“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Dora said, firmly. “You think at this moment that you have the courage to do what you propose, but, Kenneth, you haven't—you simply haven't! I know you better than you know yourself. You will not come to-morrow nor any other day! I'll never see you again, nor do I want to. I had a kind of love for you that only a woman could understand; you have had quite another sort for me. You think yours is still alive, but it died of paltry fear, stifled by avarice; mine was a girlish dream. I am awake now. Leave me, and don't approach me again. I swear to you that your secret is safe.”
She moved away. He tried to stop her; but, with a warning finger on her lips, she eluded his grasp, and hurried into the house.
CHAPTER XIII
BRAVE, very brave, and sweet and noble!” he said to himself, as he walked back toward the gate of his grounds; “but she certainly sha'n't have her way. I'm not low enough for that, thank God! She is the only creature I ever loved or could love, and she is mine by all the laws of heaven and earth. She looked like a young goddess as she stood there with that fire in her suffering face, and calmly consigned herself to disgrace and oblivion that my sordid schemes might prosper. I am not poor. I can make a living somehow, somewhere, if not in this sleepy old town; and with her always by my side, why—” Across the lawn he saw a light in a window of the Dearing house. It was in General Sylvester's room. The old gentleman retired earlier than this as a rule, and Galt told himself that his being up now was due to the almost child-like joy over the encouraging condition of their joint enterprise. He saw the old soldier's shadow as it flitted across the window, and knew that he was walking about, as was his habit under stress of excitement.
“Poor old man!” Galt, now in his own grounds, leaned against the wall of a rustic summer-house. A thought had struck him like a blow from the dark. What would Sylvester say when he was told the truth? Galt saw the look of sheer, helpless incredulity on the high-bred, war-scarred face as the revelation was made, and watched it glow and flame into that of anger, contempt, and bitter disappointment. The mere confession of wrong-doing he might accept as frankly as it was offered, but that the young man should allow such a mishap to drag his own proud name into the mire and wreck the greatest enterprise that had ever blessed a down-trodden community—well, he couldn't have believed such a thing possible.
Heavily laden now with the fires of a purer passion burning low under the shadow of his impending ruin, Kenneth Galt dragged himself slowly along the walk toward his house. He was turning the corner to enter at the front when he saw a carriage and pair at the gate. The moon had gone under a thin cloud and the view was vague, but surely they were his own horses, and the man on the driver's seat certainly looked like John Dilk. Wonderingly, Galt went down to the gate. The negro was fast asleep; his massive head had fallen forward, and the hands which held the reins were inert. The gate rattled as Galt touched the iron latch, and the man woke and looked about him.
“Oh, is dat you, Marse Kenneth?” he asked, sleepily. “Yes,” Galt answered, rather sharply. “What are you doing with the horses out at this time of night?”
“Oh! oh! Le' me see, suh!” The negro's wits were evidently scattered. “I sw'ar I dunno, Marse Kenneth. Bless my soul, you jump on me so sudden dat I can't, ter save my life, tell you—Oh yes, now I know, suh! Why, ain't you seed de Gineral since you got home, Marse Kenneth?”