and his +face betrayed the sad fact that, while he was mentally, spiritually, and +physically greatly in need of a change from the unclean atmosphere +that had made him what he was, he was incapable of benefiting by more +wholesome conditions of living. He was, in fact, a perfect specimen of +that type of clubman who, in order to enjoy fully the beautiful life of +God's unspoiled world, must needs take with him all of the sordid and +vicious life of that world wherein he is most at home. + +With no word of greeting, he said, with that superior air which so many +city folk assume when addressing those who live in the country: "Have +you people any fresh vegetables or eggs to sell?" + +Brian and Betty Jo arose, and Brian, stepping forward, said, with a +smile: "No, we have nothing to sell here; but I think our neighbor, Mr. +Warden, just over the hill, would be glad to supply you. Won't you come +in?" + +The man stared at Brian, turned an appraising eye on Betty Jo; then +looked curiously about the room. + +"I beg your pardon," he said, removing his cap, "I thought, when I +spoke, that you were natives. My name is Green,--Harry Green. There is +a party of us stopping at the clubhouse, up the river, there;--just out +for a bit of a good time, you know. We are from St. Louis,--first time +any of us were ever in the Ozarks,--friends of mine own the clubhouse." + +"My name is Burns," returned Brian. "We noticed your boats on the river. +You are enjoying your outing, are you?" + +Again the man looked curiously from Brian to Betty Jo. "Oh, yes; we +can stand it for awhile," he answered. "We're a pretty jolly bunch, you +see;--know how to keep things going. It would kill me if I had to live +here in this lonesome hole very long, though. Don't you find it rather +slow, Mrs. Burns?" + +Poor Betty Jo's face turned fairly crimson. She could neither answer the +stranger nor meet his gaze, but stood with downcast eyes;--then looked +at Brian appealingly. + +But Brian was as embarrassed as Betty Jo; while the stranger, as he +regarded them, smiled with an expression of insolent understanding. + +"I guess I have made another mistake," he said, with a meaning laugh. + +"You have," returned Brian, sharply, stepping forward as he spoke; for +the man's manner was unmistakable. "Be careful, sir, that you do not +make another." + +Mr. Green spoke quickly, with an airy wave of his hand: "No offense; +no offense, I assure you." Then as he moved toward the door, he added, +still with thinly veiled insolence: "I beg your pardon for intruding. I +understand, perfectly. Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns! Good-afternoon, miss!" + +Brian followed him out to the porch; and the caller, as he went down the +steps, turned back with another understanding laugh: "I say, Burns, you +are a lucky devil. Don't worry about me, old man. I envy you, by Jove! +Charming little nest. Come over to the club some evening. Bring the +little girl along, and help us to have a good time. So-long!" + +Mr. Harry Green probably never knew how narrowly he escaped being +manhandled by the enraged but helpless Brian. + +Brian remained on the porch until he saw the man, in his boat, leave the +eddy at the foot of the garden and row away up the river. + +In the house, again, the two faced each other in dismay. + +Betty Jo was first to recover: "I am sure that it is quite time for +Auntie Sue to come home and take charge of her own household again. +Don't you think so, Mr. Burns?" + +And Brian Kent most heartily agreed. + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW. + + +The members of the clubhouse party were amusing themselves that +afternoon in the various ways peculiar to their kind. + +At one end of the wide veranda overlooking the river a group sat at a +card table. At the other end of the roomy lounging place, men and women, +lying at careless ease in steamer-chairs and hammocks, were smoking and +chatting about such things as are of interest only to that strange +class who are educated to make idleness the chief aim and end of their +existence. On the broad steps leading down to the tree-shaded lawn, +which sloped gently to the boat landing at the river's edge, still +other members of the company were scattered in characteristic attitudes. +Across the river, in the shade of the cottonwoods that overhang the +bank, a man and a woman in a boat were ostensibly fishing. In a hammock +strung between two trees, a little way from the veranda, lay a woman, +reading. + +Now and then a burst of shrill laughter broke the quiet of the +surrounding forest. A man on the steps called a loud suggestive jest to +the pair in the boat, and the woman waved her handkerchief in answer. +The card-players argued and laughed over a point in their game. Some +one shouted into the house for Jim, and a negro man in white jacket +appeared. When the people on the veranda had expressed their individual +tastes, the one who had summoned the servant called to the woman in the +hammock under the tree, "What is yours, Martha?" + +Without looking up from her book, the woman waved her hand, and +answered, "I am not drinking this time. Thanks." + +A chorus of derisive shouts and laughter came from the veranda. But +the woman went on reading. "Oh, let her alone!" protested some one, +good-naturedly. "She was going a little strong, last night. She'll be +all right by and by, when she gets started again." + +The negro, Jim, had returned with his loaded tray, and was passing among +the members of the company with his assortment of glasses, when some one +called attention to Harry Green, who was just pulling his boat up to the +landing after his visit to the little log house down the river. + +A boisterous chorus greeted the boatman: "Hello, Harry! Did you find +anything? You're just in time. What'll you have?" + +With a wave of greeting, the man fastened his boat to the landing, and +started up the slope. + +"He'll have a Scotch, of course!" said some one. "Did anybody ever know +him to take anything else? Go and get it, Jim. He'll be nearly dead for +a drink after rowing all that distance." + +The woman in the hammock lowered her book, and lay watching the man as +he came up the path toward the steps. + +Harry Green, who, apparently, was a person of importance among them, +seated himself in an easy chair on the veranda, and accepted the glass +proffered by Jim. + +"Did you find any eggs, Harry?" demanded one. The man first refreshed +himself with a long drink; then looked around with a grin of amused +appreciation: "I didn't get any eggs," he said; "but I found the nest +all right." + +A shout of laughter greeted the reply. + +"What sort of nest, Harry? Duck? Turkey? Hen? Dove? Or rooster?" came +from different members of the chorus. + +Raising his glass as though offering a toast, he answered: "Love! my +children; love!" + +A yell of delight came from the company, accompanied by a volley of: +"A love-nest! Well, what do you know about that! Good boy, Harry! Takes +Harry to find a love-nest! He's the boy to send for eggs! I should say, +yes! Martha will like that! Oh, won't she!" + +This last remark turned their attention toward the woman in the hammock, +and they called to her: "Martha! Oh, Martha! Come here! You better +look after Harry! Harry has found a love-nest! Told you something would +happen if you let him go away alone!" + +Putting aside her book, the woman came to join the company on the +veranda. + +She was rather a handsome woman, but with a suggestion of coarseness in +form and features, though her face, in spite of its too-evident signs of +dissipation, was not a bad face. + +Seating herself on the top step, with her back against the post in an +attitude of careless abandonment, she looked up at the negro who stood +grinning in the doorway. "Bring me a highball, Jim: you know my kind." +Then to the company: "Somebody give me a cigarette." + +Harry tossed a silver case in her lap. Another man, who sat near, leaned +over her with a lighted match. + +Expelling a generous cloud of smoke from her shapely lips, she +demanded: "What is this you are all shouting about Harry having another +love-nest?" + +During the answering chorus of boisterous laughter and jesting remarks, +she drank the liquor which the negro brought. + +Then Harry, pointing out Auntie Sue's house, which was easily visible +from where they sat, related his experience. And among the many +conjectures, and questions, and comments offered, no one suggested even +that the man and the woman living in that little log house by the river +might be entirely innocent of the implied charge. For those who are +themselves guilty, to assume the guilt of others is very natural and +altogether human. + +In the moment's quiet which followed the arrival of a fresh supply of +drinks, the woman called Martha said: "But what is the man like, Harry? +You have enthused quite enough about the girl. Suppose you tell us about +the man in the case." + +Harry gave a very good description of Brian Kent. + +"Oh, damn!" suddenly cried Martha, shaking her skirt vigorously. She had +spilled some of the liquor from her glass. + +A woman on the outer edge of the circle whispered to her nearest +neighbor, and a hush fell over the group. + +"Well," said Martha, drinking the liquor remaining in her glass, "why +the devil don't we find out who they are, if we are so curious?" + +"Find out! How? We'll find out a lot! What would you do,--ask them their +names and where they are from?" came from the company. + +"It is easy enough," retorted Martha. "There is that native girl that +Molly picked up the day we landed here to help her in the kitchen. She +must belong in this neighborhood somewhere. I'll bet she can tell us +something. What is her name?" + +"Judy,--Judy Taylor. Great idea! Good! Send her out here, Jim," +responded the others. + +When the deformed mountain girl appeared before them, she looked from +face to face with such a frightened and excited expression on her +sallow, old-young features, and such a wild light in her black beady +eyes, that they regarded her with silent interest. + +Judy spoke first, and her shrill monotone emphasized her excited state +of mind: "That there nigger said as how Missus Kent was a-wantin' ter +see me. Be ary one of youuns sure 'nough Missus Kent?" + +The group drew apart a little, and every face was turned from Judy to +the woman sitting on the top step of the veranda with her back against +the post. + +Judy went slowly toward the woman, her beady eyes fixed and staring as +though at some ghostly vision. The woman rose to her feet as Judy paused +before her. + +"Be you-all Brian Kent's woman?" demanded Judy. + +The excited exclamation from the company and the manner of the woman +suddenly aroused the mountain girl to a realization of what she had done +in speaking Brian Kent's name. With an expression of frightened dismay, +she turned to escape; but the group of intensely interested spectators +drew closer. Every one waited for Martha to speak. + +"Yes," she said, slowly, watching the mountain girl; "I am Mrs. Brian +Kent. Do you know my husband?" + +Judy's black beady eyes shifted slyly from one face to another, and her +twisted body moved uneasily. + +"No, ma'm; I ain't a-sayin' I knows him exactly. I done heard tell 'bout +him nigh 'bout a year ago, when there was some men from the city come +through here a-huntin' him. Everybody 'lows as how he was drowned at +Elbow Rock." + +"The body was never found, though," murmured one of the men in the +group. + +"Who lives in that little log house over there, Judy?" Harry Green asked +suddenly, pointing. + +"There? Oh, that there's Auntie Sue's place. I 'lowed everybody knowed +that," returned the girl. + +"Who is Auntie Sue?" came the next question. + +One of the women answered, before Judy could speak: "Auntie Sue is that +old-maid school-teacher they told us about. Don't you remember, Harry?" + +"Is Auntie Sue at home now, girl?" asked Mrs. Kent. + +Judy's gaze was fixed on the ground as she replied: "I don't know, ma'm. +I ain't got no truck with anybody on yon side the river." + +"Is there any one living with Auntie Sue?" asked some one; and in the +same breath from another came the question, "Who is Mr. Burns?" + +Judy jerked her twisted shoulders and threw up her head with an +impatient defiance, as she returned shrilly: "I'm a-tellin' youuns I +don't know nothin' 'bout nobody. Hit ain't no sort er use for youuns ter +pester me. I don't know nothin' 'bout hit, an' I wouldn't tell youuns +nothin' if I did." + +And with this, the mountain girl escaped into the house. + +While her friends on the veranda were looking at each other in +questioning silence, Mrs. Kent, without a word, turned and walked away +into the woods. + +As she disappeared among the trees, one of the men said, in a low tone: +"You better go after her, Harry. She is on, all right, that it's Brian +Kent. She never did believe that story about his death, you know. There +is no knowing what she'll do when she gets to thinking it all over." + +"It is a darned shame," exclaimed one of the women, "to have our party +spoiled like this!" + +"Spoiled nothing," answered another. "Martha is too good a sport to +spoil anything. Go on, Harry. Cheer her up. Bring her back here. We'll +all help get her good and drunk to-night, and she'll be all right." + +There was a laugh at this, and some one said: "A little something +wouldn't hurt any of us just now, I'm thinking. Here, Jim!" + +Harry Green found Mrs. Kent sitting on the riverbank some distance above +the boat landing. + +She looked up at the sound of his approach, but did not speak. Dropping +down beside her, the man said: "I'm damned sorry about this, Martha. +I never dreamed I was starting anything, or I would have kept my mouth +shut." + +"It is Brian, all right, Harry," she answered, slowly. "It is funny, but +he has been on my mind all day. I never dreamed that it was this part +of the country where he was supposed to have been drowned, or I wouldn't +have come here." + +"Well, what does it matter, anyway?" returned the man. "I don't see that +it can make any difference. We don't need to go down there where he is, +and it is damned certain that they won't call on us." + +Looking out over the river, the woman spoke as if thinking aloud: "This +is just the sort of place he would love, Harry--the river and hills and +woods. He never cared for the city--always wanted to get away into +the country somewhere. Tell me, what is she really like? Does she look +like--like--well,--like any of our crowd?" + +One by one, the man picked a number of pebbles from among the dead +leaves and the short grass within reach of his hand, as he answered: +"Oh, I was just kidding when I raved about her to the bunch." One by +one, he flipped the bits of stone into the water. "She really doesn't +amount to much. Honestly, I hardly noticed her." + +The woman continued speaking as though thinking her thoughts aloud: +"Brian was a good man, Harry. That bank affair was really my fault. He +never would have done such a thing if I hadn't devilled him all the time +for more money, and made such a fuss about his wasting so much time in +his everlasting writing. I'd hate to have him caught and sent to the +'pen' now." + +"You're a good sport, Martha," he returned heartily. "I know just how +you feel about it. And I can promise you that there is not one of our +crowd that will ever whisper a thing. They are not that kind, and you +know how they all like you. Come, dear. Don't bother your head about it +any more. I don't like to see you like this. Let us go up to the house, +and show them how game you are,--shall we?" + +He put his arm about her, but the woman gently pushed him away. "Don't +do that, now, Harry. Let me think." + +"That is just what you must not do," he retorted, with a laugh. +"Thinking can't help matters. Come, let us go get a drink. That is what +you need." + +She looked at him some time before she answered; then, with a quick +movement, she sprang to her feet: + +"All right! You're on!" she cried, with a reckless laugh. "But you'll go +some if you keep up with me to-night." + +And so, that evening, while Brian Kent and Betty Jo from the porch of +the little log house by the river watched the twinkling lights of the +clubhouse windows, the party with mad merriment tried to help a woman to +forget. + +But save for the unnatural brightness of her eyes and the heightened +color in her face, drink seemed to have little effect on Martha Kent +that night. When at a late hour the other members of the wild company, +in various flushed and dishevelled stages of intoxication, finally +retired to their rooms, Martha, in her apartment, seated herself at the +window to look away over the calm waters of The Bend to a single light +that showed against the dark mountainside. The woman did not know that +the light she saw was in Brian Kent's room. + +Long after Betty Jo had said good-night, Brian walked the floor in +uneasy wakefulness. The meeting with the man Green and his too-evident +thoughts as to the relations of the man and woman who were living +together in the log house by the river filled Brian with alarm; while +the very presence of the man from the city awoke old apprehensions that +in his months of undisturbed quiet in Auntie Sue's backwoods home had +almost ceased to be. Through Auntie Sue's teaching and influence; his +work on his book; the growing companionship of Betty Jo and their love, +Brian had almost ceased to think of that absconding bank clerk who +had so recklessly launched himself on a voyage to the unknown in the +darkness of that dreadful night. But, now, it all came back to him with +menacing strength. + +The man, Green, would talk to his companions of his visit to the log +house that afternoon. He would tell what he had discovered. Curiosity +would lead others of the clubhouse party to call. Some one might +remember the story of the bank clerk, who was supposed to have lost his +life in that neighborhood, but whose body was never found. There might +even be one in the party who knew the former clerk. Through them the +story would go back to the outside world. There would be investigations +by those whose business it was never to forget a criminal who had +escaped the law. + +Brian felt his Re-Creation to be fully established; but what if his +identity should be discovered before the restitution he would make +should be also accomplished? And always, as he paced to and fro in his +little room in the log house, there was, like a deep undercurrent in the +flow of his troubled thought, his love for Betty Jo. + +It is little wonder that, to Brian Kent, that night, the voices of the +river were filled with fearful doubt and sullen, dreadful threatenings. + +And what of the woman who watched the tiny spot of light that marked +the window of the room where the re-created Brian Kent kept his lonely +vigil? Did she, too, hear the voices of the river? Did she feel the +presence of that stream which poured its dark flood so mysteriously +through the night between herself and the man yonder? + +Away back, somewhere in the past, the currents of their lives in the +onward flow of the river had drawn together. For a period of time, their +life-currents had mingled, and, with the stream, had swept onward as +one. Other influences--swirls and eddies and counter-currents of other +lives--had touched and intermingled until the current that was the man +and the current that was the woman had drawn apart. For months, they +had not touched; and, now, they were drawing nearer to each other again. +Would they touch? Would they again mingle and become one? What was this +mysterious, unseen, unknown, but always-felt, power of the river that +sets the ways of its countless currents as it sweeps ever onward in its +unceasing flow? + +The door of her room opened. Harry Green entered as one assured of a +welcome. The woman at the window turned her head, but did not move. +Going to her, the man, with an endearing word, offered a caress; but she +put him aside. "Please, Harry,--please let me be alone to-night?" + +"Why, Martha, dear! What is wrong?" he protested, again attempting to +draw her to him. + +Resisting more vigorously, she answered: "Everything is wrong! You are +wrong! I am wrong! All life is wrong! Can't you understand? Please leave +me." + +The man drew back, and spoke roughly in a tone of disgust: "Hell! I +believe you love that bank clerk as much as you ever did!" + +"Well, and suppose that were true, Harry?" she answered, wearily. +"Suppose it were true,--that I did still love my husband? Could that +make any difference now? Can anything ever make any difference now? You +will tire of me before long, just as you have grown tired of the others +who were before me. Don't you suppose I know? You and our friends have +taught me many things, Harry. I know, now, that Brian's dreams were +right. That his dreams could never be realized, does not make them +foolish nor wrong. His dreams that seemed so foolish--such impossible +ideals--were more real, after all, than this life that we think so real. +WE are the dreamers,--we and our kind,--and our awakening is as sure to +come as that river out there is sure of reaching the sea." + +The man laughed harshly: "You are quite poetical, to-night. I believe I +like you better, though, when you talk sense." + +"I am sorry, Harry," she returned. "Please don't be cross with me! Go +now,--please go!" + +And something forced the man to silence. Slowly, he left the room. The +woman locked the door. Returning to the window, she fell on her knees, +and stretched her hands imploringly toward the tiny spot of light that +still shone against the dark shadow of the mountain-side. + +Between the mighty walls of tree-clad hills that lifted their solemn +crests into the midnight sky, the dark river poured the sombre strength +of its innumerable currents,--terrible in its awful power; dreadful, in +its mysterious and unseen forces; irresistible in its ceaseless, onward +rush to the sea of its final and infinite purpose! + +And here and there on the restless, ever-moving surface of the shadowy, +never-ending flood twinkled the reflection of a star. + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK. + + +The President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank looked up from the +papers on his desk as his secretary entered from the adjoining room and +stood before him. + +"Well, George?" + +The secretary smiled as he spoke: "Mr. Ward, there is an old lady out +here who insists that you will see her. The boys passed her on to me, +because,--well, she is not the kind of woman that can be refused. She +has no card, but her name is Wakefield. She--" + +The dignified President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank +electrified his secretary by springing from his chair like a schoolboy +from his seat at the tap of the teacher's dismissing bell. "Auntie Sue! +I should say she couldn't be refused! Where is she?" And before the +secretary could collect his startled thoughts to answer, Homer T. Ward +was out of the room. + +When the smiling secretary, the stenographers, and other attending +employees had witnessed a meeting between their dignified chief and +the lovely old lady, which strengthened their conviction that the great +financier was genuinely human, President Ward and Auntie Sue disappeared +into the private office. + +"George," said Mr. Ward, as he closed the door of that sacred inner +sanctuary of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, "remember I am not in +to any one;--from the Secretary of the Treasury to the Sheriff, I am not +in." + +"I understand, sir," returned the still smiling George. And from that +moment until Homer T. Ward should open the door, nothing short of a +regiment could have interrupted the interview between Auntie Sue and her +old pupil. + +Placing the dear old lady tenderly in a deep, leather-upholstered chair, +Mr. Ward stood before her as though trying to convince himself that +she was real; while his teacher of those long-ago, boyhood days gazed +smilingly up at him. + +"What in the name of all that is unexpected are you doing here, Auntie +Sue?" he demanded; "and why is not Betty Jo with you? Isn't the girl +ever coming home? There is nothing the matter with her, is there? Of +course not, or you would have wired me." + +It was not at all like the bank president to ask so many questions all +at once. + +Auntie Sue looked around the private office curiously, then smilingly +back to the face of the financier. + +"Do you know, Homer," she said with her chuckling little laugh, +"I--I--am almost afraid of you in here. Everything is so grand and +rich-looking; and there were so many men out there who tried to tell me +you would not see me. I--I am glad I didn't know it would be like this, +or I fear I never could have found the courage to come." + +Homer T. Ward laughed, and then--rather full-waisted as he was--went +down on one knee at the arm of her chair so as to bring his face level +with her eyes. + +"Look at me, Auntie Sue," he said; "look straight through me, just as +you used to do years and years ago, and tell me what you see." + +And the dear old lady, with one thin soft hand on his heavy shoulder, +answered, as she looked: "Why, I see a rather naughty boy, whom I ought +to spank for throwing spitballs at the old schoolroom ceiling," she +retorted. "And I am not a bit afraid to do it either. So sit right over +there, sir, and listen to me." + +They laughed together then; and if Auntie Sue wiped her eyes as the +schoolboy obediently took his seat in the big chair at the banker's +desk, Homer T. Ward's eyes were not without a suspicious moisture. + +"Tell me about Betty Jo first," the man insisted. "You know, Auntie Sue, +the girl grows dearer to me every year." + +"Betty Jo is that kind of a girl, Homer," Auntie Sue answered. + +"I suppose it is because she is all I have to love," he said, "but, you +know, ever since Sister Grace died and left the fatherless little kid +to me, it seems like all my plans have centered around her; and now that +she has finished her school; has travelled abroad, and gone through with +that business-college course, I am beginning to feel like we should sort +of settle down together. I am glad for her to be with you this summer, +though, for the finishing touches; and when she comes home to stay, you +are coming with her." + +Auntie Sue shook her head, smiling: "Now, Homer, you know that is +settled: I will never leave my little log house by the river until I +have watched the last sunset. You know, my dear boy, that I would be +miserable in the city." + +It was an old point often argued by them, and the man dismissed it, now, +with a brief: "We'll see about that when the time comes. But, why didn't +you bring Betty Jo with you?" + +"Because," Auntie Sue answered, "I came away hurriedly, on a very +important trip, for only a day, and it is necessary for her to stay and +keep house while I am gone. The child must learn to cook, Homer, even if +she is to inherit all your money." + +"I know," answered the banker;--"the same as you make me work when I +visit you. But your coming to me sounds rather serious, Auntie Sue. What +is your trouble?" + +The dear old lady laughed, nervously; for, to tell the truth, she did +not quite know how she was going to manage to present Brian Kent's case +to Homer T. Ward without presenting more than she was at this time ready +to reveal. + +"Why, you see, Homer," she began, "it is not really my trouble as much +as it is yours, and it is not yours as much as it is--" + +"Betty Jo's?" he asked quickly, when she hesitated. + +"No! no!" she cried. "The child doesn't even know why I am here. Just +try to forget her for a few minutes, Homer." + +"All right," he said; "but you had me worried for a minute." + +Auntie Sue might have answered that she was somewhat worried herself; +but, instead, she plunged with desperate courage: "I came to see you +about Brian Kent, Homer." + +It is not enough to say that the President of the Empire Consolidated +Savings Bank was astonished. "Brian Kent?" he said at last. "Why, Auntie +Sue, I wrote you nearly a year ago that Brian Kent was dead." + +"Yes, I know; but he was not--that is, he is not. But the Brian Kent +your detectives were hunting was--I mean--is." + +Homer T. Ward looked at his old teacher as though he feared she had +suddenly lost her mind. + +"It is like this, Homer," Auntie Sue explained: "A few days after +your detective, Mr. Ross, called on me, this stranger appeared in the +neighborhood. No one dreamed that he was Brian Kent, because, you see, +he was not a bit like the description." + +"Full beard, I suppose?" commented the banker, grimly. + +"Yes: and every other way," continued Auntie Sue. "And he has been +working so hard all winter; and everybody in the country respects and +loves him so; and he is one of the best and truest men I ever knew; +and he is planning and working to pay back every cent he took; and I +cannot--I will not--let you send him to prison now." + +The lovely old eyes were fixed on the banker's face with sweet anxiety. + +Homer T. Ward was puzzled. Strange human problems are often presented +to men in his position; but, certainly, this was the strangest;--his old +teacher pleading for his absconding clerk who was supposed to be dead. + +At last he said, with gentle kindness: "But, why did you come to tell me +about him, Auntie Sue? He is safe enough if no one knows who he is." + +"That is it!" she cried. "Some one found out about him, and is coming +here to tell you, for the reward." + +The banker whistled softly. "And you--you--grabbed a train, and beat 'em +to it!" he exclaimed. "Well, if that doesn't--" + +Auntie Sue clasped her thin hands to her breast, and her sweet voice +trembled with anxious fear: "You won't send that poor boy to prison, +now, will you, Homer? It--it--would kill me if such a terrible thing +were to happen now. Won't you let him go free, so that he can do his +work,--won't you, Homer? I--I--" The strain of her anxiety was almost +too much for the dear old gentlewoman's physical strength, and as her +voice failed, the tears streamed down the soft cheeks unheeded. + +In an instant the bank president was again on his knees beside her +chair. + +"Don't, Auntie Sue: don't, dear! Why, you know I would do anything +in the world you asked, even if I wanted to send the fellow up; but I +don't. I wouldn't touch him for the world. It is a thousand times better +to let him go if he is proving himself an honest man. Please, dear, +don't feel so. Why, I will be glad to let him off. I'll help him, Auntie +Sue. I--I--am as glad as you are that we didn't get him. Please don't +feel so about it. There, there,--it is all right, now." + +So he comforted and reassured her until she was able to smile through +her tears. "I knew I could depend on you, Homer." + +A few minutes later, she said: "And what about that man who is coming to +claim the reward, Homer?" + +"Never you mind him!" cried the banker; "I'll fix that. But, tell me, +Auntie Sue, where is young Kent now?" + +"He is working in the neighborhood," she returned. + +He looked at her shrewdly. "You have seen a lot of him, have you?" + +"I have seen him occasionally," she answered. Homer T. Ward nodded his +head, as if well pleased with himself. "You don't need to tell me any +more. I understand, now, exactly. It is very clear what has reformed +Brian Kent; you have been up to your old tricks. It is a wonder you +haven't taken him into your house to live with you,--to save him from +associating with bad people." + +He laughed, and when Auntie Sue only smiled, as though humoring him in +his little joke, he added: "By the way, has Betty Jo seen this latest +patient of yours? What does she think of his chances for complete +recovery?" + +"Yes," Auntie Sue returned, calmly; "Betty Jo has seen him. But, really, +Homer, I have never asked her what she thought of him." + +"Do you know, Auntie Sue," said the banker, reflectively, "I never did +believe that Brian Kent was a criminal at heart." + +"I know he is not," she returned stoutly. "But, tell me, Homer, how did +it ever happen?" + +"Well, you see," he answered, "young Kent had a wife who couldn't +somehow seem to fit into his life. Ross never went into the details with +me, fully, because that, of course, had no real bearing on the fact that +he stole the money from the bank. But it seems that the youngster was +rather ambitious,--studied a lot outside of business hours and that sort +of thing. I know he made his own way through business college before he +came to us. The wife didn't receive the attention she thought she should +have, I suppose. Perhaps she was right at that. Anyway, she wanted a +good time;--wanted him to take her out more, instead of spending his +spare time digging away at his books. And so it went the usual way,--she +found other company. Rather a gay set, I fancy; at least it led to her +needing more money than he was earning, and so he helped out his salary, +thinking to pay it back before he was caught, I suppose. Then the crash +came,--some other man, you know,--and Brian skipped, which, of course, +put us next to his stealing. I don't know what has become of the woman. +The last Ross knew of her she was living in St. Louis, and running with +a pretty wild bunch,--glad to get rid of Brian, I expect. She couldn't +have really cared so very much for him. + +"Do you know, Auntie Sue, I have seen so many cases like this one. +I have been glad, many times, that I never married. And then, again, +sometimes, I have seen homes that have made me sorry I never took the +chance. I am glad you saved the boy, Auntie Sue: I am mighty glad." + +"You have made me very happy, Homer," Auntie Sue returned. "But are you +sure you can fix it about that reward? The man who is coming to claim it +will make trouble, won't he, if he is not paid, somehow?" + +"Yes, I expect he would," returned the president, thoughtfully. "And my +directors might have something to say. And there are the Burns people +and the Bankers' Association and all. Hum-m-m!" + +Homer T. Ward considered the matter a few moments, then he laughed. +"I'll tell you what we will do, Auntie Sue; we will let Brian Kent pay +the reward himself. That would be fair, wouldn't it?" + +Auntie Sue was sure that Brian would agree that it was a fair enough +arrangement; but she did not see how it was to be managed. + +Then her old pupil explained that he would pay the reward-money to the +man who was coming to claim it, and thus satisfy him, and that the bank +would hold the amount as a part of the debt which Brian was expected to +pay. + +Auntie Sue never knew that President Ward himself paid to the bank +the full amount of the money stolen by Brian Kent in addition to the +reward-money which he personally paid to Jap Taylor, in order to quiet +him, and thus saved Brian from the publicity that surely would have +followed any other course. + +It should also be said here that Judy's father never again appeared in +the Ozarks; at least, not in the Elbow Rock neighborhood. It might be +that Jap Taylor was shrewd enough to know that his reputation would not +permit him to show any considerable sum of money, where he was +known, without starting an investigation; and for men of his type +investigations are never to be desired. + +Or it is not unlikely that the combination of money and the city proved +the undoing of the moonshiner, and that he came to his legitimate and +logical end among the dives and haunts of his kind, to which he would +surely gravitate. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS. + + +The day following that night of Brian Kent's uneasy wakefulness was a +hard day for the man and the woman in the little log house by the river. + +For Brian, the morning dawned with a sense of impending disaster. He +left his room while the sky was still gray behind the eastern mountains, +and the mist that veiled the brightness of the hills seemed to hide in +its ghostly depths legions of shadowy spirits that from his past had +assembled to haunt him. The sombre aisles and caverns of the dimly +lighted forest were peopled with shadowy memories of that life which he +had hoped would never again for him awake. And the river swept through +its gray world to the crashing turmoil at Elbow Rock like a thing doomed +to seek forever in its own irresistible might the destruction of its +ever-living self. + +As one moving in a world of dreams, he went about his morning's work. +"Old Prince" whinnied his usual greeting, but received no answer. "Bess" +met him at the barnyard gate, but he did not speak. The sun leaped +above the mountain-tops, and the world was filled with the beauty of +its golden glory. From tree and bush and swaying weed, from forest and +pasture, and garden and willow-fringed river-bank, the birds voiced +their happy greetings to the new day. But the man neither saw nor heard. + +When he went to the house with his full milk-pail, and Betty Jo met him +at the kitchen-door with her cheery "Good-morning!" he tried resolutely +to free himself from the mood which possessed him, but only partially +succeeded. Several times, as the two faced each other across the +breakfast table, Brian saw the gray eyes filled with questioning +anxiety, as though Betty Jo, also, felt the presence of some forbidding +spectre at the meal. + +After several vain attempts to find something they could talk about, +Betty Jo boldly acknowledged the situation by saying: "What in the world +is the matter with us, this morning, Mr. Burns? I am possessed with the +feeling that there is some one or something behind me. I want to look +over my shoulder every minute." + +At her words, Brian involuntarily turned his head for a quick backward +glance. + +"There!" cried Betty Jo, with a nervous laugh, not at all like her +normal, well-poised self. "You feel it, too!" + +Brian forced a laugh in return: "It is the weather, I guess." He tried +to speak with casual ease. "The atmosphere is full of electricity this +morning. We'll have a thunder-storm before night, probably." + +"And was it the electricity in the air that kept you tramping up and +down your room last night until almost morning?" she demanded abruptly, +with her characteristic opposition to any evasion of the question at +issue. + +Brian retorted with a smile: "And how do you know that I tramped up and +down my room last night?" + +The color in Betty Jo's cheeks deepened as she answered, "I did not +sleep very well either." + +"But, I surely did not make noise enough for you to hear in your room?" +persisted Brian. + +The color deepened still more in Betty Jo's checks, as she answered +honestly: "I was not in my room when I heard you." She paused, and when +he only looked at her expectantly, but did not speak, continued, in a +hesitating manner quite unlike her matter-of-fact self: "When I could +not sleep, and felt so as though there were somebody or something in the +house that had no business here, I became afraid, and opened my door so +I would not feel so much alone; and then I saw the light under the door +of your room, and,--" she hesitated, but finished with a little air of +defiance,--"and I went and listened outside your door to see if you were +up." + +"Yes?" said Brian Kent, gently. + +"And when I heard you walking up and down, I wanted to call to you; but +I thought I better not. It made me feel better, though, just to know +that you were there; and so, pretty soon, I went back to my room again." + +"And then?" said Brian. + +"And then," confessed Betty Jo, "whatever it was that was keeping me +awake came back, and went on keeping me awake until I was simply forced +to go to you for help again." + +Poor Betty Jo! She knew very well that she ought not to be saying those +things to the man who, while he listened, could not hide the love that +shone in his eyes. + +And Brian Kent, as he thought of this woman, whom he loved with all the +strength of his best self, creeping to the door of his room for comfort +in the lonely night, scarcely dared trust himself to speak. At last, +when their silence was becoming unbearable, he said, gently: "You poor +child! Why didn't you call to me?" + +And Betty Jo, hearing in his voice that which told her how near he was +to the surrender that would bring disaster to them both, was aroused to +the defense. The gray eyes never wavered as she answered, bravely: "I +was afraid of that, too." + +And so Betty Jo confessed her love that answered so to his need; but, +in her very confession, saved their love from themselves. If she had +lowered her eyes--Brian Kent, in reverent acknowledgment, bowed his +head before her. Then, rising, he walked to the window, where he stood +for some time looking out, but seeing nothing. + +"It was that horrid man coming yesterday that has so upset us," said +Betty Jo, at last. "We were getting on so beautifully, too. I wish he +had gone somewhere else for his vegetables and eggs and things!" + +Brian was able to smile at this as he turned to face her again, and they +both knew that,--for that time, at least,--the danger-point was safely +past. + +"I wish so, too," he agreed; "but never mind; Auntie Sue will be home in +a day or two, and then everything will be all right again." + +But when he had taken his hat and was starting out for the day's work, +Betty Jo asked, "What are you doing to-day?" + +"I was going to work on the fence around the clearing," he answered. +"Why?" + +"I--I--wish you could find something to do nearer the house," came the +slow answer. "Couldn't you work in the garden, perhaps?" + +"I should say I could!" he returned heartily. + +All that forenoon, as Betty Jo went about her household duties she felt +the presence of the thing that filled her so with fear and dread. With +vigorous determination she scolded herself for being so foolish, and +argued with herself that it was all a nervous fancy born of her restless +night. But, the next moment, she would start with a sudden fear and turn +quickly as if to face some one whose presence she felt behind her. And +Brian, too, as he worked in the garden, caught himself often in the act +of pausing to look about with nervous apprehension. + +During the noonday meal they made a determined effort to laugh at +themselves, and by the time dinner was over had almost succeeded. But +when Brian, as he pushed back his chair, said, jestingly, "Well, am I +to work in the garden again this afternoon?" Betty Jo answered, +emphatically, "Indeed you are! I will not stay another minute in this +house alone. Goodness knows what I will do to-night!" + +There was no jest in the man's voice as he answered: "I'll tell you what +you will do to-night,--you will go to bed and you will go to sleep. You +will leave the door to your room wide-open, and I shall lie right there +on that couch, so near that a whisper from you will reach me. We will +have no more of this midnight prowling, I promise you. If any ghost +dares appear, we--" + +The reassuring words died on Brian Kent's lips. His eyes, looking over +Betty Jo's shoulders, were fixed and staring, and the look on his face +sent a chill of horror to the girl's heart. She dared not move nor look +around as he sat like a man turned to stone. + +A woman's laugh broke the dead silence. + +With a scream, Betty Jo sprung to her feet and whirled about. + +As one in a trance, Brian Kent arose and stood beside her. + +The woman, who stood in the open doorway, laughed again. + +Martha Kent's heavy drinking the night before, when her clubhouse +friends in a wild debauch had tried to help her to forget, was the +climax of many months of like excesses. The mood in which she had sent +the man Green from her room was the last despairing flicker of her +better instincts. Moved by her memories of better things,--of a better +love and dreams and ideals,--she had spent a little hour or two in +sentimental regret for that which she had so recklessly cast aside. And +then, because there was within her no foundation of abiding principle +for her sentiment, she had again put on the character which had so +separated her from the life of the man to whom she was married, indeed, +but with whom she was never one. With the burning consciousness of what +she might have been and of what she was ever tormenting her, she sank, +as the hours passed, deeper and deeper into the quicksands of physical +indulgence until, in her mad determination to destroy utterly her +ability to feel remorse, she lost all mental control of herself, and +responded to every insane whim of her drink-disordered brain. + +As she stood there, now, in the doorway of that little log house by the +river,--face to face with the man and the woman who, though they +were united in their love, were yet separated by the very fact of her +existence,--she was, in all her hideous, but pitiful, repulsiveness, the +legitimate creation of those life-forces which she so fitly personified. + +Betty Jo instinctively drew closer to Brian's side. + +"Hello, Brian, dear!" said the woman, with a drunken leer. "Thought I'd +call to see you in your charming love-nest that Harry Green raved so +about. Can't you introduce me to your little sweetheart?" + +"No?" she continued, and laughed again. Then coming an unsteady step +toward them, she added, thickly: "Very well, Brian, old sport; you +won't introduce me,--I'll have to introduce myself." She grinned with +malicious triumph at Betty Jo: "Don't be frightened, my dear. It's all +right. I'm nobody of importance,--just his wife,--that's all,--just his +wife." + +Betty Jo, with a little cry, turned to the man who stood as if stricken +dumb with horror. "Brian?" she said. "Oh, Brian?" + +It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his given name, and +Brian Kent, as he looked, saw in those gray eyes no hint of doubt or +censure, but only the truest love and sympathy. Betty Jo had not failed +in the moment of her supreme testing. + +"It's true, all right, isn't it, Brian?" said Martha Kent. "I'm his wife +fast enough, my dear. But you don't need to worry,--you two. I'm a good +sport,--I am. I've had my fun. No kick coming from me. Just called to +pay my respects,--that's all. So-long, Brian, old sport! Good-bye, my +dear!" + +With an uncertain wave of her hand, she staggered through the doorway +and passed from their sight. + +In the little log house by the river the two who had kept the fineness +of their love stood face to face. + +For Betty Jo, the barrier which Brian Kent had maintained between them +to protect her from his love was no longer a thing unknown. But the +revelation, coming as it did, had brought no shadow of distrust or doubt +of the man to whom she had so fully entrusted herself. It had, indeed, +only strengthened her faith in him and deepened her love. + +For one glorious triumphal moment the very soul of the man exulted in +the truth which Betty Jo made known to him. Then he turned slowly away, +for he dared not trust himself to look at her a moment longer. + +With bowed head he paced up and down the room. He went to the table +which held Auntie Sue's sewing-basket, and fingered the trifles there. +Then, slowly, he passed through the open door to the porch, where Betty +Jo, through the window, near which she stood, saw him look away over the +river and the mountains. + +Suddenly, she saw him start, and stare intently at some nearer object +that had caught his attention. As Betty Jo watched, he moved to the edge +of the porch, and, stooping, grasped the railing with his hands;--his +head and shoulders were thrust forward; his lips were parted; his +whole attitude was that of the most intense and excited interest. Then, +straightening up, he threw back his head, and laughed aloud. But his +laughter alarmed the girl, who ran to the door, crying, "What is it, +Brian?" + +"Look!" he shouted, madly, and pointed toward the river. "Look, Betty +Jo!" + +Martha Kent, alone in one of the clubhouse boats, was rowing with +drunken clumsiness toward the head of the Elbow Rock rapids. + +The woman's friends had missed her, and, guessing, from some remark she +had made, where she had gone, had sent four men of the party after her; +for they realized that she was in no condition to be alone in a boat +on the river, particularly on that part of the stream near Auntie Sue's +place. After leaving Brian and Betty Jo, she had gone back to her boat +in the eddy at the foot of the garden, and was pulling out into the +stream when she saw her friends approaching. With a drunken laugh, she +waved her hand, and began rowing from them directly toward the swift +water. The men shouted for her to stop, and pulled with all their +strength. But the woman, taking their calls as a challenge, rowed the +harder, while every awkward pull of the oars carried her nearer the +deadly grip of the current. + +Betty Jo, as she reached Brian's side, and saw what was happening on the +river, grasped the man's arm appealingly, with a cry: "Brian! Brian! She +is going into the rapids! She will be carried down to Elbow Rock!" + +But Brian Kent, for the moment, was beside himself. All that he had +suffered,--all that the woman out there on the river had cost him in +anguish of soul,--all that she had taken from him of happiness,--came +before him with blinding vividness; and now,--now,--in her drunkenness, +she was making her own way to her own destruction. + +"Of course she is!" he shouted, in answer to Betty Jo. "Her friends +yonder are driving her to it! Could anything be more fitting?" + +As though grasped by powerful unseen hands beneath the surface, the boat +shot forward. The woman, feeling the sudden pull of the current, stopped +rowing, and looked about as if wondering what had happened. Her friends, +not daring to follow closer to the dangerous water, were pulling madly +for the landing at the foot of the garden. The boat in the middle of the +river moved faster. + +"Look, Betty Jo, look!" shouted the man on the porch, madly. "It's got +her now--the river has got her--look!" + +With a scream of fear, the woman in the boat dropped her oars, and +grasped the gunwale of the little craft. + +Brian Kent laughed. + +Betty Jo shrank back from him, her eyes, big with horror, fixed upon +his face. Then, with a quick movement, she sprang toward him again, and, +catching his arm, shook him with all her strength and struck him again +and again with her fist. + +"Brian! Brian!" she cried. "You are insane!" + +The man looked down at her for an instant with an expression of +bewildered astonishment on his face, as one awakened from a dream. He +raised his hand and drew it across his forehead and eyes. + +The boat with the helpless woman was already past the front of the +house. + +Betty Jo cried again as if calling the man she loved from a distance: +"Brian! Brian!" + +With a sudden movement, the man jerked away from her. The next instant, +he had leaped over the railing of the porch to the ground below and was +running with all his might toward the river, at an angle which would put +him opposite or a little below the boat when he reached the bank. + +With a sob, Betty Jo followed as fast as she could. + +As Brian Kent raced toward the river's edge, the powerful current drew +the boat with the woman into the first rough water of the rapids, and, +as the skiff was shaken and tossed by the force that was sweeping it +with ever-increasing speed toward the wild turmoil at Elbow Rock, the +woman screamed again and again for help. + +The warring forces of the stream whirled the little craft about, and +she saw the man who was nearing the bank. She rose to her feet in the +rocking boat, and stretched out her arms,--calling his name, "Brian! +Brian! Brian!" Then the impact of the boat against a larger wave of +the rapids brought her to her knees, and she clung to the thwarts with +piteous cries. + +Betty Jo and the clubhouse men, who had overtaken her, saw Brian as +he reached the river opposite the boat. For a little way he raced the +tumbling waters until he had gained a short distance ahead of the skiff; +then they saw him, without an instant's pause, leap from the high bank +far out into the boiling stream. + +Running along the bank, the helpless watchers saw the man fighting his +way toward the boat. One moment, he disappeared from sight, dragged +beneath the surface by the powerful currents with which he wrestled. The +next instant, the boiling waters would toss him high on the crest of a +rolling wave, only to drag him down again a second later. But, always, +he drew nearer and nearer the object of his struggle, while the rapids +swept both the helpless woman and the tossing boat and the swimming man +onward toward the towering cliff, and the thunder-roar of the mad waters +below grew louder and louder. + +The splendid strength of arms and shoulders which Brian Kent had +acquired by his months of work with his ax on the timbered mountain-side +sustained him now in his need. With tremendous energy, he breasted the +might of the furious river. To the watchers it seemed at times that it +was beyond the power of human muscles to endure the terrific strain. +Then he gained the boat, and they saw him striving with desperate energy +to drag it toward the opposite shore and so into the currents that would +carry it past the menacing point of the cliff and perhaps to the safety +of the quiet water below. + +All that human strength could do in that terrible situation, Brian Kent +did. But the task was beyond the power of mortal man. + +For an instant the breathless watchers on the bank thought there was a +chance; but the waters with mad fury dragged their victims back, and, +with terrific power, hurled them forward toward the frowning rocks. + +It was quickly over. + +In that wild turmoil of the boiling, leaping, seething, lashing, +hammering waves, the boat, with the woman who crouched on her knees on +the bottom, and the man who clung to the side of the craft, appeared for +a second lifted high in the air. The next instant, the crash of breaking +wood sounded above the thundering roaring of the waters. The man and +the woman disappeared. The wreck of the boat was flung again and again +against the cliff, until, battered and broken, it was swept away around +the point. + +Against the dark wall of rock Brian Kent's head and shoulders appeared +for an instant, and they saw that he held the woman in his arms. The +furious waters closed over them. For the fraction of a second, the man's +hand and arm appeared again above the surface, and was gone. + +Betty Jo sank to the ground with a low cry of anguish, and hid her face. + +Another moment, and she was aroused by a loud shout from one of the men +who had caught a glimpse of the river's victims farther out at the point +of the rocky cliff. + +Springing to her feet, Betty Jo started madly up the trail that leads +over the bluff. The men followed. + +Immediately below Elbow Rock there is a deep hole formed by the waters +that pour around the point of the cliff, and below this hole a wide +gravelly bar pushing out from the Elbow Rock side of the stream forces +the main volume of the river to the opposite bank. In the shallow water +against the upper side of the bar they found them. + +With the last flicker of his consciousness, Brian Kent had felt his feet +touch the bottom where the water shoals against the bar, and, with his +last remaining strength, had dragged himself and the body of the woman +into the shallows. + +Betty Jo was no hysterical weakling to spend the priceless seconds of +such a time in senseless ravings. The first-aid training which she had +received at school gave her the necessary knowledge which her native +strength of character and practical common sense enabled her to apply. +Under her direction, the men from the clubhouse worked as they probably +never had worked before in all their useless lives. + +But the man and the woman whose life-currents had touched and +mingled,--drawn apart to flow apparently far from each other, but drawn +together again to once more touch, and, as one, to endure the testing +of the rapids,--the man and the woman had not brought to the terrible +ordeal the same strength. + +One was drawn into the Elbow Rock rapids by the careless indifference +and the reckless spirit that was born of the life she had chosen; by +her immediate associates and environment; and by the circumstances that +were, at the last analysis, of her own making. + +The other braved the same dangers, strong in the splendid spirit that +had set him against such terrible odds to attempt the woman's rescue. +From his work on the timbered mountain-side, from his life in the clean +atmosphere of the hills, and from the spiritual and mental companionship +of that little log house by the river, he had brought to his testing the +splendid strength which enabled him to endure. + +Somewhere in that terrible conflict with the wild waters at Elbow Rock, +while the man whose life she had so nearly ruined by her wantonness was +fighting to save her, the soul of Martha Kent went from the bruised and +battered body which Brian drew at last from the vicious grasp of the +currents. + +But the man lived. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +JUDY'S RETURN. + + +In the early evening twilight of the day following the tragedy at Elbow +Rock, Betty Jo was sitting on the porch, to rest for a few minutes in +the fresh air, after long hours of watching beside Brian's bed. + +A neighbor woman had come to help, but Betty Jo would not leave the side +of the man she loved as he fought his way slowly out of the dark shadow +of the death that had so nearly conquered him. Nor, indeed, would Brian +let her go, for even in those moments when he appeared most unconscious +of the life about him, he seemed to feel her presence. All through +the long, long hours of that anxious night and day she had watched and +waited the final issue;--feeling the dark messenger very close at times, +but gaining hope as the hours passed and her lover won his way nearer +and nearer to the light;--courageous always;--giving him the best of her +strength, so far as it was possible to give him anything;--making him +feel the steady, enduring fullness of her love. + +At last, they felt that the victory was won. The doctor, satisfied that +the crisis was safely past, went his way to visit other patients. By +evening, Brian was resting so easily that the girl had stolen away for a +few minutes, leaving the neighbor to call her if he should waken. + +Betty Jo had been on the porch but a short time when a step sounded on +the gravel walk that led from the porch steps around the corner of the +house. A moment more, and Judy appeared. + +The mountain girl stopped when she saw Betty Jo, and the latter went to +the top of the steps. + +"Good-evening, Judy!" said Betty Jo, quietly. "Won't you come in?" + +Slowly, with her black beady eyes fixed on Betty Jo's face, Judy went up +the steps. + +As the mountain girl reached the level of the porch-floor, Betty Jo drew +a little back toward the door. + +Judy stopped instantly, and stood still. Then, in a low tone, she said: +"You-all ain't got no call ter be afeared, Miss Betty Jo. You hain't +never goin' ter have no call ter be scared of me again, never." + +"I am so glad for you to say that, Judy," returned Betty Jo, smiling. "I +don't want to be afraid of you, and I am not really; but--" + +"Ain't you-all plumb a-hatin' me for what I done?" asked Judy, +wonderingly. + +"No, no; Judy, dear, I don't hate you at all, and you must know that +Auntie Sue loves you." + +"Yes," Judy nodded her head, thoughtfully. "Auntie Sue just naturally +loves everybody. Hit wouldn't be no more'n nature, though, for you-all +ter hate me. I sure have been poison-mean." + +"But that is all past now, Judy," said Betty Jo, heartily. "Come and sit +down?" She started toward the chairs. + +But the mountain girl did not move, except to shake her head in refusal +of the hospitable invitation. + +"I ain't a-goin' ter put my foot inside this house, nor set with +you-all, nor nothin' 'til I've said what I done come ter say." + +Betty Jo turned back to her again: "What is it, Judy?" + +"Auntie Sue done told me not ter let you-all er Mr. Burns see me 'til +she come back. But I can't help hit, an' if I don't talk 'bout that +none, I reckon she ain't a-goin' ter mind so much. You-all don't know +that I seed Auntie Sue that night 'fore she went away, an' that hit was +me took her ter the station with 'Old Prince,' an' brung him back, did +you?" + +"No," said Betty Jo, "I did not know; and if Auntie Sue told you not to +tell us about it, I would rather you did not, Judy." + +"I ain't aimin' ter," Judy returned; "but Auntie Sue don't know nothin' +'bout what's happened since she went away, an' hit's that what's +a-makin' me come ter you-all." + +Betty Jo, seeing that the poor girl was laboring under some intense +emotional stress, said, gently: "What is it that you wish to tell me, +Judy? I am sure Auntie Sue will not mind, if you feel so about it." + +The mountain girl's eyes filled and the tears streamed down her sallow +cheeks, while her twisted shoulders shook with the grief she could not +suppress, as she faltered: "My God-A'mighty! Miss Betty Jo, I--I--didn't +aim ter do hit! I sure didn't! 'Fore God, I'd er let 'em kill me first, +if I'd only had time ter think. But hit--hit--was me what told that +there woman how Mr. Burns was Brian Kent. Hit's--hit's--me what's ter +blame for gittin' her killed in the river an' him so nigh drowned. O +God! O God! If he'll only git well! + +"An' I ain't a-feelin' toward you-all like I did, Miss Betty Jo. I +can't no more. I done left them clubhouse folks, after I knowed what has +happened, an' all day I been hangin' 'round here in the bresh. An' Lucy +Warden she done told me, this afternoon, 'bout how you-all was takin' +care of Mr. Burns, an' how you just naturally wouldn't let him die. +An'--an'--I kin see, now, what hit is that makes Auntie Sue and him an' +you-all so different from that there clubhouse gang an' pap an' me. An' +I ain't a-wantin' ter be like I been, no more, ever. I'd a heap rather +jump inter the river an' drown myself. 'Fore God, I would! An' I want +ter come back an' help you-all take care of him; an' live with Auntie +Sue; an'--an'--be a little might like youuns, if I kin. Will you let me, +Miss Betty Jo? Will you? I most know Auntie Sue would, if she was here." + +Before the mountain girl had finished speaking, Betty Jo's arm was +around the poor twisted shoulders, and Betty Jo's eyes were answering +Judy's pleading. + +And so, when Auntie Sue came home, it was Judy who met her at the +station, with "Old Prince" and the buggy; and as they drove down the +winding road to the little log house by the river, the mountain girl +told the old gentlewoman all that had happened in her absence. + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +THE RIVER. + + +Brian Kent recovered quickly from the effects of his experience in the +Elbow Rock rapids, and was soon able again to take up his work on the +little farm. Every day he labored in the garden, or in the clearing, or +at some task which did not rightly fall to those who rented the major +part of Auntie Sue's tillable acreage. + +Auntie Sue had told him about her visit to the President of the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank, and of the arrangement made by the banker--as +she understood it--for Brian's protection. But while the dear old lady +explained that Homer T. Ward was one of her pupils, she did not reveal +the relation between Brian's former chief and Betty Jo. Neither Auntie +Sue nor Betty Jo, for several very good reasons, was ready for Brian to +know the whole truth about his stenographer. It was quite enough, they +reasoned, for him to love his stenographer, and for his stenographer +to love him, without raising any more obstacles in the pathway of their +happiness. + +As the busy weeks passed, several letters came from the publishers of +Brian's book,--letters which made the three in the little log house +by the river very happy. Already, in the first reception of this new +writer's work, those who had undertaken to present it to the public saw +many promises of the fulfillment of their prophecies as to its success. +When the third letter came, a statement of the sales to date was +enclosed, and, that afternoon, Betty Jo went to Brian where he was at +work in the clearing. + +When they were comfortably, not to say cozily, seated on a log in the +shade at the edge of the forest, she announced that she had come for a +very serious talk. + +"Yes?" he returned; but he really looked altogether too happy to be +exceedingly serious. + +"Yes," she continued, "I have. As your accredited business agent and--" +she favored him with a Betty Jo smile--"shall I say manager?" + +"Why not managing owner?" he retorted. + +"I am glad you confirm my promotion so readily," she returned, with a +charming touch of color in her cheeks, "because that, you see, helps me +to present what I have to say for the good of the firm." + +"I am listening, Betty Jo." + +"Very well; tell me, first, Brian, just exactly how much do you owe that +bank, reward-money and all, and Auntie Sue, interest and everything?" + +Brian went to his coat, which lay on a near-by stump, and returned with +a small pocket account-book. + +"I have it all here," he said, as he seated himself close beside her +again. And, opening the book, he showed her how he had kept a careful +record of the various sums he had taken from the bank, with the dates. + +"Oh, Brian, Brian!" she said with a little cry of delight, "I am so +glad,--so glad you have this! It is exactly what I want for my wedding +present. It was so thoughtful of you to fix it for me." + +Thus by a characteristic, Betty Jo turn she made the little book of +painful memories a book of joyous promise. + +When they again returned to the consideration of business matters, +Brian gave her the figures which answered her questions as to his total +indebtedness. + +Again Betty Jo exclaimed with delight: "Brian, do you see? Take your +pencil and figure quick your royalties on the number of books sold as +given in the publishers' statement." + +Brian laughed. "I have figured it." + +"And your book has already earned more than enough to pay everything," +said Betty Jo. "Isn't that simply grand, Brian?" + +"It is pretty 'grand,' all right," he agreed. "The only trouble is, I +must wait so long before the money is due me from the publishers." + +"That is exactly what I came to talk about," she returned quickly. "I +tried to have it different when I made the arrangements with them, but +the terms of payment in the contract are the very best I could get; and +so I have planned a little plan whereby you--that is, we--won't need to +wait for your freedom until the date of settlement with the publishers." + +"You have a plan which will do that?" Brian questioned, doubtfully. + +She nodded vigorously, with another Betty Jo smile. "This is the plan, +and you are not to interrupt until I have finished everything: I happen +to have some money of my very, very own, which is doing nothing but +earning interest--" + +At the look on Brian's face, she stopped suddenly; but, when he started +to speak, she put her hand quickly over his mouth, saying: "You were +not to say a single word until I have finished. Play fair, Brian, dear; +please!" + +When he signified that he would not speak, she continued in her most +matter-of-fact and businesslike tone: "There is every reason in the +world, Brian, why you should pay off your debt to the bank and to Auntie +Sue at the earliest possible moment. You can think of several reasons +yourself. There is me, for instance. + +"Very well. You have the money to your credit with the publishers; but +you can't use it yet. I have money that you can just as well use. You +will make an assignment of your royalties to me, all in proper form, to +cover the amount you need. You will pay me the same interest my money is +now earning where it is. + +"I will arrange for the money to be sent to you in the form of a +cashier's cheque, payable to the banker, Homer T. Ward, so the name +Brian Kent does not appear before we are ready, you see. You will make +believe to Auntie Sue that the money is from the publishers. You will +send the cheque to Mr. Bank President personally, with a statement +of your indebtedness to him properly itemized, interest figured on +everything. You will instruct him to open an account for you with the +balance. And then--then, Brian, you will give dear Auntie Sue a cheque +for what you owe her, with interest of course. And we will all be so +happy! And--and--don't you think I am a very good managing owner? You +do, don't you?" + +When he hesitated, she added: "And the final and biggest reason of all +is, that I want you to do as I have planned more than I ever wanted +anything in the world, except you, and I want this so because I want +you. You can't really refuse, now, can you?" + +How, indeed, could he refuse? + +So they worked it out together as Betty Jo had planned; and when the +time came for the last and best part of the plan, and Brian confessed to +Auntie Sue how he had robbed her, and had known for so long that she was +aware of his crime against her, and finished his confession by giving +her the cheque, it is safe to say that there was nowhere in all the +world more happiness than in the little log house by the river. + +"God-A'mighty sure helped me to do one good turn, anyway, when I jumped +inter the river after that there book when Mr. Burns done throw'd hit +away," commented the delighted Judy. + +And while they laughed together, Betty Jo hugged the deformed mountain +girl, and answered: "God Almighty was sure good to us all that day, +Judy, dear!" + +It was only a day later when Auntie Sue received a letter from Homer T. +Ward which sent the dear old lady in great excitement to Betty Jo. The +banker was coming for his long-deferred vacation to the log house by the +river. + +There was in his letter a kindly word for his former clerk, Brian Kent, +should Auntie Sue chance to see him; much love for his old teacher and +for the dearest girl in the world, his Betty Jo. + +But that part of Homer T. Ward's letter which most excited Auntie +Sue and caused Betty Jo to laugh until she cried was this: The great +financier, who, even in his busy life of large responsibilities, found +time for some good reading, had discovered a great book, by a new and +heretofore unknown writer. The book was great because every page of it, +Homer T. Ward declared, reminded him of Auntie Sue. If the writer had +known her for years, he could not have drawn a truer picture of her +character, nor presented her philosophy of life more clearly. It was a +remarkable piece of work. It was most emphatically the sort of writing +that the world needed. This new author was a genius of the rarest and +best sort. Mr. Ward predicted boldly that this new star in the literary +firmament was destined to rank among those of the first magnitude. +Already, among the banker's closest book friends, the new book was being +discussed, and praised. He would bring a copy for Auntie Sue and Betty +Jo to read. It was not only the book of the year;--it was, in Homer T. +Ward's opinion, one of the really big books of the Century. + +"Well," commented Betty Jo, when they had read and reread that part of +the letter, "dear old Uncle Homer may be a very conservative banker, +but he certainly is more than liberal when he touches on the question of +this new author. Won't we have fun, Auntie Sue! Oh, won't we!" + +Then they planned the whole thing, and proceeded to carry out their +plan. + +Brian was told only that Mr. Ward was coming to visit Auntie Sue, and +that he must be busy somewhere away from the house when the banker +arrived, and not come until he was sent for, because Auntie Sue must +make a full confession to her old pupil of the part she had played +in the Re-Creation of Brian Kent before Homer T. Ward should meet his +former clerk. + +Brian, never dreaming that there were other confessions to be made, +smilingly agreed to do exactly as he was told. + +When the momentous day arrived, Betty Jo met her uncle in Thompsonville, +and all the way home she talked so continuously of her school, and asked +so many questions about his conduct and life and their many Chicago +friends, that the helpless bank president had no chance whatever of +asking her a single embarrassing question. But, when dinner was over +(Brian had taken his lunch with him to the clearing), Homer T. Ward +wanted to know things. + +"Was Brian Kent still working in the neighborhood?" + +Auntie Sue informed him that Brian was still working in the +neighborhood. + +"Betty Jo had seen the bank clerk?" Betty Jo's uncle supposed. "What did +she think of the fellow?" + +Betty Jo thought Brian Kent was a rather nice fellow. + +"And how had Betty Jo been amusing herself while her old uncle was +slaving in the city?" + +Betty Jo had been doing a number of things: Helping Auntie Sue with her +housework; learning to cook; keeping up her stenographic work; reading. + +"Reading?" That reminded him, and forthwith Mr. Ward went to his room, +and returned with the book. + +And then those two blessed women listened and admired while he +introduced them to the new genius, and read certain favorite passages +from the great book, and grew enthusiastic on the new author, saying all +that he had written in his letter and many things more, until Betty Jo +could restrain herself no longer, but ran to him, and took the book from +his hands, and, with her arms around his neck, told him that he was the +dearest uncle in the world, because she was going to marry the man who +wrote the book he so admired. + +There were long explanations after that: How the book so highly valued +by Banker Ward had actually been written in that very log house by the +river; how Auntie Sue had sent for Betty Jo to assist the author with +her typewriting; how the author, not knowing who Betty Jo was, had +fallen in love with his stenographer, and, finally, how Betty Jo's +author-lover was even then waiting to meet her guardian, still not +knowing that her guardian was the banker Homer T. Ward. + +"You see, uncle, dear," explained Betty Jo, "Auntie Sue and I were +obliged to conspire this little conspiracy against my man, because, you +know, authors are funny folk, and you never can tell exactly what they +are going to do. After giving your heart to a genius as wonderful as you +yourself know this one to be, it would be terrible to have him refuse +you just because you were the only living relative of a rich old +banker;--it would, wouldn't it, uncle, dear?" + +And, really, Homer T. Ward could find reason in Betty Jo's argument, +which ended with that fatal trick question. + +Taking his agreement for granted, Betty Jo continued: "And, you see, +Auntie Sue and I were simply forced to conspire a little against you, +uncle, dear, because you know perfectly well that, much as I needed the +advantage of associating with such an author-man in the actual writing +of his book, you would never, never have permitted me to fall in love +with him before you had discovered for yourself what a great man he +really is, and I simply had to fall in love with him because God made +me to take care of a genius of some sort. And if you don't believe that, +you can ask Judy. Judy has found out a lot about God lately. + +"You won't think I am talking nonsense, or am belittling the occasion +will you, uncle, dear?" she added anxiously. "I am not,--truly, I am +not,--I am very serious. But I can't help being a little excited, can I? +Because it is terrible to love a banker-uncle, as I love you, and at +the same time to love a genius-man, as I love my man, and--and--not know +what you two dearest men in the world are going to do to each other." + +And, at this, the girl's arms were about his neck again, and the girl's +head went down on his shoulder; and he felt her cheek hot with blushes +against his and a very suspicious drop of moisture slipped down inside +his collar. + +When he had held Betty Jo very close for a while, and had whispered +comforting things in her ear, and had smiled over her shoulder at his +old teacher, the banker sent the girl to find her lover while he should +have a serious talk with Auntie Sue. + +The long shadows of the late afternoon were on the mountain-side when +Brian Kent and Betty Jo came down the hill to the little log house by +the river. + +The girl had said to him simply, "You are to come, now, Brian;--Auntie +Sue and Mr. Ward sent me to tell you." + +She was very serious, and as they walked together clung closely to his +arm. And the man, too, seeming to feel the uselessness of words for such +an occasion, was silent. When he helped her over the rail-fence at the +lower edge of the clearing, he held her in his arms for a little; then +they went on. + +They saw the beautiful, tree-clad hills lying softly outlined in the +shadows like folds of green and timeworn velvet, extending ridge +on ridge into the blue. They saw the river, their river, making its +gleaming way with many a curve and bend to the mighty sea, that was +hidden somewhere far beyond the distant sky-line of their vision; and +between them and the river, at the foot of the hill, they saw the little +log house with Auntie Sue and Homer T. Ward waiting in the doorway. + +When the banker saw the man at Betty Jo's side, his mind was far from +the clerk whom he had known more than a year before in the city. His +thoughts were on the author, the scholar, the genius, whose book had +so compelled his respect and admiration. This tall fellow, with the +athletic shoulders and deeply tanned face, who was dressed in the rude +garb of the backwoodsman, with his coat over his arm, his ax on his +shoulder, and his dinner-pail in his hand,--who was he? And why was +Betty Jo so familiar with this stranger,--Betty Jo, who was usually +so reserved, with her air of competent self-possession? Homer T. Ward +turned to look inquiringly at Auntie Sue. + +His old teacher smiled back at him without speaking. + +Then, Betty Jo and Brian Kent were standing before him. + +"Here he is, Uncle Homer," said the girl. + +Brian, hearing her speak those two revealing words, and seeing her go to +the bank president, who put his arm around her with the loving intimacy +of a father, stood speechless with amazement, looking from Homer T. Ward +and Betty Jo to Auntie Sue and back to the banker and the girl. + +Mr. Ward, still not remembering the bank clerk in this re-created Brian +Kent, was holding out his hand with a genial smile. + +As the bewildered Brian mechanically took the hand so cordially +extended, the older man said: "It is an honor, sir, to meet a man who +can do the work you have done in writing that book. It is impossible to +estimate the value of such a service as you have rendered the race. You +have a rare and wonderful gift, Mr. Burns, and I predict for you a life +of remarkable usefulness." + +Brian, still confused, but realizing that Mr. Ward had not recognized +him, looked appealingly at Betty Jo and then to Auntie Sue. + +Auntie Sue spoke: "Mr. Ward is the uncle and guardian of Betty Jo, +Brian." + +"'Brian'!" ejaculated the banker. + +Auntie Sue continued: "Homer, dear, Betty Jo has presented HER author, +Mr. Burns;--permit me to introduce MY Brian Kent!" + +And Judy remarked that evening, when, after supper, they were all on the +porch watching the sunset: "Hit sure is dad burned funny how all tangled +an' snarled up everythin' kin git 'fore a body kin think most, an', +then, if a body'll just keep a-goin' right along, all ter onct hit's all +straightened out as purty as anythin'." + +They laughed happily at the mountain girl's words, and the dear old +teacher's sweet voice answered: "Yes, Judy; it is all just like the +river, don't you see?" + +"Meanin' as how the water gits all tangled an' mixed up when hit's +a-boilin' an' a-roarin' like mad down there at Elbow Rock, an' then all +ter onct gits all smooth an' calm like again," returned Judy. + +"Meaning just that, Judy," returned Auntie Sue. "No matter how tangled +and confused life seems to be, it will all come straight at the last, +if, like the river, we only keep going on." + +And when the dreamy Indian-summer days were come and the blue haze of +autumn lay softly over the brown and gold of the beautiful Ozark hills, +the mountain folk of the Elbow Rock neighborhood gathered one day at the +little log house by the river. + +It was a simple ceremony that made the man and the woman, who were so +dear to Auntie Sue, husband and wife. But the backwoods minister was not +wanting in dignity, though his dress was rude and his words plain; and +the service lacked nothing of beauty and meaning, though the guests +were but humble mountaineers; for love was there, and sincerity, and +strength, and rugged kindliness. + +And when the simple wedding feast was over, they all went down to +the river-bank, at the lower corner of the garden, where, at the eddy +landing, a staunch John-boat waited, equipped and ready. + +When the last good-byes were spoken, and Brian and Betty Jo put out from +the little harbor into the stream, Auntie Sue, with Judy and Homer T. +Ward, went back to the porch of the little log house, there to watch the +beginning of the voyage. + +With Brian at the oars, the boat crossed the stream to the safer +waters close to the other shore, and then, with Betty Jo waving her +handkerchief, and the neighbor men and boys running shouting along the +bank, swept down the river, past the roaring turmoil of the Elbow Rock +rapids into the quiet reaches below, and away on its winding course +between the tree-clad hills. + +"I am so glad," said Auntie Sue, her dear old face glowing with love, +and her sweet voice tremulous with feeling, "I am so glad they chose the +river for their wedding journey." + + + + +Note.--This biographical sketch of Harold Bell Wright will give the +reader a knowledge and understanding of the life-work, aims and purposes +of the author as expressed through his books. It is reprinted on these +pages in response to popular demand.--The Publishers. + + + + +HAROLD BELL WRIGHT + +A Biography + +By ELSBERY W. REYNOLDS + + +The biography of a man is of importance and interest to other men just +to the degree that his life and work touches and influences the life of +his time and the lives of individuals. + +Only in a feeble way, at best, can the life story of any man be told on +the printed page. The story is better as it is written on the hearts of +men and women and the man himself does the writing. + +He lives longest who lives best. He who carves deepest against corroding +time is he who touches with surest hand the greatest number of human +hearts. + +He may or may not be a prodigy of physical strength. He may or may not +be a tower of mental energy. But so long as this old world stands the +man with an overpowering desire for all that is best for the race to +be in the race, whose life is in tune with the divine and with the good +that is within us all, whether he be orator, writer, artist or artisan, +is a giant among men. + +That which we read makes a deeper and more lasting impression on our +lives than that which we see or hear. An author with millions of readers +must be a great central power of thought and influence, at least, in his +own day and generation. We can understand the truth of this through a +study of the aims and life purposes of Harold Bell Wright as expressed +through his books and the circumstances under which they were written. +The wonderful popularity of this author is well estimated by the +millions of copies of his books that have been sold. This is also the +greatest testimonial that can be given to the merit of his work. The +great heart of the reading public is an unprejudiced critic. "Is not +the greatest voice the one to which the greatest number of hearts listen +with pleasure?" + +When a man has attained to great eminence under adverse circumstances we +sometimes wonder to what heights he might have climbed under conditions +more favorable. Who can tell? It is just as easy to say what the young +man of twenty will be when a matured man of forty. The boy of poverty +makes a man of power while the boy nursed in the lap of luxury makes +a man of uneventful life, and, again, a life started with a handicap +remains so through its possible three score years and ten and the life +begun with advantages multiplies its talents ten and a hundred fold. + +So, after all, is not the heart of man the real man and is it not +the guiding star of his ambition, his will, his determination, his +conscience? + +Harold Bell Wright, the second of four sons, was born May 4, 1872, in +Rome, Oneida County, New York. From an earlier biographer we quote the +following: + +"Some essential facts must be dug from out the past where they lie +embedded in the detrital chronicles of the race. Say, then, that away +back in 1640 a ship load of Anglo-Saxon freedom landed in New England. +After a brief period some of the more venturesome spirits emigrated to +the far west and settled amid the undulations of the Mohawk valley +in central New York. Protestant France also sent westward some +Gallic chivalry hungering for freedom. The fringe of this garment of +civilization spread out and reached also into the same valley. English +determination and Huguenot aspiration touched elbows in the war for +political and religious freedom, and touched hearts and hands in +the struggle for economic freedom. Their generations were a genuine +aristocracy. Mutual struggles after mutual aims cemented casual +acquaintance into enduring friendship. William Wright met, loved +and married Alma T. Watson. To them four sons were born. A carpenter +contractor, a man who builds, contrives and constructs, is joined to +a woman into whose soul of wholesome refinement come images of dainty +beauty, where they glow and grow radiant. With lavish unrestraint the +life of this French woman pours itself into her sons. The third child +died in infancy. The eldest survived his mother by some thirteen years. +The youngest is a constructive mechanical engineer. The second son is +Harold Bell Wright. + +"During ten years this mother and this son live in rare intimacy. The +boy's first enduring impression of this life is the vision of the mother +bending affectionately over him while criticising the water color sketch +his unpracticed fingers had just made. Crude blendings and faulty +lines were pointed out, then touched into harmony and more accurate +perspective by her quick skill. Together their eyes watched shades dance +on sunny slopes, cloud shadows race among the hills or lie lazily in the +valley below. + +"Exuberant Nature and ebullient boy loved each other from the first. +Alone, enravished, he often wandered far in sheer joy of living. He +brings, one day, from his rambles a bunch of immortelles which mother +graciously receives. Twenty years later the boy, man-grown, bows +reverently over a box of withered flowers--the same bouquet the mother +took that day and laid away as a precious memento of his boyish love. +Such was the first decade. + +"A ten-year-old boy, motherless, steals from harsh labor and yet harsher +surroundings, runs to the home of sacred memories, clambers to the +attic, and spends the night in anguished solitude. This was his first +Gethsemane. For ten years buffeted and beaten, battling with adversity, +sometimes losing but never lost, snatching learning here and there, +hating sham, loving passionately, misunderstood, misapprehended, too +stubbornly proud to ask apologies or make useless explanations, fighting +poverty in the depths of privation, wrestling existence from toil he +loathed, befriending many and also befriended much, but always face to +face with the grim tragedy which has held part of the stage since Eden. + +"Such was the second decade. The first was spent on hill sides where +shadows only made the light more buoyant as they fled away. The second +was passed in the valley where the shadow hung lazily till the cloud +grew very black and drenched the soil. + +"Lured to college, he undertook to acquire academic culture. As is +well known, college life with its professorial anecdotes and jokes, its +student pranks and grind, is routine drudgery and cob-webbery prose. +Bookish professors and conventional students rarely have just such an +animate problem of French artistry and Bohemian experience to solve. +They did nobly, to be sure, but here was a mind which threw over them +all the glamour of romance." + +Mr. Wright entered the Preparatory Department of Hiram College at the +age of twenty, having previously accepted the faith and identified +himself with the Christian Church in the little quarry town of Grafton, +Ohio. He continued active in the different departments of work in his +church all during his school years with the ultimate result of his +entering the ministry. + +Having no financial means, while in school he made his way by doing odd +jobs about town, house painting and decorating, sketching, etc. After +two years of school life, while laboring to gain funds in order that he +might continue his schooling, he contracted from overwork and out-door +exposure a severe case of pneumonia that left his eyesight badly +impaired and his constitution in such condition that, to the present +day, he has never fully recovered. + +Air castles were tumbled and hopes blasted when his physician advised +him that it would be fatal to re-enter school for, at least, another +year. Whereupon, seeking health and a means of existence, starting from +a point on the Mahoning river, he canoed with sketch and note book, but +alone, down stream a distance of more than five hundred miles. From +this point, by train, he embarked for the Ozark mountains in southwest +Missouri. Here, for some months, while gradually regaining his strength, +he secured employment at farm work, sketching and painting at intervals. + +Once more, he found himself on bed-rock, taking his last cent to pay +express charges back to Ohio on some finished pictures, but, this time, +fortune smiled promptly with a good check by return mail. + +It was while in the Ozarks that Harold Bell Wright preached his first +sermon. Being a regular attendant at the services, held in the little +mountain log school house, he was asked to talk to the people, one +Sunday, when the regular preacher had failed to appear. + +From this Sunday morning talk, that could hardly be called a sermon, and +others that followed, he came to feel that he could do more good in the +ministry than he could in any other field of labor, and soon thereafter +accepted a regular pastorate at Pierce City, Missouri, at a yearly +salary of four hundred dollars. True to a resolve, that his work should +be that through which he could help the most people, he had now chosen +the ministry. A further resolve that he would give up this ministry, +chosen with such earnest conviction, should another field of labor offer +more extensive measures for reaching mankind, took him, in later years, +into the field of literature. He left the ministry with many regrets but +with the same earnest conviction with which he had earlier chosen it. + +Following the publication of "The Shepherd of the Hills" his publishers +assured him that he could secure greater results from his pen rather +than his pulpit and prevailed upon him to henceforth make literature his +life work. This was in every way consistent with his teaching that every +man's ministry is that work through which he can accomplish the greatest +good. + +In the battle of life there is always the higher ground that the many +covet but few attain. In reaching this height Mr. Wright has given to +a multitude, his time, strength and substance, that they, too, might +further advance. He is companionable, loving and loyal to his friends. +He hates sham and hypocrisy and any attempt to glorify one's self by +means other than the fruits of one's own labor. + +This boy, who, from the death of his mother, was driven into a hand to +hand struggle with life for a bare existence, was necessarily forced +into contact with much that was vicious and corrupt. But he in no way +became a part of it. That same inherent love for mental cleanliness and +spiritual truths that has so distinguished the works of the man kept the +boy unstained in his unfortunate environment. + +Mr. Wright resigned his charge at Pierce City for the larger work at +Pittsburg, Kansas. In the second year of his pastorate--1899--he +married Frances E. Long in Buffalo, New York. This union of love had +its beginning back in the school days at Hiram. Unto them have been born +three sons, Gilbert Munger, 1901, Paul Williams, 1902, and Norman Hall, +1910. + +In Pittsburg, Mr. Wright received enthusiastic support from his church +people. Finances were soon in a satisfactory condition, and church +attendance reached the capacity of the building, but still the young +pastor was not satisfied. Pittsburg was a mining town, a young men's +town. A little city with saloons and brothels doing business on every +hand. His soul was on fire for his church to do a larger work and, with +the hope of arousing his people, he conceived the idea of writing "That +Printer of Udell's," planning to read the story, by installments, on +special evenings of successive weeks, to his congregation. + +Pittsburg was made the principal scene and the church of the story was +the kind of church he wanted his Pittsburg charge to be. The teachings +set forth, through the preacher of the story, in the latter half of +the book, are the identical things the author was preaching. The first +chapters of the story are very largely colored by Mr. Wright's early +life, but they are by no means autobiographical. + +"That Printer of Udell's" was written without thought or intention of +offering it for publication. During the author's ministry he made some +of the warmest and most abiding friendships of his life, and it was +through certain of these friends that he was persuaded from reading the +story, as intended, but to offer it for publication, giving it, thus, a +wider usefulness. + +Having a leave of absence of several weeks from his church during the +winter of 1901-2 he accepted an invitation from the pastor of a Chicago +church to hold a special meeting, and it was during this meeting +that the author and his publisher met for the first time. Mr. Wright +delivered a sermon entitled "Sculptors of Life" that was so impressive +that I sought him out with entreaties to repeat his sermon as a lecture +to a certain company of young people. + +The acquaintance thus begun very quickly became one of friendship, +without any knowledge or thought that it would in time lead to a +co-operative life work, and when the author later offered his book for +publication it was without request or thought of financial remuneration. +Mr. Wright, however, was given a contract paying him the highest royalty +that was being paid for any author's first book. + +"That Printer of Udell's" was written almost entirely in the late hours +of the night and the very early hours of the morning. Great demands were +being made on the author's time in the way of requests for officiating +and speaking at public and civic functions in addition to the now heavy +requirements of his church. His aggressive activities, backed by his +splendid spirit, fearlessness and courage in combating the evils of his +little city made for him a host of admirers, alike, among his enemies +and friends. When he left to accept a pastorate in Kansas City, +Missouri, his resignation was not accepted. + +After one year in Kansas City he found that he was not physically able +to carry out the great city work as he had dreamed it and planned it, +on a scale that would satisfy his longings for service, and it made him +seriously consider whether there was not some other way that would more +equally measure with his strength. He went again to the Ozarks, this +time for rest and meditation, and while there began writing "The +Shepherd of the Hills." This Story has a peculiar significance for +the author. He feels toward it as he can not feel for any of his other +books. "The Shepherd of the Hills" was written as a test. The strength +of the message he was able to put into the story and the response it +should find in the hearts of men and women was to decide for him his +ministry henceforth, whether he would teach the precepts of the Man of +Galilee by voice or pen. It was a testing time that bore fruit not only +in this simple, sweet story, that to quote an eminent divine, "is one of +the greatest sermons of our day," but resulted as well in the splendid +volumes that have followed. + +"The Shepherd of the Hills" was finished during the year of his +pastorate at Lebanon, Missouri, and but for the sympathy, encouragement +and helpful understanding of his church officers and membership, it is +doubtful if the story could ever have been completed. When Mr. Wright +delivered the manuscript to his publishers the first of the year, 1907, +for publication the next fall, he had accepted the pastorate of the +Christian Church in Redlands, California, hoping this land of sunshine +would give him a larger measure of health. + +Some months later, resigning his Redlands pastorate, he went to the +Imperial Valley and there, the following year, wrote "The Calling of Dan +Matthews." The church and its problems were weighing on the author and +affecting his life no less than when he was in the ministry and it was +only natural that he should give to the world "a picture that is true +to the four corners of the earth." Every incident in the story has its +counterpart in real life and, with but few exceptions, came under the +author's personal observation. He did not get the real pleasure out +of writing "The Calling of Dan Matthews" that he did the story which +preceded it. But he could not, try as he would, escape it. + +The publication of "The Calling of Dan Matthews" in the fall of 1909 was +just two years after the publication of "The Shepherd of the Hills." + +"The Winning of Barbara Worth" required more time and effort in the +collecting of material than any book the author had written, but +probably gave him, at least, as much pleasure. He is very careful with +regard to descriptive detail, and even while writing "The Calling of Dan +Matthews" he was making a study of the desert and this great reclamation +project. Before sending his manuscript for publication he had it checked +over by the best engineers on the Pacific coast for inaccuracies in any +of his descriptions that involved engineering or reclamation problems. + +"The Winning of Barbara Worth" bears the distinction, without doubt, +of being the only book ever published that called its publisher and +illustrator from a distance of two and three thousand miles, into the +heart of a great desert, for a consultation with its author. This story +of the Imperial Valley and its reclamation was written in the same study +as was "The Calling of Dan Matthews." A study of rude construction, +about eighteen by thirty-five feet, with thatched roof and outside +covering of native arrow-weed and built entirely by the author himself. + +When Mr. Wright finished "The Winning of Barbara Worth"--so named in +honor of Ruth Barbara Reynolds--he was a sick man. He often worked the +night through, overtaxing his nerve and strength. For several months he +virtually dwelt within the four walls of his study and for a time it was +feared he would not live to finish the book. He wrote the last chapters +while confined to his bed, after which he was taken by easy stages, +through the kindness of friends, to that part of Northern Arizona that +is so delightful to all lovers of the out-of-doors. In this bracing +mile-high atmosphere he soon grew well and strong, almost to ruggedness, +and on the day his book was published he was riding in a wild-horse +chase over a country wild and rough where the writer of this sketch +would only care to go, carefully picking his way, on foot. So it was +weeks after publication before the author saw the first bound copy +of his book. During these summer and fall months, while regaining his +strength, he was busy with sketch and note book collecting material, for +this part of Arizona is the scene of his novel "When a Man's a Man." + +"Their Yesterdays" was written in Tucson, Arizona, and was published in +the fall of 1912, just one year after the publication of "The Winning +of Barbara Worth." In order to write this story, with the least possible +strain on his nerves and vitality, Mr. Wright secluded himself in a +little cottage purchased especially for this work. His material was +collected from the observations of his thoughtful years and his intimate +knowledge of human hearts. This book is, perhaps, more representative +of the real Harold Bell Wright than anything he has done. It is the true +presentation of his views on life, love and religion. I once asked Mr. +Wright, in behalf of the faculty, to deliver an address to a graduating +class of some twenty-odd young men of the Morgan Park Academy (Chicago). +He was very busy and I suggested that without special effort he make the +commonplace remarks that one so often hears on like occasions. For the +first time that I remember he somewhat impatiently resented a suggestion +from me, saying "These young men are on the threshold of life and the +very best that is within me is due to them. I can give to them only such +a message as I would, were I to stand before judgment on the morrow." It +was with just this spirit that the author wrote "Their Yesterdays." + +Following "Their Yesterdays" the next book in order of publication was +"The Eyes of the World," published in the fall of 1914. It was written +in the same arrow-weed study on Tecolote Rancho in the Imperial Valley +where he wrote "The Calling of Dan Matthews" and "The Winning of Barbara +Worth." Being fully in sympathy with the author's purpose in writing +this story, the campaign of advertising was of such educational +character and so eventful in many ways, that it will long be remembered +by authors, publishers and reading public, and, we trust, make for +cleaner books and pictures. + +As it was in the writing of "The Calling of Dan Matthews" so it was in +the writing of "The Eyes of the World," the sense of duty stood highest. +The modern trend in books and music and art and drama had so incensed +the author that "The Eyes of the World" was the result of his all +impelling desire for cleaner living and thinking. As is true of all +writers, there are sometimes those who fail to catch the message in +Mr. Wright's books. He is occasionally misunderstood, and that was +especially true with "The Eyes of the World." To the great majority +of people, clean living and thinking, the message was not to be +misinterpreted and to them the book is blessed. To that small minority +it was convicting and, from a few such, it brought forth condemnation +which, in a fellow author here and there, was pronounced and emphasized +by envy and jealousy. To critics of this class Mr. Wright makes no reply +and is not in the least disturbed. + +"The Uncrowned King," a small volume--an allegory--published in 1910, +to me, is one of the most delightful of Mr. Wright's books. Possibly, +it has an added charm because of certain peculiar conditions. It was +written in Redlands, California, during the winter of 1909-10, although +the notion for the little volume occurred to the author while living in +Kansas City. It was one of those times when the longing and will to do +a work greater than the physical would permit seemed almost overpowering +when, unconsciously coming to his aid, a young woman talking to a +company of Christian Endeavorers chanced to remark, "After all, the +real kings of earth are seldom crowned." All through the evening service +thoughts that this inspired kept running through the author's mind and +late that same night he wrote the outline which was only completed some +years later and given to his publishers to enrich the world. + +His first four novels in order of publication have been dramatized +and enjoyed by thousands from before the footlights and it has been a +delight to renew acquaintances with old friends in this way. It remained +for "The Eyes of the World" to be the first of his books to be presented +in a feature production of motion pictures. + +The likes and dislikes of Harold Bell Wright are quite pronounced. He is +unpretending, cares not for the lime-light and avoids interviews for the +public press. Loud, boisterous conversation is but little less offensive +to him than vulgarity in speech or action. His friends are strong, +clean-minded men who are doing things in the world and are as necessary +to his being as the air to his existence, and his generosity to them is +no less marked than his caring and providing for his family, which is +almost a passion. He is extremely fond of most forms of out-door life. +The desert with its vast expanse, fierce solitude and varied colors is +no less attractive to him than the peaceful quiet of wooded dells, the +beauty of flowering meadows or the rugged mountains with their roaring +trout streams that furnish him hours of sport with rod and line. He +enjoys hunting, horse-back riding or long tramps afoot. But when there +is work to be done it is the one thing that bulks largest and all else +must wait. + +After finishing "The Eyes of the World," Mr. Wright embarked on the +building of a home in the Santa Monica mountains near Hollywood, +California. So in the summer of 1915 the little family of five +began making their residence in the new canyon home, one of nature's +delightful spots. + +Then again, the author went into camp in the Arizona desert while +writing "When a Man's a Man." For he finds it very helpful to live in +the atmosphere of his story while doing the actual writing and he also +avoids frequent interruption. I think he got more real enjoyment out +of this story than any he has previously done. It is a story of the +out-of-doors in this great unfenced land where a man must be a man. I +suppose, too, he enjoyed writing this work so much, partly, because it +comes so easy for him to just tell a story without the intervention of +some nerve racking problem. The only book he has heretofore written that +is purely a story is "The Shepherd of the Hills," and I sometimes wonder +to what proportion of his readers does this Ozark story hold first +place. For all such, I am sure, "When a Man's a Man" will find a +reception of special heartiness because it is just a fine, big, +wholesome novel of simple sweetness and virile strength. + +I have written this sketch of Harold Bell Wright that you may know him +as intimately, if possible, as if you had met him in person. But should +you have the opportunity of making his acquaintance do not deny yourself +the pleasure. If you are a lover of his books I am sure you are just the +kind of person that the author himself delights to meet. + +"Relay Heights," February 15, 1916. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Re-Creation of Brian Kent, by +Harold Bell Wright + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT *** + +***** This file should be named 3265.txt or 3265.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/6/3265/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.12.12.00*END* + + + + + +This etext was produced by Donald Lainson, charlie@idirect.com. + + + + + +THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT + +by HAROLD BELL WRIGHT + + + + +DEAR AUNTIE SUE: + +I have wondered many times, while writing this simple story of life +and love, if you would ever forgive me for putting you in a book. +I hope you will, because if you do not, I shall be heartbroken, and +you wouldn't want me that way, would you, Auntie Sue? + +I fancy I can hear you say: "But, Harold, how COULD you! You know +I never did the things you have made me do in your story. You know +I never lived in a little log house by the river in the Ozark +Mountains! What in the world will people think!" + +Well, to tell the truth, dear, I don't care so very much what +people think if only they will love you; and that they are sure to +do, because,--well, just because-- You must remember, too, that +you will be eighty-seven years old the eighteenth of next November, +and it is therefore quite time that someone put you in a book. + +And, after all, Auntie Sue, are you very sure that you have never +lived in a little log house by the river,--are you very sure, +Auntie Sue? + +Forgive my impertinence, as you have always forgiven me everything; +and love me just the same, because I have written only in love of +the dearest Auntie Sue in the world! + +Signature [Harold] + +The Glenwood Mission Inn, +Riverside, California, +April 30, 1919. + + + +"And see the rivers, how they run +Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, +Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,-- +Wave succeeding wave, they go +A various journey to the deep +Like human life to endless sleep!" + +John Dyer--"Grongar Hill." + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + +I. A REMARKABLE WOMAN + +II. THE MAN IN THE DARK + +III. A MISSING LETTER + +IV. THE WILL OF THE RIVER + +V. AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN + +VI. IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER + +VII. OFFICERS OF THE LAW + +VIII. THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW + +IX. AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION + +X. BRIAN KENT DECIDES + +XI. RE-CREATION + +XII. AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE + +XIII. JUDY TO THE RESCUE + +XIV. BETTY JO CONSIDERS + +XV. A MATTER OF BUSINESS + +XVI. THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE + +XVII. AN AWKWARD SITUATION + +XVIII. BETTY JO FACES HERSELF + +XIX. JUDY'S CONFESSION + +XX. BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE + +XXI. THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW + +XXII. AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK + +XXIII. IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS + +XXIV. JUDY'S RETURN + +XXV. THE RIVER + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + +BETTY JO + +"LOOK, JUDY! LOOK! + +AUNTIE SUE SAID, SOFTLY, "SHE DID NOT UNDERSTAND, BRIAN" + +* * * SHE MADE THE LITTLE BOOK OF PAINFUL MEMORIES A BOOK OF JOYOUS +PROMISE + + + +THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A REMARKABLE WOMAN. + + +I remember as well as though it were yesterday the first time I met +Auntie Sue. + +It happened during my first roaming visit to the Ozarks, when I had +wandered by chance, one day, into the Elbow Rock neighborhood. +Twenty years it was, at least, before the time of this story. She +was standing in the door of her little schoolhouse, the ruins of +which you may still see, halfway up the long hill from the log +house by the river, where the most of this story was lived. + +It was that season of the year when the gold and brown of our Ozark +Hills is overlaid with a filmy veil of delicate blue haze and the +world is hushed with the solemn sweetness of the passing of the +summer. And as the old gentlewoman stood there in the open door of +that rustic temple of learning, with the deep-shadowed, wooded +hillside in the background, and, in front, the rude clearing with +its crooked rail fence along which the scarlet sumac flamed, I +thought,--as I still think, after all these years,--that I had +never before seen such a woman. + +Fifty years had gone into the making of that sterling character +which was builded upon a foundation of many generations of noble +ancestors. Without home or children of her own, the life strength +of her splendid womanhood had been given to the teaching of boys +and girls. An old-maid schoolteacher? Yes,--if you will. But, as +I saw her standing there that day,--tall and slender, dressed in a +simple gown that was fitting to her work,--there was a queenly +dignity, a stately sweetness, in her bearing that made me feel, +somehow, as if I had come unexpectedly into the presence of +royalty. Not the royalty of caste and court and station with their +glittering pretenses of superiority and their superficial claims to +distinction,--I do not mean that; I mean that true royalty which +needs no caste or court or station but makes itself felt because +it IS. + +She did not notice me at first, for the noise of the children at +play in the yard covered the sound of my approach, and she was +looking far, far away, over the river which lay below at the foot +of the hill; over the forest-clad mountains in the glory of their +brown and gold; over the vast sweep of the tree-crowned Ozark +ridges that receded wave after wave into the blue haze until, in +the vastness of the distant sky, they were lost. And something +made me know that, in the moment's respite from her task, the woman +was looking even beyond the sky itself. + +Her profile, clean-chiselled, but daintily formed, was beautiful in +its gentle strength. Her hair was soft and silvery like the gray +mist of the river in the morning. Then she turned to greet me, and +I saw her eyes. Boy that I was then, and not given overmuch to +serious thought, I knew that the high, unwavering purpose, the +loving sympathy, and tender understanding that shone in the calm +depth of those eyes could belong only to one who habitually looks +unafraid beyond all earthly scenes. Only those who have learned +thus to look beyond the material horizon of our little day have +that beautiful inner light which shone in the eyes of Auntie Sue-- +the teacher of a backwoods school. + +Auntie Sue had come to the Elbow Rock neighborhood the summer +preceding that fall when I first met her. She had grown too old, +she said, with her delightful little laugh, to be of much use in +the larger schools of the more thickly populated sections of the +country. But she was still far too young, she stoutly maintained, +to be altogether useless. + +Tom Warden, who lived just over the ridge from the schoolhouse, and +who was blessed with the largest wife, the largest family, and the +most pretentious farm in the county, had kinsfolk somewhere in +Illinois. Through these relatives of the Ozark farmer Miss Susan +Wakefield had learned of the needs of the Elbow Rock school, and +so, finally, had come into the hills. It was the influential Tom +who secured for her the modest position. It was the motherly Mrs. +Tom who made her at home in the Warden household. It was the +Warden boys and girls who first called her "Auntie Sue." But it +was Auntie Sue herself who won so large a place in the hearts of +the simple mountain folk of the district that she held her position +year after year, until she finally gave up teaching altogether. + +Not one of her Ozark friends ever came to know in detail the +history of this remarkable woman's life. It was known in a general +way that she was born in Connecticut; that she had a brother +somewhere in some South-American country; that two other brothers +had been killed in the Civil War; that she had taught in the lower +and intermediate grades of public schools in various places all the +years of her womanhood. Also, it was known that she had never +married. + +"And that," said Uncle Lige Potter, voicing the unanimous opinion, +of the countryside, "is a doggone funny thing and plumb unnatural, +considerin' the kind of woman she is." + +To which Lem Jordan,--who was then living with his fourth wife, and +might therefore be held to speak with a degree of authority,-- +added: "Hit sure is a dad burned shame, an' a plumb disgrace to +the men of this here country, when you come to look at the sort of +wimmen most of 'em are a marryin' most of the time." + +Another matter of universal and never-failing interest to the +mountain folk was the unprecedented number of letters that Auntie +Sue received and wrote. That some of these letters written by +their backwoods teacher were addressed to men and women of such +prominence in the world that their names were known even to that +remote Ozark district was a source of no little pride to Auntie +Sue's immediate neighbors, and served to mark her in their eyes +with no small distinction. + +It was during the fourth year of her life amid the scenes of this +story,--as I recall time,--that Auntie Sue invested the small +savings of her working years in the little log house by the river +and the eighty acres of land known as the "Old Bill Wilson place." + +The house was a substantial building of three rooms, a lean-to +kitchen, and a porch overlooking the river. The log barn, with +"Prince," a gentle old horse, and "Bess," a mild-mannered, brindle +cow, completed the modest establishment. About thirty acres of the +land were cleared and under cultivation of a sort. The remaining +acreage was in timber. The price, under the kindly and expert +supervision of Tom Warden, was fifteen dollars an acre. But Auntie +Sue always laughingly insisted that she really paid fifty cents an +acre for the land and fourteen dollars and a half an acre for the +sunsets. + +The tillable land, except for the garden, she "let out on shares," +always under the friendly guardianship of neighbor Tom; while Tom's +boys cared for the little garden in season, and saw to it that the +woodpile was always ample and ready for the stove. And, in +addition to these fixed and regular homely services, there were +many offerings of helpful hands whenever other needs arose; for, as +time passed, there came to be in all the Elbow Rock district scarce +a man, young or old, who did not now and then honor himself by doing +some little job for Auntie Sue; while the women and girls, in the +same neighborly spirit, brought from their own humble households +many tokens of their loving thoughtfulness. And never did one visit +that little log house by the river without the consciousness of +something received from the silvery-haired old teacher--a something +intangible, perhaps, which they could not have expressed in words, +but which, nevertheless, enriched the lives of those simple mountain +people with a very real joy and a very tangible happiness. + +For six years, Auntie Sue continued teaching the Elbow Rock +school;--climbing the hill in the morning from her log house by the +river to the cabin schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side +above; returning in the late afternoon, when her day's work was +over, down the winding road to her little home, there to watch, +from the porch that overlooked the river, the sunset in the +evening. And every year the daily climb grew a little harder; the +days of work grew a little longer; she went down the hill in the +afternoon a little slower. And every year the sunsets were to her +eyes more beautiful; the evening skies to her understanding glowed +with richer meaning; the twilight hours filled her heart with a +deeper peace. + +And so, at last, her teaching days were over; that is, she taught +no more in the log schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain- +side. But in her little home beside the river she continued her +work; not from text-books, indeed, but as all such souls must +continue to teach, until the sun sets for the last time upon their +mortal days. + +Work-worn, toil-hardened mountaineer mothers, whose narrow world +denied them so many of the finer thoughts and things, came to +counsel with this childless woman, and to learn from her a little +of the art of contentment and happiness. Strong men, of rude dress +and speech, whose lives were as rough as the hills in which they +were reared, and whose thoughts were often as crude as their half- +savage and sometimes lawless customs, came to sit at the feet of +this gentle one, who received them all with such kindly interest +and instinctive understanding. And young men and girls came, drawn +by the magic that was hers, to confide in this woman who listened +with such rare tact and loving sympathy to their troubles and their +dreams, and who, in the deepest things of their young lives, was +mother to them all. + +Nor were the mountain folk her only disciples. Always there were +the letters she continued to write, addressed to almost every +corner of the land. And every year there would come, for a week or +a month, at different times during the summer, men and women from +the great world of larger affairs who had need of the strength and +courage and patience and hope they never failed to find in that +little log house by the river. And so, in time, it came to be +known that those letters written by Auntie Sue went to men and +women who, in their childhood school days, had received from her +their first lessons in writing; and that her visitors, many of them +distinguished in the world of railroads and cities, were of that +large circle of busy souls who had never ceased to be her pupils. + +Thus it came that the garden was made a little larger, and two +rooms were added to the house, with other modest improvements, to +accommodate Auntie Sue's grown-up boys and girls when they came to +visit her. But never was there a hired servant, so that her guests +must do their own household tasks, because, Auntie Sue said, that +was good for them and mostly what they needed. + +It should also be said here that among her many pupils who lived +beyond the sky-line of the far, blue hills, not one knew more of +the real secret of Auntie Sue's life and character than did the +Ozark mountaineers of the Elbow Rock district, among whom she had +chosen to pass the evening of her day. + +Then came one who learned the secret. He learned--but that is my +story. I must not tell the secret here. + + + +CHAPTER II. + +THE MAN IN THE DARK. + + +A man stood at a window, looking out into the night. There was no +light in the room. The stars were hidden behind a thick curtain of +sullen clouds. + +The house was a wretchedly constructed, long-neglected building of +a type common to those old river towns that in their many years of +uselessness have lost all civic pride, and in their own resultant +squalor and filth have buried their self-respect. A dingy, +scarcely legible sign over the treacherous board walk, in front, by +the sickly light of a smoke-grimed kerosene lantern, announced that +the place was a hotel. + +Dark as it was, the man at the window could see the river. The +trees that lined the bank opposite the town were mere ghostly +shadows against the gloomy masses of the low hills that rose from +the water's edge, indistinct, mysterious, and unreal, into the +threatening sky. The higher mountains that reared their crests +beyond the hills were invisible. The stream itself swept sullenly +through the night,--a resistless flood of dismal power, as if, +turbid with wrecked souls, with the lost hopes and ruined dreams +of men, it was fit only to bear vessels freighted with sorrow, +misfortune, and despair. + +The manner of the man at the window was as if some woeful spirit of +the melancholy scene were calling him. With head bowed, and face +turned a little to one side, he listened intently as one listens to +voices that are muffled and indistinct. He pressed his face close +to the glass, and with straining eyes tried to see more clearly the +ghostly trees, the sombre hills, and the gloomy river. Three times +he turned from the window to pace to and fro in the darkened room, +and every time his steps brought him again to the casement, as if +in obedience to some insistent voice that summoned him. The fourth +time, he turned from the window more quickly, with a gesture of +assenting decision. + +The crackling snap of a match broke the dead stillness. The sudden +flare of light stabbed the darkness. As he applied the tiny, +wavering flame to the wick of a lamp that stood on the cheap, old- +fashioned bureau, the man's hand shook until the chimney rattled +against the wire standards of the burner. Turning quickly from the +lighted lamp, the man sprang again to the window to jerk down the +tattered, old shade. Facing about, he stood with his back to the +wall, searching the room with wide, fearful eyes. His fists were +clenched. His chest rose and fell heavily with his labored +breathing. His face worked with emotion. With trembling limbs and +twitching muscles, he crouched like some desperate creature at bay. + +But, save for the wretched man himself, there was in that shabby, +dingy-papered, dirty-carpeted, poorly furnished apartment no living +thing. + +Suddenly, the man laughed;--and it was the reckless, despairing +laughter of a soul that feels itself slipping over the brink of an +abyss. + +With hurried step and outstretched hands, he crossed the room to +snatch a bottle of whisky from its place beside the lamp on the +bureau. With trembling eagerness, he poured a water tumbler half- +full of the red liquor. As one dying of thirst, he drank. Drawing +a deep breath, and shaking his head with a wry smile, he spoke in +hoarse confidence to the image of himself in the dingy mirror: +"They nearly had me, that time." Again, he poured, and drank. + +The whisky steadied him for the moment, and with bottle and glass +still in hand, he regarded himself in the mirror with critical +interest. + +Had he stood erect, with the vigor that should have been his by +right of his years, the man would have measured just short of six +feet; but his shoulders--naturally well set--sagged with the +weariness of excessive physical indulgence; while the sunken chest, +the emaciated limbs, and the dejected posture of his misused body +made him in appearance, at least, a wretched weakling. His +clothing--of good material and well tailored--was disgustingly +soiled and neglected;--the shoes thickly coated with dried mud, and +the once-white shirt, slovenly unfastened at the throat, without +collar or tie. The face which looked back from the mirror to the +man was, without question, the countenance of a gentleman; but the +broad forehead under the unkempt red-brown hair was furrowed with +anxiety; the unshaven cheeks were lined and sunken; the finely +shaped, sensitive mouth drooped with nervous weakness; and the +blue, well-placed eyes were bloodshot and glittering with the light +of near-insanity. + +The poor creature looked at the hideous image of his ruined self as +if fascinated with the horror of that which had been somehow +wrought. Slowly, as one in a trance, he went closer, and, without +moving his gaze from the mirror, placed the bottle and tumbler upon +the bureau. As if compelled by those burning eyes that stared so +fixedly at him, he leaned forward still closer to the glass. Then, +as he looked, the distorted features twitched and worked grotesquely +with uncontrollable emotions, while the quivering lips formed words +that were not even whispered. With trembling fingers he felt the +unshaven cheeks and touched the unkempt hair questioningly. +Suddenly, as if to shut out the horror of that which he saw in the +mirror, the man hid his face in his hands, and with a sobbing, +inarticulate cry sank to the floor. + +Silently, with pitiless force, the river swept onward through the +night, following its ordained way to the mighty sea. + +As if summoned again by some dark spirit that brooded over the +sombre, rushing flood, the man rose heavily to his feet. His face +turned once more toward the window. A moment he stood there, +listening, listening; then wheeling back to the whisky bottle and +the glass on the bureau, he quickly poured, and drank again. + +Nodding his head in the manner of one reaching a conclusion, he +looked slowly about the room, while a frightful grin of hopeless, +despairing triumph twisted his features, and his lips moved as if +he breathed reckless defiance to an invisible ghostly company. + +Moving, now, with a decision and purpose that suggested a native +strength of character, the man quickly packed a suit-case with +various articles of clothing from the bureau drawers and the +closet. He was in the act of closing the suit-case when he stopped +suddenly, and, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned away. Then, +as if struck by another thought, he stooped again over his baggage, +and drew forth a fresh, untouched bottle of whisky. + +"I guess you are the only baggage I'll need where I am going," he +said, whimsically; and, leaving the open suit-case where it lay, he +crossed the room, and extinguished the light. Cautiously, he +unlocked and opened the door. For a moment, he stood listening. +Then, with the bottle hidden under his coat, he stole softly from +the room. + +A few minutes later, the man stood out there in the night, on the +bank of the river. Behind him the outlines of the scattered houses +that made the little town were lost against the dusk of the +hillside. From the ghostly tree-shadows that marked the opposite +bank, the solemn hills rose out of the deeper darkness of the +lowlands that edged the stream in sombre mystery. There was no +break in the heavy clouds to permit the gleam of a friendly star. +There was no sound save the soft swish of the water against the +bank where he stood, the chirping of a bird in the near-by willows, +and the occasional splash of a leaping fish or water animal. But +to the man there was a feeling of sound. To the lonely human wreck +standing there in the darkness, the river called--called with +fearful, insistent power. + +From under the black wall of the night the dreadful flood swept out +of the Somewhere of its beginning. Past the man the river poured +its mighty strength with resistless, smoothly flowing, terrible +force. Into the darkness it swept on its awful way to the Nowhere +of its ending. For uncounted ages, the river had poured itself +thus between those walls of hills. For untold ages to come, until +the end of time itself, the stream would continue to pour its +strength past that spot where the man stood. + +Out of the night, the voice of the river had called to the man, as +he stood at the window of his darkened room. And the man had come, +now, to answer the call. Cautiously, he went down the bank toward +the edge of the dark, swirling water. His purpose was unmistakable. +Nor was there any hint of faltering, now, in his manner. He had +reached his decision. He knew what he had come to do. + +The man's feet were feeling the mud at the margin of the stream +when his legs touched something, and a low, rattling sound startled +him. Then he remembered. A skiff was moored there, and he had +brushed against the chain that led from the bow of the boat to the +stump of a willow higher up on the bank. The man had seen the +skiff,--a rude, flat-bottomed little craft, known to the Ozark +natives as a John-boat,--just before sunset that evening. But +there had been no boat in his thoughts when he had come to answer +the call of the river, and in the preoccupation of his mind, as he +stood there in the night beside the stream, he had not noticed it, +as it lay so nearly invisible in the darkness. Mechanically, he +stooped to feel the chain with his free hand. A moment later, he +had placed his bottle of whisky carefully in the boat, and was +loosing the chain painter from the willow stump. + +"Why not?" he said to himself. "It will be easier in midstream,-- +and more certain." + +Carefully, so that no sound should break the stillness, he stowed +the chain in the bow, and then worked the skiff around until it +pointed out into the stream. Then, with his hands grasping the +sides of the little craft, and the weight of his body on one knee +in the stern, he pushed vigorously with his free foot against the +bank and so was carried well out from the shore. As the boat lost +its momentum, the strong current caught it and whirled it away down +the river. + +Groping in the darkness, the man found his bottle of whisky, and +working the cork out with his pocketknife, drank long and deep. + +Already, save for a single light, the town was lost in the night. +As the man watched that red spot on the black wall, the stream +swung his drifting boat around a bend, and the light vanished. The +dreadful mystery of the river drew close. The world of men was +far, very far away. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in +the mirror, and had obeyed the voice that summoned him into the +darkness. In fancy, now, he saw his empty boat swept on and on. +Through what varied scenes would it drift? To what port would the +mysterious will of the river carry it? To what end would it at +last come in its helplessness? + +And the man himself,--the human soul-craft,--what of him? As he +had pushed his material boat out into the stream to drift, unguided +and helpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the +shore of all that men call life. Through what scenes would he +drift? To what port would the will of an awful invisible stream +carry him? To what end would he finally come, in his helplessness? + +Again the man drank--and again. + +And then, with face upturned to the leaden clouds, he laughed +aloud--laughed until the ghostly shores gave back his laughter, and +the voices of the night were hushed and still. + +The laughter ended with a wild, reckless, defiant yell. + +Springing to his feet in the drifting boat, the man shook his +clenched fist at the darkness, and with insane fury cursed the life +he had left behind. + +The current whirled the boat around, and the man faced down the +stream. He laughed again; and, lifting his bottle high, uttered a +reckless, profane toast to the unknown toward which he was being +carried by the river in the night. + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A MISSING LETTER. + + +Auntie Sue's little log house by the river was placed some five +hundred yards back from the stream, on a bench of land at the foot +of Schoolhouse Hill. From this bench, the ground slopes gently to +the river-bank, which, at this point, is sheer and high enough to +be well above the water at flood periods. The road, winding down +the hill, turns to the right at the foot of the steep grade, and +leads away up the river; and between the road and the river, on the +up-stream side of the house, was the garden. + +At the lower corner of the garden, farthest from the house, the +strong current had cut a deep inward curve in the high shore-line, +forming thus an eddy, which was margined on one side, at a normal +stage of water, by a narrow shelf of land between the water's edge +and the foot of the main bank. A flight of rude steps led down +from the garden above to this natural landing, which, for three +miles up and down the river, was the only point, on Auntie Sue's +side of the stream, where one could go ashore from a skiff. + +From the porch of the house, one, facing up the river, looked over +the gently sloping garden, over the eddy lying under the high bank, +and away over a beautiful reach of water known as The Bend,--a +wide, sweeping curve which, a mile distant, is lost behind a wooded +bluff where, at times, during the vacation or hunting season, one +might see the smoke from the stone chimney of a clubhouse which was +built and used by people who lived in the big, noisy city many +miles from the peaceful Ozark scene. From the shore of The Bend, +opposite and above Auntie Sue's place, beyond the willows that +fringe the water's edge, the low bottom-lands extend back three- +quarters of a mile to the foot of a heavily timbered ridge, beyond +which rise the higher hills. But directly across from Auntie Sue's +house, this ridge curves sharply toward the stream; while less than +a quarter of a mile below, a mighty mountain-arm is thrust out from +a shoulder of Schoolhouse Hill, as if to bar the river's way. The +high bluff thus formed is known to the natives throughout all that +region as Elbow Rock. + +The quiet waters of The Bend move so gently on their broad course +that from the porch, looking up the stream, the eye could scarcely +mark the current. But in front of the little log house, where the +restraining banks of the river draw closer together, the lazy +current awakens to quickening movement. Looking down the stream, +one could see the waters leaving the broad and quiet reaches of The +Bend above and rushing away with fast increasing speed between the +narrowing banks until, in all their vicious might, they dashed full +against the Elbow Rock cliff, where, boiling and tossing in mad +fury, they roared away at a right angle and so around the point and +on to another quiet stretch below. And many were the tales of +stirring adventure and tragic accident at this dangerous point of +the river's journey to the far-away sea. Skilled rivermen, by +holding their John-boats and canoes close to the far shore, might +run the rapids with safety. But no boat, once caught in the +vicious grip of the main current between the comparatively still +waters of The Bend and that wild, roaring tumult at Elbow Rock, had +ever survived. + +It was nearing the close of a late summer day, and Auntie Sue, as +was her custom, stood on the porch watching the sunset. In the +vast field of sky that arched above the softly rounded hills there +was not a cloud. No wind stirred the leaves of the far-reaching +forests, or marred the bright waters of the quiet Bend that +mirrored back the green, tree-fringed banks and blue-shadowed +mountains. Faintly, through the hush, from beyond the bottom-lands +on the other side of the stream, came the long-drawn "Wh-o-e-e! +Wh-o-e-e!" of farmer Jackson calling his hogs. From the hillside, +back of the house, sounded the deep, mellow tones of a cowbell, +telling Auntie Sue that neighbor Tom's cattle were going home from +their woodland pastures. A company of crows crossed the river on +leisure wing, toward some evening rendezvous. A waterfowl flapped +slowly up the stream. And here and there the swallows wheeled in +graceful circles above the gleaming Bend, or dipped, flashlike, to +break the silvery surface. As the blue of the mountains deepened +to purple, and the rosy light from below the western hills flushed +the sky, the silver sheen of the quiet water changed with the +changing tints above, and the shadows of the trees along the bank +deepened until the shore-line was lost in the dusk of the coming +night. + +And even as the river gave back the light of the sky and the color +of the mountains, so the gentle face of the gray-haired woman, who +watched with such loving reverence, reflected the beauty of the +scene. The peace and quiet of the evening of her life was as the +still loveliness of that twilight hour. + +And, yet, there was a suggestion of pathos in the loneliness of the +slender figure standing there. Now and again, she clasped her +delicate hands to her breast as if moved by emotions of a too- +poignant sweetness, while in her eyes shone the soft light of +fondest memories and dearest dreams. Several times she turned her +head to look about, as if wishing for some one to share with her +the beauty that moved her so. At last, she called; and her voice, +low and pure-toned, had in it the quality that was in the light of +her eyes. + +"Judy! Judy, dear! Do come and see this wonderful, wonderful sky!" + +From within the house, a shrill, querulous, drawling voice, so +characteristic of the Southern "poor-white" mountaineer, answered: +"Wha-a-t?" + +A quick little smile deepened the crows'-feet at the corners of +Auntie Sue's eyes, as she called again with gentle patience: "Do +come and see the sunset, Judy, dear! It is so beautiful!" And, +this time, in answer, Judy appeared in the doorway. + +From appearances, the poor creature's age might have been anywhere +from fifteen to thirty-five; for the twisted and misshapen body, +angular and hard; the scrawny, wry neck; the old-young face, thin +and sallow, with furtive, beady-black eyes, gave no hint of her +years. As a matter of fact, I happened to know that Judith Taylor, +daughter of the notorious Ozark moonshiner, Jap Taylor, was just +past twenty the year she went to live with Auntie Sue. + +Looking obliquely at the old gentlewoman, with a curious expression +of mingled defiance, suspicion, and affection on her almost vicious +face, Judy drawled, "Was you-all a-yellin' for me?" + +"Yes, Judy; I want you to help me watch the sunset," Auntie Sue +answered, with bright animation; and, turning, she pointed toward +the glowing west,--"Look!" + +Judy's sly, evasive eyes did not cease to regard the illumined face +of her old companion as she returned, in her dry, high-pitched +monotone: "I don't reckon as how you-all are a-needin' much help, +seein' as how you are allus a-watchin' hit. A body'd think you-all +was mighty nigh old 'nough, by now, ter look at hit alone." + +Auntie Sue laughed, a low, musical, chuckling laugh, and, with a +hint of loving impatience in her gentle voice, replied to Judy's +observation: "But, don't you understand, child? It adds so to +one's happiness to share lovely scenes like this. It makes it all +so much--so much--well,--BIGGER, to have some one enjoy it with +you. Come, dear!" And she held out her hand with a gesture of +entreaty, and a look of yearning upon her dear old face that no +human being could have withstood. + +Judy, still slyly watchful, went cautiously nearer; and Auntie Sue, +putting an arm lovingly about the crooked shoulders of the mountain +girl, pointed again toward the west as she said, in a low voice +that vibrated with emotion, "Look, Judy! Look!" + +The black eyes shifted, and the old-young, expressionless face +turned toward the landscape, which lay before them in all its +wondrous beauty of glowing sky and tinted mountain and gleaming +river. And there might have been a faint touch of softness, now, +in the querulous monotone as Judy said: "I can't see as how hit +could be ary bigger. Hain't ary reason, as I kin see, why hit +should be ary bigger if hit could. Lord knows there's 'nough of +hit as 't is; rough 'nough, too, as you-all 'd sure know if you-all +had ter trapse over them there hills all yer life like I've had +ter." + +"But, isn't it wonderful to-night, Judy? It seems to me I have +never seen it so perfect." + +"Hit's just like hit's allus been, so far as I kin see, 'ceptin' +that the river's higher in the spring an' more muddier," returned +the mountain girl. "I was borned over there on yon side that there +flat-topped mountain, nigh the mouth of Red Creek. I growed up on +the river, mostly;--learned ter swim an' paddle er John-boat 'fore +I kin remember. Red Creek, hit heads over there behind that there +long ridge, in Injin Holler. There's a still--" + +She checked herself suddenly, and shot a fearful sidewise look at +Auntie Sue; then turned and pointed in the opposite direction with +a pretense of excited interest. "Look down there, ma'm! See how +black the old river is where she smashes inter Elbow Rock, an' how +white them waves be where the water biles an' throws hitself. +Hit'd sure git you if you was ter git ketched in there with er +John-boat, wouldn't hit? Listen, ma'm! You kin hear hit a-roarin' +like hit was mad, can't you?" + +But the older woman turned to face, again, the quiet reaches of The +Bend. + +"I think I like The Bend best, though, Judy. See how perfectly +those trees and hills are mirrored in the river; and how the water +holds the color of the sky. Don't you think God is good to make +the world so beautiful for us, child?" + +"'Beautiful'!" cried poor, deformed Judy, in a voice that shrilled +in vicious protest. "If there is a God, like you-all are allus a- +talkin' 'bout, an' if He sure 'nough made them things, like you-all +sees 'em, He sure hain't toted fair with me." + +"Hush, Judy!" pleaded Auntie Sue. "Please don't, child!" + +But the mountain girl rebelliously continued: "Look at me! Just +look at me! If that there God of your'n is so all-fired good, what +did He go an' let my pap git drunk for, an' beat me like he done +when I was a baby, an' make me grow up all crooked like what I be? +'Good'? Hell! A dad burned ornery kind of a God I call Him!" + +For some time, Auntie Sue did not speak, but stood with her face +upturned to the sky. Then the low, gentle voice again broke the +silence: "See, Judy, dear; the light is almost gone now, and there +is not a cloud anywhere. Yesterday evening, you remember, we could +not see the sunset at all, the clouds were so heavy and solid. The +moon will be lovely to-night. I think I shall wait for it." + +"You-all best set down then," said Judy, speaking again in her +querulous, drawling monotone. "I'll fetch a chair." She brought a +comfortable rustic rocking-chair from the farther end of the porch; +then disappeared into the house, to return a moment later with a +heavy shawl. "Hit'll be a-turnin' cold directly, now the sun's +plumb down," she said, "an' you-all mustn't get to chillin', +nohow." + +Auntie Sue thanked her with gentle courtesy, and, reaching up, +caught the girl's hand as Judy was awkwardly arranging the wrap +about the thin old shoulders. "Won't you bring a chair for +yourself, and sit with me awhile, dear?" As she spoke, Auntie Sue +patted the hard, bony hand caressingly. + +But Judy pulled her hand away roughly, saying: "You-all ain't got +no call ter do sich as that ter me. I'll set awhile with you but I +ain't a-needin' no chair." And with that, she seated herself on +the floor, her back against the wall of the house. + +The last of the evening was gone from the sky, now. The soft +darkness of a clear, star-light night lay over the land. A gentle +breeze stole over the mountains, rustled softly through the forest, +and, drifting across the river, touched Auntie Sue's silvery hair. + +Judy was first to break the silence: "I took notice neighbor Tom +brung you-all a right smart bunch of letter mail this evenin'," she +said, curiously. + +There was a troubled note in Auntie Sue's gentle voice as she +returned, "The letter from the bank did not come, Judy." + +"Hit didn't?" + +"No; and, Judy, it is nearly four weeks, now, since I sent them +that money. I can't understand it." + +"I was plumb scared at the time, you oughten ter sent hit just in +er letter that a-way. Hit sure looked like a heap of money ter be +a-trustin' them there ornery post-office fellers with, even if hit +was funny, new-fangled money like that there was. Why, ma'm, you +take old Tod Stimson, down at the Ferry, now, an' that old devil'd +steal anythin' what warn't too much trouble for him ter lift." + +"Argentine notes the money was, Judy. I felt sure that it would be +all right because, you know, Brother John sent it just in a letter +all the way from Buenos Aires. And, you remember, I folded it up +in extra heavy paper, and put it in two envelopes, one over the +other, and mailed it at Thompsonville with my own hands." + +"Hit sure looks like hit ought ter be safe er nough, so long as hit +warn't mailed at the Ferry where old Stimson could git his hands on +hit," agreed Judy. + +Then, after a silence of several minutes, she added, in a more +reassuring voice: "I reckon as how hit'll be all right, ma'm. I +wouldn't worry myself, if I was you. That there bank-place, like +as not, gits er right smart lot of letters, an' hit stands ter +reason the feller just naturally can't write back ter ev'rybody at +once." + +"Of course," agreed Auntie Sue. "It is just some delay in their +acknowledgment, that is all. Perhaps they are waiting to find out +if the notes are genuine; or it may be that their letter to me went +astray, and will have to be returned to them, and then remailed all +over again. I feel sure I shall hear from them in a few days." + +So they talked until the moon appeared from behind the dark +mountains that, against her light, were silhouetted on the sky. +And, as the old gentlewoman watched the queen of the night rising +higher and higher on her royal course, and saw the dusky landscape +transformed to a fairy-scene of ethereal loveliness, Auntie Sue +forgot the letter that had not come. + +With the enthusiasm that never failed her, the silvery-haired +teacher tried to give the backwoods girl a little of her wealth of +vision. But though they looked at the same landscape, the eyes of +twenty could not see that which was so clear to the eyes of +seventy. Poor Judy! The river, sweeping on its winding way +through the hills, from the springs of its far-away beginnings to +the ocean of its final endeavor,--in all its varied moods and +changes,--in all its beauty and its irresistible power,--the river +could never mean to Judy what it meant to Auntie Sue. + +"Hit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum huntin'," said the +girl, at last, getting to her feet and standing in her twisted +attitude, with her wry neck holding her head to one side. "Them +there Jackson boys'll sure be out." + +Auntie Sue laughed her low chuckling laugh. + +From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom- +lands across the river, came the baying of hounds. "There they be +now," said Judy. "Hear 'em? The Billingses, 'cross from the +clubhouse, 'll be out, too, I reckon. When hit's moonlight, +they're allus a-huntin' 'possum an' 'coon. When hit's dark, +they're out on the river a-giggin' for fish. Well, I reckon I'll +be a-goin' in, now, ma'm," she concluded, with a yawn. "Ain't no +use in a body stayin' up when there ain't nothin' ter do but ter +sleep, as I kin see." + +With an awkward return to Auntie Sue's "Goodnight and sweet dreams, +dear," the mountain girl went into the house. + +For an hour longer, the old gentlewoman sat on the porch of her +little log house by the river, looking out over the moonlit scene. +Nor did she now, as when she had watched the sunset, crave human +companionship. In spirit, she was far from all earthly needs or +cares,--where no troubled thoughts could disturb her serene peace +and her dearest dreams were real. + +The missing letter was forgotten. + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE WILL OF THE RIVER. + + +Had Auntie Sue remained a few minutes longer on the porch, that +evening, she might have seen an object drifting down the river, in +the gentle current of The Bend. + +Swinging easily around the curve above the clubhouse, it would not +have been visible at first, because of the deep shadows of the +reflected trees and mountains. But, presently, as it drifted on +into the broader waters of The Bend, it emerged from the shadows +into the open moonlit space, and then, to any one watching from the +porch, the dark object, drawing nearer and nearer in the bright +moonlight, would have soon shaped itself into a boat--an empty +boat, the watcher would have said, that had broken from its +moorings somewhere up the river;--and the watcher would have heard, +through the still, night air, the dull, heavy roar of the mad +waters at Elbow Rock. + +Drifting thus, helpless in the grip of the main current, the little +craft apparently was doomed to certain destruction. Gently, it +would float on the easy surface of the quiet, moonlit Bend. In +front of the house, it would move faster and faster. Where the +river narrows, it would be caught as if by mighty hands hidden +beneath the rushing flood, and dragged onward still faster and +faster. About it, the racing waters would leap and boil in their +furious, headlong career, shaking and tossing the helpless victim +of their might with a vicious strength from which there would be no +escape, until, in the climax of the river's madness, the object of +its angry sport would be dashed against the cliff, and torn, and +crushed, and hammered by the terrific weight of the rushing flood +against that rocky anvil, into a battered and shapeless wreck. + +The drifting boat drew nearer and nearer. It reached the point +where the curve of the opposite bank draws in to form the narrow +raceway of the rapids. It began to feel the stronger pull of those +hidden hands that had carried it so easily down The Bend. And +then--and then--the unguided, helpless craft responded to the +gentle pressure of some swirl or crosscurrent in the main flow of +the stream, and swung a little to one side. A few feet farther, +and the new impulse became stronger. Yielding easily to the +current that drew it so gently across the invisible dividing-line +between safety and destruction, the boat swung in toward the shore. +A minute more, and it had drifted into that encircling curve of the +bank where the current of the eddy carried it around and around. + +The boat seemed undecided. Would it hold to the harbor of safety +into which it had been drawn by the friendly current? Would it +swing out, again, into the main stream, and so to its own +destruction? + +Three times the bow, pointing out from the eddy, crossed the +danger-line, and, for a moment, hung on the very edge. Three +times, the invisible hands which held it drew it gently back to +safety. And so, finally, the little craft, so helpless, so alone, +amid the many currents of the great river, came to rest against the +narrow shelf of land at the foot of the bank below Auntie Sue's +garden. + +The light in the window of Auntie Sue's room went out. The soft +moonlight flooded mountain and valley and stream. The mad waters +at Elbow Rock roared in their wild fury. Always, always,-- +irresistibly, inevitably, unceasingly,--the river poured its +strength toward the sea. + + + +CHAPTER V. + +AUNTIE SUE RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN. + + +Before the sun was high enough to look over Schoolhouse Hill, the +next morning, Judy went into the garden to dig some potatoes. + +Tom Warden's boys would come, some day before long, and dig them +all, and put them away in the cellar for the winter. But there was +no need to hurry the gathering of the full crop, so the boys would +come when it was most convenient; and, in the meantime, Judy would +continue to dig from day to day all that were needed for the +kitchen in the little log house by the river. In spite of her poor +crooked body, the mountain girl was strong and well used to hard +work, so the light task was, for her, no hardship at all. + +As one will when first coming out of doors in the morning, Judy +paused a moment to look about. The sky, so clear and bright the +evening before, was now a luminous gray. The mountains were lost +in a ghostly world of fog, through which the river moved in +stealthy silence,--a dull thing of mystery, with only here and +there a touch of silvery light upon its clouded surface. The +cottonwoods and willows, on the opposite shore, were mere dreams of +trees,--gray, formless, and weird. The air was filled with the +dank earth-smell. The heavy thundering roar of the never-ending +war of the waters at Elbow Rock came louder and more menacing, but +strangely unreal, as if the mist itself were filled with +threatening sound. + +But to Judy, the morning was only the beginning of another day;-- +she looked, but did not see. To her, the many ever-changing moods +of Nature were without meaning. With her basket in hand, she went +down to the lower end of the garden, where she had dug potatoes the +time before, and where she had left the fork sticking upright in +the ground. + +A few minutes served to fill the basket; but, before starting back +to the house, the mountain girl paused again to look out over the +river. Perhaps it was some vague memory of Auntie Sue's talk, the +night before, that prompted her; perhaps it was some instinct, +indefinite and obscure;--whatever it was that influenced her, Judy +left her basket, and went to the brink of the high bank above the +eddy for a closer view of the water. + +The next instant, with the quick movement of an untamed creature of +her native mountain forests, the girl sprang back, and crouched +close to the ground to hide from something she had seen at the foot +of the bank. Every movement of her twisted body expressed amazement +and fear. Her eyes were wild and excited. She looked carefully +about, as if for dangers that might be hidden in the fog. Once, she +opened her mouth as if to call. Half-rising, she started as if to +run to the house. But, presently, curiosity apparently overruled +her fear, and, throwing herself flat on the ground she wormed her +way back to the brink of the river-bank. Cautiously, without making +a sound, she peered through the tall grass and weeds that fringed +the rim above the eddy. + +The boat, which some kindly impulse of the river had drawn so +gently aside from the stronger current that would have carried it +down the rapids to the certain destruction waiting at Elbow Rock, +still rested with its bow grounded on the shore, against which the +eddying water had pushed it. But the thing that had so startled +Judy was a man who was lying, apparently unconscious, on the wet +and muddy bottom-boards of the little craft. + +Breathlessly, the girl, looking down from the top of the bank, +watched for some movement; but the dirty huddled heap of wretched +humanity was so still that she could not guess whether it was +living or dead. Fearfully, she noted that there were no oars in +the boat, nor gun, nor fishing-tackle of any sort. The man's hat +was missing. His clothing was muddy and disarranged. His position +was such that she could not see the face. + +Drawing back, Judy looked cautiously about; then, picking up a +heavy clod of dirt from the ploughed edge of the garden, and +crouching again at the brink of the bank, ready for instant flight, +she threw the clod into the water near the boat. The still form in +the boat made no movement following the splash. Selecting a +smaller clod, the girl threw the bit of dirt into the stern of the +boat itself, where it broke in fragments. And, at this, the figure +moved slightly. + +"Hit's alive, all right," commented Judy to herself, with a grin of +satisfaction, at the result of her investigation. "But hit's sure +time he was a-gittin' up." + +Carefully selecting a still smaller bit of dirt, she deliberately +tossed it at the figure itself. Her aim was true, and the clod +struck the man on the shoulder, with the result that he stirred +uneasily, and, muttering something which Judy could not hear, half- +turned on his back so that the girl saw the haggard, unshaven face. +She saw, too, that, in one hand, the man clutched an empty whisky +bottle. + +At sight of the bottle, the mountain girl rose to her feet with an +understanding laugh. "Hell!" she said aloud; "drunk,--that's all-- +dead drunk. I'll sure fetch him out of hit." And then, grinning +with malicious delight, she proceeded to pelt the man in the boat +with clods of dirt until he scrambled to a sitting posture, and +looked up in bewildered confusion. + +"If you please," he said, in a hoarse voice, to the sallow, old- +young face that grinned down at him from the top of the bank, +"which one of the Devil's imps are you?" + +As she looked into that upturned face, Judy's grin vanished. "I +sure 'lowed as how you-all was dead," she explained. + +"Well," returned the man in the boat, wearily, "I can assure you +that it's not in the least my fault if I disappoint you. I feel as +bad about it as you do. However, I don't think I am so much alive +that it makes any material difference." He lifted the whisky +bottle, and studied it thoughtfully. + +"You-all come dad burned near not bein' ary bit alive," returned +the girl. + +"Yes?" said the man, inquiringly. + +"Yep; you sure did come mighty nigh hit. If your old John-boat had +a-carried you-all on down ter Elbow Rock, 'stead of bein' ketched +in the eddy here, you-all would sure 'nough been a-talkin' to the +Devil by now." + +The man, looking out over the river into the fog, muttered to +himself, "I can't even make a success of dying, it seems." + +Again, he regarded the empty bottle in his hand with studied +interest. Then, tossing the bottle into the river, he looked up, +once more, to the girl on the bank above. + +"Listen, sister!" he said, nervously. "Is there any place around +here where I can buy a drink? I need something rather badly. +Where am I, anyway?" + +"You-all are at Auntie Sue's place," said Judy; "an' there sure +ain't no chance for you-all ter git ary licker here. Where'd you- +all come from, anyhow? How'd you-all git here 'thout no oars ner +paddle ner nothin'? Where was you-all aimin' ter go?" + +"Your questions, my good girl, are immaterial and irrelevant," +returned the man in the boat. "The all-important matter before us +for consideration is,--how can I get a drink? I MUST have a drink, +I tell you!" He held up his hands, and they were shaking as if +with palsy. "And I must have it damned quick!" + +"You-all sure do talk some powerful big words," said Judy, with +critical interest. "You-all sure must be some eddecated. Auntie +Sue, now, she talks--" + +The man interrupted her: "Who is 'Auntie Sue'?" + +"I don't know," Judy returned; "she's just Auntie Sue--that's all I +know. She sure is--" + +Again the man interrupted: "I think it would be well for me to +interview this worthy aunt of yours." And then, while he raised +himself, unsteadily, to his feet, he continued, in a muttering +undertone: "You don't seem to appreciate the situation. If I +don't get some sort of liquor soon, things are bound to happen." + +He attempted to step from the boat to the shore; but the instability +of the light, flat-bottomed skiff, together with his own unsteady +weakness, combined to land him half in the water and half on the +muddy bank where he struggled helplessly, and, in his weakened +condition, would have slipped wholly into the river had not Judy +rushed down the rude steps to his assistance. + +With a strength surprising in one of her apparent weakness, the +mountain girl caught the stranger under his shoulders and literally +dragged him from the water. When she had further helped him to his +feet, Judy surveyed the wretched object of her beneficence with +amused and curious interest. + +The man, with his unkempt hair, unshaven, haggard face, bloodshot +eyes, and slovenly dishevelled dress, had appeared repulsive enough +while in the boat; but, now, as he stood dripping with water and +covered with mud, there was a touch of the ridiculous in his +appearance that brought a grin to the unlovely face of his rescuer, +and caused her to exclaim with unnecessary frankness: "I'll be dad +burned if you-all ain't a thing ter look at, mister!" + +As the poor creature, who was shaking as if with the ague, regarded +the twisted form, the wry neck, and the sallow, old-young face of +the girl, who was laughing at him, a gleam of sardonic humor +flashed in his bloodshot eyes. "Thanks," he said, huskily; "you +are something of a vision yourself, aren't you?" + +The laughter went from Judy's face as she caught the meaning of the +cruel words. "I ain't never laid no claim ter bein' a beauty," she +retorted in her shrill, drawling monotone. "But, I kin tell you- +all one thing, mister: Hit was God-A'mighty Hisself an' my drunken +pap what made me ter look like I do. While you,--damn you!--you- +all just naturally made yourself what you be." + +At the mountain girl's illiterate words, so pregnant with meaning, +a remarkable change came over the face and manner of the man. His +voice, even, for the moment, lost its huskiness, and vibrated with +sincere feeling as he steadied himself; and, bowing with courteous +deference, said: "I beg your pardon, miss. That was unkind. You +really should have left me to the river." + +"You-all would a-drownded, sure, if I had," she retorted, somewhat +mollified by the effect of her observation. + +"Which," he returned, "would have been so beautifully right and +fitting that it evidently could not be." And with this cynical +remark, his momentary bearing of self-respect was gone. + +"Are you-all a-meanin' ter say that you-all was a-wantin' ter +drown?" + +"Something like that," he returned. And then, with a hint of +ugliness in his voice and eyes, he rasped: "But, look here, girl! +do you think I'm going to stand like this all day indulging in idle +conversation with you? Where is this aunt of yours? Can't you see +that I've got to have a drink?" + +He started uncertainly toward the steps that led to the top of the +bank, and Judy, holding him by his arm, helped him to climb the +steep way. A part of the ascent he made on hands and knees. +Several times he would have fallen except for the girl's support. +But, at last, they gained the top, and stood in the garden. + +"That there is the house," said Judy, pointing. "But I don't +reckon as how you-all kin git ary licker there." + +The wretched man made no reply; but, with Judy still supporting +him, stumbled forward across the rows of vegetables. + +The two had nearly reached the steps at the end of the porch when +Auntie Sue came from the house to see why Judy did not return with +the potatoes. The dear old lady paused a moment, startled at the +presence of the unprepossessing stranger in her garden. Then, with +an exclamation of pity, she hurried to meet them. + +The man, whose gaze as he shambled along was fixed on the ground, +did not notice Auntie Sue until, feeling Judy stop, he also paused, +and raising his head looked full at the beautiful old lady. + +"Why, Judy!" cried Auntie Sue, her low, sweet voice filled with +gentle concern. "What in the world has happened?" + +With an expression of questioning bewilderment and rebuke on his +haggard face, the man also turned to the mountain girl beside him. + +"I found him in er John-boat what done come ashore last night, down +there in the eddy," Judy explained to Auntie Sue. To the man, she +said: "This here is Auntie Sue, mister; but, I don't reckon as how +she's got ary licker for you." + +"'Liquor'?" questioned Auntie Sue. "What in the world do you mean, +child?" Then quickly to the stranger;--"My dear man, you are +wringing wet. You must have been in the river. Come, come right +in, and let us do something for you." As she spoke, she went +toward him with outstretched hands. + +But the wretched creature shrank back from her, as if in fear;--his +whole body shaking with emotion; his fluttering hands raised in a +gesture of imploring protest;--while the eyes that looked up at the +saintly countenance of the old gentlewoman were the eyes of a soul +sunken in the deepest hell of shame and humiliation. + +Shocked with pitying horror, Auntie Sue paused. + +The man's haggard, unshaven face twitched and worked with the pain +of his suffering. He bit his lips and fingered his quivering chin +in a vain effort at self-control; and then, as he looked up at her, +the sunken, bloodshot eyes filled with tears that the tormented +spirit had no power to check. + +And Auntie Sue turned her face away. + +For a little, they stood so. Then, as Auntie Sue faced him again, +the stranger, with a supreme effort of his will, gained a momentary +control of his shattered nerves. Drawing himself erect and +standing steady and tall before her, he raised a hand to his +uncovered head as if to remove his hat. When his hand found no hat +to remove, he smiled as if at some jest at his own expense. + +"I am so sorry, madam," he said,--and his voice was musically clear +and cultured. "Please pardon me for disturbing you? I did not +know. This young woman should have explained. You see, when she +spoke of 'Auntie Sue,' I assumed, of course,--I mean,--I expected +to find a native woman who would--" He paused, smiling again, as +if to assure her that he fully appreciated the humor of his +ridiculous predicament. + +"But, my dear sir," cried Auntie Sue, eagerly, "there is nothing to +pardon. Please do come into the house and let us help you." + +But the stranger drew back, shaking his head sadly. "You do not +understand, madam. It is not that my clothes are unpresentable,-- +it is I, myself, who am unfit to stand in your presence, much less +to enter your house. I thank you, but I must go." + +He was turning away, when Auntie Sue reached his side and placed +her gentle old hand lightly on his arm. + +"Please, won't you come in, sir? I shall never forgive myself if I +let you go like this." + +The man's voice was hoarse and shaking, now, as he answered: "For +God's sake, madam, don't touch me! Let me go! You must! I--I--am +not myself! You might not be safe with me! Ask her--she knows!" +He turned to Judy. + +"He's done said hit, ma'm," said Judy, in answer to Auntie Sue's +questioning look. "My pap, he was that way when he done smashed me +up agin the wall, when I was nothin' but a baby, an' hit made me +grow up all crooked an' ugly like what I be now." + +With one shamed glance at Auntie Sue, the wretched fellow looked +down at the ground. His head drooped forward. His shoulders +sagged. His whole body seemed to shrink. Turning sadly away, he +again started back toward the river. + +"Stop!" Auntie Sue's voice rang out imperiously. + +The man halted. + +"Look at me," she commanded. + +Slowly, he raised his eyes. The gentle old teacher spoke with fine +spirit, now, but kindly still: "This is sheer nonsense, my boy. +You wouldn't hurt me. Why, you couldn't! Of course, you are not +yourself; but, do you think that I do not know a gentleman when I +meet one? Come--" She held out her hand. + +A moment he stood, gazing at her in wondering awe. Then his far- +overtaxed strength failed;--his abused nerves refused to bear +more,--and he sank,--a pitiful, cowering heap at her feet. Hiding +his face in his shaking hands, he sobbed like a child. + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER. + + +Those two women managed, somehow, to get the almost helpless +stranger into the house, where Auntie Sue, after providing him with +nightclothes, left by one of her guests, by tactful entreaty and +judicial commands, persuaded him to go to bed. + +Then followed several days and nights of weary watching. There +were times when the man lay with closed eyes, so weak and exhausted +that he seemed to be drifting out from these earthly shores on the +deep waters of that wide and unknown sea into which all the streams +of life finally flow. But, always, Auntie Sue miraculously held +him back. There were other times when, by all the rules of the +game, he should have worn a strait-jacket;--when his delirium +filled the room with all manner of horrid creatures from the pit; +when leering devils and loathsome serpents and gibbering apes +tormented him until his unnatural strength was the strength of a +fiend, and his tortured nerves shrieked in agony. But Auntie Sue +perversely ignored the rules of the game. And never did the man, +even in his most terrible moments, fail to recognize in the midst +of the hellish crew of his diseased imagination the silvery-haired +old teacher as the angel of his salvation. Her gentle voice had +always power to soothe and calm him. He obeyed her implicitly, +and, like a frightened child, holding fast to her hand would beg +piteously for her to protect and save him. + +But no word of the man's low-muttered, broken sentences, nor of his +wildest ravings, ever gave Auntie Sue a clue to his identity. She +searched his clothes, but there was not a thing to give her even +his name. + +And, yet, that first day, when Judy would have gone to neighbor +Tom's for help, Auntie Sue said "No." She even positively forbade +the girl to mention the stranger's presence in the house, should +she chance to talk with passing neighbors. "The river brought him +to us, Judy, dear," she said. "We must save him. No one shall +know his shame, to humiliate and wound his pride and drag him down +after he is himself again. Until he has recovered and is once more +the man I believe him to be, no one must see him or know that he is +here; and no one must ever know how he came to us." + +And late, one evening, when Judy was fast asleep, and the man was +lying very still after a period of feverish tossing and muttering, +the dear old gentlewoman crept quietly out of the house into the +night. She was gone some time, and when she returned again to the +stranger's bedside she was breathless and trembling as from some +unusual exertion. And the following afternoon, when Judy came to +her with the announcement that the boat which had brought the man +to them was no longer in the eddy below the garden, Auntie Sue +said, simply, that she was glad it was gone, and cautioned the +girl, again, that the stranger's presence in the house must not be +made known to any one. + +When the mountain girl protested, saying, "You-all ain't got no +call ter be a-wearin' yourself ter the bone a-takin' care of such +as him," Auntie Sue answered, "Hush, Judy! How do you know what +the poor boy really is?" + +To which Judy retorted: "He's just triflin' an' ornery an' no +'count, that's what he is, or he sure wouldn't been a-floatin' +'round in that there old John-boat 'thout ary gun, or fishin' +lines, or hat even, ter say nothin' of that there whisky bottle +bein' plumb empty." + +Auntie Sue made no reply to the mountain girl's harsh summing-up of +the damning evidence against the stranger, but left her and went +softly to the bedside of their guest. + +It was perhaps an hour later that Judy, quietly entering the room, +happened upon a scene that caused her to stand as if rooted to the +spot in open-mouthed amazement. + +The man was sleeping, and the silvery-haired old maiden-lady, +seated on the side of the bed, was bending over the unconscious +stranger and gently stroking his tumbled, red-brown hair, even as a +mother might lovingly caress her sleeping child. And then, as Judy +watched, breathless with wonder, the proud old gentlewoman, bending +closer over that still form on the bed, touched her lips--soft as a +rose-petal--to the stranger's brow. + +When she arose and saw Judy standing there, Auntie Sue's delicate +old cheeks flushed with color, and her eyes were shining. With a +gesture, she commanded the girl to silence, and the two tiptoed +from the room. When they were outside, and Auntie Sue had +cautiously closed the door, she faced the speechless Judy with a +deliciously defiant air that could not wholly hide her lovely +confusion. + +"I--I--was thinking, Judy, how he--how he--might have been--my +son." + +"Your 'son'!" ejaculated the girl. "Why, ma'm, you-all ain't never +even been married, as I've ever hearn tell, have you?" + +Auntie Sue drew her thin shoulders proudly erect, and, lifting her +fine old face, answered the challenging question with splendid +spirit: "No, I have never been married; but I might have been; and +if I had, I suppose I could have had a son, couldn't I?" + +The vanquished Judy retreated to the kitchen, where, in safety, she +sank into a chair, convulsed with laughter, which she instinctively +muffled in her apron. + +Then came the day when the man, weak and worn with his struggle, +looked up at his gentle old nurse with the light of sanity in his +deep blue eyes. Very tired eyes they were, and filled with painful +memories,--filled, too, with worshipping gratitude and wonder. + +She smiled down at him with delighted triumph, and drawing a chair +close beside the bed, seated herself and placed her soft hand on +his where it lay on the coverlid. + +"You are much better, this morning," she said cheerily. "You will +soon be all right, now." And as she looked into the eyes that +regarded hers so questioningly, there was in her face and manner no +hint of doubt, or pretense, or reproach;--only confidence and love. + +He spoke slowly, as if feeling for words: "I have been in Hell; +and you--you have brought me out. Why did you do it?" + +"Because you are mine," she answered, with her low chuckling laugh. +It was so good to have him able to talk to her rationally after +those long hours of fighting. + +"Because I am yours?" he repeated, puzzling over her words. + +"Yes," she returned, with a hint of determined proprietorship in +her voice; "because you belong to me. You see, that eddy where +your boat landed is my property, and so anything that drifts down +the river and lodges there belongs to me. Whatever the river +brings to me, is mine. The river brought you, and so--" She +finished with another laugh,--a laugh that was filled with tender +mother-yearning. + +The blue eyes smiled back at her for a moment; then she saw them +darken with painful memories. + +"Oh, yes; the river," he said. "I wanted the river to do something +for me, and--and it did something quite different from what I +wanted." + +"Of course," she returned, eagerly, "the river is always like that. +It always does the thing you don't expect it to do. Just like life +itself. Don't you see? It begins somewhere away off at some +little spring, and just keeps going and going and going; and +thousands and thousands of other springs, scattered all over the +country, start streams and creeks and branches that run into it, +and make it bigger and bigger, as it winds and curves and twists +along, until it finally reaches the great sea, where its waters are +united with all the waters from all the rivers in all the world. +And in all of its many, many miles, from that first tiny spring to +the sea, there are not two feet of it exactly alike. In all the +centuries of its being, there are never two hours alike. An +infinite variety of days and nights--an infinite variety of skies +and light and clouds and daybreaks and sunsets--an infinite number +and variety of currents and shoals and deep places and quiet spots +and dangerous rapids and eddies--and, along its banks, an endless +change of hills and mountains and flats and forests and meadows and +farms and cities--and--" She paused, breathless. And then, when +he did not speak, but only watched her, she continued: "Don't you +see? Of course, the river never could be what you expect, any more +than life could be exactly what you want and dream it will be." + +"Who in the world are you?" he asked, wonderingly. "And what in +the world are you doing here in the backwoods?" + +Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: "I am Auntie Sue. +I am LIVING here in the backwoods." + +"But, your real name? Won't you tell me your name? I must know +how to address you." + +"Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield--MISS Wakefield, if you please. +I shall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next +November. And you must call me 'Auntie Sue,'--just as every one +else does." + +"Wakefield--Wakefield--where have I seen that name?" He wrinkled +his brow in an effort to remember. "Wakefield--I feel sure that I +have heard it, somewhere." + +"It is not unlikely," she returned, lightly. "It is not at all an +uncommon name. And now that I am properly introduced, don't you +think--?" + +He hesitated a moment, then said, deliberately, "My name is Brian +Kent." + +"That is an Irish name," she said quickly; "and that is why your +hair is so nearly red and your eyes so blue." + +"Yes," he returned, "from my mother. And please don't ask me more +now, for I can't lie to you, and I won't tell you the truth." And +she saw, again, the dark shadows of painful memories come into the +blue eyes. + +Bending over the bed, she laid her soft hand on his brow, and +pushed back his heavy hair; and her sweet old voice was very low +and gentle as she said: "My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. +The river brought you to me, and you are mine. You must not even +think of anything else, just now. When you are stronger, and are +ready, we will talk of your future; but of your past, you--" + +A loud knock sounded at the door of the living room. + +"There is someone at the door," she said hastily. "I must go. Lie +still, and go to sleep like a good boy; won't you?" + +Swiftly, she leaned over, and, before he realized, he felt her lips +touch his forehead. Then she was gone, and Brian Kent's Irish eyes +were filled with tears. Turning to the wall, he hid his face in +the pillow. + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +OFFICERS OF THE LAW. + + +As Auntie Sue was closing the door of her guest's room carefully +behind her, Judy came from the kitchen in great excitement, and the +knocking at the front door of the house was repeated. + +"Hit's the Sheriff, ma'm," whispered Judy. "I was just a-comin' +ter tell you. I seed 'em from the kitchen-winder. He's got two +other men with him. Their hosses is tied ter the fence in front. +What in hell will we do, now? They are after him in there, sure +'s death!" + +Auntie Sue's face was white, and her lips trembled,--but only for a +moment. + +"Go back into the kitchen, Judy, and stay there," she commanded, in +a whisper; and went to open the front door as calmly as if nothing +unusual had happened. + +Sheriff Knox was a big man, with a bluff, kindly manner, and a +voice that made nothing of closed doors. He returned Auntie Sue's +greeting heartily, and, with one of his companions,--a quiet, +business-looking gentleman,--accepted her cordial invitation to +come in. The third man of the party remained near the saddle- +horses at the gate. + +"Well, Auntie Sue," said the Sheriff, settling his ponderous bulk +in one of the old lady's rocking-chairs, which certainly was not +built to carry such a weight, "how are you? I haven't seen you in +a coon's age. I'll swear, though, you ain't a minute older than +you was when you first begun teachin' the little Elbow Rock school +up there on the hill, are you?" + +"I don't know, Sheriff," Auntie Sue returned, with a nervous little +laugh. "I sometimes think that I am a few days older. I have +watched a good many sunsets since then, you know." + +The big officer's laughter almost shook the log walls of the house. +To his quiet companion, who had taken a chair near the window, he +said: "I'll have to tell you, Ross, that Auntie Sue owns every +sunset in these Ozark Mountains. What was it you paid for them?" +He turned again to their smiling hostess. "Oh, yes; fifty cents an +acre for the land and fourteen dollars and a half for the sunsets. +You'll have to be blamed careful not to trespass on the sunsets in +this neighborhood, Ross." Again, his hearty laugh roared out, +while his chair threatened to collapse with the quaking of his +massive body. + +The gentleman seated at the window laughed quietly, in sympathy. + +"You'll be all right, though, Ross," the Sheriff continued, "as +long as you're with me. Auntie Sue and me have been friends for +about twenty year, now. I always stop to see her whenever I'm +passing through the Elbow Rock neighborhood, if I ain't in too big +a hurry. Stayed with her a week, once, five years ago, when we was +after that Lewis gang. She knows I'd jail any man on earth that +would even touch one of her sunsets." + +Then, as if the jesting allusion to his office reminded him of his +professional duties, he added: "I plumb forgot, Auntie Sue, this +gentleman is Mr. Ross. He is one of William J. Burns's crack +detectives. Don't be scared, though, he ain't after you." + +Auntie Sue, while joining in the laughter, and acknowledging the +introduction, regarded the business-looking gentleman by the window +with intense interest. + +"I think," she said, slowly,--and the sweetness of her low, cultured +voice was very marked in contrast to the Sheriff's thundering +tones,--"I think, sir, that this is the first time in my life that I +ever saw a real detective. I have read about them, of course." + +Mr. Ross was captivated by the charm of this beautiful old +gentlewoman, who regarded him with such child-like interest, and +who spoke with such sweet frankness and dignity. Smilingly, he +returned: + +"I fear, madam, that you would find me very disappointing. No one +that I ever knew in my profession could hope to live up to the +reputation given us by the story-books. No secret service man +living can remotely approximate the deeds performed by the +detectives of fiction. We are very, very human, I can assure you." + +"I am sure that you, at least, must be very kind," returned Auntie +Sue, gently. And the cheeks of the experienced officer flushed +like the cheeks of a schoolboy. + +"Mr. Ross, Auntie Sue," said the Sheriff, "is, as I was telling +you, one of William J. Burns's big men." + +Auntie Sue gave her attention to her big friend: "Yes?" + +The Sheriff continued: "Now, the Burns people, you see, protect +the banks all over the country." + +"Yes?" came, again, in a tone so low and gentle that the monosyllable +was scarcely heard. + +The officer's loud voice went on: "And Mr. Ross, here, works most +of his time on these bank cases. Just now, he is trailing a fellow +that got away with a lot of money from the Empire Consolidated +Savings Bank, of Chicago, about a month ago;--that is, the man +disappeared about a month ago. He had been stealing along from the +bank for about a year,--worked, for them, you see." + +"The Empire Consolidated Savings Bank!" Auntie Sue spoke the words +in a voice that was little more than a whisper. It was to the +Empire Consolidated Savings Bank that she had sent the money which +she had received from her brother in Buenos Aires; and Homer T. +Ward, the president of that bank, was one of her old pupils. Why, +her stranger guest, in the other room there, was that very moment +wearing one of the bank president's nightshirts. + +"And do you"--Auntie Sue addressed the detective--"do you know the +man's name, Mr. Ross?" + +"Oh, yes," returned the officer, "his name is Brian Kent." + +Some source of strength, deep-hidden in her gentle nature, enabled +Auntie Sue to control her emotions, though her voice broke a little +as she slowly repeated the man's name, "Brian Kent. And do I +understand, sir, that you have traced the man to this--neighborhood?" + +The detective was too skilled not to notice Auntie Sue's manner and +the break in her voice; but he never dreamed that this old +gentlewoman's agitation was caused by a deeper interest than a +quite natural fear that a dangerous criminal might be lurking in +the immediate vicinity. + +"Not exactly, Mrs.--ah--" + +"Miss Wakefield,"--she supplied her name with a smile. + +With a courteous bow, the detective continued: "We do not know for +sure that the man is in this neighborhood, Miss Wakefield. There +is really no cause for you to be alarmed. Even if he should call +at your house, here, you need not be frightened, for I assure you +the man is not at all a dangerous character." + +"I am glad," said Auntie Sue; and she laughed a little with a +relief more genuine than her callers knew. + +Detective Ross continued as if anxious to finish his unpleasant +duty: "It is too bad for us to be disturbing you with this +business, Miss Wakefield, and I hope you will forgive us; but, the +case is like this: We traced our man to the little town of Borden, +some forty miles up the river from here. He disappeared from the +hotel one night, leaving his suit-case and, apparently, everything +he had with him, and not a soul that we can find has seen him +since. Of course, everybody says 'suicide.' He had been drinking +heavily and acting rather queer the two or three days he was at the +hotel,--it seems. But I am not willing, yet, to accept the suicide +idea as final, because it would be too easy for him to give things +that appearance in order to throw us off; and I can't get away from +the fact that a John-boat that was tied to the bank near the hotel +managed to break loose and drift off down the river that same +night. Working on my theory, we are following down the river, +trying to get trace of either the boat or the man. So far, we +haven't heard of either, which rather strengthens me in my belief +that the boat and the man went away together. He is probably +traveling nights, and lying up under the willows in daylight. But +he will be compelled to show himself somewhere, soon, in order to +get something to eat, for he couldn't have taken much with him, +trying, as he was, to create the impression that he had committed +suicide. You have a wonderful view of the river here, Miss +Wakefield." + +"Yes, sir; it is beautiful from the porch." + +"You spend a good deal of time on the porch, do you?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"And you would be quite likely to notice any boat passing, wouldn't +you?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Could you see a boat at night,--in the moonlight, I mean?" + +"I could if it were well out in the middle of the stream, away from +the shadow of the trees, along the bank." + +"Have you seen any boats pass lately, Miss Wakefield?" + +"No, sir; I haven't seen a boat on the river for a month, at +least." + +"Dead certain about it, are you, Auntie Sue?" asked the Sheriff. + +"Yes, sir; I am very sure," she returned. "Judy and I were talking +about it yesterday." + +"Who is Judy?" asked the detective. + +The Sheriff answered, "Just a girl that lives with Auntie Sue." + +And Auntie Sue added: "I know Judy has seen no boats passing, +because, as I say, we were talking about it." + +"I see," said the detective. "And may I ask, Miss Wakefield, if +any one--any stranger, I mean--has called at the house lately, or +if you have seen any one in the vicinity?" + +The gentle old lady hesitated. + +The officers thought she was searching her memory to be sure before +she answered. + +Then Auntie Sue said, deliberately: "No, sir; we have not seen a +stranger in this vicinity for several weeks. The last one was a +mule-buyer, who stopped to ask if he was on the right road to Tom +Warden's; and that must have been fully six weeks ago." + +The detective looked at Sheriff Knox. + +"Well," said the big officer, "I reckon we might as well push +along." + +The two men arose. + +"Oh, but surely you will stay for dinner," said Auntie Sue, while +her dear heart was faint with fear lest they accept, and thus bring +about who could say what disastrous consequences through their +meeting with Judy. + +"Not this time, Auntie Sue," returned the Sheriff. "Mr. Ross is +anxious to get on down the river as fast as he can. He's got men +on watch at White's Crossing, and if our man ain't passed there, or +if we don't strike his trail somewhere before we get there, we will +jump back on the railroad, and get some boy to bring the horses +through later." + +"I see," returned Auntie Sue. And to the detective she added, +smiling: "I am sure it must be very difficult for any one to +escape you, Mr. Ross. I have read such wonderful things about Mr. +Burns and the work of his organization; and now that I have met +you,--a real live detective,--I shall be very careful, indeed, +about what I do in the future. I shouldn't want to have you on my +track, I assure you." + +The two men laughed heartily, and the detective, as he extended his +hand in farewell, returned: "I count it a great privilege to have +met you, Miss Wakefield; and if you will promise to do one thing +for me, I'll agree to be very lenient with you if I am ever +assigned to a case in which you are to be brought to justice." + +"I promise," returned the old lady, quickly. "I really wouldn't +dare to refuse under the circumstances, would I? What do you want +me to do, Mr. Ross?" + +"If this man Brian Kent should happen to appear in this vicinity, +will you get a message as quickly as possible, at any cost, to +Sheriff Knox?" + +"Why, of course," agreed Auntie Sue. "But you have not yet told me +what the man looks like, Mr. Ross." + +"He is really a fine looking chap," the detective answered. +"Thirty years old--fully six feet tall--rather slender, but well +built--weighs about one hundred fifty--a splendid head--smooth +shaven--reddish hair--dark blue eyes--and a high, broad forehead. +He is of Irish extraction--is cultured--very courteous in his +manner and speech--dresses well--and knows a lot about books and +authors and such things." + +"I would surely know him from that description," said Auntie Sue, +thinking of the wretched creature who had fallen, sobbing, at her +feet so short a time before. "But, you do not make him seem like a +criminal at all. It is strange that a man such as you describe +should be a fugitive from the law, is it not?" + +"We come in contact with many strange things in our business, Miss +Wakefield," the Burns operative answered--a little sadly, Auntie +Sue thought. "Life itself is so strange and complex, though you in +your quiet retreat, here, can scarcely find it so." + +"Indeed, I find life very wonderful, Mr. Ross, even here in my +little house by the river," she answered, slowly. + +Sheriff Knox held out a newspaper to Auntie Sue: "Just happened to +remember that I had it in my pocket," he said. "It gives a pretty +full account of this fellow Kent's case. You will notice there is +a big reward offered for his capture. If you can catch him for us, +you'll make enough money to keep you mighty nigh all the rest of +your life." And the officer's great laugh boomed out at the +thought of the old school-teacher as a thief-catcher. + +"By the way, Sheriff," said Auntie Sue, as they were finally saying +good-bye at the door, "you didn't happen to ask at Thompsonville +for my mail, did you, as you came through?" Her voice was +trembling, now, with eagerness and anxiety. + +"I'm plumb sorry, Auntie Sue, but I didn't. You see, we were so +busy on this job, I clean forgot about stopping here; and, besides, +we might have caught our man before we got this far, you see." + +"Of course," returned Auntie Sue, "I should have thought of that; +but I have been rather anxious about an important letter that seems +to have been delayed. Some of the neighbors will probably be going +to the office to-day, though. Good-bye! You know you are always +welcome, Sheriff; and you, too, Mr. Ross, if you should ever happen +to be in this part of the country again." + +"A wonderful old woman, Ross," commented Sheriff Knox as they were +riding away. And the quiet, business-looking detective, whose life +had been spent in combating crime and deception, answered, as he +waved farewell to Auntie Sue, who watched them from the door of the +little log house by the river, "A very wonderful woman, indeed,-- +the loveliest old lady I have ever met,--and the most remarkable." + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW. + + +When she had watched Sheriff Knox and his two companions ride out +of sight, Auntie Sue turned slowly back into the house to face +Judy, who stood accusingly in the kitchen doorway. + +For what seemed a long time, the old gentlewoman and the deformed +mountain girl stood silently looking at each other. Then Auntie +Sue nervously crossed the room to lay the newspaper, which the +Sheriff had given her, on the table beside her basket of sewing. + +Without speaking, Judy followed her, watching every movement +intently. + +Turning to face her companion again, Auntie Sue stood, still +speechless, clasping and unclasping her thin old hands. + +Judy spoke in her shrill, drawling monotone: "You-all have sure +fixed hit this here time, hain't you? Can't you-all see what a +hell of a hole you've done got us inter?" + +When Auntie Sue apparently could not reply, Judy continued: "Just +as if hit wasn't more 'n enough for you-all ter go an' wear +yourself plumb out a-takin' keer of that there ornery, no-'count +feller, what I never ought ter dragged out of the river nohow. +An', now, you-all got ter go an' just naturally lie like you did +ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man. I was plumb +scared to death a-listenin' ter you through the crack in the +kitchen door. I 'lowed every minute they'd ketch you, sure. My +Lord-A'mighty! ma'm, can't you-all figger what'll happen ter weuns +if they ever finds out that weuns done had him hid right here in +this here house all the time? I never heard tell of such dad +burned, fool doin's in all my born days! I sure wish ter God that +there old John-boat had a-tuck him off down the river an' smashed +him up agin Elbow Rock, like hit ort, an' not a-fetched him ter our +door ter git weuns in jail for savin' his worthless, no-'count +hide,--I sure do!" + +"But, Judy, I never in all my life did such a thing before," said +Auntie Sue in a tremulous whisper, too overwrought to speak aloud. + +"You-all ain't a-needin' ter do hit but onct, neither. Onct is +sure a heap plenty for that there big Sheriff man. Just look what +he did ter my pap! He's jailed pap seven times, that I kin +rec'lect. God-A'mighty knows how many times he ketched him 'fore I +was borned. An' pap, he didn't do so mighty much ary time, +neither." + +"I just had to do it, Judy, dear," protested Auntie Sue. "It +seemed as if I simply could not tell the truth: something wouldn't +let me." + +Judy, unheeding her companion's agitation, continued reviewing the +situation: "An' just look at all the money you-all done lost!" + +"Money?" questioned Auntie Sue. + +"Yep, 'money:'--that there reward what they'd a-paid you-all if +you-all hadn't a-lied like you did. I reckon as how there'd a-been +as much, maybe, as what was in that there letter you-all done sent +ter the bank an' ain't never heard tell of since. Hit's most +likely clean gone by now, an' here you done gone an' throw'd this +other away,--plumb throw'd hit away!" + +At this, Auntie Sue's spirit suddenly flashed into fiery +indignation. + +"Judith Taylor," she said sharply, "how can you suggest such a +wicked thing? Why, I would--I would--DIE before I would accept a +penny for doing such a thing!" + +And it was Judy, now, who stood silent and abashed before the +aroused Auntie Sue. + +"Don't ever speak of such a thing again!" continued the old lady. +"And remember, we must be more careful than ever, now, not to let +any one--not a soul--know that Mr.--Mr.--Burns is in the house, or +that we ever saw him!" + +"That there deteckertive man said as how the feller's name was +Brian Kent, didn't be?" muttered the sullen Judy. + +"I don't care what the detective man said!" retorted Auntie Sue. +"I am telling you that his name is Brian Burns, and you had better +remember it! You had better remember, too, that if anybody ever +finds out the truth about him, you and I will go right along to +jail with him!" + +"Yes, ma'm; I sure ain't aimin' ter forgit that," replied the +humbled Judy; and she slouched away to the kitchen. + +Auntie Sue went to the door of Brian Kent's room. But, with her +hand outstretched toward the latch, she hesitated. Had he heard? +The Sheriff's voice had been so loud. She feared to enter, yet she +knew that she must. At last, she knocked timidly, and, when there +was no answer, knocked again, louder. Cautiously, she opened the +door. + +The man lay with his face to the wall,--to all appearances fast +asleep. + +She tiptoed to the bed, and stood looking down upon the stranger +for whom, without a shadow of reason,--one would have said,--she +had violated one of the most deeply rooted principles of her +seventy years. + +To Auntie Sue, daughter of New England Puritanism, and religious to +the deeps of her being, a lie was abhorrent,--and she had lied,-- +deliberately, carefully, and with painstaking skill she had lied. +She had not merely evaded the truth; she had lied,--and that to +save a man of whom she knew nothing except that he was a fugitive +from the law. And the strangest thing about it was this, that she +was glad. She could not feel one twinge of regret for her sin. +She could not even feel that she had, indeed, sinned. She had even +a feeling of pride and triumph that she had lied so successfully. +She was troubled, though, about this new and wholly unexpected +development in her life. It had been so easy for her. She had +lied so naturally, so instinctively. + +She remembered how she had spoken to Brian Kent of the river and of +life. She saw, now, that the river symbolized not only life as a +whole, with its many ever-changing conditions and currents, amid +which the individual must live;--the river symbolized, as truly, +the individual life, with its ever-changing moods and motives,--its +ever-varying and often-conflicting currents of instinct and +training,--its infinite variety of intellectual deeps and +shallows,--its gentle places of spiritual calm,--and its wild and +turbulent rapids of dangerous passion. + +"What hitherto unsuspected currents in her life-river," she asked +herself, "had carried her so easily into falsehood? What strange +forces were these," she wondered, "that had set her so suddenly +against honesty and truthfulness and law and justice? And this +stranger,--this wretched, haggard-faced, drunken creature, who had +been brought by the mysterious currents of life to her door,--what +was there in him that so compelled her protecting interest? What +was it within him, deeply hidden under the repellent exterior of +his being, that had so awakened in her that strange feeling of +possession,--of motherhood?" + +It was not strange that, in her mental and spiritual extremity, the +dear old gentlewoman's life-long habit should lead her to kneel +beside the stranger's bed and pray for understanding and guidance. +It was significant that she did not ask her God to forgive the lie. + +And, presently, as she prayed, she felt the man on the bed move. +Then a hand lightly touched her hair. She remained very still for +a little,--her head still bowed. The hand that touched so +reverently the silvery gray hair trembled a little. Slowly, the +old teacher raised her face to look at him; and the Irish blue eyes +of Brian Kent were wide with wondering awe and glowing with a light +that warmed her heart and strengthened her. + +"Why did you do it?" he asked. "You wonderful, wonderful woman! +Why did you do it?" + +Slowly, she rose from her knees to sit beside him on the bed. "You +heard?" + +He nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak. + +"I was afraid the Sheriff talked too loud," she said. + +"But, why did you do it?" he persisted. + +"I think it was because I couldn't do anything else," she answered, +with her little chuckling laugh. Then she added, seriously: "How +could I let them take you away? Are you not mine? Did not the +river bring you to me?" + +"I must tell you," he answered, sadly, "that what the detective +told you about me is true." + +"Yes?" she answered, smiling. + +"I was a clerk in the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank," he +continued, "and I stole money,--for nearly a year I stole,--not +large sums, but a little at a time. Then, when I knew that it was +going to be discovered, I took quite a lot, and ran away." + +"Yes?" said Auntie Sue. + +"Do you not care that I am a thief?" he questioned, wonderingly. + +"Oh, yes; I care very much," she returned. "But, you see, after +all, your stealing is a little thing that can be made all right. +Your being a thief is so small in comparison with other things +which you might have been, but which you are not, and of so little +importance in comparison with what you really ARE, that I can't +feel so very bad about it." + +"But--but--my drinking,--my condition when--" He could not go on. + +"Why, you see," she answered, "I can't think of THAT man as being +YOU at all. THAT was something that the accident of your being a +thief did to you,--like catching cold, and being sick, after +accidentally falling in the river." + +After a little silence, the man spoke, slowly: "I suppose every +thief, when he is caught, says the same thing; but I really never +wanted to do it. Circumstances--" he paused, biting his lip, and +turning away. + +"What was she like?" asked Auntie Sue, gently. + +"She?" and his face reddened. + +"Yes, I have observed that, to a man, 'circumstances' nearly always +mean a woman. To a woman, of course, it is a man." + +"I cannot tell you about her, now," he said. "Some day, perhaps, +when I am further away from it. But she is not at all like you." + +And this answer, for some strange reason, brought a flush of +pleasure to the face of the old schoolteacher. + +"I did not mean for you to tell me now," she returned. "I only +wanted you to know that, even though I am an old maid, I can +understand." + +She left him then, and went to attend to her simple household +duties. + +It was not until quite late in the evening that Auntie Sue took up +the newspaper which Sheriff Knox had given her. Judy had retired +to her room, and Brian Burns--as they had agreed he should be +called--was fast asleep. + +To-morrow, Brian was going to sit up. His clothing had been washed +and ironed and pressed, and Auntie Sue was making some little +repairs in the way of darning and buttons. She had finished, and +was putting her needle and scissors in the sewing-basket on the +table beside her, when she noticed the paper, which she had +forgotten. + +The article headed "BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS" was not long. It told, +in a matter-of-fact, newspaper way, how Brian Kent had, at +different times, covering a period of several months, taken various +sums from the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, and gave, so far as +was then known, the accumulated amount which he had taken. The +dishonest clerk had employed several methods in his operations; but +the particular incident--read Auntie Sue--which had led to the +exposure of Kent's stealings was the theft of a small sum of money +in bank-notes, which had been sent to the bank in a letter by one +of the bank's smaller depositors. + +The newspaper fell from Auntie Sue's hand. Mechanically, she +fingered the garment lying in her lap. + +She, too, had sent a sum of money in a letter for deposit to her +small account in this bank from which Brian Kent had stolen. She +would not have sent the familiar paper currency of the United +States that way; but, this money was in Argentine notes. Her +brother from far-away Buenos Aires had sent it to her, saying that +it would help to keep her during the closing years of her life; and +she had added it to her small savings with a feeling of deepest +gratitude that her last days were now fully provided for. And she +had received from the bank no acknowledgment of her letter with its +enclosures. + +Taking up the paper with hands that trembled so she scarce could +distinguish the words, she read the paragraph again. + +Suddenly, she recalled the man's puzzled expression when she had +told him her name, and she seemed to hear him say, again, +"Wakefield? Wakefield? Where have I seen that name?" + +She looked at the date of the paper. Beyond all doubt, the man +sleeping there in the other room;--the man whom she had saved from +a suicide's end in the river;--whom she had nursed through the hell +of delirium tremens;--whom she had yearned over as over her own +son, and for whom, to save from the just penalty of his crime, she +had lied--beyond all doubt that man had robbed her of the money +that was to have insured to her peace and comfort in the closing +years of her life. + +Carefully, Auntie Sue laid the garment she had just mended with +such loving care, with the rest of Brian Kent's clothing, on the +near-by chair. Rising, she went with slow, troubled step to the +porch. + +There was no moon, that night, to turn the waters of The Bend into +a stream of silvery light. But the stars were shining bright and +clear, and she could see the river where it made its dark, +mysterious way between the walls of shadowy hills; and borne to her +ears on the gentle night wind came the deep, thundering roar of the +angry waters at Elbow Rock. + +For a long time she stood there on the porch looking into the +night, with the light from the open door of her little house behind +her; and she felt very lonely, very tired, and very old. With her +beautiful old face upturned to the infinite sky, where shining +worlds are scattered in such lavish profusion, she listened, +listened to the river that, with its countless and complex +currents, swept so irresistibly onward along the way that was set +for it by Him who swung those star-worlds in the limitless space of +that mighty arch above. And something of the spirit that broods +ever over the river must have entered into the soul of Auntie Sue. +When she turned back into the house, there was a smile on her face, +though her eyes were wet with tears. + +Going to the chair that held Brian Kent's clothing, she took the +garments in her arms and pressed them to her lips. Then she +carried them to his room. + +For some time she remained in that darkened chamber beside the +sleeping man. + +When she returned to the living-room, she again took up the +newspaper. Very carefully, that her sleeping companions in the +house might not hear her, she went to the kitchen, the paper in her +hand. Very carefully, that no sound should betray her act, she +burned the paper in the kitchen stove. + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION. + + +During the next few days, Brian Kent rapidly regained his strength. +No one seeing the tall, self-possessed gentleman who sat with +Auntie Sue on the porch overlooking the river, or strolled about +the place, could have imagined him the wretchedly repulsive +creature that Judy had dragged from the eddy so short a time +before. And no one,--exempting, perhaps, detective Ross,--would +have identified this bearded guest of Auntie Sue's as the +absconding bank clerk for whose arrest a substantial reward was +offered. + +But Mr. Ross had departed from the Ozarks, to report to the Empire +Consolidated Savings Bank that, to the best of his knowledge and +belief, Brian Kent had been drowned. Homer T. Ward, himself, wrote +Auntie Sue about the case, for the detective had told the bank +president about his visit to the little log house by the river, +and the banker knew that his old teacher would wish to hear the +conclusion of the affair. + +The facts upon which the detective based his conclusion that Brian +Kent was dead, were, first of all, the man's general character, +temperament, habits, and ambitions,--aside from his thefts from the +bank,--prior to the time of his exposure and flight, and his known +mental and physical condition at the time he disappeared from the +hotel in the little river town of Borden. + +The detective reasoned (and there are thousands of cases that could +be cited to support his contention) that by such a man as Brian +Kent,--knowing, as he must have known, the comparative certainty of +his ultimate arrest and conviction, and being in a mental and +nervous condition bordering on insanity, as a result of his +constant brooding over his crime and the excessive drinking to +which he had resorted for relief,--by such a man, death would +almost inevitably be chosen rather than a life of humiliation and +disgrace and imprisonment. + +Acting upon the supposition, however, that the man had gone down +the river in that missing boat, and that the appearance of suicide +was planned by the fugitive to trick his pursuers, the detectives +ascertained that he had provided no supplies for a trip down the +river. The man would be compelled to seek food. The mountain +country through which he must pass was sparsely settled, and for a +distance that would have taken a boat many days to cover, the +officers visited every house and cabin and camp on either side of +the river without finding a trace of the hunted man. The river had +been watched night and day. The net set by the Burns operatives +touched every settlement and village for many miles around. And, +finally, the battered and broken wreck of the lost boat had been +found some two miles below Elbow Rock. + +". . . And so, my dear Auntie Sue," Banker Ward wrote, in +conclusion, "you may rest in peace, secure in the certainty that my +thieving bank clerk is not lurking anywhere in your beautiful Ozarks +to pounce down upon you unawares in your little house beside the +river. The man is safely dead. There is no doubt about it. I +regret, more than I can express, that you have been in any way +disturbed by the affair. Please think no more about it. + +"By the way, you made a great impression upon detective Ross. He +was more than enthusiastic over your graciousness and your beauty. +I never heard him talk so much before in all the years I have known +him. Needless to say, I indorsed everything he said about the +dearest old lady in the world, and then we celebrated by dining +together and drinking a toast to Auntie Sue. . . ." + +Auntie Sue went with the letter to Brian, and acquainted him with +that part of the banker's communication which related to the +absconding clerk; but, about her relation to the president of the +Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, she said nothing. + +"Isn't it splendid!" she finished, her face glowing with delight. + +"Splendid?" he echoed, looking at her with grave, questioning eyes. + +"Why, yes, of course!" she returned. "Aren't you glad to be so +dead, under the circumstances? Think what it means! You are free, +now. No horrid old detectives dogging your steps, or waiting +behind every bush and tree to pounce upon you. There is nothing, +now, to prevent your being the kind of man that you always meant to +be,--and really ARE, too,--except for your--your accidental tumble +in the river," she finished with her low chuckling laugh. "And, +some day," she went on, with conviction, "when you have established +yourself,--when you have asserted your REAL self, I mean,--and have +paid back every penny of the money, Homer T. Ward and Mr. Ross and +everybody will be glad that they didn't catch you before you had a +chance to save yourself." + +"And you, Auntie Sue?" Brian's voice was deep with feeling: "And +you?" + +"Me? Oh, I am as glad, now, as I can ever be, because, you see, to +me it is already done." + +For a long minute he looked at her without speaking, then turned +his face away to gaze out over the river and the hills; but his +eyes were the eyes of one who looks without seeing. + +Slowly, he said: "I wish I could be sure. There was a time when I +was--when I believed in myself. It seems to me, now, that it was +years and years ago. I thought, then, that nothing could shake me +in my purpose; that nothing could check me in my ambition. I saw +myself going straight on to the goal I had set for myself as +certainly as--well, as your river ever there goes on to the sea. +But now--" He shook his head sadly. + +Auntie Sue laughed. "You foolish boy. My river out there doesn't +go straight at all. It meets all sorts of obstacles, and is beset +by all sorts of conflicting influences, and so is forced to wind +and twist and work its way along; but, the big, splendid thing +about the river is that it keeps going on. It never stops to turn +back. No matter what happens to it, it never stops. It goes on +and on and on unto the very end, until it finally loses itself in +the triumph of its own achievement,--the sea." + +"And you think that I can go on?" he asked, doubtingly. + +"I know you can go on," she answered with conviction. + +"But, why are you so sure?" + +"Perhaps," she returned, smiling, "seventy years makes one sure of +some things." + +Ho exclaimed passionately: "But you do not know--you cannot know-- +how my life, my dreams, my plans, my hopes, my--everything--has +been broken into bits!" + +She answered calmly, pointing to Elbow Rock: "Look there, Brian. +See how the river is broken into bits. See how its smoothly +flowing, onward sweep is suddenly changed to wild, chaotic turmoil; +how it rages and fumes and frets and smashes itself against the +rocks. But it goes on just the same. Life cannot be always calm +and smoothly flowing like the peaceful Bend. But life can always +go on. Life must always go on. And you will find, my dear boy, +that a little way below Elbow Rock there is another quiet stretch." + +When he spoke again there was a note of almost reverence in his +voice. + +"Auntie Sue, was there ever a break in your life? Were your dreams +and plans ever smashed into bits?" + +For a little, she did not answer; then she said, bravely: "Yes, +Brian; several times. Once,--years and years ago,--I do not know +how I managed to go on. I felt, then, as you feel now; but, +somehow, I managed, and so found the calm places. The last hard +spot came quite recently." She paused, wondering what he would do +if she were to tell him how he himself had made the hard spot. +"But, now," she continued, "I am hoping that the rest of the way +will be calm and untroubled." + +"I wish I could help to make it so!" he cried impulsively. + +"Why, you can," she returned quickly. "Of course you can. Perhaps +that is why the current landed your boat at my garden, instead of +carrying you on down the rapids to Elbow Rock. Who can say?" + +A new light kindled in the man's eyes as his sensitive nature took +fire at Auntie Sue's words. "I could do anything for a woman like +you, Auntie Sue," he said quietly, but with a conviction that left +no room for doubt. "But you must tell me what I am to do." + +She answered: "You are simply to go on with your life--just as if +no Elbow Rock had ever disturbed you; just as the river goes on--to +the end." + +She left him, then, to think out his problem alone; for the teacher +of so many years' experience was too wise not to know when a lesson +was finished. + +But when the end of the day was come, they again sat together on +the porch and watched the miracle of the sunset hour. And no word +was spoken by them, now, of life and its problems and its meanings. +As one listens to the song of a bird without thought of musical +notes or terms; as one senses the fragrance of a flower without +thought of the chemistry of perfume; as one feels the presence of +spring in the air without thought of the day of the week, so they +were conscious of the beauty, the glory, and the peace of the +evening. + +Only when the soft darkness of the night lay over the land, and +river and mountain and starry sky were veiled in dreamy mystery, +did Auntie Sue speak: "Oh, it is so good to have some one to share +it with,--some one who understands. I am very lonely, sometimes, +Brian. I wonder if you know?" + +"Yes, Auntie Sue, I know, for I have been lonely, too." + +And so the old gentlewoman, whose lifework was so nearly finished, +and the man in the flush of his manhood years, whose life had been +so nearly wrecked, were drawn very close by a something that came +to them out of the beauty and the mystery of that hour. + +The next day, Brian told Auntie Sue that he would leave on the +morrow. + +"Leave?" she echoed in dismay. "Why, Brian, where are you going?" + +"I don't exactly know," he returned; "but, of course, I must go +somewhere, out into the world again." + +"And why must you 'go somewhere, out into the world again'?" she +demanded. + +"To work," he answered, smiling. "If I am to go on, as you say, I +must go where I can find something to do." + +"If that isn't just like you--you child!" cried the old teacher. +"You are all alike,--you boys and girls. You all must have +something to do; always, it is 'something to do'." + +"Well," he returned, "and must we not have something to do?" + +"You will do something, certainly," she answered; "but, before you +can DO anything that is worth doing, you must BE something. Life +isn't DOING;--it is BEING." + +"I wonder if that was not the real reason for my wretched failures," +said Brian, thoughtfully. + +"It is the real reason for most of our failures," she returned. +"And so you are not going to fail again. You are not going away +somewhere, you don't know where, to do something you don't know +what. You are going to stay right here, and just BE something. +Then, when the time comes, you will do whatever is yours to do as +naturally and as inevitably as the birds sing, as the blossoms come +in the spring, or as the river finds its way to the sea." + +And more than ever Brian Kent felt in the presence of Auntie Sue as +a little boy to whom the world had grown suddenly very big and very +wonderful. + +But, after a while, he shook his head, smiling wistfully. "No, no, +Auntie Sue, that sounds all true and right enough, but it can't be. +I must go just the same." + +"Why can't it be, Brian?" + +"For one thing," he returned, "I cannot risk the danger to you. +After all, as long as I am living, there is a chance that my +identity will be discovered, and you--no, no; I must not!" + +"As for that," she answered quickly, "the chances of your being +identified are a thousand times greater if you go into the world +again too soon. Some day, of course, you must go; but you are +safer now right here. And"--she added quickly--"it would be no +easier for me, dear boy, to--to--have it happen somewhere away from +me. You are mine, you know, no matter where you go." + +"But, Auntie Sue," he protested, "I am not a gentleman of means +that I can do nothing indefinitely; neither am I capable of living +upon your hospitality for an extended period. I must earn my bread +and butter." + +The final sentence came with such a lifting of his head, such a +look of stern decision, and such an air of pride, that the gentle +old school-teacher laughed until her eyes were filled with tears; +and Judy, at the crack in the kitchen door, wondered if the +mistress of the little log house by the river were losing her mind. + +"Oh, Brian! Brian!" cried Auntie Sue, wiping her eyes. "I knew you +would come to the 'bread and butter' at last. That is where all +our philosophies and reasonings and arguments come at last, don't +they? Just 'bread and butter,' that is all. And I love you for +it. Of course you can't live upon my hospitality,--and I couldn't +let you if you would. And if you WOULD, I wouldn't let you if I +could. I am no more a lady of means, my haughty sir, than you are +a gentleman of independent fortune. The fact is, Brian, dear, I +suspect that you and I are about the two poorest people in the +world,--to be anything like as pretentiously respectable and +properly proud as we are." + +When the man could make no reply, but only looked at her with a +much-puzzled and still-proud expression, she continued, half- +laughingly, but well pleased with him: "Please, Brian, don't look +so haughtily injured. I had no intention of insulting you by +offering charity. Far from it." + +Instantly, the man's face changed. He put out his hands +protestingly, and his blue eyes filled, as he said, impulsively. +"Auntie Sue, after what you have done for me, I--" + +She answered quickly: "We are considering the future. What has +been, is past. Our river is already far beyond that point in its +journey. Don't let us try to turn the waters back. I promise you +I am going to be very, very practical, and make you pay for +EVERYTHING." + +Smiling, now, he waited for her to explain. + +"I must tell you, first," she began, "that, except for a very small +amount in the--in a savings bank, I have nothing to provide for my +last days except this little farm." + +"What a shame," Brian Kent exclaimed, "that a woman like you can +give her life to the public schools for barely enough salary to +keep her alive during her active years, and then left in her old +age with no means of support. It is a national disgrace." + +Auntie Sue chuckled with appreciation of the rather grim humor of +the situation. What would Brian Kent, indignant at the public +neglect of the school-teacher, say of the man who had robbed her of +the money that was to provide for her closing years? "After all, +most public sins are only individual sins at the last," she said, +musingly. + +"I beg your pardon," said Brian, not in the least seeing the +relevancy of her words. + +Auntie Sue came quickly back to her subject: "Only thirty acres of +my little farm is under cultivation. The remaining fifty acres is +wild timberland. If I could have that fifty acres also in +cultivation, with the money that the timber would bring,--which +would not be a great deal,--I would be fairly safe for the--for the +rest of my evening," she finished with a smile. "Do you see?" + +"You mean that I--that you want me to stay here and work for you?" + +"I mean," she answered, "that, if you choose to stay for awhile, +you need not feel that you would be accepting my hospitality as +charity," she returned gently. "I am not exactly offering you a +job: I am only showing you how you could, without sacrificing your +pride, remain in this quiet retreat for awhile before returning to +the world." + +"It would be heaven, Auntie Sue," he returned earnestly. "I want +to stay so bad that I fear myself. Let me think it over until to- +morrow. Let me be sure that I am doing the right thing, and not +merely the thing I want to do." + +She liked his answer, and did not mention the subject again until +Brian himself was ready. And, strangely enough, it was poor, +twisted Judy who helped him to set matters straight. + + + +CHAPTER X. + +BRIAN KENT DECIDES. + + +Brian had walked along the river-bank below the house to a spot +just above the point where the high bluff jutting out into the +river-channel forms Elbow Rock. + +The bank here is not so high above the roaring waters of the +rapids, for the spur of the mountain which forms the cliff lies at +a right angle to the river, and the greater part of the cliff is +thus on the shore, with its height growing less and less as it +merges into the main slope of the mountain-side. From the turn in +the road, in front of the house, a footpath leads down the bank of +the river to the cliff, and, climbing stairlike up the face of the +steep bluff, zigzags down the easier slope of the down-river side, +to come again into the road below. The road itself, below Elbow +Rock, is forced by the steep side of the mountain-spur and the +precipitous bluff to turn inland from the river, and so, climbing +by an easier grade up past Tom Warden's place, crosses the ridge +above the schoolhouse, and comes back down the mountain again in +front of Auntie Sue's place, to its general course along the +stream. The little path forms thus a convenient short cut for any +one following the river road on foot. + +Brian, seated on the river-bank a little way from the path where it +starts up the bluff, was trying to decide whether it would be +better for him to follow his desire and stay with Auntie Sue for a +few weeks or months, or whether he should not, in spite of the land +he might clear for her, return to the world where he could more +quickly earn the money to pay back that which he had stolen. + +And as he sat there, the man was conscious that he had reached one +of those turning-points that are found in every life where results, +momentous and far-reaching, are dependent upon comparatively +unimportant and temporary issues. He could not have told why, and +yet he felt a certainty that, for him, two widely separated futures +were dependent upon his choice. Nor could he, by thinking, +discover what those futures held for him, nor which he should +choose. Even as his boat that night had hung on the edge of the +eddy,--hesitating on the dividing-line between the two currents,-- +so the man himself now felt the pull of his life-currents, and +hesitated,--undecided. + +Looking toward the house, he thought how like the life offered by +Auntie Sue was to the quiet waters of The Bend, and--his mind +finished the simile--how like the life to which he would go was to +the rapids at Elbow Rock; and, yet, he reflected, the waters could +never reach the sea without enduring the turmoil of the rapids. +And, again, the thought came, "The Bend is just as much the river +as the troubled passage around the rock." + +When he had given up life, and, to all intent and purpose, had left +life behind him, the river, without his will or knowledge, had +mysteriously elected to save him from the death he had chosen as +his only refuge from the utter ruin that had seemed so inevitable. +As the currents of the river had carried his boat to the eddy at +the foot of Auntie Sue's garden, the currents of life had +mysteriously brought him to the saving influence of Auntie Sue +herself. Should he push out again into the stream to face the +danger he knew beset such a course? or should he wait for a season +in the secure calm of the harbor she offered until he were +stronger? Brian Kent knew, instinctively, that there was in the +wisdom and love of Auntie Sue's philosophy and faith a strength +that would, if he could make it his, insure his safe passage +through every danger of life, and yet-- + +The man's meditations were interrupted by a chance look toward the +bluff which towered above him. + +Judy was climbing the steep trail. + +Curiously, Brian watched the deformed mountain girl as she made her +way up the narrow, stairlike path, and her cutting words came back +to him: "God-A'mighty and my drunken pap made me like I am. But +you,--damn you!--you made yourself what you be." And Auntie Sue +had said that the all-important thing in life was not to DO +something, but to BE something. + +The girl, who had gained a point halfway to the top of the bluff, +paused to look searchingly about, and Brian, who was half-hidden by +the bushes, started to call to her, thinking she might be looking +for him; but some impulse checked him and he remained silently +watching her. Climbing hurriedly a little higher up the path Judy +again stopped to look carefully around, as if searching the +vicinity for some one. Then, once more, she went on until she +stood on top of the cliff; and now, as she looked about over the +surrounding country, she called: "Mr. Burns! Oh, Mr. Burns! +Who-o-e-e! Mr. Burns!" + +Brian's lips were parted to answer the call when something happened +on top of the bluff which held him for the moment speechless. + +From beyond where Judy stood on the brink of the cliff, a man's +head and shoulders appeared. Brian saw the girl start and turn to +face the newcomer as if in sudden fear. Then she whirled about to +run. Before she could gain the point where the path starts down +from the top, the man caught her and dragged her roughly back, so +that the two disappeared from Brian's sight. Brian was halfway up +the bluff when he heard the girl's shrill scream. + +There was no sign of weakness, now, in the man that Judy had +dragged from the river. He covered the remaining distance to the +top in a breath. From among the bushes, a little way down the +mountainside, came the sound of an angry voice mingled with Judy's +pleading cries. + +An instant more, and Brian reached the spot where poor Judy was +crouching on the ground, begging the brute, who stood over her with +menacing fists, not to hit her again. + +The man was a vicious-looking creature, dressed in the rough garb +of the mountaineer; dirty and unkempt, with evil, close-set eyes, +and a scraggly beard that could not hide the wicked, snarling +mouth. + +He stood for a second looking at Brian, as if too surprised by the +latter's sudden appearance to move; then he went down, felled by as +clean a knockout as was ever delivered by an Irish fist. + +"Are you hurt, Judy?" demanded Brian, as he lifted the girl to her +feet. "Did he strike you?" + +"He was sure a-fixin' ter lick me somethin' awful when you-all put +in," returned the poor girl, trembling with fear. "I know, 'cause +he's done hit to me heaps er times before. He's my pap." + +"Your father!" exclaimed Brian. + +Judy nodded;--then screamed: "Look out! He'll git you, sure!" + +Judy's rescuer whirled, to see the man on the ground drawing a gun. +A vigorous, well-directed kick, delivered in the nick of time, sent +the gun whirling away into the bushes and rendered the native's +right arm useless. + +"Get up!" commanded Brian. + +The man rose to his feet, and stood nursing his damaged wrist and +scowling at Judy's companion. + +"Are you this girl's father?" + +"I reckon I am," came the sullen reply. "I'm Jap Taylor, an' you- +all are sure goin' to find that you can't come between a man an' +his lawful child in these here mountains, mister,--if you-all be +from the city." + +"And you will find that you can't strike a crippled girl in my +presence, even if she is your daughtcr,--in these mountains or +anywhere else," retorted Brian. "What are you trying to do with +her, anyway?" + +"I aim ter take her back home with me, where she belongs." + +"Well, why didn't you go to the house for her like a man, instead +of jumping on her out here in the woods!" + +"Hit ain't none of your dad burned business as I can see," came the +sullen reply. + +"I am making it my business, just the same," returned Brian. + +He turned to the girl, who had drawn back a little behind him. +"Judy," he said, kindly, "I think perhaps you better tell me about +this." + +"Pap, he was a-layin' for me in the bresh 'cause he dassn't come to +the house ter git me," said the girl, fearfully. + +"But, why does he fear to come to the house?" persisted Brian. + +"'Cause he done give me ter Auntie Sue." + +"Gave you to Auntie Sue?" repeated the puzzled Brian. + +Jap Taylor interrupted with, "I didn't sign ary paper, an'--" + +"Shut up, you!" snapped Brian. "Go on, Judy." + +"Hit was a year last corn-plantin'," explained the girl. "My maw, +she died. He used ter whip her, too. An' Auntie Sue was there +helpin' weuns; an' Tom Warden an' some other folks they was there, +too; an' they done fixed hit so that I was ter go an' live with +Auntie Sue; an' pap, he give me ter her. He sure did, Mr. Burns, +an' I ain't a-wantin' ter go with him, no more." + +The poor girl's shrill monotone broke, and her twisted body shook +with her sobs. + +"I didn't sign ary paper," repeated Judy's father, with sullen +stubbornness. "An' what's more, I sure ain't a-goin' ter. I 'lows +as how she'll just go home an' work for me, like she ort, 'stead of +livin' with that there old-maid schoolma'am. I'm her paw, I am, +an' I reckon I got rights." + +He started toward the girl, who drew closer to Brian, and begged +piteously: "Don't let him tech me! 'Fore God, Mr. Burns, he'll +kill me, sure!" + +Brian drew the girl behind him as he faced the father with a brief, +"Get out!" + +The mountaineer hesitated. + +Brian went one step toward him: "Do you hear? Get out! And if +you ever show your dirty face in this vicinity again, I'll not +leave a whole bone in your worthless carcass!" + +And Jap Taylor saw something in those Irish blue eyes that caused +him to start off down the mountain toward the river below Elbow +Rock. + +When he had placed a safe distance between himself and the man who +appeared so willing and able to make good his threat, Judy's father +turned, and, shaking his uninjured fist at Brian, delivered a +volley of curses, with: "I'll sure git you-all for this! Jap +Taylor ain't a-lettin' no man come between him an' his'n. I'll fix +you, an' I'll fix that there schoolma'am, too! She's nothin' but a +damned old--" + +But Brian started toward him, and Jap Taylor beat a hasty retreat. + +"Never mind, Judy," said Brian, when the native had disappeared in +the brush and timber that covered the steep mountain-side. "I'll +not let him touch you. Come, let us sit down and talk a little +until you are yourself again. Auntie Sue must not see you like +this. We don't want to let her know anything about it. You won't +tell her, will you?" + +"I ain't aimin' ter tell nobody," said Judy, between sobs. "I sure +ain't a-wantin' ter make no trouble,--not for Auntie Sue, nohow. +She's been powerful good ter me." + +When they were seated on convenient rocks at the brink of the cliff +overlooking the river, Judy gradually ceased crying, and presently +said, in her normal, querulous monotone: "Did you-all mind what +pap 'lowed he'd do ter Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns?" + +"Yes, Judy; but don't worry, child. He is not going to harm any +one while I am around." + +"You-all are aimin' ter stay then, be you? I'm sure powerful +glad," said Judy, simply. + +Brian started. A new factor had suddenly been injected into his +problem. + +"I was powerful scared you-all was aimin' ter go away," continued +Judy. "Hit was that I was a-huntin' you-all to tell you 'bout, +when pap he ketched me." + +"What were you going to tell me, Judy?" + +"I 'lowed ter tell you-all 'bout Auntie Sue. She'd sure be +powerful mad if she know'd I'd said anythin' ter you, but she's +a-needin' somebody like you ter help her, mighty bad. She--she's +done lost a heap of money, lately: hit was some she sent--" + +Brian interrupted: "Wait a minute, Judy. You must not tell me +anything about Auntie Sue's private affairs; you must not tell any +one. Anything she wants me to know, she will tell me. Do you +understand?" he finished with a reassuring smile. + +"Yes, sir; I reckon you-all are 'bout right, an' I won't tell +nobody nothin'. But 'tain't a-goin' ter hurt none ter say as how +you-all ort ter stay, I reckon." + +"And why do you think I ought to stay, Judy?" + +"'Cause of what Auntie Sue's done for you-all,--a-nursin' you when +you was plumb crazy an' plumb dangerous from licker, an' a lyin' +like she did ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man," +returned Judy stoutly; "an' 'cause she's so old an' is a-needin' +you-all ter help her; an' 'cause she is a-lovin' you like she does, +an' is a-wantin' you-all ter stay so bad hit's mighty nigh a-makin' +her plumb sick." + +Brian Kent did not answer. The mountain girl's words had revealed +to him the selfishness of his own consideration of his problem so +clearly that he was stunned. Why had he not, in his thinking, +remembered the dear old gentlewoman who had saved him from a +shameful death? + +Judy went on: "Hit looks ter me like somebody just naturally's got +ter take care of Auntie Sue, Mr. Burns. All her whole life she's +a-been takin' care of everybody just like she tuck me, an' just +like she tuck you-all, besides a heap of other ways; an' now she's +so old and mighty nigh plumb wore out, hit sure looks like hit was +time somebody was a-fixin' ter do somethin' for her. That was what +I was a-huntin' you-all ter tell you when pap ketched me, Mr. +Burns." + +"I am glad you told me, Judy;--very glad. You see, I was not +thinking of things in just that way." + +"I 'lowed maybe you mightn't. Seems like folks mostly don't." + +"But it's all right, now!" Brian cried heartily. "You have settled +it. I'll stay. We'll take care of Auntie Sue,--you and I, Judy. +Come on, now; let's go to the house, and tell her. But we won't +say anything about your father, Judy;--that would only make her +unhappy; and we must never make Auntie Sue unhappy--never." He was +as eager and enthusiastic, now, as a schoolboy. + +"'Course," said Judy, solemnly; "'course you just naturally got ter +stay an' take care of her now, after what pap's done said he'd do." + +"Yes, Judy; I've just naturally got to stay," returned Brian. + +Together they went down the steep cliff trail and to the little log +house by the river to announce Brian's decision to Auntie Sue. +They found the dear old lady in her favorite spot on the porch +overlooking the river. + +"Why, of course you will stay," she returned, when Brian had told +her. "The river brought you to me, and you know, my dear boy, the +river is never wrong. Oh, yes, I know there are cross-currents and +crooked spots and sand-bars and rocks and lots of places where it +SEEMS to us to be wrong. But, just the same, it all goes on, all +the time, toward the sea for which it starts when it first begins +at some little spring away over there somewhere in the mountains. +Of course you will stay with me, Brian,--until the river carries +you on again." + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +RE-CREATION. + + +From the very day of his decision, to which he had been so +unexpectedly helped by Judy, Brian Kent was another man. The +gloomy, despondent, undecided spirit that was the successor of the +wretched creature that Judy had helped to Auntie Sue's that morning +was now succeeded by a cheerful, hopeful, contented man, who went +to his daily task with a song, did his work with a smile and a +merry jest, and returned, when the day was done, with peace in his +heart and laughter on his lips. + +As the days of the glorious Ozark autumn passed, Brian's healthful, +outdoor work on the timbered mountain-side brought to the man of +the cities a physical grace and beauty he had lacked,--the grace of +physical strength and the beauty of clean and rugged health. The +bright autumn sun and the winds that swept over the many miles of +tree-clad hills browned his skin; while his work with the ax +developed his muscles and enforced deep breathing of the bracing +mountain air, thus bringing a more generous supply of richer blood, +which touched his now firmly rounded cheeks with color. + +The gift of humor and the faculty of quaint and witty conversational +twists, with the genius of storytelling that was his from his Irish +mother, made quick friends for him of the mountain neighbors who +welcomed this new pupil of their old school-teacher with whole- +hearted pleasure, and quoted his jests and sayings throughout the +country with never-failing delight. And Judy,--it is not too much +to say that Judy became his most ardent admirer and devoted slave. + +But the dear old mistress of the little log house by the river +alone recognized that these outward changes in the human wreck that +the river had brought to her were but manifestations of a more +potent transformation that was taking place in the man's inner +life; and it was this inner change that filled the teacher's loving +heart with joy, and which she watched with keen and delighted +interest. + +It was not, after all, a new life that was coming to this man, +Auntie Sue told herself; it was his own old and more real life that +was reassuring itself. It was the real Brian Kent that had been +sojourning in a far country that was now coming home to his own. +It was the wealth of his heart and mind and soul which had been +deep-buried under an accumulation of circumstances and environment +that was now being brought to the surface. + +Might it not be that Auntie Sue's genius for absorbing beauty and +making truth her own had, in her many years of searching for truth +and beauty in whatever humanity she encountered, developed in her a +peculiar sensitiveness? And was it not this that had made her feel +instinctively the real nature of the man in whom a less discerning +observer would have recognized nothing worthy of admiration or +regard? Without question, it was the true,--the essential,--the +underlying,--elements in the character of the absconding bank clerk +that had aroused in this remarkable old gentlewoman the peculiar +sense of kinship--of possession--that had determined her attitude +toward the stranger. The law that like calls to like is not less +applicable to things spiritual than to things material. The birds +of a feather that always flock together are not of necessity +material birds of material feathers. + +Nor was Brian Kent himself unconscious of his Re-Creation. The man +knew what he was, as every man knows deep within himself the real +self that is. And that was the horror of the situation which had +set him adrift on the river that night when, in his last drunken +despairing frenzy, he had left the world with a curse in his heart +and had faced the black unknown with reckless laughter and a +profane toast. It is to be doubted if there can be a hell of +greater torment than that experienced by one who, endowed by nature +with a capacity for great living, is betrayed by the very strength +of his genius into a situation that is intolerable of his real +self, and is forced, thus, to a continuous self-crucifixion and +death. + +In his new environment the man felt the awakening of this self +which he had mourned as dead. Thoughts, emotions, dreams, +aspirations, which had, as he believed, been killed, he found were +not dead, but only sleeping; and in the quickening of their +vitality and strength he knew a joy as great as had been his +despair. + +The beauty of nature, that had lost its power of appeal to his +sodden soul, now stirred him to the very depth of his being. The +crisp, sun-sweet air of the autumn mornings, when he went forth +with his ax to the day's clean labor, was a draught of potent magic +that set every nerve of him tingling with delight. The woodland +hillside, where he worked, was a wonderland of beautiful creations +that inspired a thousand glowing fancies. Sometimes, at his heavy +task, he would pause for a moment's rest, and so would look out and +away over the vast expanse of country that from his feet stretched +in all its charm of winding river and wooded slopes, and tree- +fringed ridges to the far, blue sky-line; and the very soul of him +would answer to the call as he had thought he never could answer +again. The very clouds that drifted past on their courses to +unseen ports beyond the hills were freighted with meaning for him +now. The winds that came laden with the subtly blended perfume of +ten thousand varieties of trees and grasses and shrubs and flowers +whispered words of life which he now could hear. The loveliness of +the glowing morning skies, as he saw them when he rose for the +day's work, and the glories of the sunsets, as he watched them with +Auntie Sue from the porch when the day's task was accomplished, +filled him with an exquisite gladness which he had never hoped to +know again. + +Most of all, did the river speak to him; not, indeed, as it had +spoken that dreadful night, when, from the window of his darkened +room, he had listened to its call: the river spoke, now, in the +full day as his eye followed its winding length through the hills +in all its varied beauty of sunshine and shadow;--of gleaming +silver and living green and russet-brown. It talked to him in the +evening when the waters gave back the glories of the sky and the +deepening twilight wrapped the world in its dusky veil of mystery. +It spoke to him in the soft darkness of the night, as it swept on +its way under the stars, or in the light of the golden moon. And, +in time, some of these things which the river said to him, he, in +turn, told to Auntie Sue. + +And Auntie Sue, delighted with the man's awakening self, and +charmed with his power of thought and his gift of expression, led +him on. With artful suggestion and skilful question and subtle +argument, she stimulated his mind and fancy to lay hold of the +truths and beauties that life and nature offered. But ever the +rare old gentlewoman was his teacher, revealing himself to himself; +guiding him to a fuller discovery and knowledge of his own life and +its meaning, which, indeed, is the true aim and end of all right +teaching. + +So the days of the autumn passed. The hills changed their robes of +varied green for costumes of brown and gold, with touches here and +there of flaming scarlet and brilliant yellow. And then winter was +at hand, and that momentous evening came when Auntie Sue said to +her pupil, after an hour of most interesting talk, "Brian, why in +the world don't you write a book?" + +"'A book'!" exclaimed Brian, in a startled tone. + +Judy laughed. "He sure ought ter. Lord knows he talks like one." + +"I am in earnest, Brian," said Auntie Sue, her lovely old eyes +shining with enthusiasm and her gentle voice trembling with +excitement. "I have been thinking about it for a long time, now, +and, to-night, I just can't keep it to myself any longer. Why +don't you give to the world some of the thoughts you have been +wasting on Judy and me?" + +"Hit's sure been a-wastin' of 'em on me," agreed Judy. "'Fore God, +I don't sense what he's a-talkin' 'bout, more'n half the time." + +Brian laughed. "Judy is prophetic, Auntie Sue. She voices +perfectly the sentiment of the world toward any book I might +write." + +Auntie Sue detected a note of bitterness underlying the laughing +comment, and wondered. + +Judy spoke again as she arose to retire to her room for the night: +"I reckon as how there's a right smart of things youuns talk that'd +be mighty fine if a body only had the learnin' ter sense 'em. An' +there must be heaps of folks where youuns come from what would know +Mr. Burns's meaning if he was to write hit all out plain. +Everybody ain't like me. Hit's sure a God's-blessin' they ain't, +too." + +"And there, Brian, dear, is your answer," said Auntie Sue, as Judy +left the room. "Any book has meaning only for those who have the +peculiar sympathy and understanding needed to interpret it. A book +that means nothing to one may be rich in meaning for another. +Every writer writes for his own peculiar readers, just as every +individual has his own peculiar friends." + +"Or enemies," said Brian. + +"Or enemies," agreed Auntie Sue. + +Brian went to the window, and stood for some time, looking out into +the night. Then turning, with a nervous gesture, he paced uneasily +up and down the room; while Auntie Sue watched him in silence with +an expression of loving concern on her dear old face. + +At last, she spoke: "Why, Brian, what is the matter? What have I +said? I did not mean to upset you like this. Come, sit down here, +and tell me about it. What is it troubles you so?" + +With a short laugh, Brian came and stood before her. "I suppose it +had to come sooner or later, Auntie Sue. I have been trying for +days to muster up courage enough to tell you about it. You have +touched the one biggest thing in my life." + +"Why, what do you mean, Brian?" + +"I mean just what we have been talking about,--writing," answered +Brian. + +"Oh!" she cried, with quick and delighted triumph. "Then I AM +right. You have been thinking about it, too." + +"Thinking about it!" he echoed, and in his voice she felt the +nervous intensity of his mood. "I have thought of nothing else. +All day long when I am at work, I am writing, writing, writing. It +is the last thing on my mind when I go to sleep. I dream about it +all night. And, it is the first thing I think about in the +morning." + +Auntie Sue clasped her hands to her heart with an exclamation of +joyous interest. + +Brian, with a quiet smile at her enthusiasm, went on: "I know +exactly what I want to say, and why I want to say it. There is a +world of people, Auntie Sue, whose lives have been broken and +spoiled by one thing or another, and who have more or less cut +themselves loose from everything, and are just drifting, they don't +care a hang where, because they think they have failed so +completely that there is nothing more in life for them. People +like me,--I don't mean thieves and criminals necessarily,--who have +had that which they know to be the best and biggest and truest part +of themselves tortured and warped and twisted and denied and +smashed and beaten and betrayed and killed; and who, because they +feel that their real selves are dead within them, don't care what +happens to that part which is left." + +He was walking the floor again now, and speaking with a depth of +feeling which he had never before revealed to his gentle companion. + +"It is not so much the love of wrong-doing that makes people turn +bad,"--he continued,--"it is having their real selves misunderstood +and doubted and smothered and their realest loves and dreams and +aspirations never recognized, or else distorted and twisted and +made to appear as something they hate. I want to make the people-- +and there are many thousands of them--who are suffering in the +living hell that tormented me, feel that I know and understand. +And then, Auntie Sue, then I want to tell them about you and your +river. + +"I would teach them the things you have taught me. I would say to +every one that I could persuade to listen: 'It doesn't in the +least matter what your experience is, the old river is still going +on to the sea. No matter if every woman you ever knew has proved +untrue, virtuous womanhood still IS. No matter if every man you +ever knew has proved false, true manhood still IS. If every friend +you ever had has betrayed your friendship, loyal friendship still +IS. If you have found nothing in your experience but dishonesty +and falsehood and infidelity and hypocrisy, it is only because you +have been unfortunate in your experience; because honesty and +fidelity and sincerity are existing FACTS. They are the very +foundation facts of life, and can no more fail life than the river +can fail to reach the sea. + +"'Your little individual experience, my little individual +experience,--what are they? They are nothing more than the tiny +bubbles, swirls, ripples, and breaks on the surface of the great +volume of water that flows so inevitably onward. The bit of foam, +the tiny wave caused by twig or branch or blade of water-grass, or +the great rocks and cliffs that make the roaring whirlpools and +rapids,--do they stay the waters, or turn the river back on its +course, or in any way prevent its onward flow? No more can the +twigs of circumstances, or the boughs of environment, or the +grasses of accident that make the tiny waves of our individual +experiences,--or even the great rocks and cliffs of national or +racial import,--such as wars, and pestilence, and famine,--finally +check or stay the river of life in its onward flow toward the sea +of its final and infinite meaning.'" + +He went again to the window, and stood looking out into the night +as though listening to the voices. + +"Why, Auntie Sue," he said, turning back to the old gentlewoman,-- +and his face was radiant with the earnestness of this thought,-- +"Auntie Sue, there are as many currents in our river out there as +there are human lives. A comparatively few great main or dominant +currents in the river flow--a comparatively few great dominant +currents in the river flow of life. But if you look closer, you +will see that in each one of those established principal currents +there are countless thousands--millions--of tiny currents all +turning and twisting across, and back, and up, and down in every +direction,--weaving themselves together,--pulling themselves +apart,--criss-crossing, clashing,--interlacing,--tangled and +confused,--and these are the individual lives. And no matter what +the conflict or confusion; no matter what direction they take for +the moment, they all, ALL, go to make up the river;--they, all +together, ARE the river,--and they all together move onward,-- +ceaselessly, inevitably, irresistibly." + +He paused to stand smiling down at her, as she sat there in her low +chair beside the table with the lamplight on her silvery hair,-- +there in the little log house by the river. + +"That is what you have made your river mean to me, Auntie Sue; and +that is what I would give to the world." + +With trembling hands, the gentle old teacher reached for her +handkerchief, which lay in the sewing-basket on the table beside +her. Smilingly, she wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. +Lovingly, she looked up at him,--standing so tall and strong before +her, with his reddish hair tumbled and tossed, and his Irish blue +eyes lighted with the fire of his inspiration. + +"Well," she said, at last, "why don't you do it, Brian?" + +As a breath of air puts out the light of a candle, so the light +went from Brian Kent's face. Dropping into his chair, he answered +hopelessly, "Because I am afraid." + +"Afraid?" echoed Auntie Sue, troubled and amazed. "What in the +world are you afraid of, Brian?" + +And the bitter, bitter answer came, "I am afraid of another +failure." + +Auntie Sue's quick mind caught the significance of his words. +"ANOTHER failure, Brian? Then you,--then you have written before?" + +"Yes," he returned. And not since his decision to remain with her +had she seen him so despondent. "To write was the dream and the +passion of my life. I tried and tried. God, how I worked and +slaved at it! The only result from my efforts was the hell from +which you dragged me." + +Alter a little silence, Auntie Sue said gently: "I don't think I +understand, Brian. You have never told me about your trouble, you +know." + +"It is an old, old story," he returned. "I am only one of +thousands. My wretched experience is not at all uncommon." + +"I know," she answered. "But don't you think that perhaps you had +better tell me? Perhaps, in the mere telling of it to me, now that +it is all over, you may find the real reason for--for what happened +to you." + +Wise Auntie Sue!--wise in that rarest of all wisdom,--the +sympathetic understanding of human hearts and souls. + +"You know about my earlier life," he began; "how, in my boyhood, +after mother's death, I worked at anything I could do to keep +myself alive, and how I managed to gain a little schooling. I was +always dreaming of writing, even then. I took the business course +in a night-school, not because I liked it, but because I thought it +would help me to earn a living in a way that would give me more +time for what I really wanted to do. And after I finished school, +and had finally worked up to a good position in that bank, I did +have more time for my writing. But,"--he hesitated--"I--well,-- +other interests had come into my life,--and--" + +Auntie Sue said, softly, "She did not understand, Brian." + +"No, she did not understand," he continued, accepting Auntie Sue's +interpretation without comment. "And when my writing brought no +money, because no publisher would accept my stuff, and the +conditions under which I wrote became intolerable because of +misunderstanding and opposition and disbelief in my ability and +charges of neglect, I--I--stole money from my employers to gain +temporary relief until my writing should amount to something. You +see, I could not help believing that I would succeed, in time. I +suppose all dreamers have more or less confidence in their dreams: +they must, you know, or their dreams would never be realized. I +always expected to pay back the money I took with the money I would +earn by my pen. But I failed to earn anything, you see; and then-- +then the inevitable happened, and the river brought me to you." + +"But, my dear boy!" cried Auntie Sue, "all this that you have told +me is no reason why you should fear to write now. Indeed, it is a +very good reason why you should not fear." + +He looked at her questioningly, and she continued: "You have given +every reason in the world why you failed. Your whole life was out +of tune. How could you expect to produce anything worthy from such +a jangling discord? You should have been afraid, indeed, to write +THEN. But, NOW,--now, Brian, you are ready. You are a long, long +way down the river from the place of your failures. The disturbing, +distracting things are past,--just as in the quiet reach of the +river below Elbow Rock the turmoil of the rapids is past. You say +that you know exactly what you want to write, and why you want to +write it--and you do know--and because you know,-- because you have +suffered,--because you have learned,--because you can do this thing +for others,--it is yours to do, and so you must do it. What you +really mean when you say you are 'afraid to write' is, that you are +AFRAID NOT TO," she finished with a little laugh of satisfaction. + +And Brian Kent, as he watched her glowing face and felt the +sincerity and confidence that vibrated in her voice, was thrilled +with a new courage. The fires of his inspiration shone again in +his eyes, as he answered, with deep conviction, "Auntie Sue, I +believe you are right. What a woman you are!" + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +AUNTIE SUE TAKES A CHANCE. + + +So Brian wrote his book that winter. + +When the days were fair, he worked with his ax on the mountain- +side. But his notebook was ever at hand, and many a thought that +went down on the pages of his manuscript was born while he wrought +with his hands in the wholesome labor which gave strength to his +body and clearness to his brain. In the evenings, he wrote in the +little log house by the river, with Auntie Sue sitting in her chair +beside the table,--the lamp-light on her silvery hair, and her +sewing-basket within reach of her hand,--engaged with some bit of +needlework, a book, or perhaps with one of her famous letters to +some other pupil, far away. The stormy days gave him many hours +with his pen, and so the book grew. + +And always as the man endeavored to shape his thoughts for the +printed pages that would carry his message to the doubting, +disconsolate, and fearful world that he knew so well, he heard in +his heart the voices of the river. From the hillside where he +worked in the timber he could see the stream winding through the +snowy hills like a dark line carelessly drawn with many a crook and +curve and break on the sheet of white. From the porch he saw the +quiet Bend a belt of shining ice and snow, save for a narrow line +in the centre, which marked the course of the strongest currents; +while the waters of the rapids crashed black and dreadful against +the Elbow Rock cliff, which stood gaunt and grim amid the +surrounding whiteness; and in the deathlike hush of the winter +twilight, the roar of the turmoil sounded with persistent menace. +And all that the river said to him he put down,--so far as it was +given him to do. + +And that which Brian Kent wrote was good. He knew it--in his +deepest, truest self he knew. And Auntie Sue knew it; for, of +course, he read to her from his manuscript as the book grew under +his hand. Even Judy caught much of his story's meaning, and +marvelled at herself because she, too, could understand. + +So the spring came, and the first writing of the book was nearly +finished. + +And now the question arose: What would they do about the final +preparation of the manuscript for the printers? Brian explained +that he should have a typewritten copy of his script, which he +would work over, correct, and revise, and from which perfected copy +the final manuscript would be typewritten. But neither Auntie Sue +nor Brian would consider his finishing the book anywhere but in the +little log house by the river; even if there had been no other +reason why Brian should not go to the city, if it could be avoided. + +"There is only one thing to do,"--said Auntie Sue, at last, when +the matter had been discussed several times,--"we must send for +Betty Jo. She has been studying stenography in a business college +in Cincinnati, and, in her latest letter to me, she wrote that she +would finish in April. I'll just write her to come right here, and +bring her typewriter along. She will need a vacation, and she can +have it and do your work at the same time. Besides, I need to see +Betty Jo. She hasn't been to visit me since before Judy came." + +Brian thought that Auntie Sue seemed a little nervous and excited +as she spoke, but he attributed it to her combined interest in the +book and in the proposed typist. The man could not know the real +cause of his gentle old companion's agitation, nor with what +anxiety she had considered the matter for many days before she +announced her plan. The fact was that Auntie Sue was taking a big +chance, and she realized it fully. But she could find no other way +to secure the services of a competent stenographer for Brian, and, +as Brian must have a competent stenographer in order to finish his +book properly, she had decided to accept the risk. + +"That sounds all right, Auntie Sue," returned Brian. "But who, +pray tell, is Betty Jo?" + +"Betty Jo is,"--Auntie Sue paused and laughed with a suggestion of +embarrassed confusion,--"Betty Jo is--just Betty Jo, Brian," she +finished. + +Brian laughed now. "Fine, Auntie Sue! That describes her +exactly,--tells me her life's history and gives me a detailed +account of her family,--ancestors and all." + +"It describes her with more accuracy than you think," retorted +Auntie Sue, smiling in return at his teasing manner. + +"I reckon as how she's got more of er name than that, ain't she?" +said Judy, who was a silent, but intensely interested, listener. +"I've allus took notice that folks with funny names'll stand a +right smart of watchin'." + +Brian and Auntie Sue laughed together at this, but the old lady +said, with a show of spirit: "Judy! You know nothing about it! +You never even saw Betty Jo! You shouldn't say such things, +child." + +"Might as well say 'em as ter think 'em, I reckon," Judy returned, +her beady-black eyes stealthily watching Brian. + +"What is your Betty Jo's real name, Auntie Sue?" asked Brian, +curiously. + +Again Auntie Sue seemed to hesitate; then--"Her name is Miss Betty +Jo Williams," and as she spoke the old teacher looked straight at +Brian. + +"A perfectly good name," Brian returned; "but I never heard of her +before." + +Judy's black eyes, with their stealthy, oblique look, were now +watchfully fixed on Auntie Sue. + +"She is the orphan-niece of one of my old pupils," Auntie Sue +continued. "I have known her since she was a baby. When she +finished her education in the seminary, and had travelled abroad +for a few months, she decided all at once that she wanted a course +in a business college, which was just what any one knowing her +would expect her to do." + +"Sounds steady and reliable," commented Brian. "But will she +come?" + +"Yes, indeed, she will, and be tickled to death over the job," +returned Auntie Sue. "I'll write her at once." + +While Auntie Sue was preparing to write her letter, Judy muttered, +in a tone which only Brian heard: "Just the same, 'tain't no name +for a common gal ter have; hit sure ain't. There's somethin' dad +burned queer 'bout hit somewhere." + +"Nonsense! Judy," said Brian in a low voice; "don't worry Auntie +Sue." + +"I ain't aimin' ter worry her none," returned the mountain girl; +"but I'll bet you-all a pretty that this here gal'll worry both of +youuns 'fore you are through with her;--me, too, I reckon." + +For some reason, Auntie Sue's letter to Betty Jo seemed to be +rather long. In fact, she spent the entire evening at it; which +led Judy to remark that "hit sure looked like Auntie Sue was aimin' +ter write a book herself." + +A neighbor who went to Thompsonville the following day with a load +of hogs for shipment, posted the letter. And, in due time, another +neighbor brought the answer. Betty Jo would come. + +It was the day following the evening when Brian wrote the last page +of his book that another letter came to Auntie Sue,--a letter +which, for the second time, very nearly wrecked Brian Kent's world. + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +JUDY TO THE RESCUE. + + +Brian was working in the garden. It was early in the afternoon, +and the man, as he worked in the freshly ploughed ground, was +rejoicing at the completion of his book. + +Straightening up from his labor, he drew a deep breath of the +fragrant air. About him on every side, and far away into the blue +distance, the world was dressed in the gala dress of the season. +The river, which at the breaking of the winter had been a yellow +flood that washed the top of the bank in front of the house and +covered the bottom-lands on the opposite side, was again its normal +self, and its voice to him, now, was a singing voice of triumphal +gladness. + +For Brian, too, the world was new, and fresh, and beautiful. The +world of his winter was gone. He had found himself in his work, +and in the glorious consciousness of the fact he felt like shouting +with sheer joy of living. + +"And Auntie Sue, dear Auntie Sue," he thought, looking with love in +his eyes toward the house, how wonderful she had been in her +helpful understanding and never-failing faith in him. After all, +it was Auntie Sue's triumph more than it was his. + +His happy musing was interrupted by a neighbor who, on his way home +from Thompsonville, stopped at the garden fence with the letter for +Auntie Sue. + +Brian took the letter with a jest which brought a roar of laughter +from the mountaineer, and, when the latter had gone on his way up +the hill, started toward the house to find Auntie Sue. + +Glancing at the envelope in his hand, Brian noticed the postmark +"Buenos Aires." He stopped suddenly, staring dumbly at the words +in the circular mark and at the name written on the envelope. Over +and over, he read "Buenos Aires,--Miss Susan Wakefield; Buenos +Aires,--Miss Susan Wakefield." Something-- His brain seemed to be +numb. His hands trembled. He looked about at the familiar +surroundings, and everything seemed suddenly strange and unreal to +him. He looked again at the letter in his hand, turning it +curiously. A strange feeling of oppression and ominous foreboding +possessed him as though the bright spring sky were all at once +overcast with heavy and menacing storm-clouds. What was it? +"Buenos Aires,--Susan Wakefield?" Where had he seen that +combination before? What was it that made the name of the Argentine +city in connection with Auntie Sue's name seem so familiar? Slowly, +he went on to the house, and, finding Auntie Sue, gave her the +letter. + +"Oh!" cried the old lady, as she saw the postmark on the envelope. +"It must be from brother John. It is not John's writing, though," +she added, as she opened the envelope. + +And at her words the feeling of impending disaster so oppressed +Brian Kent that only by an effort could he control himself. He was +possessed of the strange sensation of having at some time in the +past lived the identical experience through which he was at that +moment passing. "Susan Wakefield;--a brother John in Buenos Aires, +Argentine;--the letter!" It was all so familiar that the allusion +was startling in its force. But that ominous cloud,--that sense of +some great trouble near that filled him with such unaccountable +dread--what could it mean? + +An exclamation from Auntie Sue drew his attention. She looked at +him with tear-filled eyes, and her sweet voice broke as she said: +"Brian! Brian! John is dead! This--this letter is from the +doctor who attended him." + +Tenderly, as he would have helped his own mother, Brian assisted +Auntie Sue to her room. For a little while he sat with her, trying +to comfort her with such poor words as he could find. + +Briefly, she told him of the brother who had lived in Argentine for +many years. He had married a South-American woman whom Auntie Sue +had never seen, and while not wealthy had been moderately +prosperous. But he had never forgotten his sister who was so alone +in the world. "Several times, when he could, he sent me money for +my savings-bank account," she finished simply, her sweet old voice +low and tender with the memories of the years that were gone. "John +and I were always very fond of each other. He was a good man, +Brian." + +Brian Kent sat like a man stricken dumb. Auntie Sue's words, "he +sent me money for my savings-bank account," had made the connection +between the names "Buenos Aires, Argentine; John Wakefield; Susan +Wakefield," and the thing for which his mind had been groping with +such a sense of impending disaster. + +In her grief over the death of her brother, and in her memories of +their home years so long past, dear old Auntie Sue had forgotten +the peculiar meaning her words might have for the former clerk of +the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank who sat beside her, and to +whom she turned in her sorrow as a mother to a dearly beloved son. + +"But it is all right, Brian, dear," she said with brave cheerfulness. +"When one has watched the sunsets for seventy years, one ceases to +fear the coming of the night, for always there is the morning. Just +let me rest here alone for a little while, and I will be myself +again." + +She looked up at him with a smile, and Brian Kent, kneeling beside +the bed, bowed his head and caught the dear old hands to his lips. +Without trusting himself to speak again, the man left the room,-- +closing the door. + +He moved about the apartment as one in a dream. With a vividness +that was torture, he lived again that hour in the bank when, +opening the afternoon mail, he had found the letter from Susan +Wakefield with the Argentine notes, which her letter said she had +received from her brother John in Buenos Aires, and which she was +sending to the bank for deposit to her little account. It had been +a very unbusinesslike letter and a very unbusinesslike way to +transmit money. It was, indeed, this nature of the transaction +that had tempted the hard-pressed clerk. + +Mechanically, Brian stopped at his writing-table to finger the +manuscript which he had finished the evening before. Was it only +the evening before? Taking up the volume of closely written sheets +which were bound together by a shoestring that Auntie Sue had +laughingly found for him, when he had so joyously announced the +completion of the last page of his book, he turned the leaves +idly,--reading here and there a sentence with curious interest. +The terrific mental strain of his situation completely divorced +him, as it were, from the life which he had lived during those +happy months just past, and which was so fully represented by his +work. + +Again the river, swinging around a sudden turn in its course, had +come upon a passage where its peaceful flow was broken by the wild +turmoil of the troubled waters. + +"And Auntie Sue,"--something within the man's self was saying,-- +"dear Auntie Sue, who had saved him, not only from death, but from +the hell of the life that he had formerly lived, as well; and whose +loving companionship and sympathetic understanding had so inspired +and strengthened him in the work which had been the passionate +desire of his heart;--the gentle old teacher whose life had been so +completely given to others, and who, in the helplessness of her +last years, was so alone,--Auntie Sue was depending upon that money +which her brother had sent her as the only support of the closing +days of her life. Auntie Sue believed that her money was safe in +the bank. That belief was to her a daily comfort. Auntie Sue did +not know that she was almost penniless;--that the man whom she had +saved with such a wondrous salvation had robbed her, and left her +so shamefully without means for the necessities of life. Auntie +Sue did not know. But she would know,"--that inner voice went on. +"The time would come when she would learn the truth. It was +certain to come. It might come any day. Then--then--" + +As one moving without conscious purpose, Brian Kent went from the +house,--the manuscript in his hand. + +Judy was sitting idly on the porch steps. At sight of the mountain +girl the man knew all at once that there was one thing he must do. +He must make sure that there was no mistake. He was already sure, +of course; but still, as a condemned man at the scaffold hopes +against hope for a stay of sentence, so he caught at the shadowy +suggestion of a possibility. + +"Come with me, Judy," he said, forcing himself to speak coolly; "I +want to talk with you." + +Judy arose, and, looking at him in her stealthy, oblique way, said, +in her drawling monotone: "What's happened ter Auntie Sue? Was +there somethin' in that there letter Bud Jackson give you-all for +her what's upset her?" + +"Auntie Sue's brother is dead, Judy," Brian answered. "She wishes +to be alone, and we must not disturb her. She will be all right in +a little while. Come, let us walk down toward the bluff." + +When they had reached a spot on the river-bank a short distance +above the Elbow Rock cliff, Brian said to his companion: "Judy, I +want you to tell me something. Did Auntie Sue ever send money in a +letter to the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, in Chicago?" + +"The black, beady eyes shifted evasively, and the mountain girl +turned her sallow, old-young face away from Brian's direct gaze. + +"Look at me, Judy." + +She sent a stealthy, oblique glance in his direction. + +"You must tell me." + +"I done started ter tell you-all onct,--that time pap ketched me,-- +an' you-all 'lowed as how I oughten ter tell nothin' 'bout Auntie +Sue to nobody." + +"But it is different now, Judy," returned Brian. "Something has +happened that makes it necessary for me to know." + +"Meanin' that there letter 'bout her brother bein' dead?" asked +Judy, shrewdly. + +"Yes." + +"What you-all got ter know for?" + +"Because--" Brian could not finish. + +Judy's beady eyes were watching him intently, now. "Hit looks like +you-all ain't a-needin' me ter tell you-all anythin'," she observed +dryly. + +"Then Auntie Sue did send money?" + +"She sure did. I seed her fix hit in the letter, myself," came the +answer. + +"What kind of money?" + +"I dunno,--some funny kind hit was,--what her brother done sent her +from some funny place, I dunno just where." + +"When did she send it?" + +"'Bout a month 'fore you come." + +"And--and did any letter ever come from the bank to tell her that +the money was received by them all right?" + +The mountain girl did not answer, but again turned her face away. + +"Tell me," Brian insisted. "I--I--must know, Judy," and his voice +was harsh and broken with emotion. + +The answer came reluctantly: "I reckon you-all knows where that +there money went ter." + +The girl's answer sent a new thought like a hot iron into Brian +Kent's tortured brain. He caught Judy's arm in quick and fearful +excitement. "Judy!" he gasped, imploringly, "Judy, do you--? does +Auntie Sue know--? does she know that I--?" + +"How could she help knowin'? She ain't no fool. An' I done heard +that there Sheriff an' the deteckertive man tellin' her 'bout you +an' the bank. An' the Sheriff, he done give her a paper what he +said told all 'bout what you-all done, an' she must er burned the +paper, or done somethin' with hit, 'cause I couldn't never find hit +after that night. An' what would she do that for? And what for +did she make me promise not ter ever say nothin' ter you-all 'bout +that there money letter? An' why ain't she said nothin' to you +'bout the letter from the bank not comin', if she didn't know hit +was you 'stead of them what done got the money?" + +The girl paused for a moment, and then went on in a tone of +reverent wonder: "An' to think that all the time she could a- +turned you-all over to that there Sheriff an' got the money-reward +to pay her back what you-all done tuck." + +Brian Kent was as one who had received a mortal hurt. His features +were distorted with suffering. With eyes that could not see, he +looked down at the manuscript to which he still unconsciously +clung; and, again, he fingered the pages of his work as though some +blind instinct were sending his tormented soul to seek relief in +the message which, during the happy months just past, he had +written for others. + +And the deformed mountain girl, who stood before him with twisted +body and old-young face, grew fearful as she watched the suffering +of this man whom she had come to look upon as a superior being from +some world which she, in her ignorance, could never know. + +"Mr. Burns," she said at last, putting out her hand and plucking at +his sleeve, "Mr. Burns, you-all ain't got no call ter be like this. +You-all ain't plumb bad. I knows you ain't, 'count of the way you- +all have been ter me an' 'cause you kept pap from hurtin' me, an' +'cause you are takin' care of Auntie Sue like you're doin'. Hit +ain't no matter 'bout the money, now, 'cause you-all kin take care +of her allus." + +Brian looked up from the manuscript in his hand, and stared dumbly +at the girl, as if he failed to hear her clearly. + +"An' just think 'bout your book," Judy continued pleadingly. +"Think 'bout all them fine things you-all have done wrote down for +everybody ter read,--'bout the river allus a-goin' on just the +same, no matter what happens, an' 'bout Auntie Sue an'--" + +She stopped, and drew away from him, frightened at the look that +came into the man's face. + +"Don't, Mr. Burns! Don't!" she half-screamed. "'Fore God, you-all +oughten ter look like that!" + +The man threw up his head, and laughed,--laughed as the wild, +reckless and lost Brian Kent had laughed that black night when, in +the drifting boat, he had cursed the life he was leaving and had +drunk his profane toast to the darkness into which he was being +carried. + +Raising the manuscript, which represented all that the past months +of his re-created life had meant to him, and grasping it in both +hands, he shook it contemptuously, as he said, with indescribable +bitterness and the reckless surrendering of every hope: "'All them +fine things that I have wrote down for everybody ter read.'" He +mimicked her voice with a sneer, and laughed again. Then: "It's +all a lie, Judy, dear;--a damned lie. Auntie Sue is a saint, and +believes it. She made me believe it for a little while,--her +beautiful, impossible dream-philosophy of the river. The river,-- +hell!--the river is as treacherous and cruel and false and tricky +and crooked as life itself! And I am as warped and twisted in mind +and soul as you are in body, Judy, dear. Neither of us can help +it. We were made that way by the river. To hell with the whole +impossible mess of things!" With a gesture of violent rage, he +turned toward the river, and, taking a step forward, lifted the +manuscript high above his head. + +Judy screamed, "Mr. Burns, don't!" + +He paused an instant, and, turning his head, looked at her with +another laugh. + +"'Fore God, you dassn't do that!" she implored. + +And then, as the man turned his face from her, and his arms went +back above his head for the swing that would send the manuscript +far out into the tumbling waters of the rapids, she leaped toward +him, and, catching his arm, hampered his movement so that the book +fell a few feet from the shore, where the water, checked a little +in its onward rush to the cliff by the irregular bank, boiled and +eddied among the rocky ledges and huge boulders that retarded its +force. Another leap carried the mountain girl to the edge of the +bank, where she crouched like a runner ready for the report of the +starter's pistol, her black, beady eyes searching the stream for +the volume of manuscript, which had disappeared from sight, drawn +down by the troubled swirling currents. + +The man, watching her, laughed in derision; but, while his mocking +laughter was still on his lips, the boiling currents brought the +book, again, to the surface, and Brian saw the girl leave the bank +as if thrown by a powerful spring. Straight and true she dived for +the book, and even as she disappeared beneath the surface her hands +clutched the manuscript. + +For a second, Brian Kent held his place as if paralyzed with +horror. Then, as Judy's head appeared farther down the stream, he +ran with all his strength along the bank to gain a point a little +ahead of the swimming girl before he should leap to her rescue. + +But Judy, trained from her birth on that mountain river, knew +better than Brian what to do. A short distance below the point +where she had plunged into the stream, a huge boulder, some two or +three feet from the shore, caused a split in the current, one fork +of which set in toward the bank. Swimming desperately, the girl +gained the advantage of this current, and, just as Brian reached +the spot, she was swept against the bank, where, with her free +hand, she caught and held fast to a projecting root. Had she been +carried past that point, nothing could have saved her from being +swept on into the wild turmoil of the waters at Elbow Rock. + +It was the work of a moment for Brian to throw himself flat on the +ground at the edge of the bank and, reaching down, to grasp the +girl's wrist. Another moment, and she was safe beside him, his +manuscript still tightly held under one arm. + +Not realizing, in his excitement, what he was doing, Brian shook +the girl, saying angrily: "What in the world do you mean, taking +such a crazy-fool chance as that!" + +She broke away from him with: "Well, what'd you-all go an' do such +a dad burned fool thing for? Hit's you-all what's crazy yourself-- +plumb crazy!" + +Brian held out his hand: "Give me that manuscript!" + +Judy clutched the book tighter, and drew back defiantly. "I won't. +You-all done throwed hit away onct. 'Tain't your'n no more, +nohow." + +"Well, what do you purpose to do with it?" said the puzzled man, in +a gentler tone. + +"I aims ter give hit ter Auntie Sue," came the startling reply. "I +reckon she'll know what ter do. Hit allus was more her'n than +your'n, anyhow. You done said so yourself. I heard you only last +night when you-all was so dad burned tickled at gittin' hit done. +You-all ain't got no right ter sling hit inter the river, an', +anyway, I ain't a-goin' ter let you." + +"Which sounds very sensible to me," came a clear voice from a few +feet distant. + +Judy and Brian turned quickly, to face a young woman who stood +regarding them thoughtfully, with a suggestion of a smile on her +very attractive face. + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +BETTY JO CONSIDERS. + + +The most careless eye would have seen instantly that the newcomer +was not a native of that backwoods district. She was not a large +woman, but there was, nevertheless, a full, rounded strength, which +saved her trim and rather slender body from appearing small. +Neither would a discriminating observer describe her by that too- +common term "pretty." She was more than that. In her large, gray +eyes, there was a look of frank, straightforward interest that +suggested an almost boyish good-fellowship, while at the same time +there was about her a general air of good breeding; with a calm, +self-possessed and businesslike alertness which, combined with a +wholesome dignity, commanded a feeling of respect and confidence. +Her voice was clear and musical, with an undertone of sympathetic +humor. One felt when she spoke that while she lacked nothing of +intelligent understanding and sympathetic interest, she was quite +ready to laugh at you just the same. + +When the two stood speechless, she said, looking straight at Brian: +"It seems to me, sir, that the young lady has all the best of the +argument. But I really think she should have some dry clothes as +well." + +She turned to the dripping and dishevelled Judy: "You poor child. +Aren't you cold! It is rather early in the season for a dip in the +river, I should think. Let me take whatever you have there, and +you make for the house as fast as you can go,--the run will warm +you." + +As she spoke, she went to the mountain girl, holding out her hand +to take the manuscript, and smiling encouragingly. + +But Judy backed away, her stealthy, oblique gaze fixed with +watchful surprise on the fair stranger. + +"This here ain't none of your put-in," and her shrill drawling +monotone contrasted strangely with the other's pleasing voice. +"Where'd you-all happen from, anyhow? How'd you-all git here?" + +"I came over the bluff by the path," answered the other. "You see, +I left the train from the south at White's Crossing because I knew +I could drive up from there by the river road quicker than I could +go by rail away around through the hills to Thompsonville, and then +make the drive down the river from there. When I reached Elbow +Rock, I was in such a hurry, I took the short cut, while the man +with my trunk and things went by the road over Schoolhouse Hill, +you know. I arrived here just as this gentleman was pulling you +from the water." + +Before Brian could speak, Judy returned with excitement: "I know +who you-all be now. I ought ter knowed the minute I set eyes on +you. You-all are the gal with that there no-'count name, an' +you've come ter work for him, there,"--she pointed to Brian,--"a- +helpin' him ter write his book, what ain't his'n no more, nohow, +'cause he done throwed hit away,--plumb inter the river." + +"I am Miss Williams," returned the other. "My 'no-'count name,' I +suppose, is Betty Jo." She laughed kindly. "Perhaps it won't seem +so 'no'count' when we are better acquainted, Judy. Won't you run +along to the house, and change to some dry clothes? You will catch +your death of cold if you stand here like this." + +"How'd you-all know I was Judy?" + +"Why, Auntie Sue wrote me about you, of course." + +"An' you knowed me 'cause I'm so all crooked an' ugly, I reckon," +came the uncompromising return. + +Betty Jo turned to Brian: "You are Mr. Burns, are you not, for +whom I am to work?" + +Brian made no reply,--he really could not speak. "And this,"-- +Betty Jo included Judy, the manuscript, and the river in a graceful +gesture,--"this, I suppose, is the result of what is called 'the +artistic temperament'?" + +Still the man could find no words. The young woman's presence and +her reference to his work brought to him, with overwhelming +vividness, the memory of all to which he had so short a time before +looked forward, and which was now so hopelessly lost to him. He +felt, too, a sense of rebellion that she should have come at such a +moment,--that she could stand there with such calm self-possession +and with such an air of competency. Her confidence and poise in +such contrast to the chaotic turmoil of his own thoughts, and his +utter helplessness in the situation which had so suddenly burst +upon him, filled him with unreasoning resentment. + +Betty Jo must have read in Brian Kent's face something of the +suffering that held him there dumb and motionless before her, and +so sensed a deeper tragedy than appeared on the surface of the +incident; and her own face and voice revealed her understanding as +she said, with quiet, but decisive, force: "Mr. Burns, Judy must +go to the house. Won't you persuade her?" + +Brian started as one aroused from deep abstraction, and went to +Judy; while Betty Jo drew a little way apart, and stood looking out +over the river. + +"Give me the manuscript, Judy," said Brian gently, "and go on to +the house." + +"You-all ain't a-goin' ter sling hit inter the river again?" The +words were half-question and half-assertion. + +"No," said Brian. "I promise not to throw it into the river +again." + +As Judy gave him the manuscript, she turned her beady eyes in a +stealthy, oblique look toward Betty Jo, and whispered: "You-all +best tell her 'bout hit. I sure hate her poison-bad; but hit's +easy ter see she'd sure know what ter do." + +"Be careful that Auntie Sue doesn't see you like this, Judy," was +Brian's only answer; and Judy started off for her much-needed +change to dry clothing. + +When the mountain girl was gone, Brian stood looking at the water- +stained volume of manuscript in his hand. He had no feeling, now, +of more than a curious idle interest in this work to which, during +the months just past, he had given so without reserve the best of +himself. It was, he thought, strange how he could regard with such +indifference a thing for which a few hours before he would have +given his life. Dumbly, he was conscious of the truth of Judy's +words,--that the book was no longer his. Judy was right--this book +which he had called his had always been, in reality, Auntie Sue's. +So the matter of his work, at least so far as he had to do with it, +was settled--definitely and finally settled. + +But what of himself? What was to become of him? Of one thing only +he was certain about himself;--he never could face Auntie Sue +again. Knowing, now, what he had done, and knowing that she knew;-- +that all the time she was nursing him back to health, all the time +she had been giving him the inspiration and strength and peace of +her gentle, loving companionship, in the safe and quiet harbor of +her little house by the river, she had known that it was he who +had-- + +A clear, matter-of-fact, but gentle, voice interrupted his bitter +thoughts: "Is it so very badly damaged, Mr. Burns?" + +He had forgotten Betty Jo, who now stood close beside him. + +"Let me see?" She held out her hand as he turned slowly to face +her. + +Without a word, he gave her the manuscript. + +Very businesslike and practical, but with an underlying feeling of +tenderness that was her most compelling charm, Betty Jo examined +the water-stained volume. + +"Why, no," she announced cheerfully; "it isn't really hurt much. +You see, the sheets being tied together so tightly, the water +didn't get all the way through. The covers and the first and last +pages are pretty wet, and the edges of the rest are rather damp. +It'll be smudged somewhat, but I don't believe there is a single +word that can't be made out. It is lucky it didn't prolong its +bath, though, isn't it? All we need to do, now, is to put it in +the sun to dry for a few minutes." + +Selecting a sunny spot near by, she arranged the volume against a +stone and deftly separated the pages so that the air could +circulate more freely between them; and one would have said, from +her manner of ready assurance, that she had learned from long +experience exactly how to dry a manuscript that had been thrown in +the river and rescued just in the nick of time. That was Betty +Jo's way. She always did everything without hesitation,--just as +though she had spent the twenty-three years of her life doing +exactly that particular thing. + +Kneeling over the manuscript, and gently moving the wet sheets, she +said, without looking up: "Do you always bath your manuscripts +like this before you turn them over to your stenographer to type, +Mr. Burns?" + +In spite of his troubled state of mind, Brian smiled. + +The clear, matter-of-fact voice went on, while the competent hands +moved the drying pages. "You see, I never worked for an author +before. I suspect I have a lot to learn." + +She looked up at him with a Betty Jo smile that went straight to +his heart, as Betty Jo's smiles had a curious way of doing. + +"I hope you will be very patient with me, Mr. Burns. You will, +won't you? There is no real danger of your throwing ME in the +river when the 'artistic temperament' possesses you, is there?" + +It was no use. When Betty Jo set out to make a man talk, that man +talked. Brian yielded not ungracefully: "I owe you an apology, +Miss Williams," he said. + +"Indeed, no," Betty Jo returned, giving her attention to the +manuscript again. "It is easy to see that you are terribly upset +about something; and everybody is so accustomed to being upset in +one way or another that apologies for upsetments are quite an +unnecessary bother, aren't they?" + +That was another interestingly curious thing about Betty Jo,--the +way she could finish off a characteristic, matter-of-fact statement +with a question which had the effect of making one agree instantly +whether one agreed or not. + +Brian felt himself quite unexpectedly feeling that "upsetments" +were quite common, ordinary, and to be expected events in one's +life. "But I am really in very serious trouble, Miss Williams," he +said in a way that sounded oddly to Brian himself, as though he +were trying to convince himself that his trouble really was +serious. + +Betty Jo rose to her feet, and looked straight at him, and there +was no mistaking the genuineness of the interest expressed in those +big gray eyes. + +"Oh, are you? Is it really so serious? I am so sorry. But don't +you think you better tell me about it, Mr. Burns? If I am to work +for you, I may just as well begin right here, don't you think?" + +There it was again,--that trick-question. Brian felt himself +agreeing in spite of himself, though how he was to explain his +painful situation to this young woman whom, until a few minutes +before, he had never even seen, he did not know. He answered +cautiously, speaking half to himself: "That is what Judy said." + +Betty Jo did not understand, and made no pretense,--she never made +a pretense of anything. "What did Judy say?" she asked. + +"That I had better tell you about it," he answered. + +And the matter-of-fact Betty Jo returned: "Judy seems to be a very +particular and common-sensing sort of Judy, doesn't she?" + +And Brian realized all at once that Judy was exactly what Betty Jo +said. + +"But,--I--I--don't see how I CAN tell you, Miss Williams." + +"Why?" laughed Betty Jo. "It is perfectly simple, Mr. Burns. +here, now, I'll show you: You are to sit down there on that nice +comfortable rock,--that is your big office-chair, you know,--and +I'll sit right here on this rock,--which is my little stenography- +chair,--and you will just explain the serious business proposition +to me with careful attention to details. I must tell you that +'detailing' is one of my strong points, so don't spare me. I +really should have my notebook, shouldn't I?" + +Again, in spite of himself, Brian smiled; also, before he was +aware, they were both seated as Betty Jo had directed. + +"But this is not a business matter, Miss Williams," he managed to +protest half-heartedly. + +Betty Jo was looking at her watch in a most matter-of-fact manner, +and she answered in a most matter-of-fact voice: "Everything is +more or less a business matter, isn't it, Mr. Burns?" + +And Brian, if he had answered, would have agreed. + +Betty Jo slipped her watch back into her pocket, and continued: +"You will have plenty of time before that man with my trunk and +things can get away 'round over Schoolhouse Hill and down again to +Auntie Sue's. He will be obliged to stop at neighbor Tom's, and +tell them all about me, of course. We mustn't let him beat us to +the house, though; so, perhaps, you better begin, don't you think?" + +That "don't-you-think?" so characteristic of Betty Jo, did its +work, as usual; and so, almost before Brian Kent realized what he +was doing, it had been decided for him that to follow Judy's advice +was the best possible thing he could do, and he was relating his +whole wretched experience to this young woman, about whom he knew +nothing except that she was a niece of an old pupil of Auntie +Sue's, and that she had just finished a course in a business +college in Cincinnati. + +At several points in his story Betty Jo asked straightforward +questions, or made short, matter-of-fact comments; but, always with +her businesslike air of competent interest. Indeed, she managed to +treat the situation as being wholly impersonal; while at the same +time the man was never for a moment made to feel that she was +lacking in sincere and genuine sympathy. Only when he told her +that his name was Brian Kent, and mentioned the Empire Consolidated +Savings Bank, did she for the moment betray excited surprise. When +she saw that he had noticed, she said quickly: "I read of the +affair in the papers, of course." + +Auntie Sue had indeed taken a big chance when she decided for Betty +Jo to come to help Brian with his book. But Auntie Sue had taken +no chance on Betty Jo herself. Perhaps it was, in fact, the dear +old teacher's certainty about Betty Jo herself that had led her to +accept the risk of sending for the niece of her friend and pupil +under such a peculiar combination of circumstances. + +When Brian had finished his story with the account of his discovery +of the distressing fact that he had robbed Auntie Sue and that she +knew he had robbed her, Betty Jo said: "It is really a sad story, +isn't it, Mr. Burns? But, oh, isn't Auntie Sue wonderful! Was +there ever such another woman in the world! Don't you love her? +And couldn't you do anything--anything that would make her happy? +After all, when you think of Auntie Sue, and how wonderful she has +been, this whole thing isn't so bad, is it?" + +"Why, I--I--don't think I see what you mean," Brian replied, +puzzled by the unexpected turn she had given to the situation, yet +convinced by that little question with which she finished that she +was somehow right. + +"Well, I mean wouldn't YOU love to do for some one what Auntie Sue +has done for you? I should if I were only big enough and good +enough. It seems to me it would make one the happiest and +contentedest and peacefulest person in the world, wouldn't it?" + +Brian did not answer. While he felt himself agreeing with Betty +Jo's view, he was wondering at himself that he could discuss the +matter so calmly. It was not that he no longer felt deeply the +shame of this terrible thing that he had done; it was not that he +had ceased to suffer the torment that had caused his emotional +madness, which had found expression in his attempt to destroy his +manuscript; it was only that this young woman somehow made it +possible for him to retain his self-control, and instead of venting +his emotions in violent and wholly useless expressions of regret, +and self-condemnation, and in irrational, temperamental action, to +consider coolly and sanely what he must do. He was strangely +possessed, too, of an instinctive certainty that Betty Jo knew +exactly how he felt and exactly what she was doing. + +While he was thinking these things, or, rather, feeling them, Betty +Jo went to see how the manuscript was drying. She returned to her +seat on the rock presently, saying: "It is doing very nicely,-- +almost dry. I think it will be done pretty soon. In the meantime, +what are we going to do about everything? You have thought of +something for you to do, of course!" + +"I fear I have felt rather more than I have thought," returned +Brian. + +She nodded. "Yes, I know; but feeling alone never arrives +anywhere. An excess of thoughtless feeling is sheer emotional +extravagance. I sound like a book, don't I?" she laughed. "It is +so just the same, Mr. Burns. And now that you have--ah--been +properly--not to say gloriously--extravagant at poor Judy's +expense, we had better do a little thinking, don't you think?" + +The man's cheeks reddened at her words; but the straightforward, +downright sincerity of those gray eyes, that looked so frankly into +his, held him steady; while the interrogation at the end of her +remark carried its usual conviction. + +"There is only one possible thing left for me to do, Miss +Williams," he said earnestly. + +"And what is that?" A smile that sent a glow of courage to Brian +Kent's troubled heart accompanied the flat question. + +"I can't face Auntie Sue again, knowing what I know now." He spoke +with passion. + +"Of course you would expect to feel that way, wouldn't you?" came +the matter-of-fact answer. + +"The only thing I can do," he continued, "is to give myself up, and +go to the penitentiary; arranging, somehow, to do it in such a way +that the reward will go to Auntie Sue. God knows she deserves it! +Sheriff Knox would help me fix that part, I am sure." + +For a moment there was a suspicious moisture in Betty Jo's gray +eyes. Then she said, "And you would really go to prison for Auntie +Sue?" + +"It is the least I can do for her now," he returned. + +And Betty Jo must have felt the sincerity of his purpose, for she +said, softly: "I am sure that it would make Auntie Sue very happy +to know that you would do that; and"--she added--"I know that you +could not possibly make her more unhappy and miserable than by +doing it, could you?" + +Again she had given an unexpected turn to the subject with the +usual convincing question-mark. + +"But what can I do?" he demanded, letting himself go a little. + +Betty Jo steadied him with: "Well, suppose you listen while I +consider? Did I tell you that 'considering' was another of my +strong points, Mr. Burns? Well, it is. You may consider me while +I consider, if you please. + +"The first thing is, that you must make Auntie Sue happy,--as happy +as you possibly can do at any cost. The second thing is, that you +must pay her back that money, every penny of it. Now, it wouldn't +make her happy for you to go to prison, and the reward wouldn't pay +back all the money; and if you were in prison, you never could pay +the rest; besides, if you were wasting your time in prison, she +would just die of miserableness, and she wouldn't touch a penny of +that reward-money--not if she was to die for want of it. So that +settles that, doesn't it?" + +And Brian was forced to admit that, as Betty Jo put it, it did. + +"Very well, let us consider some more: Dear Auntie Sue has been +wonderfully, gloriously happy in doing what she has for you this +past winter,--meaning your book and all. I can see that she must +have been. No one could help being happy doing such a thing as +that. So you just simply can't spoil it all, now, by letting her +know that you know what you know." + +Brian started to speak, but she checked him with: "Please, Mr. +Burns, I must not be interrupted when I am considering. Next to +the prison,--which we have agreed won't do at all,--you could do +nothing that would make Auntie Sue more unhappy than to spoil the +happiness she has in your not knowing what you have done to her. +That is very clear, isn't it? And think of her miserableness if, +after all these weeks of happy anticipation, your book should never +be published. No, no, no; you can't rob Auntie Sue of her +happiness in you just because you stole her money, can you?" + +And Brian knew in his heart that she was right. + +"So, you see," Betty Jo continued, "the only possible way to do is +to go right along just as if nothing had happened. And there is +this final consideration,--which must be a dark secret between you +and me,--when the book is finished, you must see to it that every +penny that comes from it goes to Auntie Sue until she is paid back +all that she lost through you. Now, isn't that pretty fine +'considering,' Mr. Burns?" + +And Brian was convinced that it was. "But," he suggested, "the +book may not earn anything. Nothing that I ever wrote before did." + +"You never wrote one before just like this, did you?" came the very +matter-of-fact answer. "And, besides, if your book never earns a +cent, it will do Auntie Sue a world more good than your going to +prison for her. That would be rather silly, now that you think of +it, wouldn't it? And now that we have our conspiracy all nicely +conspired, we must hurry to the house before that man arrives with +my things." + +She went for the manuscript as she spoke. "See," she cried, "it is +quite dry, and not a bit the worse for its temperamental experience!" +She laughed gleefully. + +"But, Miss Williams," exclaimed Brian, "I--I--can't understand you! +You don't seem to mind. What I have told you about myself doesn't +seem to--to--make any difference to you--I mean in your attitude +toward me." + +"Oh, yes, it does," she returned. "It makes me very interested in +you, Mr. Burns." + +"But, how can you have any confidence-- How can you help me with +my book now that you know what I am?" he persisted, for he was +sincerely puzzled by her apparent indifference to the revelation he +had made of his character. + +"Auntie Sue,"--she answered,--"just Auntie Sue. Come,--we must +go." + +"How in the world can I ever face her!" groaned Brian. + +"You won't get the chance at her, for awhile, with me around;--she +will be so busy with me that she won't notice anything wrong with +you. So you will get accustomed to the conspiracy feeling before +you are even suspected of conspiring. You know, when one has once +arrived at the state of not feeling like a liar, one can lie with +astonishing success. Haven't you found it so?" + +They laughed together over this as they went toward the house. + +As they reached the porch, Betty Jo whispered a last word of +instruction: "You better find Judy, and fix her the first thing;-- +fix her good and hard. Here is Auntie Sue now. Don't worry about +her noticing anything strange about you. I'll attend to her." + +And the next minute, Betty Jo had the dear old lady in her arms. + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +A MATTER OF BUSINESS. + + +The weeks that followed the coming of Betty Jo to the little log +house by the river passed quickly for Brian Kent. Perhaps it was +the peculiar circumstances of their first meeting that made the man +feel so strongly that he had known her for many years, instead of +for only those few short weeks. That could easily have been the +reason, because the young woman had stepped so suddenly into his +life at a very critical time;--when his mental faculties were so +confused by the turmoil and suffering of his emotional self that +the past was to him, at the moment, far more real than the present. + +And Betty Jo had not merely come into his life casually, as a +disinterested spectator; but, by the peculiar appeal of herself, +she had led Brian to take her so into his confidence that she had +become immediately a very real part of the experience through which +he was then passing, and thus was identified with his past +experience out of which the crisis of the moment had come. + +Again Betty Jo, in the naturalness of her manner toward him, and by +her matter-of-fact, impersonal consideration of his perplexing +situation, had brought to his unsettled and chaotic mind a sense of +stability and order; and by subtly insinuating her own practical +decisions as to the course he should follow, had made herself a +very literal part of his inner life. In fact, Betty Jo knew Brian +Kent more intimately at the close of their first meeting than she +could have known him after years of acquaintanceship under the +ordinary course of development. + +Brian's consciousness of this would naturally cause him to feel +toward the young woman as though she had long been a part of his +life. Still other causes might have contributed to the intimate +companionship that so quickly became to them both an established +and taken-for-granted fact; but, the circumstances of their first +meeting, given, of course, their peculiar individualities, were, +really, quite enough. The fact that it was springtime might also +have had something to do with it. + +The morning after her arrival, Betty Jo set to work typing the +manuscript. Brian went to his work on the timbered hillside. In +the evenings, Brian worked over the typewitten pages,--revising, +correcting, perfecting,--and then, as Betty Jo made the final copy +for the printers, they went critically over the work together. + +So the hours flew past on busy wings, and the days of the +springtime drew toward summer. The tender green of the new-born +leaves and grasses changed to a stronger, deeper tone. The air, +which had been so filled with the freshness and newness of bursting +buds and rain-blessed soil, and all the quickening life of tree +and bush and plant, now carried the perfume of strongly growing +things,--the feel of maturing life. + +To Brian, the voices of the river brought a fuller, deeper message, +with a subtle undertone of steady and enduring purpose. + +From the beginning, Betty Jo established for herself the habit of +leaving her work at the typewriter in the afternoons, and going for +a walk over the hills. Quite incidentally, at first, her walks +occasionally led her by way of the clearing where Brian was at work +with his ax, and it followed, naturally, that as the end of the day +drew near, the two would go together down the mountain-side to the +evening meal. But long before the book was finished, the little +afternoon visit and the walk together at the day's close had become +so established as a custom that they both accepted it as a part of +their day's life; and to Brian, at least, it was an hour to which +he looked forward as the most delightful hour of the twenty-four. +As for Betty Jo,--well, it was really Betty Jo who established the +custom and developed it to that point where it was of such +importance. + +Auntie Sue was too experienced from her life-long study of boys and +girls not to observe the deepening of the friendship between the +man and the woman whom she had brought together. But if the dear +old lady felt any twinges of an apprehensive conscience, when she +saw the pair day after day coming down the mountain-side through +the long shadows of the late afternoon, she very promptly banished +them, and, quite consistently, with what Brian called her "River +philosophy," made no attempt to separate these two life currents, +which, for the time at least, seemed to be merging into one. + +And often, as the three sat together on the porch after supper to +watch the sunsets, or later in the evening as Auntie Sue sat with +her sewing while they were busy with their work and unobserving, +the dear old lady would look at them with a little smile of tender +meaning, and into the gentle eyes would come that far-away look +that was born of the memories that had so sweetened the long years +of her life, and of the hope and dream of a joy unspeakable that +awaited her beyond the sunset of her day. + +In her long letter to Betty Jo, asking the girl to come, Auntie Sue +had told the young woman the main facts of Brian's history as she +knew them, omitting only the man's true name and the name of the +bank. She had even mentioned her conviction that there had been a +woman in his trouble. But Auntie Sue had not mentioned in her +letter the money she had lost; nor did she now know that Brian had +himself told Betty Jo at the time of their first meeting. + +On the day that Betty Jo typed the last page, and the book was +ready for the printers, the young woman went earlier than usual to +the clearing where Brian was at work. The sound of his ax reached +her while she was yet some distance away, and guided her to the +spot where he was chopping a big white oak. + +Brian, with his eyes fixed on the widening cut at the base of the +tree, did not notice the girl, who stood watching him. She was +smiling to herself at his ignorance of her presence and in +anticipation of the moment when he should discover her, and there +was in her eyes a look of wholesome womanly admiration for the man +who swung his ax with such easy strength. In truth, Brian Kent at +his woodman's labor made a picture not at all unattractive. + +Swiftly, the cut in the tree-trunk widened as the ax bit deeply at +every skilful stroke, and the chips flew about the chopper's feet. +The acrid odor of the freshly cut oak mingled with the woodland +perfume. The sun warmly flooded the clearing with its golden +light, and, splashing through the openings in the forest foliage, +formed pools of yellow beauty amid the dark, rich green of the +shadowy undergrowth. The air was filled with the sense of life, +vital and real, and strong and beautiful. + +And the young woman, as she stood smiling there, was keenly +conscious of it all. Most of all, perhaps, Betty Jo was conscious +of the man, who worked with such vigor at his manly task. + +Slowly, accurately, the bright ax sank deeper and deeper into the +heart of the tree. The chips increased in scattered profusion. +And then, as Betty Jo watched, the swinging ax cut through the last +fibre of the tree's strength, and the leafy top swayed gently +toward its fall. Almost imperceptibly, at first, it moved while +Betty Jo watched breathlessly. Brian swung his ax with increasing +vigor, now, while the wood, still remaining, cracked and snapped as +the weight of the tree completed the work of the chopper. Faster +and faster the towering mass of foliage swung in a wide graceful +arc toward the ground. The man with the ax stepped back, his eyes +fixed on the falling tree as, with swiftly increasing momentum, its +great weight swept swiftly downward to its crashing end. + +Betty Jo clapped her hands in triumph; and Brian, turning, saw +her standing there. His face was flushed and glistening with +perspiration; his broad chest heaved with the deep breathing gained +by his exertion, and his eyes shone with the gladness of her +presence. + +"You are early, to-day!" he cried. "Have you finished? Is it +actually completed?" + +"All finished," she returned; and, going to the fallen tree, she +put her hands curiously on the trunk, which lay a little higher +than her waist. "Help me up," she commanded. + +Brian set his ax against the stump, and, laughingly, lifted her to +the seat she desired. Then he stood watching her face as she +surveyed the tangled mass of branches. + +"It looks so strange from here, doesn't it?" she said. + +"Yes; and I confess I don't like to see it that way;" he returned. +"I wish they didn't have to be cut. I feel like a murderer,--every +one I fall." + +She looked down into his eyes, as she returned: "I know you must. +YOU would, of course. But, after all, it has to be, and I don't +suppose the tree minds so much, do you?" + +"No; I don't suppose it feels it much." He laughed, and, throwing +aside his hat, he ran his fingers through his tumbled hair for all +the world like a schoolboy confused by being caught in some +sentimental situation which he finds not only embarrassing, but +puzzling as well. + +"I like you for feeling that way about it, though," Betty Jo +confessed with characteristic frankness. "And I am sure it must be +a very good thing for the world that every one is not so intensely +practical that they can chop down trees without a pang. And that +reminds me: Speaking of the practical, now that the book is +finished, what are we going to do with it?" + +"Send it to some publisher, I suppose," answered Brian, soberly; +"and then, when they have returned it, send it to some other +publisher." + +"Have you any particular publisher to whom you will send it first?" +she asked. + +"They are all alike, so far as my experience goes," he returned. + +"I suppose it would be best if you could take your book East, and +interview the publishers personally, don't you think?" + +Brian shook his head: "I am not sure that it would make any +difference, and, in any case, I couldn't do it." + +"I know," said Betty Jo, "and that is what I wanted to get at. Why +don't you appoint me your agent, and let me take your book East, +and make the publishing arrangements for you?" + +Brian looked at her with such delighted surprise that Betty Jo +smiled back at him well pleased. + +"Would you really do it?" he demanded, as though he feared she was +jesting. + +"You are sure that you don't mean 'COULD I do it'?"--she returned,-- +"sure you could trust me?" + +To which Brian answered enthusiastically: "You could do anything! +If you undertake the job of landing a publisher for my stuff, it is +as good as done." + +"Thank you," she said, jumping down from the tree-trunk. "Now that +we have settled it, let us go to the house and tell Auntie Sue, and +I will start in the morning." + +As they went down the hill, they discussed the matter further, and, +later, at the house, Brian took a moment, when Auntie Sue was in +her room, to hand an envelope to his assistant. "Your salary," he +said, hurriedly, "and expense money for the trip." + +"Oh!" Betty Jo's exclamation was one of surprise. Then she said, +in her most matter-of-fact, businesslike tone: "Thank you. I will +render a statement of my account, but--" For once, Betty Jo seemed +at a loss for words. "You don't mind if I ask--is--is this money--?" + +Brian's face was a study. "Yes," he said, "it is really Auntie +Sue's money; but it is all I have, and I can't return it to her-- +without her knowing--so I--" + +Betty Jo interrupted: "I understand. It is all we can do,-- +forgive me?" + +Brian Kent did not know that Betty Jo, a few minutes later, buried +the envelope he had given her deep in the bottom of her trunk +without even opening it. + +The next day, Brian drove to Thompsonville with Betty Jo, who took +the noon train for the East. + +The two were rather quiet as "Old Prince" jogged soberly along the +beautiful river road. Only now and then did they exchange a few +words of the most commonplace observation. + +They were within sight of the little Ozark settlement when Brian +said, earnestly: "I wish I could tell you, Miss Williams, just +what your coming to help me with this work has meant to me." + +"It has meant a great deal to me, too, Mr. Burns," she returned. +Then she added quickly: "I suppose the first real work one does +after finishing school always means more than any position +following could possibly mean, don't you think? Just like your +book. No matter how many you may write in the future, this will +always mean more to you than any one of them." + +"Yes," he said slowly. "This book will always mean more to me than +all the others I may write." + +For a moment their eyes met with unwavering frankness. Then Betty +Jo turned her face away, and Brian stiffened his shoulders, and sat +a little straighter in the seat beside her. That was all. + +Very brave they were at the depot purchasing Betty Jo's ticket and +checking her trunk. With brave commonplaces they said good-bye +when the train pulled in. Bravely she waved at him from the open +window of the coach. And bravely Brian stood there watching until +the train rounded the curve and disappeared from sight between the +hills. + +The world through which Brian Kent drove that afternoon on his way +back to Auntie Sue and Judy in the little log house by the river +was a very dull and uninteresting world indeed. All its brightness +and its beauty seemed suddenly to have vanished. And as "Old +Prince" jogged patiently on his way, sleepily content with thoughts +of his evening meal of hay and grain, the man's mind was disturbed +with thoughts which he dared not own even to his innermost self. + +"Circumstances to a man," Auntie Sue had said, "always meant a +woman." And Brian Kent, while he never under any pressure would +have admitted it, knew within his deepest self that it was a woman +who had set him adrift on the dark river that dreadful night when +he had cursed the world which he thought he was leaving forever. + +"Circumstances" in the person of Auntie Sue had saved him from +destruction, and, in the little log house by the river, had brought +about his Re-Creation. + +And then, when that revelation of his crime toward Auntie Sue had +come, and the labor of months, with all that it implied of the +enduring salvation of himself and the happiness of Auntie Sue, hung +wavering in the balance, it was the "Circumstances" of Betty Jo's +coming that had set him in the right current of action again. + +What waited for him around the next bend in the river, Brian +wondered,--calm and peaceful waters, with gently flowing currents, +or the wild tumult of dangerous rapids wherein he would be forced +to fight for his very existence? Would Betty Jo succeed as his +agent to the publishers? If she did succeed in finding a publisher +to accept his book, would the reading public receive his message? +And if that followed, what then? When Betty Jo's mission in the +East was accomplished, she was to return to Auntie Sue for the +summer. Then--? + +"Old Prince," of his own accord, was turning in at the gate, and +Brian awoke from his abstraction to see Auntie Sue and Judy waiting +for him. + +All during the evening meal and while he sat with Auntie Sue on +the porch overlooking the river, as their custom was, Brian was +preoccupied and silent; while his companion, with the wisdom of her +seventy years, did not force the conversation. + +It was the time of the full moon, and when Auntie Sue at last bade +him good-night, Brian, saying that the evening was too lovely to +waste in sleep, remained on the porch. For an hour, perhaps, he +sat there alone; but his thoughts were not on the beauties of the +scene that lay before him in all its dreamy charm of shadowy hills +and moonlit river. He had no ear for the soft voices of the night. +The gentle breeze carried to him the low, deep-toned roar of the +crashing waters at Elbow Rock; but he did not hear. Moved at last +by a feeling of restless longing, and the certainty that only a +sleepless bed awaited him in the house, he left the porch to stroll +along the bank of the river. + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +THE SECRET OF AUNTIE SUE'S LIFE. + + +Brian Kent, strolling along the bank of the river in the moonlight, +and preoccupied with thoughts that were, at the last, more dreams +than thoughts, was not far from the house when a sound from behind +some near-by bushes broke in upon his reveries. A moment, he +listened. Then telling himself that it was some prowling animal, +or perhaps, a bird that his presence had disturbed, he went on. +But he had gone only a few feet farther when he was conscious of +something stealthily following him. Stepping behind the trunk of a +tree, he waited, watching. Then he saw a form moving toward him +through the shadows of the bushes. Another moment, and the form +left the concealing shadow, and, in the bright moonlight, he +recognized Judy. + +At first, the man's feeling was that of annoyance. He did not wish +to be disturbed at such a time by the presence of the mountain +girl. But his habitual gentleness toward poor Judy, together with +a very natural curiosity as to why she was following him at that +time of the night, when he had supposed her in bed and asleep, led +him to greet her kindly as he came from behind the tree: "Well, +Judy, are you, too, out enjoying the moonlight?" + +The girl stopped suddenly and half-turned as if to run; but, at his +words, stood still. + +"What is it, Judy?" he asked, going to her. "What is the matter?" + +"There's a heap the matter!" she answered, regarding him with that +sly oblique look; while Brian noticed a feeling of intense +excitement in her voice. "I don't know what you-all are a-goin' +ter think of me, but I'm bound ter tell you just the same,--seems +like I got ter,--even if you-all was ter lick me for hit like pap +used ter." + +"Why, Judy, dear," the puzzled man returned, soothingly, "you know +I would never strike you, no matter what you did. Come, sit down +here on this log, and tell me about whatever it is that troubles +you; then you can go back to sleep again." + +"I ain't a-wantin' ter set down. I ain't been asleep. Hit seems +like I can't never sleep no more." She wrung her hands and turned +her poor twisted body about nervously; then demanded with startling +abruptness: "When do you-all 'low she'll git back?" + +The wondering Brian did not at first catch her meaning, and she +continued, with an impatient jerk of her head: "Hit's that there +gal with the no-'count name, Betty Jo, I'm a-talkin' 'bout." + +"Oh, you mean Miss Williams," Brian returned. "Why, I suppose she +will be back in two or three weeks, or a month, perhaps; I don't +know exactly, Judy. Why?" + +"'Cause I'm a-tellin' you-all not ter let her come back here ever," +came the startling answer, in a voice that was filled with menacing +anger. Then, before Brian could find a word to reply, the mountain +girl continued, with increasing excitement: "You-all dassn't let +her come back here, nohow, 'cause, if you do, I'll hurt her, sure. +You-all have been a-thinkin' as how I was plumb blind, I reckon; +but I seen you,--every evenin', when she'd pretend ter just go for +a walk an' then'd make straight for the clearin' where you was a- +choppin', an' then you'd quit, an' set with her up there on the +hill. Youuns never knowed I was a-watchin' from the bresh all the +time, did you? Well, I was; an' when youuns'd walk down ter the +house, so slow like an' close together, I'd sneak ahead, an' beat +you home; but all the time I was a-seein' you, an' youuns never +knowed, 'cause youuns just naturally couldn't see nor hear nothin' +but each other. Don't you-all 'low as how I'd know by the way you +looked at her, while youuns was a-fixin' that there book, every +night, what you-all was a-thinkin' 'bout her? My God-A'mighty! hit +was just as plain ter me as if you was a-sayin' hit right out loud +all the time,--a heap plainer hit was than if you'd done writ' hit +down in your book. I can't make out ter read print much, nohow, +like youuns kin; but I sure kin see what I see. I--" + +"Judy! Judy!" Brian broke the stream of the excited girl's talk. +"What in the world are you saying? What do you mean, child?" + +"You-all knows dad burned well what I'm a-meanin'!" she retorted, +with increasing anger. "I'm a-meanin' that you-all are plumb +lovin' that there Betty Jo gal,--that's what I'm a-meanin'!--an' +you-all sure ain't got ary right for ter go an' do sich a thing, +nohow!" + +Brian tried to check her, but she silenced him with: "I won't +neither hush! I can't! I tell you I'm a-goin' ter say my say if +you-all kills me! I've just naturally got ter! Seems like I was +all afire inside an' would burn plumb up if I didn't! I've got +rights, I reckon, if I be all crooked an' twisted out er shape, an' +ugly-faced an' no learnin', ner nothin'." + +A dry sob choked the torrent of words for an instant; but, with a +savage effort she went on: "I know I ain't nothin' alongside of +her, but you-all ain't a-goin' ter have her just the same,--not if +I have ter kill her first! You ain't got no right ter have her, +nohow, 'cause hit's like's not you-all done got a woman already +somewheres, wherever 'twas you-all come from; an' even if you ain't +got no woman already, I sure ain't a-goin' ter let you have her! +What'd she ever do for you? Hit was me what dragged you-all from +the river when you was mighty nigh dead from licker an' too plumb +sick ter save yourself! Hit's me that's kept from tellin' the +Sheriff who you be an' a-takin' that there reward-money! Hit was +me what jumped inter the river above Elbow Rock just ter git your +dad burned old book, when you'd done throwed hit plumb away! + +"I knowed first time I heard Auntie Sue name her what she'd do ter +you! Any fool would a-knowed what a woman with a half-gal, half- +boy name like her'n would do, an' she's done hit,--she sure has! +But she ain't a-goin' ter do no more! You-all belongs ter me a +heap more'n you do ter her,--if hit comes ter that,--though, I +ain't a-foolin' myself none a-thinkin' that sich as you could ever +take up with sich as me,--me bein' what I am. No, sir; I ain't +never fooled myself ary bit like that, Mr. Burns. But hit ain't a- +makin' no difference how ugly an' crooked an' no 'count I be +outside; the inside of me is a-lovin' you like she never could, ner +nobody else, I reckon. An' I'll just go on a-lovin' you, no matter +what happens; an' I ain't a-carin' whether you got a woman already +er not, er whether you-all have robbed er killed, er what you done. +An'--an'--so I'm a-tellin' you, you'd best not let her come back +here no more, 'cause--'cause I just naturally can't stand hit ter +see youuns tergether! 'Fore God, I'm a-tellin' you true,--I'll +sure hurt her!" + +The girl's voice raised to a pitch of frenzied excitement, and, +whirling, she pointed to the river, as she cried: "Look out there! +What do you-all reckon your fine Betty Jo lady would do if I was +ter git her ketched in them there rapids? What do you-all reckon +the Elbow Rock water would do ter her? I'll tell you what hit'd +do: Hit would smash an' grind an' tear an' hammer that there fine, +straight body of hers 'til hit was all broken an' twisted an' +crooked a heap worse'n what I be,--that's what hit would do; an' +hit would scratch an' cut an' beat up that pretty face an' mess up +her pretty hair an' choke her an' smother her 'til she was all +blue-black an' muddy, an' her eyes was red an' starin', an' she was +nothin' but just an ugly lump of dirt; an' hit wouldn't even leave +her her fine clothes neither,--the Elbow Rock water wouldn't,-- +hit'd just naturally tear 'em off her, an' leave her 'thout ary +thing what's makin' you love her like you're a-doin'! An' where +would all her fine schoolin' an' smart talk an' pretty ways be +then? Eh? She wouldn't be no better, nor half as good as me, I'm +a-tellin' you, onct Elbow Rock got done with her!" + +The poor creature finished in wild triumph; then suddenly, as +though spent with the very fury of her passion, she turned from the +river, and said dully: "You'd sure best not let her come back, +sir! 'Fore God, I ain't a-wantin' ter do hit, but hit seems like I +can't help myself; I can't sleep for wantin' ter fix hit so,--so's +you just couldn't want ter have her no more'n you're a-wantin' me. +I--I--sure ain't a-foolin' myself none, not ary bit, a-thinkin' +you-all could ever git ter likin' sich as me; but, I can't help +sort of dreamin' 'bout hit an' a-pretendin', an'--an' all the while +I'm a-knowin', inside er me like, that there ain't nobody,--not +Auntie Sue, nor this here Betty Jo, nor that there other woman, nor +anybody,--what kin care for you like I'm a-carin',--they just +naturally couldn't care like me; 'cause--'cause, you see, sir, I +ain't got nobody else,--ain't no man but you ever even been decent +ter me. I sure ain't got nobody else--" + +The distraught creature's sobs prevented further speech, and she +dropped down on the ground, weak and exhausted; her poor twisted +body shaking and writhing with the emotion she could not voice. + +For a little while, Brian Kent himself was as helpless as Judy. He +could only stand dumbly, staring at her as she crouched at his +feet. Then, very gently, he lifted her from the ground, and tried +as best he could to comfort her. But he felt his words to be very +shallow and inadequate, even though his own voice was trembling +with emotion. + +"Come, Judy, dear," he said, at last, when she seemed to have in a +measure regained her self-control. "Come. You must go back to the +house, child." + +Drawing away from his supporting arm, she answered, quietly: "I +ain't no child, no more, Mr. Burns: I'm sure a woman, now. I'm +just as much a woman as--as--she is, if I be like what I am. I'm +plumb sorry I had ter do this; but I just naturally couldn't help +hit. You ain't got no call ter be scared I'll do hit again." + +When they were nearing the house, Judy stopped again, and, for a +long minute, looked silently out over the moonlit river, while +Brian stood watching her. + +"Hit is pretty, ain't hit, Mr. Burns?" she said at last. "With the +hills all so soft an'--an' dreamy-like, an' them clouds a-floatin' +'way up there over the top of Table Mountain; with the moon makin' +'em all silvery an' shiny 'round the edges, an' them trees on yon +side the river lookin' like they was made er smoke er fog er +somethin' like that; an' the old river hitself a-layin' there in +The Bend like--like a long strip of shinin' gold,--hit sure is +pretty! Funny, I couldn't never see hit that a-way before,--ain't +hit?" + +"Yes, Judy; it is beautiful to-night," he said. + +But Judy, apparently without hearing him, continued: "'Seems like +I can sense a little ter-night what Auntie Sue an' youuns are allus +a-talkin' 'bout the river,--'bout hit's bein' like life an' sich as +that. An' hit 'pears like I kin kind of git a little er what you +done wrote 'bout hit in your book,--'bout the currents an' the +still places an' the rough water an' all. I reckon as how I'm a +part of your river, too, ain't I, Mr. Burns?" + +"Yes, Judy," he answered, wonderingly; "we are all parts of the +river." + +"I reckon you're right," she continued. "Hit sure 'pears ter be +that a-way. But I kin tell you-all somethin' else 'bout the river +what you didn't put down in your book, Mr. Burns: There's heaps +an' heaps er snags an' quicksands an' sunk rocks an' shaller places +where hit looks deep an' deep holes where hit looks shaller, an' +currents what's hid 'way down under that'll ketch an' drag you in +when you ain't a-thinkin', an' drown you sure. 'Tain't all of the +river what Auntie Sue an' youuns kin see from the porch. You see, +I knows 'bout hit,--'bout them other things I mean,--'cause I was +borned and growed up a-knowin' 'bout 'em; an'--an'--the next time +you-all writes er book, Mr. Burns, I 'low you-all ought ter put in +'bout them there snags an' things, 'cause folks sure got ter know +'bout 'em, if they ain't a-wantin' ter git drowned." + +When Judy had gone into the house, Brian again sat alone on the +porch. + +An hour, perhaps, had passed when a voice behind him said: "Why, +Brian, are you still up? I supposed you were in bed long ago." + +He turned to see Auntie Sue, standing in the doorway. + +"And what in the world are you prowling about for, this time of the +night?" Brian retorted, bringing a chair for her. + +"I am prowling because I couldn't sleep,--thinking about you, +Brian," she answered. + +"I fear that is the thing that is keeping me up, too," he returned +grimly. + +"I know," she said gently. "Sometimes, one's self does keep one +awake. Is it--is it anything you care to tell me? Would it help +for me to know?" + +For some time, he did not answer; while the old teacher waited +silently. At last, he spoke, slowly: "Auntie Sue, what is the +greatest wrong that a woman can do?" + +"The greatest wrong a woman can do, Brian, is the greatest wrong +that a man can do." + +"But, what is it, Auntie Sue?" he persisted. + +"I think," she answered,--"indeed I am quite sure,--that the +greatest wrong is for a woman to kill a man's faith in woman; and +for a man to kill a woman's faith in man." + +Brian Kent buried his face in his hands. + +"Am I right, dear?" asked the old gentlewoman, after a little. + +And Brian Kent answered: "Yes, Auntie Sue, you are right--that is +the greatest wrong." + +Again they were silent. It was as though few words were needed +between the woman of seventy years and this man who, out of some +great trouble, had been so strangely brought to her by the river. + +Then the silvery-haired old teacher spoke again: "Brian, have you +ever wondered that I am so alone in the world? Have you ever asked +yourself why I never married?" + +"Yes, Auntie Sue," he answered. "I have wondered." + +"Many people have," she said, with simple frankness. Then--"I am +going to tell you something, dear boy, that only two people in the +world beside myself ever knew, and they are both dead, many years +now. I am going to tell you, because I feel--because I think-- +that, perhaps, it may help you a little. I, too, Brian, had my +dreams when I was a girl,--my dreams of happiness,--such as every +true woman hopes for;--of a home with all that home means;--of a +lover-husband;--of little ones who would call me 'mother';--and my +dreams ended, Brian, on a battlefield of the Civil War. He went +from me the very day we were promised. He never returned. I have +always felt that we were as truly one as though the church had +solemnized and the law had legalized our union. I promised that I +would wait for him." + +"And you--you have kept that promise? You have been true to that +memory?" Brian Kent asked, wonderingly. + +"I have been true to him, Brian;--all the years of my life I have +been true to him." + +Brian Kent bowed his head, reverently. + +Rising, the old gentlewoman went close to him, and put her hands on +his shoulders. "Brian, dear, I have told you my secret because I +thought it might help you to know. Oh, my boy--my boy,--don't-- +don't let anything--don't let anyone--kill your faith in womanhood! +No matter how bitter your experience, you can believe, now, that +there are women who can be faithful and true. Surely, you can +believe it now, Brian,--you must!" + +And as he caught her hands in his, and raised his face to whisper, +"I do believe, Auntie Sue," she stooped and kissed him. + +Then, again, Brian Kent was alone in the night with his thoughts. + +And the river swept steadily on its shining way through the moonlit +world to the distant sea. + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +AN AWKWARD SITUATION. + + +Frequent letters from Betty Jo informed Brian and Auntie Sue of +that practical and businesslike young woman's negotiations with +various Eastern publishers, until, at last, the matter was finally +settled to Betty Jo's satisfaction. + +She had contracted with a well-known firm for the publication of +the book. The details were all arranged. The work was to begin +immediately. Betty Jo was returning to the little log house by the +river. + +Brian drove to Thompsonville the morning she was to arrive, and it +seemed to him that "Old Prince" had never jogged so leisurely along +the winding river road, yet he was at the little mountain station +nearly an hour before the train was due. + +Those weeks had been very anxious weeks to Brian, in spite of +Auntie Sue's oft-repeated assurances that no publisher could fail +to recognize the value of his work. And, to be entirely truthful, +Brian himself, deep down in his heart, felt a certainty that his +work would receive recognition. But, still, he would argue with +himself, his feeling of confidence might very well be due to the +dear old gentlewoman's enthusiastic faith in him rather than in any +merit in the book itself; and it was a well-established fact--to +all unpublished writers at least--that publishers are a heartless +folk, and exceedingly loth to extend a helpful hand to unrecognized +genius, however great the worth of its offering. He could scarcely +believe the letters which announced the good news. It did not seem +possible that this all-important first step toward the success +which Auntie Sue so confidently predicted for his book was now an +accomplished fact. + +And now that Betty Jo's mission was completed, it seemed months ago +that he had said good-bye to her and had watched the train +disappear between the hills. But when at last the long whistle +echoing and reechoing from the timbered mountain-sides announced +the coming of the train that was bringing her back, and the train +itself a moment later burst into view and, with a rushing roar of +steam and wheels and brakes, came to a stop at the depot platform, +and there was Betty Jo herself, it seemed that it was only +yesterday that she had gone away. + +Very calm and self-possessed and well poised was Betty Jo when she +stepped from the train to meet him. She was very capable and +businesslike as she claimed her baggage and saw it safely in the +spring wagon. But still there was a something in her manner--a +light in the gray eyes, perhaps, or a quality in the clear voice-- +that meant worlds more to the man than her simple statement, that +she was glad to see him again. Laughingly, she refused to tell him +about her trip as they rode home, saying that Auntie Sue must hear +it all with him. And so conscious was the man of her presence +there beside him that, somehow, the prospective success or failure +of his book did not so much matter, after all. + +In the excitement of the joyous meeting between Auntie Sue and +Betty Jo, Judy's stoical self-repression was unnoticed. The +mountain girl went about her part of the household work silently +with apparent indifference to the young woman's presence. But +when, after the late dinner was over, Auntie Sue and Brian listened +to Betty Jo's story, Judy, unobserved, was nearby, so that no word +of the conversation escaped her. + +Three times that night, when all was still in the little log house +by the river, the door of Judy's room opened cautiously, and the +twisted form of the mountain girl appeared. Each time, for a few +minutes, she stood there in the moonlight that shone through the +open window into the quiet room, listening, listening; then went +stealthily to the door of the room where Betty Jo was sleeping, and +each time she paused before that closed door to look fearfully +about the dimly lighted living room. Once she crept to Brian's +door, and then to Auntie Sue's, and once she silently put her hand +on the latch of that door between her and Betty Jo; but, each time, +she went stealthily back to her own room. + +Betty Jo awoke early that morning. Outside her open window the +birds were singing, and the sun, which was just above the higher +mountain-tops, was flooding the world with its wealth of morning +beauty. The music of the feathery chorus and the golden beauty of +the light that streamed through the window into her room, with the +fresh enticing perfume of the balmy air, were very alluring to the +young woman just returned from the cities' stale and dingy +atmosphere. + +Betty Jo decided instantly that she must go for a before-breakfast +walk. From the window, as she dressed, she saw Brian going to the +barn with the milk-pail, and heard him greet the waiting "Bess" and +exchange a cheery good-morning with "Old Prince," who hailed his +coming with a low whinny. + +Quietly, so as not to disturb Auntie Sue, Betty Jo slipped from the +house and went down the gentle slope to the river-bank, and +strolled along the margin of the stream toward Elbow Rock,--pausing +sometimes to look out over the water as her attention was drawn to +some movement of the river life, or turning aside to pluck a wild +flower that caught her eye. She had made her way thus leisurely +two-thirds of the distance perhaps from the house to Elbow Rock +bluff when Judy suddenly confronted her. The mountain girl came so +unexpectedly from among the bushes that Betty Jo, who was stooping +over a flower, was startled. + +"Judy!" she exclaimed. "Goodness! child, how you frightened me!" +she finished with a good-natured laugh. But as she noticed the +mountain girl's appearance, the laugh died on her lips, and her +face was grave with puzzled concern. + +Poor Judy's black hair was uncombed and dishevelled. The sallow, +old-young face was distorted with passion, and the beady eyes +glittered with the light of an insane purpose. + +"What is it, Judy?" asked Betty Jo. "What in the world is the +matter?" + +"What'd you-all come back for?" demanded Judy with sullen menace in +every word. "I done told him not ter let you. Hit 'pears ter me +youuns ought ter have more sense." + +Alarmed at the girl's manner, Betty Jo thought to calm her by +saying, gently: "Why, Judy, dear, you are all excited and not a +bit like yourself. Tell me what troubles you. I came back because +I love to be here with Auntie Sue, of course. Why shouldn't I some +if Auntie Sue likes to have me?" + +"You-all are a-lyin'," returned Judy viciously. "But you-all sure +can't fool me. You-all come back 'cause he's here." + +A warm blush colored Betty Jo's face. + +Judy's voice raised shrilly as she saw the effect of her words. + +"You-all knows dad burned well that's what you come back for. But +hit ain't a-goin' ter do you no good; hit sure ain't. I done told +him. I sure warned him what'd happen if he let you come back. I +heard you-all a-talkin' yesterday evenin' all 'bout his book an' +what a great man that there publisher-feller back East 'lows he's +goin' ter be. An' I kin see, now, that you-all has knowed hit from +the start, an' that's why you-all been a-fixin' ter git him away +from me. I done studied hit all out last night; but I sure ain't +a-goin' ter let you do hit." + +As she finished, the mountain girl, who had worked herself into a +frenzy of rage, moved stealthily toward Betty Jo, and her face, +with those blazing black eyes, and its frame of black unkempt hair, +and its expression of insane fury, was the face of a fiend. + +Betty Jo drew back, frightened at the poor creature's wild and +threatening appearance. + +"Judy!" she said sharply. "Judy! What do you mean!" + +With a snarling grin of malicious triumph, Judy cried: "Scared, +ain't you! You sure got reason ter be, 'cause there ain't nothin' +kin stop me now. Know what I'm a-goin' ter do? I'm a-goin' ter +put you-all in the river, just like I told him, an' old Elbow Rock +is a-goin' ter make you-all broken an' twisted an' ugly like what +my pap made me. Oh, hit'll sure fix that there fine slim body of +your'n, an' that there pretty face what he likes ter look at so, +an' them fine clothes'll be all wet an' mussed an' torn off you. +You-all sure will be a-lookin' worse'n what I ever looked the next +time he sees you,--you with your no-'count, half-gal and half-boy +name!" + +As the mountain girl, with the quickness of a wild thing, leaped +upon her, Betty Jo screamed--one piercing cry, that ended in a +choking gasp as Judy's hands found her throat. + +Brian, who was still at the barn, busy with the morning chores, +heard. With all his might, he ran toward the spot from which the +call came. + +Betty Jo fought desperately; but, strong as she was, she could +never have endured against the vicious strength of the frenzied +mountain-bred Judy, who was slowly and surely forcing her toward +the brink of the river-bank, against which the swift waters of the +rapids swept with terrific force. + +A moment more and Brian would have been too late. Throwing Judy +aside, he caught the exhausted Betty Jo in his arms, and, carrying +her a little back from the edge of the stream, placed her gently on +the ground. + +Betty Jo did not faint; but she was too spent with her exertions to +speak, though she managed to smile at him reassuringly, and shook +her head when he asked if she was hurt. + +When Brian was assured that the girl was really unharmed, he turned +angrily to face Judy. But Judy had disappeared in the brush. + +Presently, as Betty Jo's breathing became normal, she arranged her +disordered hair and dress, and told Brian what the mountain girl +had said; and this, of course, forced the man to relate his +experience with Judy that night when she had told him that Betty Jo +must not come back. + +"I suppose I should have warned you, Miss Williams," he finished; +"but the whole thing seemed to me so impossible, I could not +believe there was any danger of the crazy creature actually +attempting to carry out her wild threat; and, besides,--well, you +can see that it was rather difficult for me to speak of it to you. +I am sorry," he ended, with embarrassment. + +For a long moment, the two looked at each other silently; then +Betty Jo's practical common sense came to the rescue: "It would +have been awkward for you to try to tell me, wouldn't it, Mr. +Burns? And now that it is all over, and no harm done, we must just +forget it as quickly as we can. We won't ever mention it again, +will we?" + +"Certainly not," he agreed heartily. "But I shall keep an eye on +Miss Judy, in the future, I can promise you." + +"I doubt if we ever see her again," returned Betty Jo, thoughtfully. +"I don't see how she would dare go back to the house after this. +I expect she will return to her father. Poor thing! But we must be +careful not to let Auntie Sue know." Then smiling up at him, she +added: "It seems like Auntie Sue is getting us into all sorts of +conspiracies, doesn't it? What DO you suppose we will be called +upon to hide from her next?" + +At Brian's suggestion, they went first to the barn, where he +quickly finished his work. Then, carrying the full milk-pail +between them, they proceeded, laughing and chatting, to the house, +where Auntie Sue stood in the doorway. + +The dear old lady smiled when she saw them coming so, and, +returning their cheery greeting happily, added: "Have you children +seen Judy anywhere? The child is not in her room, and the fire is +not even made in the kitchen-stove yet." + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +BETTY JO FACES HERSELF. + + +All that day Auntie Sue wondered about Judy, while Brian and Betty +Jo exhausted their inventive faculties in efforts to satisfy the +dear old lady with plausible reasons for the mountain girl's +disappearance. + +During the forenoon, Brian canvassed the immediate neighborhood, +and returned with the true information that Judy had stopped at the +first house below Elbow Rock for breakfast, where she had told the +people that she was going back to her father, because she was +"doggone tired of working for them there city folks what was a- +livin' at Auntie Sue's." + +This was, in a way, satisfactory to Auntie Sue, because it assured +her that the girl had met with no serious accident and because she +knew very well the mountain-bred girl's ability to take care of +herself in the hills. But, still, the gentle mistress of the log +house by the river was troubled to think that Judy would leave her +so without a word. + +Betty Jo was so occupied during the day by her efforts to relieve +Auntie Sue that she had but little time left for thought of herself +or for reflecting on the situation revealed in her encounter with +Judy. But many times during the day the mountain girl's passionate +accusation came back to her, "You-all are a-lyin'! You-all come +back 'cause HE is here." Nor could she banish from her memory the +look that was on Brian Kent's face that morning when he was +carrying her in his arms back from the brink of the river-bank, +over which the frenzied Judy had so nearly sent her to her death. +And so, when the day at last was over, and she was alone in her +room, it was not strange that Betty Jo should face herself squarely +with several definite and pointed and exceedingly personal +questions. + +It was like Betty Jo to be honest with herself and to demand of +herself that her problems be met squarely. + +"First of all, Betty Jo," she demanded, in her downright, +straightforward way of going most directly to the heart of a +matter, "are you in love with Brian Kent?" + +Without hesitation, the answer came, "I have not permitted myself +to love him." + +"You have not permitted yourself to love him? That means that you +would be in love with him if you dared, doesn't it?" + +And Betty Jo, in the safe seclusion of her room, felt her cheeks +burn as she acknowledged the truth of the deduction. + +The next question was inevitable: "Is Brian Kent in love with you, +Betty Jo?" + +And Betty Jo, recalling many, many things, was compelled to answer, +from the triumphant gladness of her heart: "He is trying not to be, +but he can't help himself. And"--the downright and straightforward +young woman continued--"because I know that Brian Kent is trying so +hard not to love me is the real reason why I have not permitted +myself to love him." + +But the clear-thinking, practical Betty Jo protested quickly: "You +must remember that you are wholly ignorant of Brian Kent's history, +except for the things he has chosen to tell you. And those things +in his life which he has confessed to you are certainly not the +things that could win the love of a girl like you, even though they +might arouse your interest in the man. Interest is not love, Betty +Jo. Are you quite sure that you are not making the mistake that is +most commonly made by young women?" + +Betty Jo was compelled to answer that she was not mistaking interest +for love, because had such been the case, she would not be able to +so analyze the situation. Betty Jo's quite womanly prejudice is +admitted, because the prejudice was so womanly, and because Betty Jo +herself was so womanly. + +"Very well, Miss Betty Jo," the young woman continued inexorably, +"you are not permitting yourself to love Brian Kent because Brian +Kent is trying not to love you. But, why is the man trying so hard +not to love you?" + +Betty Jo thought very hard over this question, and felt her way +carefully to the answer. "It might be, of course, that it is +because he is a fugitive from the law. A man under such +circumstances could easily convince himself that no good woman +would permit herself to love him, and he would therefore, in +reasonable self-defense, prevent himself from loving her if he +could." + +But surely Brian Kent had every reason to know that Betty Jo did +not at all regard him as a criminal. Betty Jo, as Auntie Sue, +recognized only the re-created Brian Kent. If that were all, they +need only wait for the restitution which was so sure to come +through his book. And Brian Kent himself, through Auntie Sue's +teaching and through his work, had come to recognize only his real +self, and not the creature of circumstances which the river had +brought to the little log house. Betty Jo felt sure that there was +more than this that was forcing the man to defend himself against +his love for her. Thus she was driven to the conclusion that there +was something in Brian Kent's history that he had not made known to +her,--a something that denied him the right to love her, and that,-- +reasoned poor Betty Jo in the darkness of her room,--could only be +a woman,--a woman to whom he was bound, not by love indeed,--Betty +Jo could not believe that,--but by ties of honor and of the law. + +And very clearly Betty Jo reasoned, too, that Brian's attitude +toward her evidenced unmistakably his high sense of honor. The +very fact that he had so persistently--in all their companionship, +in their most intimate moments together even--held this invisible +and, to her, unknown barrier between them, convinced her beyond a +doubt of the essential integrity of his character, and compelled +her admiration and confidence. + +"That is exactly it, Betty Jo," she told herself sadly; "you love +him because he tries so hard to keep himself from loving you." + +And thus Betty Jo proved the correctness of Auntie Sue's loving +estimate of her character and justified the dear old teacher's +faith in the sterling quality of her womanhood. + +Face to face with herself, fairly and squarely, the girl accepted +the truth of the situation for Brian and for herself, and +determined her course. She must go away,--she must go at once. + +She wished that she had not returned to the log house by the river. +She had never fully admitted to herself the truth of her feeling +toward Brian until Judy had so unexpectedly precipitated the +crisis; but, she knew, now, that Judy was right, and that the real +reason for her return was her love for him. She knew, as well, +that her very love,--which, once fully admitted and recognized by +her, demanded with all the strength of her young womanhood the +nearness and companionship of the mate her heart had chosen,-- +demanded, also, that she help him to keep that fine sense of honor +and true nobility of character which had won her. + +She understood instinctively that,--now that she had confessed her +love to herself,--she would, in spite of herself, tempt him in a +thousand ways to throw aside that barrier which he had so honorably +maintained between them. Her heart would plead with him to +disregard his better self, and come to her. Her very craving for +the open assurance of his love would tempt him, perhaps beyond his +strength. And, yet, she knew as truly that, if he should yield; if +he should cast aside the barrier of his honor; if he should deny +his best self, and answer her call, it would be disastrous beyond +measure to them both. + +To save the fineness of their love, Betty Jo must go. If it should +be that they never met again, still she must go. + +But there were other currents moving in the river that night. In +the steady onward flow of the whole, Betty Jo's life-currents +seemed to be setting away from the man she loved. But other +currents, unknown to the girl, who faced herself so honestly, and +who so bravely accepted the truth she found, were moving in ways +beyond her knowledge. Directed and influenced by innumerable and +unseen forces and obstacles, the currents which, combined, made the +stream of life in its entirety, were weaving themselves together,-- +interlacing and separating,--drawing close and pulling apart,--only +to mingle as one again. + +Betty Jo saw only Brian Kent and herself, and their love which she +now acknowledged, and she had, as it were, only a momentary glimpse +of those small parts of the stream. + +Betty Jo could not know of those other currents that were moving +so mysteriously about her as the river poured itself onward so +unceasingly to the sea. + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +JUDY'S CONFESSION. + + +In spite of all their care, Brian and Betty Jo did not wholly +convince Auntie Sue that there was no more in Judy's disappearance +than the report from the neighbors indicated. The dear old lady +felt that there was something known to the young people that they +were keeping from her; and, while she did not question their +motives, and certainly did not worry,--for Auntie Sue never +worried,--she was not satisfied with the situation. When she +retired to her room for the night, she told herself, with some +spirit, that she would surely go to the bottom of the affair the +next morning. + +It happened that Auntie Sue went to the bottom of the affair much +sooner than she expected. + +It must have been about that same hour of the night when Betty Jo, +after reaching her decision to go away, retired to her bed, that +Auntie Sue was aroused by a low knocking at the open window of her +room. + +The old teacher listened without moving, her first thought being +that her fancy was tricking her. The sound came again, and, this +time, there could be no mistake. Sitting up in her bed, Auntie Sue +looked toward the window, and, at the sound of her movement, a low +whisper came from without. + +"Don't be scared, Auntie Sue. Hit ain't nobody but just me." + +As she recognized Judy's voice, she saw the mountain girl's head +and twisted shoulders outlined above the window-sill. A moment +more, and Auntie Sue was at the window. + +"Sh-h-h!" cautioned Judy. "Don't wake 'em up. I just naturally +got ter tell you-all somethin', Auntie Sue; but, I ain't a-wantin' +Mr. Burns an' that there Betty Jo woman ter hear. I reckon I best +come through the winder." + +Acting upon the word, she climbed carefully into the room. + +"Judy, child! What--?" + +The mountain girl interrupted Auntie Sue's tremulous whisper with: +"I'll tell hit ter you, ma'm, in a little bit, if you'll just wait. +I got ter see if they are sure 'nough a-sleepin' first, though." + +She stole silently from the room, to return a few minutes later. +"They are plumb asleep, both of 'em," she said in a low tone, when +she had cautiously closed the door. "I done opened the doors ter +their rooms, an' listened, an' shet 'em again 'thout ary one of 'em +a-movin' even. I'll fix the winder, now, an' then we kin make a +light." + +Carefully, she closed the window and drew down the shade. Then she +lit the lamp. + +Auntie Sue, who was sitting on the bed, looked at the girl in +bewildered amazement. + +With a nervous laugh, Judy fingered her torn dress and dishevelled +hair. "I sure am a sight, ain't I, ma'm? I done hit a-comin' +through the bresh in the dark. But, don't--don't--look so kinder +lost like; you-all ain't got no call ter be scared of me." + +"Why, Judy, dear, I'm not afraid of you. Come, child; tell me what +is the trouble." + +At the kindly manner and voice of the old gentlewoman, those black +eyes filled with tears, which, for the moment, the mountain girl +stoically permitted to roll down her thin sallow cheeks unheeded. +Then, with a quick resolute jerk of her twisted body, she drew her +dress sleeve across her face, and said: "I--I--reckon I couldn't +hate myself no worse'n I'm a-doin'. Hit seems like I been mighty +nigh plumb crazy; but, I just naturally had ter come back an' tell +you-all, 'cause you-all been so good ter me." + +She placed a chair for Auntie Sue, and added: "You-all best make +yourself comfertable, though, ma'm. I'm mighty nigh tuckered out +myself. Hit's a right smart way from where pap's a-livin' ter +here, an' I done come in a hurry." + +She dropped down on the floor, her back against the bed, and +clasped her knees in her hands, as Auntie Sue seated herself. + +"Begin at the beginning, Judy, and tell me exactly what has +happened," said Auntie Sue. + +"Yes, ma'm, I will,--that's what I was aimin' ter do when I made up +ter come back." + +And she did. Starting with her observation of Brian and Betty Jo, +and her conviction of their love, she told of her interview with +Brian the night she warned him not to let Betty Jo return, and +finished with the account of her attack on Betty Jo that morning. + +Auntie Sue listened with amazement and pity. Here, indeed, was a +wayward and troubled life-current. + +"But, Judy, Judy!" exclaimed the gentle old teacher, "you would not +really have pushed Betty Jo into the river. She would have been +drowned, child. Surely, you did not mean to kill her, Judy." + +The girl wrung her hands, and her deformed body swayed to and fro +in the nervous intensity of her emotions. But she answered, +stubbornly: "That there was just what I was aimin' ter do. I'd a- +killed her, sure, if Mr. Burns hadn't a-come just when he did. I +can't rightly tell how hit was, but hit seemed like there was +somethin' inside of me what was a-makin' me do hit, an' I couldn't, +somehow, help myself. An'--an'--that ain't all, ma'm; I done +worse'n that," she continued in a low, moaning wail. "Oh, my God- +A'mighty! Why didn't Mr. Burns sling me inter the river an' let me +be smashed an' drowned at Elbow Rock while he had me, 'stead of +lettin' me git away ter do what I've gone an' done!" + +Auntie Sue's wonderful native strength enabled her to speak calmly: +"What is it you have done, Judy? You must tell me, child." + +The older woman's voice and manner steadied the girl, and she +answered more in her usual colorless monotone, but still guarded so +as not to awaken the other members of the household: "Hit seemed +like Mr. Burns ketchin' me, like he did, an' me a-seein' him with +her in his arms, made me plumb crazy-mad, an' I 'lowed I'd fix hit +so's he couldn't never have her nohow, so I--I--done told pap 'bout +him bein' Brian Kent what had robbed that there bank, an' how there +was er lot of reward-money a-waitin' for anybody that'd tell on +him." + +Auntie Sue was too shocked to speak. Was it possible that, now, +when the real Brian Kent was so far removed from the wretched bank +clerk; when his fine natural character and genius had become so +established, and his book was-- No, no! It could not be! God +could not let men be so cruel as to send Auntie Sue's Brian Kent to +prison because that other Brian Kent, tormented by wrong environment, +and driven by an evil combination of circumstances, had taken a few +dollars of the bank's money! And Betty Jo-- No, no! Auntie Sue's +heart cried out in protest. There must be some way. She would find +some way. The banker--Homer Ward! Auntie Sue's mind, alert and +vigorous as the mind of a woman of half her years, caught at the +thought of her old friend and pupil. She leaned forward in her +chair over the girl who sat on the floor at her feet, and her voice +was strong and clear with the strength of the spirit which dominated +her frail body. + +"Judy, did you tell any one else besides your father?" + +"There wasn't nobody else ter tell," came the answer. "An' pap, he +'lowed he'd kill me if I said anythin' ter anybody 'fore he'd got +the money. He aims ter git hit all for hisself." + +"What will he do? Will he go to Sheriff Knox?" + +"No, ma'm; pap, he 'lowed if he done that a-way, the Sheriff he'd +take most of the money. Pap's a-goin' right ter that there bank +feller hisself." + +"Yes, yes! Go on, Judy!" + +"You see, ma'm, I done remembered the name of the bank an' where +hit was an' Mr. Ward's name an' all, on 'count of that there money +letter what you done sent 'em an' us bein' so worried 'bout hit +never gittin' there an' all that. An' pap, he knows er man over in +Gardner what's on the railroad, you see, what'll let him have money +enough for the trip,--a licker-man, he is,--an' pap's aimin' ter +make hit over ter Gardner ter git the money in time ter ketch that +there early mornin' train. Hit's a right smart way over the +mountains, but I reckon's how pap'll make hit. Soon's pap left, I +got ter thinkin' what I'd done, an' the more I studied 'bout hit,-- +'bout Mr. Burns a-havin' ter go ter prison, an' 'bout you-all a- +carin' for him the way you does, an' 'bout how happy you was over +his book, an'--an'--how good you'd been ter me,--the sorrier I got, +'til I just couldn't stand a-thinkin' 'bout hit no longer; an'-- +an'--so I come fast as I could ter tell you. I 'lowed you'd make +out ter fix hit some way so--Mr. Burns won't have ter go ter +prison. Couldn't you-all send--send a telegraph ter the bank man, +er somethin'? I'd git it inter Thompsonville for you, ma'm; an' +Mr. Burns, he needn't never know nothin' 'bout hit." + +Auntie Sue was dressing when Judy finished speaking. With a +physical strength that had its source in her indomitable spirit, +she moved about the room making the preparations necessary to her +plan, and as she worked she talked to the girl. + +"No, Judy, a telegram won't do. I must go to Homer Ward myself. +That morning train leaves Thompsonville at six o'clock. You must +slip out of the house, and harness 'Old Prince' to the buggy as +fast as you can. You will drive with me to Thompsonville, and +bring 'Prince' back. You can turn him loose when you get near +home, and he will come the rest of the way alone. You must not let +Mr. Burns nor Betty Jo see you, because they mustn't know anything +about what you have done. Do you understand, child?" + +"Yes, ma'm," said Judy, eagerly. She was on her feet now. + +"You can go to the neighbors and find some place to stay until I +return," continued Auntie Sue. + +"You don't need ter worry none 'bout me," said Judy. "I kin take +care of myself, I reckon. But ain't you plumb seared ter go 'way +on the cars alone an' you so old?" + +"Old!" retorted Auntie Sue. "I have not felt so strong for twenty +years. There is nothing for me to fear. I will be in St. Louis +to-morrow night, and in Chicago the next forenoon. I guess I am +not so helpless that I can't make a little journey like this. +Homer Ward shall never send my boy to prison,--never,--bank or no +bank! Go on, now, and get 'Prince' and the buggy ready. We must +not miss that train." She pushed Judy from the room, and again +cautioned her not to awaken Brian or Betty Jo. + +When she had completed her preparations for the trip, Auntie Sue +wrote a short note to Betty Jo, telling her that she had been +called away suddenly, and that she would return in a few days, and +that she was obliged to borrow Betty Jo's pocket-book. Grave as +she felt the situation to be, Auntie Sue laughed to herself as she +pictured the consternation of Betty Jo and Brian in the morning. + +Silently, the old lady stole into the girl's room to secure the +money she needed and to leave her letter. Then, as silently, she +left the house, and found Judy, who was waiting with "Old Prince" +and the buggy, ready to start. + +The station agent at Thompsonville was not a little astonished when +Auntie Sue and Judy appeared, and, with the easy familiarity of an +old acquaintance greeted her with, "Howdy, Auntie Sue! What in +thunder are you doin' out this time of the day? No bad news, I +hope?" + +"Oh, no, Mr. Jackson," Auntie Sue answered easily. "I'm just going +to Chicago for a little visit with an old friend." + +"Sort of a vacation, eh?" returned the man behind the window, as he +made out her ticket. "Well, you sure have earned one, Auntie Sue. +It's gittin' to be vacation time now, too. Bunch of folks come in +yesterday to stay at the clubhouse for a spell. Pretty wild lot, +I'd say,--wimmen as well as the men. I reckon them clubhouse +parties don't disturb you much, though, if you be their nearest +neighbor,--do they?" + +"They never have yet, Mr. Jackson," she returned. "Their place is +on the other side of the river, and a mile above my house, you +know. I see them in their boats on The Bend, though, and once in a +while they call on me. But the Elbow Rock rapids begin in front of +my place, and the clubhouse people don't usually come that far down +the river." + +She turned to Judy, and, with the girl, went out of the waiting +room to the platform, where she whispered: "You must start back +right away, Judy. If your father is on the train, he might see +you." + +"What if pap ketches sight of you-all?" Judy returned nervously. + +"He will not be so apt to notice me as he would you," she returned, +"even if he does catch a glimpse of me. And it can't be helped if +he does. I'll be in Chicago as quick as he will, and I know I will +see Mr. Ward first. Go on now, dear, and don't let Mr. Burns or +Betty Jo see you, and be a good girl. I feel sure that everything +will be all right." + +With a sudden awkward movement, poor Judy caught the old +gentlewoman's hand and pressed it to her lips; then, turning, ran +toward the buggy. + +When the train arrived, the station agent came to help Auntie Sue +with her handbag aboard, and she managed to keep her friend between +herself and the coaches, in case Jap Taylor should be looking from +a window. As the conductor and the agent assisted her up the +steps, the agent said: "Mind you take good care of her, Bill. +Finest old lady God-Almighty ever made! If you was to let anything +happen to her, you best never show yourself in this neighborhood +again; we'd lynch you, sure!" + +The conductor found a good seat for his lovely old passenger, and +made her as comfortable as possible. As he punched her ticket, he +said, with a genial smile, which was the voluntary tribute paid to +Auntie Sue by all men: "You are not much like the passengers I +usually carry in this part of the country, ma'm. They are mostly a +rather rough-lookin' lot." + +She smiled back at him, understanding perfectly his intended +compliment. "They are good people, though, sir,--most of them. Of +course, there are some who are a little wild, sometimes, I expect." + +The railroad man laughed again, shaking his head. "I should say +so. You ought to see the specimen I've got in the smoker. I +picked him up back there at Gardner. Perhaps you have heard of +him--Jap Taylor. He is about the worst in the whole country, I +reckon." + +"I have heard of him," she returned. "I do hope he won't come into +this coach." + +"Oh, he won't start anything on my train," laughed the man in blue +reassuringly. "He would never come in here, anyhow. Them kind +always stay in the smoker. Seems like they know where they belong. +He is half-scared to death himself, anyway; he is going to Chicago, +too, and I'll bet it's the first time in his life he has ever been +farther from these hills than Springfield." + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +BRIAN AND BETTY JO KEEP HOUSE. + + +When Brian went to the barn the next morning he found "Old Prince" +standing at the gate. While he was still trying to find some +plausible explanation of the strange incident, after unharnessing +the horse and giving him his morning feed, an excited call from +Betty Jo drew his attention. With an answering shout, he started +for the house. The excited girl met him halfway, and gave him +Auntie Sue's note. + +When Brian had read the brief and wholly inadequate message, they +stood looking at each other, too mystified for speech. Brian read +the note, again, aloud, speaking every word with slow distinctness. +"Well, I'll be hanged!" he ejaculated, at the close of the +remarkable communication, staring at Betty Jo. + +"It wouldn't in the least surprise me if we were both hanged before +night," returned Betty Jo. "After this from Auntie Sue, I am +prepared for anything. What on earth DO you suppose has happened?" + +Brian shook his head: "It is too much for me!" + +Together they went to the house, and the place seemed strangely +deserted. Every possible explanation that suggested itself, they +discussed and rejected. + +"One thing we can depend upon," said Brian, at last, when they had +exhausted the resources of their combined imaginations: "Auntie +Sue knows exactly what she is doing, and she is doing exactly the +right thing. I suppose we will know all about it when she +returns." + +Betty Jo looked again at the note: "'I will be back in a few +days,'" she read slowly. "'Be good children, and take care of +things.'" + +Again, they regarded each other wonderingly. + +Then Betty Jo broke the silence with an odd little laugh: "I feel +like we were cast away on some desert island, don't you?" + +"Something like that," Brian returned. Then, to relieve the strain +of the situation, he added: "I suppose 'Bess' will have to be +milked and the chores finished just the same." + +"And I'll get breakfast for us," agreed Betty Jo, as he started +back to the barn. + +In the safe seclusion of the stable, with no one but "Old Prince" +and "Bess" to witness his agitation, Brian endeavored to bring his +confused and unruly thoughts under some sort of control. + +"Several days; several days." The words repeated themselves with +annoying persistency. And they--Betty Jo and he, Brian Kent--were +to "take care of things";--they were to keep house together;--they +were to live together, alone,--in the log house by the river,-- +alone. She was even then preparing their breakfast. They would +sit down at the table alone. And there would be dinner and supper; +and the evening,--just for them. He would work about the place. +She would attend to her household duties. He would go to his +meals, and she would be there expecting him,--waiting for him. +And when the tasks of the day were finished, they would sit on the +porch to watch the coming of the night,--Betty Jo and he, Brian +Kent--"What in God's name," the man demanded of the indifferent +"Bess," did Auntie Sue mean by placing him in such a situation? +Did she think him more than human? + +It had not been easy for Brian to maintain that barrier between +himself and Betty Jo, even with the constant help of Auntie Sue's +presence. Many, many times he had barely saved himself from +declaring his love; and, now, he was asked to live with her in the +most intimate companionship possible. + +For the only time in his life Brian Kent was almost angry at Auntie +Sue. "By all that was consistent, and reasonable, and merciful, +and safe," he told himself, "if it was absolutely necessary for the +dear old lady to disappear so mysteriously, why had she not taken +Betty Jo along?" + +In the meantime, while Brian was confiding his grievances to his +four-footed companions in the barn, Betty Jo was expressing herself +in the kitchen. + +"Betty Jo," she began, as she raked the ashes from the stove +preparatory to building the fire, "it appears to me that you have +some serious considering to do, and"--with a glance toward the +barn, as she went out to empty the ash-pan--"you must do it quickly +before that man comes for his breakfast. You were very right, last +night, in your decision, to go away. It is exactly what you should +have done. I am more than ever convinced of that, this morning. +But you can't go now. Even if Auntie Sue had not taken your +pocket-book and every penny in it, you couldn't run away with +Auntie Sue herself gone. If she hadn't wanted you to stay right +here for some very serious reason, Betty Jo, she would have taken +you with her last night. Auntie Sue very pointedly and definitely +expects you to be here when she returns. And she will be away +several days,--several days, Betty Jo." She repeated the words in +a whisper. "And during those several days, you are to keep house +for the man you love;--the man who loves you;--the man whom you +must keep from telling you his love,--no matter how your heart +pleads for him to tell you, you must not permit him to speak. He +will be coming in to breakfast in a few minutes, and you will sit +down at the table with him,--across the table from him,--facing +him,--Betty Jo,--just like--" + +She looked in the little mirror that hung beside the kitchen +window, and, with dismay, saw her face flushed with color that was +not caused by the heat of the stove. "And you will be forced to +look at him across the table, and he will look at you,--and--and +you must not,--" she stamped her foot,--"you dare not look like +THAT, Betty Jo. + +"And then there will be the dinner that you will cook for him, and +the supper; and the evenings on the porch. O Lord! Betty Jo, what +ever will you do? How will you ever save the fineness of your +love? If you were afraid to trust yourself with the help of Auntie +Sue's presence, what in the world can you do without her--and you +actually keeping house with him? Oh, Auntie Sue! Auntie Sue!" she +groaned, "you are the dearest woman in the world and the best and +wisest, but you have blundered terribly this time! Why DID you do +such a thing! It is not fair to him! It is not fair to me! It is +not fair to our love! + +"All of which,"--the practical Betty Jo declared a moment later, +wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, and going into the +other room to set the table for breakfast,--"all of which, Betty +Jo, does not in the least help matters, and only makes you more +nervous and upset than you are. + +"One thing is certain sure," she continued, while her hands were +busy with the dishes and the table preparations: "If we can endure +this test, we need never, never, never fear that anything nor +anybody can ever, ever make us doubt the genuineness of our love. +Auntie Sue has certainly arranged it most beautifully for Brian +Kent and Betty Jo Williams to become thoroughly acquainted." + +Betty Jo suddenly paused in her work, and stood very still: "I +wonder," she said slowly,--"can it be,--is it possible,--what if +Auntie Sue has brought about this situation for that very reason?" + +"Breakfast ready?" cried Brian at the kitchen-door, and his voice +was so hearty and natural that the girl answered as naturally: "It +will be as soon as you are ready for it. I forget, do you like +your eggs three minutes or four?" + +They really managed that breakfast very well, even if they did sit +opposite each other so that each was forced to look straight across +the table into the face of the other. Or, perhaps, it was because +they looked at each other so straight and square and frankly honest +that the breakfast went so well. + +And because the breakfast went so well, they managed the dinner and +the supper also. + +"I have been thinking," said Brian at the close of their evening +meal, looking straight into the gray eyes over the table, "perhaps +it might be better for you to stay at neighbor Tom's until Auntie +Sue returns. I'll hitch up 'Old Prince' and drive you over, if you +say. Or, we might find some neighbor woman to come here to live +with us, if you prefer." + +"You don't like my housekeeping, then?" asked Betty Jo. + +"Like it!" exclaimed Brian; and the tone of his voice approached +the danger-point. + +Betty Jo said quickly: "I'll tell you exactly what I think, Mr. +Burns: Auntie Sue said we were to be good children, and take care +of things until she returned. She did not say for me to shirk my +part by going to neighbor Tom's or by having any one come here. +Don't you think we can do exactly what Auntie Sue said?" + +"Yes," returned Brian, heartily; "I am sure we can. And do you +know,--come to think about it,--I believe the dear old lady would +be disappointed in us both if we dodged our--well,--" he finished +with emphasis,--"our responsibilities." + +And after that, somehow, the evening on the porch went as well as +the breakfast and dinner and supper had gone. + +It was the second day of their housekeeping that Betty Jo noticed +smoke coming from the stone chimney of the clubhouse up the river. +She reported her observation to Brian when he came in from his work +for dinner. During the afternoon, they both saw boats on the quiet +waters of The Bend, and at supper told each other what they had +seen. And in the evening they together watched the twinkling +lights of the clubhouse windows, and once they heard voices and +laughter from somewhere on the river as though a boating party were +making merry. + +Two days later, Brian and Betty Jo were just finishing dinner when +a step sounded on the porch, and a man appeared in the open +doorway. + +The stranger was dressed in the weird and flashy costume considered +by his class to be the proper thing for an outing in the country, +and his face betrayed the sad fact that, while he was mentally, +spiritually, and physically greatly in need of a change from the +unclean atmosphere that had made him what he was, he was incapable +of benefiting by more wholesome conditions of living. He was, in +fact, a perfect specimen of that type of clubman who, in order to +enjoy fully the beautiful life of God's unspoiled world, must needs +take with him all of the sordid and vicious life of that world +wherein he is most at home. + +With no word of greeting, he said, with that superior air which so +many city folk assume when addressing those who live in the +country: "Have you people any fresh vegetables or eggs to sell?" + +Brian and Betty Jo arose, and Brian, stepping forward, said, with +a smile: "No, we have nothing to sell here; but I think our +neighbor, Mr. Warden, just over the hill, would be glad to supply +you. Won't you come in?" + +The man stared at Brian, turned an appraising eye on Betty Jo; then +looked curiously about the room. + +"I beg your pardon," he said, removing his cap, "I thought, when I +spoke, that you were natives. My name is Green,--Harry Green. +There is a party of us stopping at the clubhouse, up the river, +there;--just out for a bit of a good time, you know. We are from +St. Louis,--first time any of us were ever in the Ozarks,--friends +of mine own the clubhouse." + +"My name is Burns," returned Brian. "We noticed your boats on the +river. You are enjoying your outing, are you?" + +Again the man looked curiously from Brian to Betty Jo. "Oh, yes; +we can stand it for awhile," he answered. "We're a pretty jolly +bunch, you see;--know how to keep things going. It would kill me +if I had to live here in this lonesome hole very long, though. +Don't you find it rather slow, Mrs. Burns?" + +Poor Betty Jo's face turned fairly crimson. She could neither +answer the stranger nor meet his gaze, but stood with downcast +eyes;--then looked at Brian appealingly. + +But Brian was as embarrassed as Betty Jo; while the stranger, as he +regarded them, smiled with an expression of insolent understanding. + +"I guess I have made another mistake," he said, with a meaning +laugh. + +"You have," returned Brian, sharply, stepping forward as he spoke; +for the man's manner was unmistakable. "Be careful, sir, that you +do not make another." + +Mr. Green spoke quickly, with an airy wave of his hand: "No +offense; no offense, I assure you." Then as he moved toward the +door, he added, still with thinly veiled insolence: "I beg your +pardon for intruding. I understand, perfectly. Good-afternoon, +Mr. Burns! Good-afternoon, miss!" + +Brian followed him out to the porch; and the caller, as he went +down the steps, turned back with another understanding laugh: "I +say, Burns, you are a lucky devil. Don't worry about me, old man. +I envy you, by Jove! Charming little nest. Come over to the club +some evening. Bring the little girl along, and help us to have a +good time. So-long!" + +Mr. Harry Green probably never knew how narrowly he escaped being +manhandled by the enraged but helpless Brian. + +Brian remained on the porch until he saw the man, in his boat, +leave the eddy at the foot of the garden and row away up the river. + +In the house, again, the two faced each other in dismay. + +Betty Jo was first to recover: "I am sure that it is quite time +for Auntie Sue to come home and take charge of her own household +again. Don't you think so, Mr. Burns?" + +And Brian Kent most heartily agreed. + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW. + + +The members of the clubhouse party were amusing themselves that +afternoon in the various ways peculiar to their kind. + +At one end of the wide veranda overlooking the river a group sat at +a card table. At the other end of the roomy lounging place, men +and women, lying at careless ease in steamer-chairs and hammocks, +were smoking and chatting about such things as are of interest only +to that strange class who are educated to make idleness the chief +aim and end of their existence. On the broad steps leading down to +the tree-shaded lawn, which sloped gently to the boat landing at +the river's edge, still other members of the company were scattered +in characteristic attitudes. Across the river, in the shade of the +cottonwoods that overhang the bank, a man and a woman in a boat +were ostensibly fishing. In a hammock strung between two trees, a +little way from the veranda, lay a woman, reading. + +Now and then a burst of shrill laughter broke the quiet of the +surrounding forest. A man on the steps called a loud suggestive +jest to the pair in the boat, and the woman waved her handkerchief +in answer. The card-players argued and laughed over a point in +their game. Some one shouted into the house for Jim, and a negro +man in white jacket appeared. When the people on the veranda had +expressed their individual tastes, the one who had summoned the +servant called to the woman in the hammock under the tree, "What is +yours, Martha?" + +Without looking up from her book, the woman waved her hand, and +answered, "I am not drinking this time. Thanks." + +A chorus of derisive shouts and laughter came from the veranda. +But the woman went on reading. "Oh, let her alone!" protested some +one, good-naturedly. "She was going a little strong, last night. +She'll be all right by and by, when she gets started again." + +The negro, Jim, had returned with his loaded tray, and was passing +among the members of the company with his assortment of glasses, +when some one called attention to Harry Green, who was just pulling +his boat up to the landing after his visit to the little log house +down the river. + +A boisterous chorus greeted the boatman: "Hello, Harry! Did you +find anything? You're just in time. What'll you have?" + +With a wave of greeting, the man fastened his boat to the landing, +and started up the slope. + +"He'll have a Scotch, of course!" said some one. "Did anybody ever +know him to take anything else? Go and get it, Jim. He'll be +nearly dead for a drink after rowing all that distance." + +The woman in the hammock lowered her book, and lay watching the man +as he came up the path toward the steps. + +Harry Green, who, apparently, was a person of importance among +them, seated himself in an easy chair on the veranda, and accepted +the glass proffered by Jim. + +"Did you find any eggs, Harry?" demanded one. The man first +refreshed himself with a long drink; then looked around with a grin +of amused appreciation: "I didn't get any eggs," he said; "but I +found the nest all right." + +A shout of laughter greeted the reply. + +"What sort of nest, Harry? Duck? Turkey? Hen? Dove? Or +rooster?" came from different members of the chorus. + +Raising his glass as though offering a toast, he answered: "Love! +my children; love!" + +A yell of delight came from the company, accompanied by a volley +of: "A love-nest! Well, what do you know about that! Good boy, +Harry! Takes Harry to find a love-nest! He's the boy to send for +eggs! I should say, yes! Martha will like that! Oh, won't she!" + +This last remark turned their attention toward the woman in the +hammock, and they called to her: "Martha! Oh, Martha! Come here! +You better look after Harry! Harry has found a love-nest! Told +you something would happen if you let him go away alone!" + +Putting aside her book, the woman came to join the company on the +veranda. + +She was rather a handsome woman, but with a suggestion of coarseness +in form and features, though her face, in spite of its too-evident +signs of dissipation, was not a bad face. + +Seating herself on the top step, with her back against the post in +an attitude of careless abandonment, she looked up at the negro who +stood grinning in the doorway. "Bring me a highball, Jim: you know +my kind." Then to the company: "Somebody give me a cigarette." + +Harry tossed a silver case in her lap. Another man, who sat near, +leaned over her with a lighted match. + +Expelling a generous cloud of smoke from her shapely lips, she +demanded: "What is this you are all shouting about Harry having +another love-nest?" + +During the answering chorus of boisterous laughter and jesting +remarks, she drank the liquor which the negro brought. + +Then Harry, pointing out Auntie Sue's house, which was easily +visible from where they sat, related his experience. And among the +many conjectures, and questions, and comments offered, no one +suggested even that the man and the woman living in that little log +house by the river might be entirely innocent of the implied +charge. For those who are themselves guilty, to assume the guilt +of others is very natural and altogether human. + +In the moment's quiet which followed the arrival of a fresh supply +of drinks, the woman called Martha said: "But what is the man +like, Harry? You have enthused quite enough about the girl. +Suppose you tell us about the man in the case." + +Harry gave a very good description of Brian Kent. + +"Oh, damn!" suddenly cried Martha, shaking her skirt vigorously. +She had spilled some of the liquor from her glass. + +A woman on the outer edge of the circle whispered to her nearest +neighbor, and a hush fell over the group. + +"Well," said Martha, drinking the liquor remaining in her glass, +"why the devil don't we find out who they are, if we are so +curious?" + +"Find out! How? We'll find out a lot! What would you do,--ask +them their names and where they are from?" came from the company. + +"It is easy enough," retorted Martha. "There is that native girl +that Molly picked up the day we landed here to help her in the +kitchen. She must belong in this neighborhood somewhere. I'll bet +she can tell us something. What is her name?" + +"Judy,--Judy Taylor. Great idea! Good! Send her out here, Jim," +responded the others. + +When the deformed mountain girl appeared before them, she looked +from face to face with such a frightened and excited expression on +her sallow, old-young features, and such a wild light in her black +beady eyes, that they regarded her with silent interest. + +Judy spoke first, and her shrill monotone emphasized her excited +state of mind: "That there nigger said as how Missus Kent was a- +wantin' ter see me. Be ary one of youuns sure 'nough Missus Kent?" + +The group drew apart a little, and every face was turned from Judy +to the woman sitting on the top step of the veranda with her back +against the post. + +Judy went slowly toward the woman, her beady eyes fixed and staring +as though at some ghostly vision. The woman rose to her feet as +Judy paused before her. + +"Be you-all Brian Kent's woman?" demanded Judy. + +The excited exclamation from the company and the manner of the +woman suddenly aroused the mountain girl to a realization of what +she had done in speaking Brian Kent's name. With an expression of +frightened dismay, she turned to escape; but the group of intensely +interested spectators drew closer. Every one waited for Martha to +speak. + +"Yes," she said, slowly, watching the mountain girl; "I am Mrs. +Brian Kent. Do you know my husband?" + +Judy's black beady eyes shifted slyly from one face to another, and +her twisted body moved uneasily. + +"No, ma'm; I ain't a-sayin' I knows him exactly. I done heard tell +'bout him nigh 'bout a year ago, when there was some men from the +city come through here a-huntin' him. Everybody 'lows as how he +was drowned at Elbow Rock." + +"The body was never found, though," murmured one of the men in the +group. + +"Who lives in that little log house over there, Judy?" Harry Green +asked suddenly, pointing. + +"There? Oh, that there's Auntie Sue's place. I 'lowed everybody +knowed that," returned the girl. + +"Who is Auntie Sue?" came the next question. + +One of the women answered, before Judy could speak: "Auntie Sue +is that old-maid school-teacher they told us about. Don't you +remember, Harry?" + +"Is Auntie Sue at home now, girl?" asked Mrs. Kent. + +Judy's gaze was fixed on the ground as she replied: "I don't know, +ma'm. I ain't got no truck with anybody on yon side the river." + +"Is there any one living with Auntie Sue?" asked some one; and in +the same breath from another came the question, "Who is Mr. Burns?" + +Judy jerked her twisted shoulders and threw up her head with an +impatient defiance, as she returned shrilly: "I'm a-tellin' youuns +I don't know nothin' 'bout nobody. Hit ain't no sort er use for +youuns ter pester me. I don't know nothin' 'bout hit, an' I +wouldn't tell youuns nothin' if I did." + +And with this, the mountain girl escaped into the house. + +While her friends on the veranda were looking at each other in +questioning silence, Mrs. Kent, without a word, turned and walked +away into the woods. + +As she disappeared among the trees, one of the men said, in a low +tone: "You better go after her, Harry. She is on, all right, that +it's Brian Kent. She never did believe that story about his death, +you know. There is no knowing what she'll do when she gets to +thinking it all over." + +"It is a darned shame," exclaimed one of the women, "to have our +party spoiled like this!" + +"Spoiled nothing," answered another. "Martha is too good a sport +to spoil anything. Go on, Harry. Cheer her up. Bring her back +here. We'll all help get her good and drunk to-night, and she'll +be all right." + +There was a laugh at this, and some one said: "A little something +wouldn't hurt any of us just now, I'm thinking. Here, Jim!" + +Harry Green found Mrs. Kent sitting on the riverbank some distance +above the boat landing. + +She looked up at the sound of his approach, but did not speak. +Dropping down beside her, the man said: "I'm damned sorry about +this, Martha. I never dreamed I was starting anything, or I would +have kept my mouth shut." + +"It is Brian, all right, Harry," she answered, slowly. "It is +funny, but he has been on my mind all day. I never dreamed that it +was this part of the country where he was supposed to have been +drowned, or I wouldn't have come here." + +"Well, what does it matter, anyway?" returned the man. "I don't +see that it can make any difference. We don't need to go down +there where he is, and it is damned certain that they won't call on +us." + +Looking out over the river, the woman spoke as if thinking aloud: +"This is just the sort of place he would love, Harry--the river and +hills and woods. He never cared for the city--always wanted to get +away into the country somewhere. Tell me, what is she really like? +Does she look like--like--well,--like any of our crowd?" + +One by one, the man picked a number of pebbles from among the dead +leaves and the short grass within reach of his hand, as he +answered: "Oh, I was just kidding when I raved about her to the +bunch." One by one, he flipped the bits of stone into the water. +"She really doesn't amount to much. Honestly, I hardly noticed +her." + +The woman continued speaking as though thinking her thoughts aloud: +"Brian was a good man, Harry. That bank affair was really my +fault. He never would have done such a thing if I hadn't devilled +him all the time for more money, and made such a fuss about his +wasting so much time in his everlasting writing. I'd hate to have +him caught and sent to the 'pen' now." + +"You're a good sport, Martha," he returned heartily. "I know just +how you feel about it. And I can promise you that there is not one +of our crowd that will ever whisper a thing. They are not that +kind, and you know how they all like you. Come, dear. Don't +bother your head about it any more. I don't like to see you like +this. Let us go up to the house, and show them how game you are,-- +shall we?" + +He put his arm about her, but the woman gently pushed him away. +"Don't do that, now, Harry. Let me think." + +"That is just what you must not do," he retorted, with a laugh. +"Thinking can't help matters. Come, let us go get a drink. That +is what you need." + +She looked at him some time before she answered; then, with a quick +movement, she sprang to her feet: + +"All right! You're on!" she cried, with a reckless laugh. "But +you'll go some if you keep up with me to-night." + +And so, that evening, while Brian Kent and Betty Jo from the porch +of the little log house by the river watched the twinkling lights +of the clubhouse windows, the party with mad merriment tried to +help a woman to forget. + +But save for the unnatural brightness of her eyes and the +heightened color in her face, drink seemed to have little effect on +Martha Kent that night. When at a late hour the other members of +the wild company, in various flushed and dishevelled stages of +intoxication, finally retired to their rooms, Martha, in her +apartment, seated herself at the window to look away over the calm +waters of The Bend to a single light that showed against the dark +mountainside. The woman did not know that the light she saw was in +Brian Kent's room. + +Long after Betty Jo had said good-night, Brian walked the floor in +uneasy wakefulness. The meeting with the man Green and his too- +evident thoughts as to the relations of the man and woman who were +living together in the log house by the river filled Brian with +alarm; while the very presence of the man from the city awoke old +apprehensions that in his months of undisturbed quiet in Auntie +Sue's backwoods home had almost ceased to be. Through Auntie Sue's +teaching and influence; his work on his book; the growing +companionship of Betty Jo and their love, Brian had almost ceased +to think of that absconding bank clerk who had so recklessly +launched himself on a voyage to the unknown in the darkness of that +dreadful night. But, now, it all came back to him with menacing +strength. + +The man, Green, would talk to his companions of his visit to the +log house that afternoon. He would tell what he had discovered. +Curiosity would lead others of the clubhouse party to call. Some +one might remember the story of the bank clerk, who was supposed to +have lost his life in that neighborhood, but whose body was never +found. There might even be one in the party who knew the former +clerk. Through them the story would go back to the outside world. +There would be investigations by those whose business it was never +to forget a criminal who had escaped the law. + +Brian felt his Re-Creation to be fully established; but what if his +identity should be discovered before the restitution he would make +should be also accomplished? And always, as he paced to and fro in +his little room in the log house, there was, like a deep undercurrent +in the flow of his troubled thought, his love for Betty Jo. + +It is little wonder that, to Brian Kent, that night, the voices of +the river were filled with fearful doubt and sullen, dreadful +threatenings. + +And what of the woman who watched the tiny spot of light that +marked the window of the room where the re-created Brian Kent kept +his lonely vigil? Did she, too, hear the voices of the river? Did +she feel the presence of that stream which poured its dark flood so +mysteriously through the night between herself and the man yonder? + +Away back, somewhere in the past, the currents of their lives in +the onward flow of the river had drawn together. For a period of +time, their life-currents had mingled, and, with the stream, had +swept onward as one. Other influences--swirls and eddies and +counter-currents of other lives--had touched and intermingled until +the current that was the man and the current that was the woman had +drawn apart. For months, they had not touched; and, now, they were +drawing nearer to each other again. Would they touch? Would they +again mingle and become one? What was this mysterious, unseen, +unknown, but always-felt, power of the river that sets the ways of +its countless currents as it sweeps ever onward in its unceasing +flow? + +The door of her room opened. Harry Green entered as one assured of +a welcome. The woman at the window turned her head, but did not +move. Going to her, the man, with an endearing word, offered a +caress; but she put him aside. "Please, Harry,--please let me be +alone to-night?" + +"Why, Martha, dear! What is wrong?" he protested, again attempting +to draw her to him. + +Resisting more vigorously, she answered: "Everything is wrong! +You are wrong! I am wrong! All life is wrong! Can't you +understand? Please leave me." + +The man drew back, and spoke roughly in a tone of disgust: "Hell! +I believe you love that bank clerk as much as you ever did!" + +"Well, and suppose that were true, Harry?" she answered, wearily. +"Suppose it were true,--that I did still love my husband? Could +that make any difference now? Can anything ever make any +difference now? You will tire of me before long, just as you have +grown tired of the others who were before me. Don't you suppose I +know? You and our friends have taught me many things, Harry. I +know, now, that Brian's dreams were right. That his dreams could +never be realized, does not make them foolish nor wrong. His +dreams that seemed so foolish--such impossible ideals--were more +real, after all, than this life that we think so real. WE are the +dreamers,--we and our kind,--and our awakening is as sure to come +as that river out there is sure of reaching the sea." + +The man laughed harshly: "You are quite poetical, to-night. I +believe I like you better, though, when you talk sense." + +"I am sorry, Harry," she returned. "Please don't be cross with me! +Go now,--please go!" + +And something forced the man to silence. Slowly, he left the room. +The woman locked the door. Returning to the window, she fell on +her knees, and stretched her hands imploringly toward the tiny spot +of light that still shone against the dark shadow of the mountain- +side. + +Between the mighty walls of tree-clad hills that lifted their +solemn crests into the midnight sky, the dark river poured the +sombre strength of its innumerable currents,--terrible in its awful +power; dreadful, in its mysterious and unseen forces; irresistible +in its ceaseless, onward rush to the sea of its final and infinite +purpose! + +And here and there on the restless, ever-moving surface of the +shadowy, never-ending flood twinkled the reflection of a star. + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +AT THE EMPIRE CONSOLIDATED SAVINGS BANK. + + +The President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank looked up +from the papers on his desk as his secretary entered from the +adjoining room and stood before him. + +"Well, George?" + +The secretary smiled as he spoke: "Mr. Ward, there is an old lady +out here who insists that you will see her. The boys passed her on +to me, because,--well, she is not the kind of woman that can be +refused. She has no card, but her name is Wakefield. She--" + +The dignified President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank +electrified his secretary by springing from his chair like a +schoolboy from his seat at the tap of the teacher's dismissing +bell. "Auntie Sue! I should say she couldn't be refused! Where +is she?" And before the secretary could collect his startled +thoughts to answer, Homer T. Ward was out of the room. + +When the smiling secretary, the stenographers, and other attending +employees had witnessed a meeting between their dignified chief and +the lovely old lady, which strengthened their conviction that the +great financier was genuinely human, President Ward and Auntie Sue +disappeared into the private office. + +"George," said Mr. Ward, as he closed the door of that sacred inner +sanctuary of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, "remember I am +not in to any one;--from the Secretary of the Treasury to the +Sheriff, I am not in." + +"I understand, sir," returned the still smiling George. And from +that moment until Homer T. Ward should open the door, nothing short +of a regiment could have interrupted the interview between Auntie +Sue and her old pupil. + +Placing the dear old lady tenderly in a deep, leather-upholstered +chair, Mr. Ward stood before her as though trying to convince +himself that she was real; while his teacher of those long-ago, +boyhood days gazed smilingly up at him. + +"What in the name of all that is unexpected are you doing here, +Auntie Sue?" he demanded; "and why is not Betty Jo with you? Isn't +the girl ever coming home? There is nothing the matter with her, +is there? Of course not, or you would have wired me." + +It was not at all like the bank president to ask so many questions +all at once. + +Auntie Sue looked around the private office curiously, then +smilingly back to the face of the financier. + +"Do you know, Homer," she said with her chuckling little laugh, +"I--I--am almost afraid of you in here. Everything is so grand and +rich-looking; and there were so many men out there who tried to +tell me you would not see me. I--I am glad I didn't know it would +be like this, or I fear I never could have found the courage to +come." + +Homer T. Ward laughed, and then--rather full-waisted as he was-- +went down on one knee at the arm of her chair so as to bring his +face level with her eyes. + +"Look at me, Auntie Sue," he said; "look straight through me, just +as you used to do years and years ago, and tell me what you see." + +And the dear old lady, with one thin soft hand on his heavy +shoulder, answered, as she looked: "Why, I see a rather naughty +boy, whom I ought to spank for throwing spitballs at the old +schoolroom ceiling," she retorted. "And I am not a bit afraid to +do it either. So sit right over there, sir, and listen to me." + +They laughed together then; and if Auntie Sue wiped her eyes as the +schoolboy obediently took his seat in the big chair at the banker's +desk, Homer T. Ward's eyes were not without a suspicious moisture. + +"Tell me about Betty Jo first," the man insisted. "You know, +Auntie Sue, the girl grows dearer to me every year." + +"Betty Jo is that kind of a girl, Homer," Auntie Sue answered. + +"I suppose it is because she is all I have to love," he said, "but, +you know, ever since Sister Grace died and left the fatherless +little kid to me, it seems like all my plans have centered around +her; and now that she has finished her school; has travelled +abroad, and gone through with that business-college course, I am +beginning to feel like we should sort of settle down together. I +am glad for her to be with you this summer, though, for the +finishing touches; and when she comes home to stay, you are coming +with her." + +Auntie Sue shook her head, smiling: "Now, Homer, you know that is +settled: I will never leave my little log house by the river until +I have watched the last sunset. You know, my dear boy, that I +would be miserable in the city." + +It was an old point often argued by them, and the man dismissed it, +now, with a brief: "We'll see about that when the time comes. +But, why didn't you bring Betty Jo with you?" + +"Because," Auntie Sue answered, "I came away hurriedly, on a very +important trip, for only a day, and it is necessary for her to stay +and keep house while I am gone. The child must learn to cook, +Homer, even if she is to inherit all your money." + +"I know," answered the banker;--"the same as you make me work when +I visit you. But your coming to me sounds rather serious, Auntie +Sue. What is your trouble?" + +The dear old lady laughed, nervously; for, to tell the truth, she +did not quite know how she was going to manage to present Brian +Kent's case to Homer T. Ward without presenting more than she was +at this time ready to reveal. + +"Why, you see, Homer," she began, "it is not really my trouble as +much as it is yours, and it is not yours as much as it is--" + +"Betty Jo's?" he asked quickly, when she hesitated. + +"No! no!" she cried. "The child doesn't even know why I am here. +Just try to forget her for a few minutes, Homer." + +"All right," he said; "but you had me worried for a minute." + +Auntie Sue might have answered that she was somewhat worried +herself; but, instead, she plunged with desperate courage: "I came +to see you about Brian Kent, Homer." + +It is not enough to say that the President of the Empire Consolidated +Savings Bank was astonished. "Brian Kent?" he said at last. "Why, +Auntie Sue, I wrote you nearly a year ago that Brian Kent was dead." + +"Yes, I know; but he was not--that is, he is not. But the Brian +Kent your detectives were hunting was--I mean--is." + +Homer T. Ward looked at his old teacher as though he feared she had +suddenly lost her mind. + +"It is like this, Homer," Auntie Sue explained: "A few days after +your detective, Mr. Ross, called on me, this stranger appeared in +the neighborhood. No one dreamed that he was Brian Kent, because, +you see, he was not a bit like the description." + +"Full beard, I suppose?" commented the banker, grimly. + +"Yes: and every other way," continued Auntie Sue. "And he has been +working so hard all winter; and everybody in the country respects +and loves him so; and he is one of the best and truest men I ever +knew; and he is planning and working to pay back every cent he +took; and I cannot--I will not--let you send him to prison now." + +The lovely old eyes were fixed on the banker's face with sweet +anxiety. + +Homer T. Ward was puzzled. Strange human problems are often +presented to men in his position; but, certainly, this was the +strangest;--his old teacher pleading for his absconding clerk who +was supposed to be dead. + +At last he said, with gentle kindness: "But, why did you come to +tell me about him, Auntie Sue? He is safe enough if no one knows +who he is." + +"That is it!" she cried. "Some one found out about him, and is +coming here to tell you, for the reward." + +The banker whistled softly. "And you--you--grabbed a train, and +beat 'em to it!" he exclaimed. "Well, if that doesn't--" + +Auntie Sue clasped her thin hands to her breast, and her sweet +voice trembled with anxious fear: "You won't send that poor boy to +prison, now, will you, Homer? It--it--would kill me if such a +terrible thing were to happen now. Won't you let him go free, so +that he can do his work,--won't you, Homer? I--I--" The strain of +her anxiety was almost too much for the dear old gentlewoman's +physical strength, and as her voice failed, the tears streamed down +the soft cheeks unheeded. + +In an instant the bank president was again on his knees beside her +chair. + +"Don't, Auntie Sue: don't, dear! Why, you know I would do anything +in the world you asked, even if I wanted to send the fellow up; but +I don't. I wouldn't touch him for the world. It is a thousand +times better to let him go if he is proving himself an honest man. +Please, dear, don't feel so. Why, I will be glad to let him off. +I'll help him, Auntie Sue. I--I--am as glad as you are that we +didn't get him. Please don't feel so about it. There, there,--it +is all right, now." + +So he comforted and reassured her until she was able to smile +through her tears. "I knew I could depend on you, Homer." + +A few minutes later, she said: "And what about that man who is +coming to claim the reward, Homer?" + +"Never you mind him!" cried the banker; "I'll fix that. But, tell +me, Auntie Sue, where is young Kent now?" + +"He is working in the neighborhood," she returned. + +He looked at her shrewdly. "You have seen a lot of him, have you?" + +"I have seen him occasionally," she answered. Homer T. Ward nodded +his head, as if well pleased with himself. "You don't need to tell +me any more. I understand, now, exactly. It is very clear what +has reformed Brian Kent; you have been up to your old tricks. It +is a wonder you haven't taken him into your house to live with +you,--to save him from associating with bad people." + +He laughed, and when Auntie Sue only smiled, as though humoring him +in his little joke, he added: "By the way, has Betty Jo seen this +latest patient of yours? What does she think of his chances for +complete recovery?" + +"Yes," Auntie Sue returned, calmly; "Betty Jo has seen him. But, +really, Homer, I have never asked her what she thought of him." + +"Do you know, Auntie Sue," said the banker, reflectively, "I never +did believe that Brian Kent was a criminal at heart." + +"I know he is not," she returned stoutly. "But, tell me, Homer, +how did it ever happen?" + +"Well, you see," he answered, "young Kent had a wife who couldn't +somehow seem to fit into his life. Ross never went into the +details with me, fully, because that, of course, had no real +bearing on the fact that he stole the money from the bank. But it +seems that the youngster was rather ambitious,--studied a lot +outside of business hours and that sort of thing. I know he made +his own way through business college before he came to us. The +wife didn't receive the attention she thought she should have, I +suppose. Perhaps she was right at that. Anyway, she wanted a good +time;--wanted him to take her out more, instead of spending his +spare time digging away at his books. And so it went the usual +way,--she found other company. Rather a gay set, I fancy; at least +it led to her needing more money than he was earning, and so he +helped out his salary, thinking to pay it back before he was +caught, I suppose. Then the crash came,--some other man, you +know,--and Brian skipped, which, of course, put us next to his +stealing. I don't know what has become of the woman. The last +Ross knew of her she was living in St. Louis, and running with a +pretty wild bunch,--glad to get rid of Brian, I expect. She +couldn't have really cared so very much for him. + +"Do you know, Auntie Sue, I have seen so many cases like this one. +I have been glad, many times, that I never married. And then, +again, sometimes, I have seen homes that have made me sorry I never +took the chance. I am glad you saved the boy, Auntie Sue: I am +mighty glad." + +"You have made me very happy, Homer," Auntie Sue returned. "But +are you sure you can fix it about that reward? The man who is +coming to claim it will make trouble, won't he, if he is not paid, +somehow?" + +"Yes, I expect he would," returned the president, thoughtfully. +"And my directors might have something to say. And there are the +Burns people and the Bankers' Association and all. Hum-m-m!" + +Homer T. Ward considered the matter a few moments, then he laughed. +"I'll tell you what we will do, Auntie Sue; we will let Brian Kent +pay the reward himself. That would be fair, wouldn't it?" + +Auntie Sue was sure that Brian would agree that it was a fair +enough arrangement; but she did not see how it was to be managed. + +Then her old pupil explained that he would pay the reward-money to +the man who was coming to claim it, and thus satisfy him, and that +the bank would hold the amount as a part of the debt which Brian +was expected to pay. + +Auntie Sue never knew that President Ward himself paid to the bank +the full amount of the money stolen by Brian Kent in addition to +the reward-money which he personally paid to Jap Taylor, in order +to quiet him, and thus saved Brian from the publicity that surely +would have followed any other course. + +It should also be said here that Judy's father never again appeared +in the Ozarks; at least, not in the Elbow Rock neighborhood. It +might be that Jap Taylor was shrewd enough to know that his +reputation would not permit him to show any considerable sum of +money, where he was known, without starting an investigation; and +for men of his type investigations are never to be desired. + +Or it is not unlikely that the combination of money and the city +proved the undoing of the moonshiner, and that he came to his +legitimate and logical end among the dives and haunts of his kind, +to which he would surely gravitate. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS. + + +The day following that night of Brian Kent's uneasy wakefulness was +a hard day for the man and the woman in the little log house by the +river. + +For Brian, the morning dawned with a sense of impending disaster. +He left his room while the sky was still gray behind the eastern +mountains, and the mist that veiled the brightness of the hills +seemed to hide in its ghostly depths legions of shadowy spirits +that from his past had assembled to haunt him. The sombre aisles +and caverns of the dimly lighted forest were peopled with shadowy +memories of that life which he had hoped would never again for him +awake. And the river swept through its gray world to the crashing +turmoil at Elbow Rock like a thing doomed to seek forever in its +own irresistible might the destruction of its ever-living self. + +As one moving in a world of dreams, he went about his morning's +work. "Old Prince" whinnied his usual greeting, but received no +answer. "Bess" met him at the barnyard gate, but he did not speak. +The sun leaped above the mountain-tops, and the world was filled +with the beauty of its golden glory. From tree and bush and +swaying weed, from forest and pasture, and garden and willow- +fringed river-bank, the birds voiced their happy greetings to the +new day. But the man neither saw nor heard. + +When he went to the house with his full milk-pail, and Betty Jo met +him at the kitchen-door with her cheery "Good-morning!" he tried +resolutely to free himself from the mood which possessed him, but +only partially succeeded. Several times, as the two faced each +other across the breakfast table, Brian saw the gray eyes filled +with questioning anxiety, as though Betty Jo, also, felt the +presence of some forbidding spectre at the meal. + +After several vain attempts to find something they could talk +about, Betty Jo boldly acknowledged the situation by saying: "What +in the world is the matter with us, this morning, Mr. Burns? I am +possessed with the feeling that there is some one or something +behind me. I want to look over my shoulder every minute." + +At her words, Brian involuntarily turned his head for a quick +backward glance. + +"There!" cried Betty Jo, with a nervous laugh, not at all like her +normal, well-poised self. "You feel it, too!" + +Brian forced a laugh in return: "It is the weather, I guess." He +tried to speak with casual ease. "The atmosphere is full of +electricity this morning. We'll have a thunder-storm before night, +probably." + +"And was it the electricity in the air that kept you tramping up +and down your room last night until almost morning?" she demanded +abruptly, with her characteristic opposition to any evasion of the +question at issue. + +Brian retorted with a smile: "And how do you know that I tramped +up and down my room last night?" + +The color in Betty Jo's cheeks deepened as she answered, "I did not +sleep very well either." + +"But, I surely did not make noise enough for you to hear in your +room?" persisted Brian. + +The color deepened still more in Betty Jo's checks, as she answered +honestly: "I was not in my room when I heard you." She paused, +and when he only looked at her expectantly, but did not speak, +continued, in a hesitating manner quite unlike her matter-of-fact +self: "When I could not sleep, and felt so as though there were +somebody or something in the house that had no business here, I +became afraid, and opened my door so I would not feel so much +alone; and then I saw the light under the door of your room, and,--" +she hesitated, but finished with a little air of defiance,--"and +I went and listened outside your door to see if you were up." + +"Yes?" said Brian Kent, gently. + +"And when I heard you walking up and down, I wanted to call to you; +but I thought I better not. It made me feel better, though, just +to know that you were there; and so, pretty soon, I went back to my +room again." + +"And then?" said Brian. + +"And then," confessed Betty Jo, "whatever it was that was keeping +me awake came back, and went on keeping me awake until I was simply +forced to go to you for help again." + +Poor Betty Jo! She knew very well that she ought not to be saying +those things to the man who, while he listened, could not hide the +love that shone in his eyes. + +And Brian Kent, as he thought of this woman, whom he loved with all +the strength of his best self, creeping to the door of his room for +comfort in the lonely night, scarcely dared trust himself to speak. +At last, when their silence was becoming unbearable, he said, +gently: "You poor child! Why didn't you call to me?" + +And Betty Jo, hearing in his voice that which told her how near he +was to the surrender that would bring disaster to them both, was +aroused to the defense. The gray eyes never wavered as she +answered, bravely: "I was afraid of that, too." + +And so Betty Jo confessed her love that answered so to his need; +but, in her very confession, saved their love from themselves. If +she had lowered her eyes-- + +Brian Kent, in reverent acknowledgment, bowed his head before her. +Then, rising, he walked to the window, where he stood for some time +looking out, but seeing nothing. + +"It was that horrid man coming yesterday that has so upset us," +said Betty Jo, at last. "We were getting on so beautifully, too. +I wish he had gone somewhere else for his vegetables and eggs and +things!" + +Brian was able to smile at this as he turned to face her again, and +they both knew that,--for that time, at least,--the danger-point +was safely past. + +"I wish so, too," he agreed; "but never mind; Auntie Sue will be +home in a day or two, and then everything will be all right again." + +But when he had taken his hat and was starting out for the day's +work, Betty Jo asked, "What are you doing to-day?" + +"I was going to work on the fence around the clearing," he answered. +"Why?" + +"I--I--wish you could find something to do nearer the house," came +the slow answer. "Couldn't you work in the garden, perhaps?" + +"I should say I could!" he returned heartily. + +All that forenoon, as Betty Jo went about her household duties she +felt the presence of the thing that filled her so with fear and +dread. With vigorous determination she scolded herself for being +so foolish, and argued with herself that it was all a nervous fancy +born of her restless night. But, the next moment, she would start +with a sudden fear and turn quickly as if to face some one whose +presence she felt behind her. And Brian, too, as he worked in the +garden, caught himself often in the act of pausing to look about +with nervous apprehension. + +During the noonday meal they made a determined effort to laugh at +themselves, and by the time dinner was over had almost succeeded. +But when Brian, as he pushed back his chair, said, jestingly, +"Well, am I to work in the garden again this afternoon?" Betty Jo +answered, emphatically, "Indeed you are! I will not stay another +minute in this house alone. Goodness knows what I will do to- +night!" + +There was no jest in the man's voice as he answered: "I'll tell +you what you will do to-night,--you will go to bed and you will go +to sleep. You will leave the door to your room wide-open, and I +shall lie right there on that couch, so near that a whisper from +you will reach me. We will have no more of this midnight prowling, +I promise you. If any ghost dares appear, we--" + +The reassuring words died on Brian Kent's lips. His eyes, looking +over Betty Jo's shoulders, were fixed and staring, and the look on +his face sent a chill of horror to the girl's heart. She dared not +move nor look around as he sat like a man turned to stone. + +A woman's laugh broke the dead silence. + +With a scream, Betty Jo sprung to her feet and whirled about. + +As one in a trance, Brian Kent arose and stood beside her. + +The woman, who stood in the open doorway, laughed again. + +Martha Kent's heavy drinking the night before, when her clubhouse +friends in a wild debauch had tried to help her to forget, was the +climax of many months of like excesses. The mood in which she had +sent the man Green from her room was the last despairing flicker of +her better instincts. Moved by her memories of better things,--of +a better love and dreams and ideals,--she had spent a little hour +or two in sentimental regret for that which she had so recklessly +cast aside. And then, because there was within her no foundation +of abiding principle for her sentiment, she had again put on the +character which had so separated her from the life of the man to +whom she was married, indeed, but with whom she was never one. +With the burning consciousness of what she might have been and of +what she was ever tormenting her, she sank, as the hours passed, +deeper and deeper into the quicksands of physical indulgence until, +in her mad determination to destroy utterly her ability to feel +remorse, she lost all mental control of herself, and responded to +every insane whim of her drink-disordered brain. + +As she stood there, now, in the doorway of that little log house by +the river,--face to face with the man and the woman who, though +they were united in their love, were yet separated by the very fact +of her existence,--she was, in all her hideous, but pitiful, +repulsiveness, the legitimate creation of those life-forces which +she so fitly personified. + +Betty Jo instinctively drew closer to Brian's side. + +"Hello, Brian, dear!" said the woman, with a drunken leer. "Thought +I'd call to see you in your charming love-nest that Harry Green +raved so about. Can't you introduce me to your little sweetheart?" + +"No?" she continued, and laughed again. Then coming an unsteady +step toward them, she added, thickly: "Very well, Brian, old +sport; you won't introduce me,--I'll have to introduce myself." +She grinned with malicious triumph at Betty Jo: "Don't be +frightened, my dear. It's all right. I'm nobody of importance,-- +just his wife,--that's all,--just his wife." + +Betty Jo, with a little cry, turned to the man who stood as if +stricken dumb with horror. "Brian?" she said. "Oh, Brian?" + +It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his given name, +and Brian Kent, as he looked, saw in those gray eyes no hint of +doubt or censure, but only the truest love and sympathy. Betty Jo +had not failed in the moment of her supreme testing. + +"It's true, all right, isn't it, Brian?" said Martha Kent. "I'm +his wife fast enough, my dear. But you don't need to worry,--you +two. I'm a good sport,--I am. I've had my fun. No kick coming +from me. Just called to pay my respects,--that's all. So-long, +Brian, old sport! Good-bye, my dear!" + +With an uncertain wave of her hand, she staggered through the +doorway and passed from their sight. + +In the little log house by the river the two who had kept the +fineness of their love stood face to face. + +For Betty Jo, the barrier which Brian Kent had maintained between +them to protect her from his love was no longer a thing unknown. +But the revelation, coming as it did, had brought no shadow of +distrust or doubt of the man to whom she had so fully entrusted +herself. It had, indeed, only strengthened her faith in him and +deepened her love. + +For one glorious triumphal moment the very soul of the man exulted +in the truth which Betty Jo made known to him. Then he turned +slowly away, for he dared not trust himself to look at her a moment +longer. + +With bowed head he paced up and down the room. He went to the +table which held Auntie Sue's sewing-basket, and fingered the +trifles there. Then, slowly, he passed through the open door to +the porch, where Betty Jo, through the window, near which she +stood, saw him look away over the river and the mountains. + +Suddenly, she saw him start, and stare intently at some nearer +object that had caught his attention. As Betty Jo watched, he +moved to the edge of the porch, and, stooping, grasped the railing +with his hands;--his head and shoulders were thrust forward; his +lips were parted; his whole attitude was that of the most intense +and excited interest. Then, straightening up, he threw back his +head, and laughed aloud. But his laughter alarmed the girl, who +ran to the door, crying, "What is it, Brian?" + +"Look!" he shouted, madly, and pointed toward the river. "Look, +Betty Jo!" + +Martha Kent, alone in one of the clubhouse boats, was rowing with +drunken clumsiness toward the head of the Elbow Rock rapids. + +The woman's friends had missed her, and, guessing, from some remark +she had made, where she had gone, had sent four men of the party +after her; for they realized that she was in no condition to be +alone in a boat on the river, particularly on that part of the +stream near Auntie Sue's place. After leaving Brian and Betty Jo, +she had gone back to her boat in the eddy at the foot of the +garden, and was pulling out into the stream when she saw her +friends approaching. With a drunken laugh, she waved her hand, and +began rowing from them directly toward the swift water. The men +shouted for her to stop, and pulled with all their strength. But +the woman, taking their calls as a challenge, rowed the harder, +while every awkward pull of the oars carried her nearer the deadly +grip of the current. + +Betty Jo, as she reached Brian's side, and saw what was happening +on the river, grasped the man's arm appealingly, with a cry: +"Brian! Brian! She is going into the rapids! She will be carried +down to Elbow Rock!" + +But Brian Kent, for the moment, was beside himself. All that he +had suffered,--all that the woman out there on the river had cost +him in anguish of soul,--all that she had taken from him of +happiness,--came before him with blinding vividness; and now,-- +now,--in her drunkenness, she was making her own way to her own +destruction. + +"Of course she is!" he shouted, in answer to Betty Jo. "Her +friends yonder are driving her to it! Could anything be more +fitting?" + +As though grasped by powerful unseen hands beneath the surface, the +boat shot forward. The woman, feeling the sudden pull of the +current, stopped rowing, and looked about as if wondering what had +happened. Her friends, not daring to follow closer to the dangerous +water, were pulling madly for the landing at the foot of the garden. +The boat in the middle of the river moved faster. + +"Look, Betty Jo, look!" shouted the man on the porch, madly. "It's +got her now--the river has got her--look!" + +With a scream of fear, the woman in the boat dropped her oars, and +grasped the gunwale of the little craft. + +Brian Kent laughed. + +Betty Jo shrank back from him, her eyes, big with horror, fixed +upon his face. Then, with a quick movement, she sprang toward him +again, and, catching his arm, shook him with all her strength and +struck him again and again with her fist. + +"Brian! Brian!" she cried. "You are insane!" + +The man looked down at her for an instant with an expression of +bewildered astonishment on his face, as one awakened from a dream. +He raised his hand and drew it across his forehead and eyes. + +The boat with the helpless woman was already past the front of the +house. + +Betty Jo cried again as if calling the man she loved from a +distance: "Brian! Brian!" + +With a sudden movement, the man jerked away from her. The next +instant, he had leaped over the railing of the porch to the ground +below and was running with all his might toward the river, at an +angle which would put him opposite or a little below the boat when +he reached the bank. + +With a sob, Betty Jo followed as fast as she could. + +As Brian Kent raced toward the river's edge, the powerful current +drew the boat with the woman into the first rough water of the +rapids, and, as the skiff was shaken and tossed by the force that +was sweeping it with ever-increasing speed toward the wild turmoil +at Elbow Rock, the woman screamed again and again for help. + +The warring forces of the stream whirled the little craft about, +and she saw the man who was nearing the bank. She rose to her feet +in the rocking boat, and stretched out her arms,--calling his name, +"Brian! Brian! Brian!" Then the impact of the boat against a +larger wave of the rapids brought her to her knees, and she clung +to the thwarts with piteous cries. + +Betty Jo and the clubhouse men, who had overtaken her, saw Brian as +he reached the river opposite the boat. For a little way he raced +the tumbling waters until he had gained a short distance ahead of +the skiff; then they saw him, without an instant's pause, leap from +the high bank far out into the boiling stream. + +Running along the bank, the helpless watchers saw the man fighting +his way toward the boat. One moment, he disappeared from sight, +dragged beneath the surface by the powerful currents with which he +wrestled. The next instant, the boiling waters would toss him high +on the crest of a rolling wave, only to drag him down again a +second later. But, always, he drew nearer and nearer the object of +his struggle, while the rapids swept both the helpless woman and +the tossing boat and the swimming man onward toward the towering +cliff, and the thunder-roar of the mad waters below grew louder and +louder. + +The splendid strength of arms and shoulders which Brian Kent had +acquired by his months of work with his ax on the timbered +mountain-side sustained him now in his need. With tremendous +energy, he breasted the might of the furious river. To the +watchers it seemed at times that it was beyond the power of human +muscles to endure the terrific strain. Then he gained the boat, +and they saw him striving with desperate energy to drag it toward +the opposite shore and so into the currents that would carry it +past the menacing point of the cliff and perhaps to the safety of +the quiet water below. + +All that human strength could do in that terrible situation, Brian +Kent did. But the task was beyond the power of mortal man. + +For an instant the breathless watchers on the bank thought there +was a chance; but the waters with mad fury dragged their victims +back, and, with terrific power, hurled them forward toward the +frowning rocks. + +It was quickly over. + +In that wild turmoil of the boiling, leaping, seething, lashing, +hammering waves, the boat, with the woman who crouched on her knees +on the bottom, and the man who clung to the side of the craft, +appeared for a second lifted high in the air. The next instant, +the crash of breaking wood sounded above the thundering roaring of +the waters. The man and the woman disappeared. The wreck of the +boat was flung again and again against the cliff, until, battered +and broken, it was swept away around the point. + +Against the dark wall of rock Brian Kent's head and shoulders +appeared for an instant, and they saw that he held the woman in his +arms. The furious waters closed over them. For the fraction of a +second, the man's hand and arm appeared again above the surface, +and was gone. + +Betty Jo sank to the ground with a low cry of anguish, and hid her +face. + +Another moment, and she was aroused by a loud shout from one of the +men who had caught a glimpse of the river's victims farther out at +the point of the rocky cliff. + +Springing to her feet, Betty Jo started madly up the trail that +leads over the bluff. The men followed. + +Immediately below Elbow Rock there is a deep hole formed by the +waters that pour around the point of the cliff, and below this hole +a wide gravelly bar pushing out from the Elbow Rock side of the +stream forces the main volume of the river to the opposite bank. +In the shallow water against the upper side of the bar they found +them. + +With the last flicker of his consciousness, Brian Kent had felt his +feet touch the bottom where the water shoals against the bar, and, +with his last remaining strength, had dragged himself and the body +of the woman into the shallows. + +Betty Jo was no hysterical weakling to spend the priceless seconds +of such a time in senseless ravings. The first-aid training which +she had received at school gave her the necessary knowledge which +her native strength of character and practical common sense enabled +her to apply. Under her direction, the men from the clubhouse +worked as they probably never had worked before in all their +useless lives. + +But the man and the woman whose life-currents had touched and +mingled,--drawn apart to flow apparently far from each other, but +drawn together again to once more touch, and, as one, to endure the +testing of the rapids,--the man and the woman had not brought to +the terrible ordeal the same strength. + +One was drawn into the Elbow Rock rapids by the careless indifference +and the reckless spirit that was born of the life she had chosen; by +her immediate associates and environment; and by the circumstances +that were, at the last analysis, of her own making. + +The other braved the same dangers, strong in the splendid spirit +that had set him against such terrible odds to attempt the woman's +rescue. From his work on the timbered mountain-side, from his life +in the clean atmosphere of the hills, and from the spiritual and +mental companionship of that little log house by the river, he had +brought to his testing the splendid strength which enabled him to +endure. + +Somewhere in that terrible conflict with the wild waters at Elbow +Rock, while the man whose life she had so nearly ruined by her +wantonness was fighting to save her, the soul of Martha Kent went +from the bruised and battered body which Brian drew at last from +the vicious grasp of the currents. + +But the man lived. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +JUDY'S RETURN. + + +In the early evening twilight of the day following the tragedy at +Elbow Rock, Betty Jo was sitting on the porch, to rest for a few +minutes in the fresh air, after long hours of watching beside +Brian's bed. + +A neighbor woman had come to help, but Betty Jo would not leave the +side of the man she loved as he fought his way slowly out of the +dark shadow of the death that had so nearly conquered him. Nor, +indeed, would Brian let her go, for even in those moments when he +appeared most unconscious of the life about him, he seemed to feel +her presence. All through the long, long hours of that anxious +night and day she had watched and waited the final issue;--feeling +the dark messenger very close at times, but gaining hope as the +hours passed and her lover won his way nearer and nearer to the +light;--courageous always;--giving him the best of her strength, so +far as it was possible to give him anything;--making him feel the +steady, enduring fullness of her love. + +At last, they felt that the victory was won. The doctor, satisfied +that the crisis was safely past, went his way to visit other +patients. By evening, Brian was resting so easily that the girl +had stolen away for a few minutes, leaving the neighbor to call her +if he should waken. + +Betty Jo had been on the porch but a short time when a step sounded +on the gravel walk that led from the porch steps around the corner +of the house. A moment more, and Judy appeared. + +The mountain girl stopped when she saw Betty Jo, and the latter +went to the top of the steps. + +"Good-evening, Judy!" said Betty Jo, quietly. "Won't you come in?" + +Slowly, with her black beady eyes fixed on Betty Jo's face, Judy +went up the steps. + +As the mountain girl reached the level of the porch-floor, Betty Jo +drew a little back toward the door. + +Judy stopped instantly, and stood still. Then, in a low tone, she +said: "You-all ain't got no call ter be afeared, Miss Betty Jo. +You hain't never goin' ter have no call ter be scared of me again, +never." + +"I am so glad for you to say that, Judy," returned Betty Jo, +smiling. "I don't want to be afraid of you, and I am not really; +but--" + +"Ain't you-all plumb a-hatin' me for what I done?" asked Judy, +wonderingly. + +"No, no; Judy, dear, I don't hate you at all, and you must know +that Auntie Sue loves you." + +"Yes," Judy nodded her head, thoughtfully. "Auntie Sue just +naturally loves everybody. Hit wouldn't be no more'n nature, +though, for you-all ter hate me. I sure have been poison-mean." + +"But that is all past now, Judy," said Betty Jo, heartily. "Come +and sit down?" She started toward the chairs. + +But the mountain girl did not move, except to shake her head in +refusal of the hospitable invitation. + +"I ain't a-goin' ter put my foot inside this house, nor set with +you-all, nor nothin' 'til I've said what I done come ter say." + +Betty Jo turned back to her again: "What is it, Judy?" + +"Auntie Sue done told me not ter let you-all er Mr. Burns see me +'til she come back. But I can't help hit, an' if I don't talk +'bout that none, I reckon she ain't a-goin' ter mind so much. You- +all don't know that I seed Auntie Sue that night 'fore she went +away, an' that hit was me took her ter the station with 'Old +Prince,' an' brung him back, did you?" + +"No," said Betty Jo, "I did not know; and if Auntie Sue told you +not to tell us about it, I would rather you did not, Judy." + +"I ain't aimin' ter," Judy returned; "but Auntie Sue don't know +nothin' 'bout what's happened since she went away, an' hit's that +what's a-makin' me come ter you-all." + +Betty Jo, seeing that the poor girl was laboring under some intense +emotional stress, said, gently: "What is it that you wish to tell +me, Judy? I am sure Auntie Sue will not mind, if you feel so about +it." + +The mountain girl's eyes filled and the tears streamed down her +sallow cheeks, while her twisted shoulders shook with the grief she +could not suppress, as she faltered: "My God-A'mighty! Miss Betty +Jo, I--I--didn't aim ter do hit! I sure didn't! 'Fore God, I'd er +let 'em kill me first, if I'd only had time ter think. But hit-- +hit--was me what told that there woman how Mr. Burns was Brian +Kent. Hit's--hit's--me what's ter blame for gittin' her killed in +the river an' him so nigh drowned. O God! O God! If he'll only +git well! + +"An' I ain't a-feelin' toward you-all like I did, Miss Betty Jo. I +can't no more. I done left them clubhouse folks, after I knowed +what has happened, an' all day I been hangin' 'round here in the +bresh. An' Lucy Warden she done told me, this afternoon, 'bout how +you-all was takin' care of Mr. Burns, an' how you just naturally +wouldn't let him die. An'--an'--I kin see, now, what hit is that +makes Auntie Sue and him an' you-all so different from that there +clubhouse gang an' pap an' me. An' I ain't a-wantin' ter be like I +been, no more, ever. I'd a heap rather jump inter the river an' +drown myself. 'Fore God, I would! An' I want ter come back an' +help you-all take care of him; an' live with Auntie Sue; an'--an'-- +be a little might like youuns, if I kin. Will you let me, Miss +Betty Jo? Will you? I most know Auntie Sue would, if she was +here." + +Before the mountain girl had finished speaking, Betty Jo's arm was +around the poor twisted shoulders, and Betty Jo's eyes were +answering Judy's pleading. + +And so, when Auntie Sue came home, it was Judy who met her at the +station, with "Old Prince" and the buggy; and as they drove down +the winding road to the little log house by the river, the mountain +girl told the old gentlewoman all that had happened in her absence. + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +THE RIVER. + + +Brian Kent recovered quickly from the effects of his experience in +the Elbow Rock rapids, and was soon able again to take up his work +on the little farm. Every day he labored in the garden, or in the +clearing, or at some task which did not rightly fall to those who +rented the major part of Auntie Sue's tillable acreage. + +Auntie Sue had told him about her visit to the President of the +Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, and of the arrangement made by +the banker--as she understood it--for Brian's protection. But +while the dear old lady explained that Homer T. Ward was one of her +pupils, she did not reveal the relation between Brian's former +chief and Betty Jo. Neither Auntie Sue nor Betty Jo, for several +very good reasons, was ready for Brian to know the whole truth +about his stenographer. It was quite enough, they reasoned, for +him to love his stenographer, and for his stenographer to love him, +without raising any more obstacles in the pathway of their +happiness. + +As the busy weeks passed, several letters came from the publishers +of Brian's book,--letters which made the three in the little log +house by the river very happy. Already, in the first reception of +this new writer's work, those who had undertaken to present it to +the public saw many promises of the fulfillment of their prophecies +as to its success. When the third letter came, a statement of the +sales to date was enclosed, and, that afternoon, Betty Jo went to +Brian where he was at work in the clearing. + +When they were comfortably, not to say cozily, seated on a log in +the shade at the edge of the forest, she announced that she had +come for a very serious talk. + +"Yes?" he returned; but he really looked altogether too happy to be +exceedingly serious. + +"Yes," she continued, "I have. As your accredited business agent +and--" she favored him with a Betty Jo smile--"shall I say +manager?" + +"Why not managing owner?" he retorted. + +"I am glad you confirm my promotion so readily," she returned, with +a charming touch of color in her cheeks, "because that, you see, +helps me to present what I have to say for the good of the firm." + +"I am listening, Betty Jo." + +"Very well; tell me, first, Brian, just exactly how much do you owe +that bank, reward-money and all, and Auntie Sue, interest and +everything?" + +Brian went to his coat, which lay on a near-by stump, and returned +with a small pocket account-book. + +"I have it all here," he said, as he seated himself close beside +her again. And, opening the book, he showed her how he had kept a +careful record of the various sums he had taken from the bank, with +the dates. + +"Oh, Brian, Brian!" she said with a little cry of delight, "I am so +glad,--so glad you have this! It is exactly what I want for my +wedding present. It was so thoughtful of you to fix it for me." + +Thus by a characteristic, Betty Jo turn she made the little book of +painful memories a book of joyous promise. + +When they again returned to the consideration of business matters, +Brian gave her the figures which answered her questions as to his +total indebtedness. + +Again Betty Jo exclaimed with delight: "Brian, do you see? Take +your pencil and figure quick your royalties on the number of books +sold as given in the publishers' statement." + +Brian laughed. "I have figured it." + +"And your book has already earned more than enough to pay +everything," said Betty Jo. "Isn't that simply grand, Brian?" + +"It is pretty 'grand,' all right," he agreed. "The only trouble +is, I must wait so long before the money is due me from the +publishers." + +"That is exactly what I came to talk about," she returned quickly. +"I tried to have it different when I made the arrangements with +them, but the terms of payment in the contract are the very best I +could get; and so I have planned a little plan whereby you--that +is, we--won't need to wait for your freedom until the date of +settlement with the publishers." + +"You have a plan which will do that?" Brian questioned, doubtfully. + +She nodded vigorously, with another Betty Jo smile. "This is the +plan, and you are not to interrupt until I have finished +everything: I happen to have some money of my very, very own, +which is doing nothing but earning interest--" + +At the look on Brian's face, she stopped suddenly; but, when he +started to speak, she put her hand quickly over his mouth, saying: +"You were not to say a single word until I have finished. Play +fair, Brian, dear; please!" + +When he signified that he would not speak, she continued in her +most matter-of-fact and businesslike tone: "There is every reason +in the world, Brian, why you should pay off your debt to the bank +and to Auntie Sue at the earliest possible moment. You can think +of several reasons yourself. There is me, for instance. + +"Very well. You have the money to your credit with the publishers; +but you can't use it yet. I have money that you can just as well +use. You will make an assignment of your royalties to me, all in +proper form, to cover the amount you need. You will pay me the +same interest my money is now earning where it is. + +"I will arrange for the money to be sent to you in the form of a +cashier's cheque, payable to the banker, Homer T. Ward, so the name +Brian Kent does not appear before we are ready, you see. You will +make believe to Auntie Sue that the money is from the publishers. +You will send the cheque to Mr. Bank President personally, with a +statement of your indebtedness to him properly itemized, interest +figured on everything. You will instruct him to open an account +for you with the balance. And then--then, Brian, you will give +dear Auntie Sue a cheque for what you owe her, with interest of +course. And we will all be so happy! And--and--don't you think I +am a very good managing owner? You do, don't you?" + +When he hesitated, she added: "And the final and biggest reason of +all is, that I want you to do as I have planned more than I ever +wanted anything in the world, except you, and I want this so +because I want you. You can't really refuse, now, can you?" + +How, indeed, could he refuse? + +So they worked it out together as Betty Jo had planned; and when +the time came for the last and best part of the plan, and Brian +confessed to Auntie Sue how he had robbed her, and had known for so +long that she was aware of his crime against her, and finished his +confession by giving her the cheque, it is safe to say that there +was nowhere in all the world more happiness than in the little log +house by the river. + +"God-A'mighty sure helped me to do one good turn, anyway, when I +jumped inter the river after that there book when Mr. Burns done +throw'd hit away," commented the delighted Judy. + +And while they laughed together, Betty Jo hugged the deformed +mountain girl, and answered: "God Almighty was sure good to us all +that day, Judy, dear!" + +It was only a day later when Auntie Sue received a letter from +Homer T. Ward which sent the dear old lady in great excitement to +Betty Jo. The banker was coming for his long-deferred vacation to +the log house by the river. + +There was in his letter a kindly word for his former clerk, Brian +Kent, should Auntie Sue chance to see him; much love for his old +teacher and for the dearest girl in the world, his Betty Jo. + +But that part of Homer T. Ward's letter which most excited Auntie +Sue and caused Betty Jo to laugh until she cried was this: +The great financier, who, even in his busy life of large +responsibilities, found time for some good reading, had discovered +a great book, by a new and heretofore unknown writer. The book was +great because every page of it, Homer T. Ward declared, reminded +him of Auntie Sue. If the writer had known her for years, he could +not have drawn a truer picture of her character, nor presented her +philosophy of life more clearly. It was a remarkable piece of +work. It was most emphatically the sort of writing that the world +needed. This new author was a genius of the rarest and best sort. +Mr. Ward predicted boldly that this new star in the literary +firmament was destined to rank among those of the first magnitude. +Already, among the banker's closest book friends, the new book was +being discussed, and praised. He would bring a copy for Auntie Sue +and Betty Jo to read. It was not only the book of the year;--it +was, in Homer T. Ward's opinion, one of the really big books of the +Century. + +"Well," commented Betty Jo, when they had read and reread that part +of the letter, "dear old Uncle Homer may be a very conservative +banker, but he certainly is more than liberal when he touches on +the question of this new author. Won't we have fun, Auntie Sue! +Oh, won't we!" + +Then they planned the whole thing, and proceeded to carry out their +plan. + +Brian was told only that Mr. Ward was coming to visit Auntie Sue, +and that he must be busy somewhere away from the house when the +banker arrived, and not come until he was sent for, because Auntie +Sue must make a full confession to her old pupil of the part she +had played in the Re-Creation of Brian Kent before Homer T. Ward +should meet his former clerk. + +Brian, never dreaming that there were other confessions to be made, +smilingly agreed to do exactly as he was told. + +When the momentous day arrived, Betty Jo met her uncle in +Thompsonville, and all the way home she talked so continuously of +her school, and asked so many questions about his conduct and life +and their many Chicago friends, that the helpless bank president +had no chance whatever of asking her a single embarrassing +question. But, when dinner was over (Brian had taken his lunch +with him to the clearing), Homer T. Ward wanted to know things. + +"Was Brian Kent still working in the neighborhood?" + +Auntie Sue informed him that Brian was still working in the +neighborhood. + +"Betty Jo had seen the bank clerk?" Betty Jo's uncle supposed. +"What did she think of the fellow?" + +Betty Jo thought Brian Kent was a rather nice fellow. + +"And how had Betty Jo been amusing herself while her old uncle was +slaving in the city?" + +Betty Jo had been doing a number of things: Helping Auntie Sue +with her housework; learning to cook; keeping up her stenographic +work; reading. + +"Reading?" That reminded him, and forthwith Mr. Ward went to his +room, and returned with the book. + +And then those two blessed women listened and admired while he +introduced them to the new genius, and read certain favorite +passages from the great book, and grew enthusiastic on the new +author, saying all that he had written in his letter and many +things more, until Betty Jo could restrain herself no longer, but +ran to him, and took the book from his hands, and, with her arms +around his neck, told him that he was the dearest uncle in the +world, because she was going to marry the man who wrote the book he +so admired. + +There were long explanations after that: How the book so highly +valued by Banker Ward had actually been written in that very log +house by the river; how Auntie Sue had sent for Betty Jo to assist +the author with her typewriting; how the author, not knowing who +Betty Jo was, had fallen in love with his stenographer, and, +finally, how Betty Jo's author-lover was even then waiting to meet +her guardian, still not knowing that her guardian was the banker +Homer T. Ward. + +"You see, uncle, dear," explained Betty Jo, "Auntie Sue and I were +obliged to conspire this little conspiracy against my man, because, +you know, authors are funny folk, and you never can tell exactly +what they are going to do. After giving your heart to a genius as +wonderful as you yourself know this one to be, it would be terrible +to have him refuse you just because you were the only living +relative of a rich old banker;--it would, wouldn't it, uncle, +dear?" + +And, really, Homer T. Ward could find reason in Betty Jo's +argument, which ended with that fatal trick question. + +Taking his agreement for granted, Betty Jo continued: "And, you +see, Auntie Sue and I were simply forced to conspire a little +against you, uncle, dear, because you know perfectly well that, +much as I needed the advantage of associating with such an author- +man in the actual writing of his book, you would never, never have +permitted me to fall in love with him before you had discovered for +yourself what a great man he really is, and I simply had to fall in +love with him because God made me to take care of a genius of some +sort. And if you don't believe that, you can ask Judy. Judy has +found out a lot about God lately. + +"You won't think I am talking nonsense, or am belittling the +occasion will you, uncle, dear?" she added anxiously. "I am not,-- +truly, I am not,--I am very serious. But I can't help being a +little excited, can I? Because it is terrible to love a banker- +uncle, as I love you, and at the same time to love a genius-man, as +I love my man, and--and--not know what you two dearest men in the +world are going to do to each other." + +And, at this, the girl's arms were about his neck again, and the +girl's head went down on his shoulder; and he felt her cheek hot +with blushes against his and a very suspicious drop of moisture +slipped down inside his collar. + +When he had held Betty Jo very close for a while, and had whispered +comforting things in her ear, and had smiled over her shoulder at +his old teacher, the banker sent the girl to find her lover while +he should have a serious talk with Auntie Sue. + +The long shadows of the late afternoon were on the mountain-side +when Brian Kent and Betty Jo came down the hill to the little log +house by the river. + +The girl had said to him simply, "You are to come, now, Brian;-- +Auntie Sue and Mr. Ward sent me to tell you." + +She was very serious, and as they walked together clung closely to +his arm. And the man, too, seeming to feel the uselessness of +words for such an occasion, was silent. When he helped her over +the rail-fence at the lower edge of the clearing, he held her in +his arms for a little; then they went on. + +They saw the beautiful, tree-clad hills lying softly outlined in +the shadows like folds of green and timeworn velvet, extending +ridge on ridge into the blue. They saw the river, their river, +making its gleaming way with many a curve and bend to the mighty +sea, that was hidden somewhere far beyond the distant sky-line of +their vision; and between them and the river, at the foot of the +hill, they saw the little log house with Auntie Sue and Homer T. +Ward waiting in the doorway. + +When the banker saw the man at Betty Jo's side, his mind was far +from the clerk whom he had known more than a year before in the +city. His thoughts were on the author, the scholar, the genius, +whose book had so compelled his respect and admiration. This tall +fellow, with the athletic shoulders and deeply tanned face, who was +dressed in the rude garb of the backwoodsman, with his coat over +his arm, his ax on his shoulder, and his dinner-pail in his hand,-- +who was he? And why was Betty Jo so familiar with this stranger,-- +Betty Jo, who was usually so reserved, with her air of competent +self-possession? Homer T. Ward turned to look inquiringly at +Auntie Sue. + +His old teacher smiled back at him without speaking. + +Then, Betty Jo and Brian Kent were standing before him. + +"Here he is, Uncle Homer," said the girl. + +Brian, hearing her speak those two revealing words, and seeing her +go to the bank president, who put his arm around her with the +loving intimacy of a father, stood speechless with amazement, +looking from Homer T. Ward and Betty Jo to Auntie Sue and back to +the banker and the girl. + +Mr. Ward, still not remembering the bank clerk in this re-created +Brian Kent, was holding out his hand with a genial smile. + +As the bewildered Brian mechanically took the hand so cordially +extended, the older man said: "It is an honor, sir, to meet a man +who can do the work you have done in writing that book. It is +impossible to estimate the value of such a service as you have +rendered the race. You have a rare and wonderful gift, Mr. Burns, +and I predict for you a life of remarkable usefulness." + +Brian, still confused, but realizing that Mr. Ward had not +recognized him, looked appealingly at Betty Jo and then to Auntie +Sue. + +Auntie Sue spoke: "Mr. Ward is the uncle and guardian of Betty Jo, +Brian." + +"'Brian'!" ejaculated the banker. + +Auntie Sue continued: "Homer, dear, Betty Jo has presented HER +author, Mr. Burns;--permit me to introduce MY Brian Kent!" + +And Judy remarked that evening, when, after supper, they were all +on the porch watching the sunset: "Hit sure is dad burned funny +how all tangled an' snarled up everythin' kin git 'fore a body kin +think most, an', then, if a body'll just keep a-goin' right along, +all ter onct hit's all straightened out as purty as anythin'." + +They laughed happily at the mountain girl's words, and the dear old +teacher's sweet voice answered: "Yes, Judy; it is all just like +the river, don't you see?" + +"Meanin' as how the water gits all tangled an' mixed up when hit's +a-boilin' an' a-roarin' like mad down there at Elbow Rock, an' then +all ter onct gits all smooth an' calm like again," returned Judy. + +"Meaning just that, Judy," returned Auntie Sue. "No matter how +tangled and confused life seems to be, it will all come straight at +the last, if, like the river, we only keep going on." + +And when the dreamy Indian-summer days were come and the blue haze +of autumn lay softly over the brown and gold of the beautiful Ozark +hills, the mountain folk of the Elbow Rock neighborhood gathered +one day at the little log house by the river. + +It was a simple ceremony that made the man and the woman, who were +so dear to Auntie Sue, husband and wife. But the backwoods +minister was not wanting in dignity, though his dress was rude and +his words plain; and the service lacked nothing of beauty and +meaning, though the guests were but humble mountaineers; for love +was there, and sincerity, and strength, and rugged kindliness. + +And when the simple wedding feast was over, they all went down to +the river-bank, at the lower corner of the garden, where, at the +eddy landing, a staunch John-boat waited, equipped and ready. + +When the last good-byes were spoken, and Brian and Betty Jo put out +from the little harbor into the stream, Auntie Sue, with Judy and +Homer T. Ward, went back to the porch of the little log house, +there to watch the beginning of the voyage. + +With Brian at the oars, the boat crossed the stream to the safer +waters close to the other shore, and then, with Betty Jo waving her +handkerchief, and the neighbor men and boys running shouting along +the bank, swept down the river, past the roaring turmoil of the +Elbow Rock rapids into the quiet reaches below, and away on its +winding course between the tree-clad hills. + +"I am so glad," said Auntie Sue, her dear old face glowing with +love, and her sweet voice tremulous with feeling, "I am so glad +they chose the river for their wedding journey." + + + + +Note.--This biographical sketch of Harold Bell Wright will give the +reader a knowledge and understanding of the life-work, aims and +purposes of the author as expressed through his books. It is +reprinted on these pages in response to popular demand.--The +Publishers. + + + + +HAROLD BELL WRIGHT + +A Biography + +By ELSBERY W. REYNOLDS + + +The biography of a man is of importance and interest to other men +just to the degree that his life and work touches and influences +the life of his time and the lives of individuals. + +Only in a feeble way, at best, can the life story of any man be +told on the printed page. The story is better as it is written on +the hearts of men and women and the man himself does the writing. + +He lives longest who lives best. He who carves deepest against +corroding time is he who touches with surest hand the greatest +number of human hearts. + +He may or may not be a prodigy of physical strength. He may or may +not be a tower of mental energy. But so long as this old world +stands the man with an overpowering desire for all that is best for +the race to be in the race, whose life is in tune with the divine +and with the good that is within us all, whether he be orator, +writer, artist or artisan, is a giant among men. + +That which we read makes a deeper and more lasting impression on our +lives than that which we see or hear. An author with millions of +readers must be a great central power of thought and influence, at +least, in his own day and generation. We can understand the truth +of this through a study of the aims and life purposes of Harold Bell +Wright as expressed through his books and the circumstances under +which they were written. The wonderful popularity of this author is +well estimated by the millions of copies of his books that have been +sold. This is also the greatest testimonial that can be given to +the merit of his work. The great heart of the reading public is an +unprejudiced critic. "Is not the greatest voice the one to which +the greatest number of hearts listen with pleasure?" + +When a man has attained to great eminence under adverse circumstances +we sometimes wonder to what heights he might have climbed under +conditions more favorable. Who can tell? It is just as easy to say +what the young man of twenty will be when a matured man of forty. +The boy of poverty makes a man of power while the boy nursed in the +lap of luxury makes a man of uneventful life, and, again, a life +started with a handicap remains so through its possible three score +years and ten and the life begun with advantages multiplies its +talents ten and a hundred fold. + +So, after all, is not the heart of man the real man and is it not +the guiding star of his ambition, his will, his determination, his +conscience? + +Harold Bell Wright, the second of four sons, was born May 4, 1872, +in Rome, Oneida County, New York. From an earlier biographer we +quote the following: + +"Some essential facts must be dug from out the past where they lie +embedded in the detrital chronicles of the race. Say, then, that +away back in 1640 a ship load of Anglo-Saxon freedom landed in New +England. After a brief period some of the more venturesome spirits +emigrated to the far west and settled amid the undulations of the +Mohawk valley in central New York. Protestant France also sent +westward some Gallic chivalry hungering for freedom. The fringe of +this garment of civilization spread out and reached also into the +same valley. English determination and Huguenot aspiration touched +elbows in the war for political and religious freedom, and touched +hearts and hands in the struggle for economic freedom. Their +generations were a genuine aristocracy. Mutual struggles after +mutual aims cemented casual acquaintance into enduring friendship. +William Wright met, loved and married Alma T. Watson. To them four +sons were born. A carpenter contractor, a man who builds, +contrives and constructs, is joined to a woman into whose soul of +wholesome refinement come images of dainty beauty, where they glow +and grow radiant. With lavish unrestraint the life of this French +woman pours itself into her sons. The third child died in infancy. +The eldest survived his mother by some thirteen years. The +youngest is a constructive mechanical engineer. The second son is +Harold Bell Wright. + +"During ten years this mother and this son live in rare intimacy. +The boy's first enduring impression of this life is the vision of +the mother bending affectionately over him while criticising the +water color sketch his unpracticed fingers had just made. Crude +blendings and faulty lines were pointed out, then touched into +harmony and more accurate perspective by her quick skill. Together +their eyes watched shades dance on sunny slopes, cloud shadows race +among the hills or lie lazily in the valley below. + +"Exuberant Nature and ebullient boy loved each other from the +first. Alone, enravished, he often wandered far in sheer joy of +living. He brings, one day, from his rambles a bunch of +immortelles which mother graciously receives. Twenty years later +the boy, man-grown, bows reverently over a box of withered flowers-- +the same bouquet the mother took that day and laid away as a +precious memento of his boyish love. Such was the first decade. + +"A ten-year-old boy, motherless, steals from harsh labor and yet +harsher surroundings, runs to the home of sacred memories, clambers +to the attic, and spends the night in anguished solitude. This was +his first Gethsemane. For ten years buffeted and beaten, battling +with adversity, sometimes losing but never lost, snatching learning +here and there, hating sham, loving passionately, misunderstood, +misapprehended, too stubbornly proud to ask apologies or make +useless explanations, fighting poverty in the depths of privation, +wrestling existence from toil he loathed, befriending many and also +befriended much, but always face to face with the grim tragedy +which has held part of the stage since Eden. + +"Such was the second decade. The first was spent on hill sides +where shadows only made the light more buoyant as they fled away. +The second was passed in the valley where the shadow hung lazily +till the cloud grew very black and drenched the soil. + +"Lured to college, he undertook to acquire academic culture. As is +well known, college life with its professorial anecdotes and jokes, +its student pranks and grind, is routine drudgery and cob-webbery +prose. Bookish professors and conventional students rarely have +just such an animate problem of French artistry and Bohemian +experience to solve. They did nobly, to be sure, but here was a +mind which threw over them all the glamour of romance." + +Mr. Wright entered the Preparatory Department of Hiram College at +the age of twenty, having previously accepted the faith and +identified himself with the Christian Church in the little quarry +town of Grafton, Ohio. He continued active in the different +departments of work in his church all during his school years with +the ultimate result of his entering the ministry. + +Having no financial means, while in school he made his way by doing +odd jobs about town, house painting and decorating, sketching, etc. +After two years of school life, while laboring to gain funds in +order that he might continue his schooling, he contracted from +overwork and out-door exposure a severe case of pneumonia that left +his eyesight badly impaired and his constitution in such condition +that, to the present day, he has never fully recovered. + +Air castles were tumbled and hopes blasted when his physician +advised him that it would be fatal to re-enter school for, at +least, another year. Whereupon, seeking health and a means of +existence, starting from a point on the Mahoning river, he canoed +with sketch and note book, but alone, down stream a distance of +more than five hundred miles. From this point, by train, he +embarked for the Ozark mountains in southwest Missouri. Here, for +some months, while gradually regaining his strength, he secured +employment at farm work, sketching and painting at intervals. + +Once more, he found himself on bed-rock, taking his last cent to +pay express charges back to Ohio on some finished pictures, but, +this time, fortune smiled promptly with a good check by return +mail. + +It was while in the Ozarks that Harold Bell Wright preached his +first sermon. Being a regular attendant at the services, held in +the little mountain log school house, he was asked to talk to the +people, one Sunday, when the regular preacher had failed to appear. + +From this Sunday morning talk, that could hardly be called a +sermon, and others that followed, he came to feel that he could do +more good in the ministry than he could in any other field of +labor, and soon thereafter accepted a regular pastorate at Pierce +City, Missouri, at a yearly salary of four hundred dollars. True +to a resolve, that his work should be that through which he could +help the most people, he had now chosen the ministry. A further +resolve that he would give up this ministry, chosen with such +earnest conviction, should another field of labor offer more +extensive measures for reaching mankind, took him, in later years, +into the field of literature. He left the ministry with many +regrets but with the same earnest conviction with which he had +earlier chosen it. + +Following the publication of "The Shepherd of the Hills" his +publishers assured him that he could secure greater results from +his pen rather than his pulpit and prevailed upon him to henceforth +make literature his life work. This was in every way consistent +with his teaching that every man's ministry is that work through +which he can accomplish the greatest good. + +In the battle of life there is always the higher ground that the +many covet but few attain. In reaching this height Mr. Wright has +given to a multitude, his time, strength and substance, that they, +too, might further advance. He is companionable, loving and loyal +to his friends. He hates sham and hypocrisy and any attempt to +glorify one's self by means other than the fruits of one's own +labor. + +This boy, who, from the death of his mother, was driven into a hand +to hand struggle with life for a bare existence, was necessarily +forced into contact with much that was vicious and corrupt. But he +in no way became a part of it. That same inherent love for mental +cleanliness and spiritual truths that has so distinguished the +works of the man kept the boy unstained in his unfortunate +environment. + +Mr. Wright resigned his charge at Pierce City for the larger work +at Pittsburg, Kansas. In the second year of his pastorate--1899-- +he married Frances E. Long in Buffalo, New York. This union of +love had its beginning back in the school days at Hiram. Unto them +have been born three sons, Gilbert Munger, 1901, Paul Williams, +1902, and Norman Hall, 1910. + +In Pittsburg, Mr. Wright received enthusiastic support from his +church people. Finances were soon in a satisfactory condition, and +church attendance reached the capacity of the building, but still +the young pastor was not satisfied. Pittsburg was a mining town, a +young men's town. A little city with saloons and brothels doing +business on every hand. His soul was on fire for his church to do +a larger work and, with the hope of arousing his people, he +conceived the idea of writing "That Printer of Udell's," planning +to read the story, by installments, on special evenings of +successive weeks, to his congregation. + +Pittsburg was made the principal scene and the church of the story +was the kind of church he wanted his Pittsburg charge to be. The +teachings set forth, through the preacher of the story, in the +latter half of the book, are the identical things the author was +preaching. The first chapters of the story are very largely +colored by Mr. Wright's early life, but they are by no means +autobiographical. + +"That Printer of Udell's" was written without thought or intention +of offering it for publication. During the author's ministry he +made some of the warmest and most abiding friendships of his life, +and it was through certain of these friends that he was persuaded +from reading the story, as intended, but to offer it for +publication, giving it, thus, a wider usefulness. + +Having a leave of absence of several weeks from his church during +the winter of 1901-2 he accepted an invitation from the pastor of a +Chicago church to hold a special meeting, and it was during this +meeting that the author and his publisher met for the first time. +Mr. Wright delivered a sermon entitled "Sculptors of Life" that was +so impressive that I sought him out with entreaties to repeat his +sermon as a lecture to a certain company of young people. + +The acquaintance thus begun very quickly became one of friendship, +without any knowledge or thought that it would in time lead to a +co-operative life work, and when the author later offered his book +for publication it was without request or thought of financial +remuneration. Mr. Wright, however, was given a contract paying him +the highest royalty that was being paid for any author's first +book. + +"That Printer of Udell's" was written almost entirely in the late +hours of the night and the very early hours of the morning. Great +demands were being made on the author's time in the way of requests +for officiating and speaking at public and civic functions in +addition to the now heavy requirements of his church. His +aggressive activities, backed by his splendid spirit, fearlessness +and courage in combating the evils of his little city made for him +a host of admirers, alike, among his enemies and friends. When he +left to accept a pastorate in Kansas City, Missouri, his resignation +was not accepted. + +After one year in Kansas City he found that he was not physically +able to carry out the great city work as he had dreamed it and +planned it, on a scale that would satisfy his longings for service, +and it made him seriously consider whether there was not some other +way that would more equally measure with his strength. He went +again to the Ozarks, this time for rest and meditation, and while +there began writing "The Shepherd of the Hills." This Story has a +peculiar significance for the author. He feels toward it as he can +not feel for any of his other books. "The Shepherd of the Hills" +was written as a test. The strength of the message he was able to +put into the story and the response it should find in the hearts +of men and women was to decide for him his ministry henceforth, +whether he would teach the precepts of the Man of Galilee by voice +or pen. It was a testing time that bore fruit not only in this +simple, sweet story, that to quote an eminent divine, "is one of +the greatest sermons of our day," but resulted as well in the +splendid volumes that have followed. + +"The Shepherd of the Hills" was finished during the year of his +pastorate at Lebanon, Missouri, and but for the sympathy, +encouragement and helpful understanding of his church officers and +membership, it is doubtful if the story could ever have been +completed. When Mr. Wright delivered the manuscript to his +publishers the first of the year, 1907, for publication the next +fall, he had accepted the pastorate of the Christian Church in +Redlands, California, hoping this land of sunshine would give him a +larger measure of health. + +Some months later, resigning his Redlands pastorate, he went to the +Imperial Valley and there, the following year, wrote "The Calling +of Dan Matthews." The church and its problems were weighing on the +author and affecting his life no less than when he was in the +ministry and it was only natural that he should give to the world +"a picture that is true to the four corners of the earth." Every +incident in the story has its counterpart in real life and, with +but few exceptions, came under the author's personal observation. +He did not get the real pleasure out of writing "The Calling of Dan +Matthews" that he did the story which preceded it. But he could +not, try as he would, escape it. + +The publication of "The Calling of Dan Matthews" in the fall of +1909 was just two years after the publication of "The Shepherd of +the Hills." + +"The Winning of Barbara Worth" required more time and effort in the +collecting of material than any book the author had written, but +probably gave him, at least, as much pleasure. He is very careful +with regard to descriptive detail, and even while writing "The +Calling of Dan Matthews" he was making a study of the desert and +this great reclamation project. Before sending his manuscript for +publication he had it checked over by the best engineers on the +Pacific coast for inaccuracies in any of his descriptions that +involved engineering or reclamation problems. + +"The Winning of Barbara Worth" bears the distinction, without +doubt, of being the only book ever published that called its +publisher and illustrator from a distance of two and three thousand +miles, into the heart of a great desert, for a consultation with +its author. This story of the Imperial Valley and its reclamation +was written in the same study as was "The Calling of Dan Matthews." +A study of rude construction, about eighteen by thirty-five feet, +with thatched roof and outside covering of native arrow-weed and +built entirely by the author himself. + +When Mr. Wright finished "The Winning of Barbara Worth"--so named +in honor of Ruth Barbara Reynolds--he was a sick man. He often +worked the night through, overtaxing his nerve and strength. For +several months he virtually dwelt within the four walls of his +study and for a time it was feared he would not live to finish the +book. He wrote the last chapters while confined to his bed, after +which he was taken by easy stages, through the kindness of friends, +to that part of Northern Arizona that is so delightful to all +lovers of the out-of-doors. In this bracing mile-high atmosphere +he soon grew well and strong, almost to ruggedness, and on the day +his book was published he was riding in a wild-horse chase over a +country wild and rough where the writer of this sketch would only +care to go, carefully picking his way, on foot. So it was weeks +after publication before the author saw the first bound copy of his +book. During these summer and fall months, while regaining his +strength, he was busy with sketch and note book collecting +material, for this part of Arizona is the scene of his novel "When +a Man's a Man." + +"Their Yesterdays" was written in Tucson, Arizona, and was +published in the fall of 1912, just one year after the publication +of "The Winning of Barbara Worth." In order to write this story, +with the least possible strain on his nerves and vitality, Mr. +Wright secluded himself in a little cottage purchased especially +for this work. His material was collected from the observations of +his thoughtful years and his intimate knowledge of human hearts. +This book is, perhaps, more representative of the real Harold Bell +Wright than anything he has done. It is the true presentation of +his views on life, love and religion. I once asked Mr. Wright, in +behalf of the faculty, to deliver an address to a graduating class +of some twenty-odd young men of the Morgan Park Academy (Chicago). +He was very busy and I suggested that without special effort he +make the commonplace remarks that one so often hears on like +occasions. For the first time that I remember he somewhat +impatiently resented a suggestion from me, saying "These young men +are on the threshold of life and the very best that is within me is +due to them. I can give to them only such a message as I would, +were I to stand before judgment on the morrow." It was with just +this spirit that the author wrote "Their Yesterdays." + +Following "Their Yesterdays" the next book in order of publication +was "The Eyes of the World," published in the fall of 1914. It was +written in the same arrow-weed study on Tecolote Rancho in the +Imperial Valley where he wrote "The Calling of Dan Matthews" and +"The Winning of Barbara Worth." Being fully in sympathy with the +author's purpose in writing this story, the campaign of advertising +was of such educational character and so eventful in many ways, +that it will long be remembered by authors, publishers and reading +public, and, we trust, make for cleaner books and pictures. + +As it was in the writing of "The Calling of Dan Matthews" so it was +in the writing of "The Eyes of the World," the sense of duty stood +highest. The modern trend in books and music and art and drama had +so incensed the author that "The Eyes of the World" was the result +of his all impelling desire for cleaner living and thinking. As is +true of all writers, there are sometimes those who fail to catch +the message in Mr. Wright's books. He is occasionally misunderstood, +and that was especially true with "The Eyes of the World." To the +great majority of people, clean living and thinking, the message was +not to be misinterpreted and to them the book is blessed. To that +small minority it was convicting and, from a few such, it brought +forth condemnation which, in a fellow author here and there, was +pronounced and emphasized by envy and jealousy. To critics of this +class Mr. Wright makes no reply and is not in the least disturbed. + +"The Uncrowned King," a small volume--an allegory--published in +1910, to me, is one of the most delightful of Mr. Wright's books. +Possibly, it has an added charm because of certain peculiar +conditions. It was written in Redlands, California, during the +winter of 1909-10, although the notion for the little volume +occurred to the author while living in Kansas City. It was one of +those times when the longing and will to do a work greater than the +physical would permit seemed almost overpowering when, unconsciously +coming to his aid, a young woman talking to a company of Christian +Endeavorers chanced to remark, "After all, the real kings of earth +are seldom crowned." All through the evening service thoughts that +this inspired kept running through the author's mind and late that +same night he wrote the outline which was only completed some years +later and given to his publishers to enrich the world. + +His first four novels in order of publication have been dramatized +and enjoyed by thousands from before the footlights and it has been +a delight to renew acquaintances with old friends in this way. It +remained for "The Eyes of the World" to be the first of his books +to be presented in a feature production of motion pictures. + +The likes and dislikes of Harold Bell Wright are quite pronounced. +He is unpretending, cares not for the lime-light and avoids +interviews for the public press. Loud, boisterous conversation is +but little less offensive to him than vulgarity in speech or +action. His friends are strong, clean-minded men who are doing +things in the world and are as necessary to his being as the air to +his existence, and his generosity to them is no less marked than +his caring and providing for his family, which is almost a passion. +He is extremely fond of most forms of out-door life. The desert +with its vast expanse, fierce solitude and varied colors is no less +attractive to him than the peaceful quiet of wooded dells, the +beauty of flowering meadows or the rugged mountains with their +roaring trout streams that furnish him hours of sport with rod and +line. He enjoys hunting, horse-back riding or long tramps afoot. +But when there is work to be done it is the one thing that bulks +largest and all else must wait. + +After finishing "The Eyes of the World," Mr. Wright embarked on the +building of a home in the Santa Monica mountains near Hollywood, +California. So in the summer of 1915 the little family of five +began making their residence in the new canyon home, one of +nature's delightful spots. + +Then again, the author went into camp in the Arizona desert while +writing "When a Man's a Man." For he finds it very helpful to live +in the atmosphere of his story while doing the actual writing and +he also avoids frequent interruption. I think he got more real +enjoyment out of this story than any he has previously done. It is +a story of the out-of-doors in this great unfenced land where a man +must be a man. I suppose, too, he enjoyed writing this work so +much, partly, because it comes so easy for him to just tell a story +without the intervention of some nerve racking problem. The only +book he has heretofore written that is purely a story is "The +Shepherd of the Hills," and I sometimes wonder to what proportion +of his readers does this Ozark story hold first place. For all +such, I am sure, "When a Man's a Man" will find a reception of +special heartiness because it is just a fine, big, wholesome novel +of simple sweetness and virile strength. + +I have written this sketch of Harold Bell Wright that you may know +him as intimately, if possible, as if you had met him in person. +But should you have the opportunity of making his acquaintance do +not deny yourself the pleasure. If you are a lover of his books I +am sure you are just the kind of person that the author himself +delights to meet. + +"Relay Heights," February 15, 1916. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Re-Creation of Brian Kent, by H. B. Wright + diff --git a/old/trcbk10.zip b/old/trcbk10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f4d2373 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/trcbk10.zip |