CHAPTER XX
THE IRONY OF CHANCE
The snow, which had begun as an insignificant flurry in the morning,developed into a storm by afternoon.
Four miles from town, in a dreary stretch of country, adejected-looking object tramped along the railroad-track. His hat waspulled over his eyes and his hands were thrust in his pockets. Now andagain he stopped, listened, and looked at his watch.
It was Sandy Kilday, and he was waiting for the freight-train with thefixed intention of committing suicide.
The complications arising from Jimmy Reed's indiscretion had resulteddisastrously. When Sandy found that Ruth had read his letter, hiscommon sense took flight. Instead of a supplicant, he became aninvader, and stormed the citadel with such hot-headed passion andfervor that Ruth fled in affright to the innermost chamber of hermaidenhood, and there, barred and barricaded, withstood the siege.
His one desire in life now was to quit it. He felt as if he had readhis death-warrant, and it was useless ever again to open his eyes onthis gray, impossible world.
He did not know how far he had come. Everything about him was strangeand unfriendly: the woods had turned to gaunt and gloomy skeletonsthat shivered and moaned in the wind; the sunny fields of ragweed werecovered with a pall; and the river--his dancing, singing river--was ablack and sullen stream that closed remorselessly over the dyingsnowflakes. His woods, his fields, his river,--they knew him not; hestared at them blankly and they stared back at him.
A rabbit, frightened at his approach, jumped out of the bushes andwent bounding down the track ahead of him. The sight of the roundlittle cottontail leaping from tie to tie brought a momentarydiversion; but he did not want to be diverted.
With an effort he came back to his stern purpose. He forced himself toface the facts and the future. What did it matter if he was onlytwenty-one, with his life before him? What satisfaction was it to havewon first honors at the university? There was but one thing in theworld that made life worth living, and that was denied him. Perhapsafter he was gone she would love him.
This thought brought remarkable consolation. He pictured to himselfher remorse when she heard the tragic news. He attended in spirit hisown funeral, and even saw her tears fall upon his still face.Meanwhile he listened impatiently for the train.
Instead of the distant rumble of the cars, he heard on the road belowthe sound of a horse's hoofs, quickly followed by voices. Slippingbehind the embankment, he waited for the vehicle to pass. The horsewas evidently walking, and the voices came to him distinctly.
"I'm not a coward--any s-such thing! We oughtn't to have c-come, inthe first place. I can't go with you. Please turn round,C-Carter,--please!"
There was no mistaking that high, childlike voice, with its falteringspeech.
Sandy's gloomy frown narrowed to a scowl. What business had Annetteout there in the storm? Where was she going with Carter Nelson?
He quickened his steps to keep within sight of the slow-moving buggy.
"There's nothing out this road but the Junction," he thought, tryingto collect his wits. "Could they be taking the train there? He goes toCalifornia in the morning, but where's he taking Nettie to-day? Andshe didn't want to be going, either; didn't I hear her say it with herown lips?"
He moved cautiously forward, now running a few paces to keep up, nowcrouching behind the bushes. Every sense was keenly alert; his eyesnever left the buggy for a moment.
When the freight thundered up the grade, he stepped mechanically toone side, keeping a vigilant eye on the couple ahead, and begrudgingthe time he lost while the train went by. It was not until an hourlater that he remembered he had forgotten to commit suicide.
Stepping back on the ties, he hurried forward. He was convinced nowthat they meant to take the down train which would pass the Claytontrain at the Junction in half an hour. Something must be done to saveAnnette. The thought of her in the city, at the mercy of theirresponsible Carter, sent him running down the track. He waited untilhe was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them.
Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter wasevidently trying to reassure her.
As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carterreached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandyhad swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaningback against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She wasmaking a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but hereyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp littlestring about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struckstraight out from the shoulder.
"If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie.I'm here."
Carter stopped his horse.
"Will you get down?" he demanded angrily.
"After you," said Sandy.
Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptlyfollowed.
"And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain whatyou mean."
Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; whenhe spoke it was to her.
"If it's your wish to go on, say the word."
The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable,but declined to make any remarks.
"Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter,striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement."We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not onlyimpudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it wasJudge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Justreturn to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddlerand a fool!"
"Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll bewanting his coffee by now."
"Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot offthat step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandycaught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver.
"None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by,Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left himnow and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times'sake."
Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling thesolid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning manclings to a spar.
"I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I can't leave dad thisway! Make him take me b-back, Sandy! I want to go home!"
Carter stood very still and white. His thin body was trembling fromhead to foot, and the veins stood out on his forehead like whip-cord.He clenched his hands in an effort to control himself. At Annette'swords he stepped aside with elaborate courtesy.
"You are at perfect liberty to go with Mr. Kilday. All I ask is thathe will meet me as soon as we get back to town."
"I can't go b-back on the train!" cried Annette, with a glance at herbags and boxes. "Every one would suspect something if I did. Oh, whyd-did I come?"
"My buggy is at your disposal," said Carter; "perhaps yourdisinterested friend, Mr. Kilday, could be persuaded to drive youback."
"But, Carter," cried Annette, in quick dismay, "you must come, too.I'll bring dad r-round; I always do. Then we can be married at home,and I can have a veil and a r-ring and presents."
She smiled at him coaxingly, but he folded his arms and scowled.
"You go with me to the city, or you go back to Clayton with him. Youhave just three minutes to make up your mind."
"Sandy saw her waver"]
Sandy saw her waver. The first minute she looked at him, the second atCarter. He took no chances on the third. With a quick bound, he wasin the buggy and turning the horse homeward.
"But I've decided to go with Carter!" cried Annette, hysterically."Turn b-back, Sandy! I've changed my mind."
"Change it again," advised Sandy as he laid the whip gently across thehorse's back.
Carter Nelson flung furiously off to catch the train for town, whilethe would-be bride shed bitter tears on
the shoulder of the would-besuicide.
The snow fell faster and faster, and the gray day deepened to dusk.For a long time they drove along in silence, both busy with their ownthoughts.
Suddenly they were lurched violently forward as the horse shied atsomething in the bushes. Sandy leaned forward in time to see a figureon all fours plunging back into the shrubbery.
"Annette," he whispered excitedly, "did you see that man's face?"
"Yes," she said, clinging to his arm; "don't leave me, Sandy!"
"What did he look like? Tell me, quick!"
"He had little eyes like shoe-buttons, and his teeth stuck out. Do yousuppose he was hiding?"
"It was Ricks Wilson, or I am a blind man!" cried Sandy, standing upin the buggy and straining his eyes in the darkness.
"Why, he's in jail!"
"May I never trust me two eyes to speak the truth again if that wasn'tRicks!"
When they started they found that the harness was broken, and allefforts to fix it were in vain.
"It's half-past five now," cried Annette. "If I don't get homeb-before dad, he'll have out the fire department."
"There's a farm-house a good way back," said Sandy; "but it's too farfor you to walk. Will you be waiting here in the buggy until I go forhelp?"
"Well, I guess not!" said Annette, indignantly.
Sandy looked at the round baby face beside him and laughed. "It's notone of meself that blames you," he said; "but how are we ever to gethome?"
Annette was not without resources.
"What's the matter with riding the horse b-back to the farm?"
"And you?" asked Sandy.
"I'll ride behind."
They became hilarious over the mounting, for the horse bitterlyresented a double burden.
When he found he could not dispose of it he made a dash for freedom,and raced over the frozen road at such a pace that they were soon attheir destination.
"He won the handicap," laughed Sandy as he lifted his disheveledcompanion to the ground.
"It was glorious!" cried Annette, gathering up her flying locks. "Ilost every hair-pin but one."
At the farm-house they met with a warm reception.
"Jes step right in the kitchen," said the farmer. "Mommer'll takecare of you while I go out to the stable for some rope and anotherhoss."
The kitchen was a big, cheerful room, full of homely comfort. Brightred window-curtains were drawn against the cold white world outside,and the fire crackled merrily in the stove.
Sandy and Annette stood, holding out their hands to the friendlywarmth. She was watching with interest the preparations for supper,but he had grown silent and preoccupied.
The various diversions of the afternoon had acted as a temporarynarcotic, through which he struggled again and again to wretchedconsciousness. A surge of contempt swept over him that he could haveforgotten for a moment. He did not want to forget; he did not want tothink of anything else.
"They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette.
"What?"
"The hoe-cakes. I didn't have any dinner."
"Neither did I."
Annette looked up quickly. "What were you d-doing out there on thetrack, Sandy?"
The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue.
"Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you goout in the cold ag'in."
Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry.He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out intothe night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was thatrestless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heartforever?
Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulderand bits of the conversation broke in upon him.
"Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Longsweetening or short?"
"Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy,what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungryb-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?"
Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite.
The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip aftertrip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire herguests.
"I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time foranother one?"
"Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested theeager housewife.
Sandy looked at her and smiled.
"I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes."
When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annettedeveloped a sudden fever of impatience. She fidgeted about while themen patched up the harness, and delayed their progress by her fire ofquestions.
After they started, Sandy leaned back in the buggy, lost in the fogof his unhappiness. Off in the distance he could see the twinklinglights of Clayton. One was apart from the rest; that was Willowvale.
A sob aroused him. Annette, left to herself, had collapsed. Hepatiently put forth a fatherly hand and patted her shoulder.
"There, there, Nettie! You'll be all right in the morning."
"I won't!" she declared petulantly. "You don't know anything ab-b-boutbeing in love."
Sandy surveyed her with tolerant sadness. Little her childish heartknew of the depths through which he was passing.
"Do you love him very much?" he asked.
She nodded violently. "Better than any b-boy I was ever engaged to."
"He's not worth it."
"He is!"
A strained silence, then he said:
"Nettie, could you be forgiving me if I told you the Lord's truth?"
"Don't you suppose dad's kept me p-posted about his faults? Why, hewould walk a mile to find out something b-bad about Carter Nelson."
"He wouldn't have to. Nelson's a bad lot, Nettie. It isn't all hisfault; it's the price he pays for his blue blood. Your father's thewise man to try to keep you from being his wife."
"Everyb-body's down on him," she sobbed, "just because he has tod-drink sometimes on account of his lungs. I didn't know you were somean."
"Will you pass the word not to see him again before he leaves in themorning?"
"Indeed, I won't!"
Sandy stopped the horse. "Then I'll wait till you do."
She tried to take the lines, but he held her hands. Then she declaredshe would walk. He helped her out of the buggy and watched her startangrily forth. In a few minutes she came rushing back.
"Sandy, you know I can't g-go by myself; I am afraid. Take me home."
"And you promise?"
She looked appealingly at him, but found no mercy. "You are the verym-meanest boy I ever knew. Get me home before d-dad finds out, andI'll promise anything. But this is the last word I'll ever s-speak toyou as long as I live."
At half-past seven they drove into town. The streets were full ofpeople and great excitement prevailed.
"They've found out about me!" wailed Annette, breaking her longsilence. "Oh, Sandy, what m-must I do?"
Sandy looked anxiously about him. He knew that an elopement would notcause the present commotion. "Jimmy!" He leaned out of the buggy andcalled to a boy who was running past. "Jimmy Reed! What's the matter?"
Jimmy, breathless and hatless, his whole figure one hugequestion-mark, exploded like a bunch of fire-crackers.
"That you, Sandy? Ricks Wilson's broke jail and shot Judge Hollis. Itwas at half-past five. Dr. Fenton's been out there ever since. Theysay the judge can't live till midnight. We're getting up a crowd to goafter Wilson."
At the first words Sandy had sprung to his feet. "The judge shot!Ricks Wilson! I'll kill him for that. Get out, Annette. I must go tothe judge. I'll be out to the farm in no time and back in less. Don'tyou be letting them start without me, Jimmy."
Whipping the already jaded horse to a run, he dashed through thecrowded streets, over the bridge, and out the turnpike.
Ruth stood at one of the windows at Willowvale, peering anxiously outint
o the darkness. Her figure showed distinctly against the light ofthe room behind her, but Sandy did not see her.
His soul was in a wild riot of grief and revenge. Two thoughts tore athis brain: one was to see the judge before he died, and the other wasto capture Ricks Wilson.