"It's hot as blazes today, Miss Julia. If I can do anything for you or the Major, call on me."
"Thank you, Tom. But I'm sorry to have been the cause of you coming out here in the sun at noonday."
"That doesn't matter a fig. I felt that you would want to know, and I wanted to be the one to tell you. Good-bye; I must be back by one."
He held a red, moist hand towards her. She smiled at him and took it with a few added words of appreciation, then Dillard was departing down the avenue with such dignity as his avoirdupois would allow, for he felt that the eyes of the girl were following his retreating form. Such was not the case, however. Julia arose the instant her caller's back was turned, gathered the streaming bits of paper into a tight wad in her two hands, and going to the kitchen, flung them in the stove.
The rest, of the day was a waking nightmare to the poor girl. She had nowhere to turn; there was no one to whom she could go and ask for advice or help. She dared not broach the fearful subject to her father, for his despondency would be sure to return, and it might be she could not raise him from it again. The blow had fallen upon tender shoulders, unused to the bearing of loads, but she did not murmur after the first flame of resentment had passed. She even brought herself to accept it as right, and all that afternoon Major Dudley saw no change in the smiling, sweet-voiced, bright-tempered being who flitted about him, attending to his wants or engaging him in light conversation.
After tea the old gentleman seemed markedly improved, and readily retired at a rather early hour upon his daughter's suggestion. Then, when she knew he was asleep, the desolate girl stole out upon the lawn, down to the spot where that morning she and Glenning had sat, and throwing herself upon the settee, she sobbed and cried for nearly an hour. It was awful—awful! and she was so helpless! Then bitter despair seized her and she prayed to die. She asked God to take her with her father and not leave her alone to fight these strange and awful battles with the world. When her grief and terror had spent themselves in tears she grew calmer, and still lying prone and motionless, strove to think of a way out. The problem was set for her. Could she solve it? She thought, and thought, and in time her thinking brought results. Marston had done this; then Marston alone could undo it. The money was theirs; he was stealing it from them. What then? Was there no law to protect the innocent? She did not know, but she presumed there wasn't, in this case. There was but one way, and that was a horrible one. She must go to Devil Marston in person, and demand that which was her right. Insist that he revoke his cruel order to pass the dividend, and compel him, if she could, to have it declared yet. She sat up as she reached this conclusion, a strange thrill sweeping through her. It would be terrible to go to this man, this being whose nature was a composite of many dreadful and evil strains. But she would go—she knew it on the moment—and she would go quickly. Tomorrow morning, as soon as she could slip away from the Major, she would make the venture. It was the only chance to escape genteel starvation. There could be little doubt that he would be at home. He was seldom gone longer than a day at a time. Doctor Glenning had told her that he went away that very morning. Would he return that night? She must know. She would sit up for the train from Jericho. It did not come until eleven, or thereabouts, but she was not sleepy, and she loved the calm, mysterious nights in summer. The time sped swiftly. Some of the thoughts which came to her chilled her very heart; some brought anxiety and worry, and some filled her virgin soul with strange, elusive whisperings; premonitory warnings of something wonderfully sweet. If she dwelt upon these most; if her mind's eye saw beside her at times in the starlight a long shape, lean of limb and lean of face, with eyes constantly filled with troubled shadows, but true and unfaltering—who would say her nay? For the approach of love is a beautiful mystery, fraught with emotions which frighten while they charm, which awe while they inspire, and there is no more sacred or precious time in a young girl's life than that when her soul quickens in response to the summons of love.
So preoccupied was she that Julia barely heard the shriek of the express from the north as it thundered into the station in Macon. But the sound of the whistle recalled her to herself—made her remember why she was sitting there. It was hard to give up dreams for reality. But she faced the road and pressed her lips together, and waited. She heard the train pull out and resume its journey southward; its rumble became fainter and fainter and was lost in the distance. Then she fell to listening for another sound which she dreaded, yet hoped to hear. She wanted him to return that night. She wanted the fearful task over and done while her courage was high. She was perfectly aware that nothing short of desperation could have driven her to this determination. She felt it of the utmost importance that he should return that night. But the minutes passed, and he did not come. A vehicle went by, and later a horse at a canter. Neither of these was Devil Marston. She did not need the aid of light to tell her when he rode by. The air began to grow a little chilly. She had come out without wrap of any kind, and all at once she realized her imprudence. She arose with a slight shiver, and stood for a moment with head inclined attentively. What was it? Hoofs? She held her breath and waited. An indistinguishable sound was on the air. It was lost; it came again faintly. Then suddenly it burst upon her ears unmistakably—the noise of a horse running at breakneck speed. She shuddered involuntarily, but tarried yet a moment longer to be sure. Then he passed in his whirlwind way—she heard again that sound in the night which never failed to bring terror to her heart—and then she went in and locked the door and went up to her room. She had grown calm. She was surprised at her own coolness, and the deliberateness with which she went about her preparations to retire. Even when she opened her bureau drawer and took therefrom a pearl-handled, thirty-two caliber revolver, she was not stirred. Her father had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday, and had taught her how to use it. She could shoot straight. She even smiled as she laid it down in front of the mirror, after breaking it to see that its chambers were full. Her adventure in the morning would be fraught with danger, and the revolver which she knew so well how to handle should go with her when she made her call on Devil Marston.
CHAPTER X
That night John Glenning sat alone in his office with a letter spread out on the table before him. Something had come to pass which he could not understand; which had plunged him in a maze of incredulity in spite of visual evidence. The letter had come that afternoon—had been forwarded to him from Jericho—and he had taken it from the post-office upon his return from his second visit to Dink Scribbens. The letter was dated and post-marked New York City, and read as follows: