"Wall, I'll be—heah, Zack, give me another snifter!" Jess nervously drank it, handed back the glass and looked at Dale. "In my jedgment, the statters of limintation is clean busted on that case, too. But I'll jest tell you as a friend, that if you go resurrectin' any moh of them man slaughters—I don't care if they're older'n the 'sassination of Garfield—I'll hang you for bein' a plain damn fool." With this he uttered a loud guffaw, but once more grew sober and laid his hand on Dale's shoulder: "Don't you go killin' no moh fellers 'round heah! I do mean that! Leastwise, don't do it while you're stayin' at the Cunnel's. It ain't right to his folks, an' I won't stand for it!"
"Then Tusk'd better keep away," the mountaineer grumbled.
"Wall, if the Cunnel don't want him 'round, I can mighty easy give him a tip to vamoose—but you let me 'tend to it, understand? Now," he chuckled, "I'd better git back an' unlock Brent from them steps!"
So it was that, when he mounted and rode away, his mind was distinctly on Brent and the caressing quality of the Colonel's thirty-year-old bourbon, and not at all concerned with the mission which had taken him to Arden.
Dale stood looking after him, but not thinking. He stood in a sort of ferment of happy thrills and deepest sorrow. The bars that had momentarily been put up between him and his pasture of learning, now lay again at his feet. He could pass through at will, any time he desired. But what of Jane? Would she be there to welcome, to help him?—to take his hand again and lead him into the cool places, into the mazy shadows, through vista after vista of appealing outlook? He turned back to the library and, with hesitation, stepped through the low window.
The room was empty. His eyes glanced down at the book which she had torn from his hand and flung away. He saw that it had fallen, sprawled and awkward, and was leaning drunkenly against the legs of the dictionary stand. Across from it, by a deep leather chair, lay, also on the floor, a dainty handkerchief, moist and pressed into a little ball. Each of these held him with an esoteric charm; but his eyes remained upon the tear-moistened, scented linen as though at any moment it might begin to accuse him. He was afraid to touch it, and afraid to touch the book. He felt that he had obtruded an unwelcome presence upon these two mute evidences of passion which seemed now to be drawn momentarily apart for breath before re-engaging in the fray. In this strained expectancy the measured ticking of the old clock in the corner was startlingly loud. One might have counted a hundred, and then, as quietly as he came, he tiptoed out, crossed the porch and passed on through the trees.
CHAPTER XXXI
OUT OF THE DYING DAY
When the sheriff turned away, Jane had for an instant closed her eyes in a prayer of happy thankfulness; but then a torture, a tearing and racking mortification because she had proved herself so weak before the mountain man so strong—and in contrast to Brent! (ah, God, what sacrifice would he not make for her!)—thrust its claws into her sensitive nature, and she blindly fled to the long room whose musty silence promised solitude. At the far end of this she threw herself straight out upon a sofa, and for more than an hour buried her face in its linen coverlet. Her brows were drawn into a frown as she wilfully shut out the image of Brent, for something sterner must first be faced.