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diff --git a/3265.txt b/3265.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9fea948 --- /dev/null +++ b/3265.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8010 @@ +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] + +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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