The Hills of Refuge Part 29

"I was going in that way," Mary broke in. "He would have caught me, and I would have had to tell the truth. He mustn't know the boys are here.

The truth is, I am a little bit more afraid of him than I was. He--he holds everything over me that he finds out. He talks about our marrying more than he did. I can get in by the back stairs, and I'll go up very soon. Don't wait, Mr. Brown. He is sure to lie awake till you return.

Lock the door after you. Don't remove your shoes this time. Show him that you don't care what he thinks."

Charles found the way clear for him on his return, and as he pa.s.sed Frazier's room he noticed that the door was closed; he heard no sounds within.

"_Show him that you don't care what he thinks!_" Mary's last words were ringing in his ears. Somehow they were the sweetest words he had ever heard. They warmed, thrilled, encouraged him. He took them to sleep with him. They followed him through strange turbulent dreams that night. They were back of his first waking thoughts the next morning. "_Show him that you don't care what he thinks!_" He could have sung the words to the accompaniment of the rising sunlight as it bathed the fields in yellow.

With them she had thanked him for the service he had rendered, and the service had been her protection against that particular individual.

Marry him? Could she marry a man she feared? And yet she had said she would under certain conditions, and the conditions were on the way to fulfilment. Great G.o.d! how could it be? His short-lived hope was gone; the music of her magic words had ceased. He heard the clatter of Frazier's boots in his bed-chamber. As he pa.s.sed down the steps, he heard the burly guest emptying soiled water from his wash-bowl out of a window upon the shrubbery below. How he hated the man!

CHAPTER XVI

A few days later Mary left on horseback immediately after breakfast.

From Rowland, Charles learned that she was going to see certain persons who owned near-by farms, with the hope of borrowing money for the removal of the wounded man to Atlanta and for his treatment there by the famous surgeon, Doctor Elliot.

Charles was at work, hoeing corn, when from the thicket bordering the field Kenneth and Martin stealthily emerged and joined him, having crept around from the barn.

"It is all right," Kenneth said, with an a.s.suring smile. "n.o.body is in sight on the road for a mile either way. We can dodge back any minute at the slightest sound. It's h.e.l.l, Brown, to stay there like a pig being fattened for the killing. This is monotonous, I tell you. I can't stand it very long. That man must get to Atlanta. Mary is off this morning to borrow cash for it. Our credit is gone. n.o.body will indorse for the old man but Albert Frazier, and I think his name is none too good here lately."

"He will get the money for sister, see if he doesn't," Martin spoke up, plaintively. "She is trying to keep him from it, though; that's why she went off this morning. She doesn't care for him--she doesn't--she doesn't! She knows what he is. She couldn't love a man like that. I hate him. He claims to be helping us, and he is, I reckon, but he has an object in view, and I'd die rather than have him gain it."

"No, I don't want her to marry him, either." Kenneth's voice had a touch of genuine manliness in it which Charles noticed for the first time.

Moreover, his face was very grave. He shrugged his shoulders and flushed slightly as he went on. "I've been watching you, Brown. Having nothing else to do all day long, I've watched you at your work and seen you come and go from the field to the house and back. I envy you. To tell you the G.o.d's truth, I'm sick and tired of the way I've been living. They say I am responsible for Martin being in this mess, too. I reckon I am, and I know I am the cause of sister's worry and the disgrace of all this on the family. They say an honest confession is good for the soul, and I say to you that if this d.a.m.ned thing pa.s.ses over I'm going to take a different course. I see the pleasure you get out of working, and I am going to work. The other thing is not what it is cracked up to be."

Kenneth's voice had grown husky, and he cleared his throat and coughed; the light of shame still shone in his eyes.

"He means it," Martin said, throwing his arm about his brother and leaning on him affectionately. "Last night when he found me awake he came over to my corner and sat down and talked. He said he'd got so he couldn't sleep sound, either. It was wonderful the way he talked, Mr.

Brown. I didn't know Ken was like that. He talked about mother and about sister's brave fight against so many odds--and, may I tell him, Ken? You know what I mean."

"I don't care what you say," Kenneth answered. He was seated on the ground, his eyes resting on the gray roof of the house which could be seen above the trees, outlined against the blue sky and drifting white clouds. "I'm not ashamed of anything I said."

"Why, he said," Martin went on, "that he admired you more than any man he had ever run across. He said what you told him about how you used to drink and gamble--when you could have kept it to yourself--and how you had quit it all and put it behind you because it was the sensible thing to do--Ken said that was the strongest argument he had ever heard, and that he liked you because you seemed to want him to do the same thing."

"I did appreciate that talk, Brown," Kenneth admitted. "You put it to me in a different light from any one else. You spoke like a man that had burnt himself at a fire, and was warning others to stay away from it. I don't care where you come from or what you were when you landed here, you are a gentleman. You have made me feel ashamed of myself, and I am man enough to say so. I've been bluffing in this thing. I have felt it as much as Martin, but wouldn't let on. I've not been asleep all the time when he thought I was. G.o.d only knows how I've lain awake and what I've been through in my mind."

Suddenly Kenneth rose; his face was full and dark with suppressed emotion, and he stalked away toward the barn.

"He is not like he used to be," Martin remarked, softly, his eyes on his brother. "All this has had a big effect on him. It is strange, but I often try to comfort him now. He is worried about Albert Frazier."

"About him?" Charles exclaimed, under his breath.

"Yes. He doesn't like to feel that we are in his power so completely. He is afraid sister will marry him, and she will, Mr. Brown, if she fails to get that money elsewhere. I don't think she really wants to marry him. She pretends to like him, but that is all put on to fool me and Ken. He is working for us. Every day he tells the sheriff something to throw him off our track. He actually forged a letter that he showed to his brother which he claimed was from a friend in Texas saying that me and Ken had been seen at Forth Worth, on our way West. When sister told Ken that it made him mad. A week ago he would have chuckled over it, but now he hates it because it sort o' binds sister to Frazier. A man that will fool his own brother like that is not the right sort for a sweet girl like my sister to live with all her life. Father wouldn't care much, but Ken and I would. We have been running with a tough crowd, but we know that we've got good blood in our veins."

Presently Martin left, went to keep his brother company, and Charles resumed his plodding work in the young corn. He gave himself up to gloomy meditation. What a strange thing his life had been! How queer it was that nothing prior to his arrival there in the mountains now claimed his interest. William, Celeste, Ruth, old Boston friends, college chums, business a.s.sociates--all had retired from his consciousness, almost as if they had never existed. The fortunes of this particular family wholly absorbed him. He could have embraced Martin while the boy was talking, because of his resemblance in voice and features to Mary. He respected Kenneth for his fresh resolutions, and pitied him as he had once pitied himself. His hoe tinkled like a bell, at times, on the small round stones buried in the mellow soil. The mountain breeze fanned his hot brow. Accidentally he cut down a young plant of corn, and all but shuddered as he wondered if it, too, could feel, think, and suffer. He saw a busy cl.u.s.ter of red ants, and left them undisturbed. They were sinking a shaft, he knew not how deep, in the earth. One by one they brought to the surface tiny bits of clay or sand, rolled them down a little embankment, and hurried away for other burdens. That they thought, planned, and calculated he could not doubt. He himself was a monster too great in size for their comprehension. Had he stepped upon them their universe would have gone out of existence. He wondered if they loved one another, if their social system would have permitted one of their number to go into voluntary exile and in that exile to find a joy never before comprehended.

CHAPTER XVII

Mary rode to house after house on her way to Carlin, but met with no success in the matter of borrowing money. It was near noon when she entered the straggling suburbs of the village. At a ramshackle livery-stable she dismounted and left her horse in the care of a negro attendant whose father had once been owned by her family. She called him "Pete"; he addressed her as "Young Miss," and was most obsequious in his attentions and profuse in promises to care for her horse.

Opposite the hotel stood a tiny frame building having only one room. It was a lawyer's office, as was indicated by the sanded tin sign holding the gilt letters of the occupant's name--"Chester A. Lawton, At'y at Law."

He was a young man under thirty, who had met Mary several times at the hotel when she was visiting Mrs. Quinby. He was seated at a bare table, reading a law-book, when she appeared at the open door. He had left off his coat, the weather being warm, and on seeing her he hastily got into it, flus.h.i.+ng to the roots of his thick dark hair.

"You caught me off my guard, Miss Mary," he apologized, awkwardly. "I know I oughtn't to sit here without my coat in plain view of the street, but the old lawyers do it, and--"

"It is right for you to do so," Mary broke in, quite self-possessed. "I only wanted to see you a moment. I wanted to ask you what is customary in regard to fees for getting legal advice."

Lawton pulled at his dark mustache, even more embarra.s.sed. "I--I--really am rather new at the work, Miss Mary; in fact, I'm just getting started," he answered, haltingly. "I suppose that such things depend on the--the nature of the case, and the research work, reading, you know, and--oh, well, a lawyer sometimes has expenses. He has to travel in some cases. Yes, fees all depend on that sort of thing."

He was politely proffering a straight-backed chair, and as she sat down she forced a smile. "To be frank," she went on, "I don't know whether I really ought to employ a lawyer or not, and I was wondering how much it would cost to find out the probable expense."

"Oh, I see!" laughed Lawton, as he sat down opposite her, leaned on the table, and pushed his open book aside. "Well, I'll tell you, Miss Mary.

I don't know what the older chaps do, but I make it a rule not to charge a cent for talking over a case with a person. That is right and proper.

If you have any legal matter in mind, all you've got to do is to state it to me--that is, if you have honored me by thinking my advice might be worth while--and if I see anything in your case I'll then advise you to proceed, or not, as I deem best."

Lawton seemed rather pleased at the untrammeled smoothness of his subdued oratory, and waited for her to speak.

Mary was silent for a moment, and then she said, "You see, I don't know whether I really ought to seek legal advice yet, at any rate, and--" She broke off suddenly.

"Miss Mary," said Lawton, trying to help her out, "may I ask if you are referring to--to the little trouble your brothers are in?"

She nodded, swallowed a lump of emotion in her throat, and looked him straight in the eyes. "Father wouldn't attend to it, and I got to worrying about it--about whether advice ought to be had or not. We are terribly hard up for ready money and have got into debt already."

"Well, I'll be frank with you, Miss Mary, and I'm going to tell you something that may be to your interest. Now if you had gone to--we'll say to Webster and Bright, across the street, they, no doubt, would expect you to pay and pay big whether you needed a lawyer or not. Old law firms have strict rules on that line, I understand. Everything is 'grist that comes to their mill,' as the saying is, for they will tell anybody that they are not paying office rent for fun. But it is different with a young chap that is just getting on his feet in the profession. Now, knowing you as I do, and having had several agreeable talks with you, I'd hate like rips to charge for any advice I can give unless--unless it was of great benefit to you; and the truth is, I am not at all sure that you need a lawyer."

"Oh, you mean--But I don't understand!" Mary exclaimed, not knowing whether his words boded well or ill for her.

"Why, it is like this, Miss Mary. There are tricks in my trade, as in all others, and as matters stand in the case of your brothers--well, if Tobe Keith should happen to pull through, the charges against them would be so insignificant that the courts would be likely to dismiss them entirely. That, no doubt, is a slipshod method, but it is peculiar to us here in the South. You see, your father stands high--n.o.body higher, in fact; he fought for the Confederacy, has always been a perfect gentleman, and has no end of influential kinsfolk. Why, the district attorney himself is a sort of distant cousin, isn't he? Seems to me that I have heard him telling your father one day that if he ever printed that family history he'd subscribe for several copies, because his name was to be in it, somehow--on his mother's side, I think. Then the Governor is akin, too, isn't he? I thought so" (seeing Mary nod) "and the Kingsleys and Warrens. Oh, take it from me, Miss Mary, if Tobe Keith does get on his feet your brothers will not even be arrested. So I'll not take any fee from you--yet awhile, anyway; and I'm going to say, too, that I'd keep the boys out West. It is a good thing they went to Texas. I suppose they are out there, dodging about. I heard Sheriff Frazier say so the other day (his brother Al had picked up the news somehow or other), but he hadn't decided to inst.i.tute a search till there was a change in Tobe's condition."

"Have you heard from him to-day?" Mary asked, and she all but held her breath as she steadily eyed the lawyer.

"No change at all, I understand," Lawton answered. "The doctors still say he must be taken to Atlanta to get the ball out."

"Yes, that must be done," Mary sighed, and her face became graver. "I am trying to raise the money--four hundred dollars. Mr. Lawton, can you tell me how to do it? I have no security."

"I'm sorry, Miss Mary"--Lawton's color heightened and he screwed his eyes up in embarra.s.sment--"that I can't help you out on that line.

Everybody I know is in debt or short of funds. The bank is awfully strict, and high on interest, too. Your father and Albert Frazier drew up some sort of a paper at this table the other day. I think Frazier went his security, put his name on a note at the bank. I heard them talking about how difficult it was to get money. I think Albert has about run through the little pile his old daddy left him. He is a high-flyer for these times--free and easy with his money as long as it lasts."

"So you can't tell me any one to go to?" Mary rose and began to adjust the veil on her hat.

"No, I can't, Miss Mary. There ought to be a public fund for such cases of need as Tobe's. Yes, you must take some steps in his behalf. It would look well from any point of view. Tobe didn't know what he was doing, and neither did your brothers. If Tobe gets over it, it may be a good lesson to all three."