“The poor chap took it all in a good-humor,” Garner said. “In fact, he was so much wrought up over Pete's predicament that he hardly heard what they were saying.”
“You really think Carson is in danger, too?” Helen continued, after a moment's silence.
“If he meets Dan Willis, yes,” said Garner. “If he opposes the mob, yes again. Dan Willis has already succeeded in creating a lot of unpopularity for him in that quarter, and the mere sight of Carson at such a time would be like a torch to a dry hay-stack.”
So Helen had gone home and spent the afternoon and evening in real torture of suspense, and now, as she walked the veranda floor alone with a realization of the grim possibilities of the case drawn sharply before her mental vision, she was all but praying aloud for Carson's safe return, and anxiously keeping her gaze on the moonlit street below. Suddenly her attention was drawn to the walk in front of the Dwight house. Some one was walking back and forth in a nervous manner, the intermittent flare of a cigar flashing out above the shrubbery like the glow of a lightning-bug. Could it be—had Carson returned and entered by the less frequently used gate in the rear? For several minutes she watched the figure as it strode back and forth with never-ceasing tread, and then, fairly consumed with the desire to set her doubts at rest, she went down into the garden at the side of the house, softly approached the open gate between the two homesteads, and called out: “Carson, is that you?”
The figure paused and turned, the fire of the cigar described a red half-circle against the dark background, but no one spoke. Then, as she waited at the gate, her heart in her mouth, the smoker came towards her. It was old Henry Dwight. He wore no hat nor coat, the night being warm, and one of his fat thumbs was under his broad suspender.
“No, it's not him, Miss Helen,” he said, rather gruffly. “He hasn't got back yet. I've had my hands full since supper. My wife is in a bad way. She has been worrying awfully since twelve o'clock, when Carson didn't turn up to dinner as usual. She's guessed what he went to the farm for, and she's as badly upset as old Linda is over that trifling Pete. I thought I had enough trouble before the war over my niggers, but here, forty years later, yours are upsetting things even worse. I only wish the men that fought to free the black scamps had some part of the burden to bear.”
“It really is awful,” Helen responded; “and so Mrs. Dwight is upset by it?”
“Oh yes, we had the doctor to come, and he gave some slight dose or other, but he said the main thing was to get Carson back and let her know for sure that he was safe and sound. I sent a man out there lickety-split on the fastest horse I have, and he ought to have got back two hours ago. That's what I'm out here for. I know she's not going to let me rest till her mind is at ease.”
“Do you really think any actual harm could have come to Carson?” Helen inquired, anxiously.
“It could come to anybody who has the knack my boy has for eternally rubbing folks the wrong way,” the old man retorted from the depths of his irritation; “but, Lord, my young lady, you are at the bottom of it!”