David Dunne Part 29

She obeyed in silence.

An early frost had s.n.a.t.c.hed the glory from the trees, whose few brown and sere leaves hung disconsolately on the branches. High above them was an occasional skirmis.h.i.+ng line of wild ducks. The deep stillness was broken only by the scattering of nuts the scurrying squirrels were harvesting, by the cry of startled wood birds, or by the wistful note of a solitary, distant quail.

"Do you remember that other--that first day we came here?" he asked.

She glanced up at him quickly.

"Is this really the place where we came and you told me stories?"

"You were only six years old," he reminded her. "It doesn't seem possible that you should remember."

"It was the first time I had ever been in any kind of woods," she explained, "and it was the first time I had ever played with a grown-up boy. For a long time afterward, when I teased mother for a story, she would tell me of 'The Day Carey Met David.'"

"And do you remember nothing more about that day?"

"Oh, yes; you made us some little chairs out of red sticks, and you drew me here in a cart."

"Can't you remember when you first laid eyes on me?"

"No--yes, I remember. You drove a funny old horse, and I saw you coming when I was waiting at the gate."

"Yes, you were at the gate," he echoed, with a caressing note in his voice. "You were dressed in white, as you are to-day, and that was my first glimpse of the little princess. And because she was the only one I had ever known, I thought of her for years as a princess of my imagination who had no real existence."

"But afterwards," she asked wistfully, "you didn't think of me as an imaginary person, did you?"

"Yes; you were hardly a reality until--"

"Until the convention?" she asked disappointedly.

"No; before that. It was in South America, when I began to write my book, that you came to life and being in my thoughts. The tropical land, the brilliant suns.h.i.+ne, the purple nights, the white stars, the orchids, the balconies looking down upon fountained courts, all invoked you. You answered, and crept into my book, and while we--you and I--were writing it, it came to me suddenly and overwhelmingly that the little princess was a living, breathing person, a woman who mayhap would read my book some day and feel that it belonged to her. It was so truly hers that I did not think it necessary to write the dedication page. And she did read the book and she did know--didn't she?"

He looked down into her face, which had grown paler but infinitely more lovely.

"David, I didn't dare know. I wanted to think it was so."

"Carey," his voice came deep and strong, his eyes beseeching, "we were prince and princess in that enchanted land of childish dreams. Will you make the dream a reality?"

"When, David," she asked him, "did you know that you loved, not the little princess, but me, Carey?"

"You make the right distinction in asking me when I _knew_ I loved you. I loved you always, but I didn't know that I loved you, or how much I loved you, until that night we sat before the fire at the Bradens'."

"And, David, tell me what mother said that day after the parade?"

"She told me I had her consent to ask you--this!"

"And why, David, did you wait until to-day?"

"The knowledge that you were coming back here to Maplewood brought the wish to make a reality of another dream--to meet you at the place where I first saw you--to bring you here, where you clung to me for the protection that is henceforth always yours. And now, Carey, it is my turn to ask you a question. When did you first love me?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_'Carey, will you make the dream a reality?'_"]

"That first day I met you--here in the woods. My dream and my prince were always realities to me."

CHAPTER IX

The governor was indulging in the unwonted luxury of solitude in his private sanctum of the executive offices. The long line of politicians, office seekers, committees, and reporters had pa.s.sed, and he was supposed to have departed also, but after his exit he had made a detour and returned to his private office.

Then he sat down to face the knottiest problem that had as yet confronted him in connection with his official duties. An important act of the legislature awaited his signature or veto. Various pressing matters called for immediate action, but they were mere trifles compared to the issue pending upon an article he had read in a bi-weekly paper from one of the country districts. The article stated that a pet.i.tion was being circulated to present to the governor, praying the pardon and release of Jud Brumble. Then had begun the great conflict in the mind of David Dunne, the "governor who could do no wrong." It was not a conflict between right and wrong that was being waged, for Jud had been one to the prison born.

David reviewed the series of offenses Jud had perpetrated, punishment for which had ever been evaded or s.h.i.+fted to accomplices. He recalled the solemn promise the offender had made him long ago when, through David's efforts, he had been acquitted--a promise swiftly broken and followed by more daring transgressions, which had culminated in one enormous crime. He had been given the full penalty--fifteen years--a sentence in which a long-suffering community had rejoiced.

Jud had made himself useful at times to a certain gang of ward heelers and petty politicians, who were the instigators of this pet.i.tion, which they knew better than to present themselves. Had they done so, David's course would have been plain and easy; but the pet.i.tion was to be conveyed directly and personally to the governor, so the article read, by the prisoner's father, Barnabas Brumble.

By this method of procedure the pet.i.tioners showed their cunning as well as their knowledge of David Dunne. They knew that his sense of grat.i.tude was as strong as his sense of accurate justice, and that to Barnabas he attributed his first start in life; that he had, in fact, literally blazed the political trail that had led him from a country lawyer to the governors.h.i.+p of his state.

There were other ties, other reasons, of which these signers knew not, that moved David to heed a pet.i.tion for release should it be presented.

Again he seemed to see his mother's imploring eyes and to hear her impressive voice. Again he felt around his neck the comforting, chubby arms of the criminal's little sister. Her youthful guilelessness and her inherent goodness had never recognized evil in her wayward brother, and she would look confidently to "Davey" for service, as she had done in the old days of country schools and meadow lanes.

On the other hand, he, David Dunne, had taken a solemn oath to do his duty, and his duty to the people, in the name of justice, was clear.

He owed it to them to show no leniency to Jud Brumble.

So he hovered between base ingrat.i.tude to the man who had made him, and who had never before asked a favor, and non-fulfillment of duty to his people. It was a wage of head and heart. There had never been moral compromises in his code. There had ever been a right and a wrong--plain roads, with no middle course or diverging paths, but now in his extremity he sought some means of evading the direct issue. He looked for the convenient loophole of technicality--an irregularity in the trial--but his legal knowledge forbade this consideration after again going over the testimony and evidence of the trial. The attorney for the defense had been compelled to admit that his client had had a square deal. If only the pet.i.tion might be brought in the usual way, and presented to the pardon board, it would not be allowed to reach the governor, as there was nothing in the case to warrant consideration, but that was evidently not to be the procedure. Barnabas would come to him and ask for Jud's release, a.s.suming naturally that his request would be willingly granted.

If he pardoned Jud, all the popularity of the young governor would not screen him from the public censure. One common sentiment of outrage had been awakened by the crime, and the criminal had been universally repudiated, but it was not from public censure or public criticism that this young man with the strong under jaw shrank, but from the knowledge that he would be betraying a trust. Grat.i.tude and duty pointed in different directions this time.

With throbbing brain and racked nerves he made his evening call upon Carey, who had come to be a clearing house for his troubles and who was visiting the Bradens. She looked at him to-night with her eyes full of the adoration a young girl gives to a man who has forged his way to fame.

He responded to her greeting abstractedly, and then said abruptly:

"Carey, I am troubled to-night!"

"I knew it before you came, David. I read the evening papers."

"What!" he exclaimed in despair. "It's true, then! I have not seen the papers to-night."

She brought him the two evening papers of opposite politics. In glowing headlines the Democratic paper told in exaggerated form the story of his early life, his humble home, his days of struggle, his start in politics, and his success, due to the father of the hardened criminal. Would the governor do his duty and see that law and order were maintained, or would he sacrifice the people to his personal obligations? David smiled grimly as he reflected that either course would be equally censured by this same paper.

He took up the other journal, the organ of his party, which stated the facts very much as the other paper had done, and added that Barnabas Brumble was en route to the capital city for the purpose of asking a pardon for his son. The editor, in another column, briefly and firmly expressed his faith in the belief that David Dunne would be stanch in his views of what was right and for the public welfare.

There was one consolation; neither paper had profaned by public mention the love of his boyhood days.

"What shall I do! What should I do!" he asked himself in desperation.