CHAPTER XIII

Roxie made one request of Bud Childers.

“You’ll let me go back ter the house and git some things, Bud?”

If any one else, under these circumstances, had suggested this, he would have grown instantly suspicious. Even now he hesitated.

“I--I’ll tell ’um I’m goin’ ter bed an’ then they won’t hunt fer me,” she added quickly.

“I reckon you’ll come back,” he decided, “’cause ef yo’ don’--”

“I promise,” she whispered.

“I’ll take yer promise,” he said. “Ef you’ll cross yer throat.”

She crossed her throat.

“Then I’ll wait hyar half an hour. Thet long nuff?”

There was a trace of consideration in the question.

“Yes, Bud,” she answered.

She flew across the grass as Allston called again. She came to the house quite out of breath.

“Where in the world have you been?” demanded Allston.

“Jest out in the field,” she answered.

“Queer,” he muttered. “I was sitting there by the fire and all of a sudden I got worried about you. Star-gazing?”

She moved away from the open door and closed it. But there were two windows through which they could be seen.

“I’m all done hyar,” she said. “Guess I’ll blow out the light.”

She waited for him to go back to the sitting-room. He did not move.

“I’m all done hyar,” she repeated.

“Well?”

“I’m goin’ ter blow out the light now.”

“Then blow it out.”

She crossed to the table and blew down the chimney. It was necessary to blow twice. Then she made for the stairs that opened from the kitchen to the rear room she occupied.

“Roxie,” he called in the dark.

“I’m all done hyar. I’m goin’ ter bed now,” she answered.

“Just a minute.”

She heard his feet moving towards her and would have run had she dared. But to do so would only excite suspicion and that was the one thing she must avoid. His life, on as small an issue as this, was at stake. She heard him shuffle nearer and nearer and flattened herself against the wall.

“Roxie,” he said. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t believe much in hunches, but--over there I used to have them and pretty nearly always they were worth following.”

He was at her side now. He put out his hand. It touched her shoulder.

“I had a hunch about you to-night.”

“Ye-es, sir.”

“I didn’t know but what Bud Childers was snooping ’round.”

She did not answer.

“Keep away from him, Roxie. If he bothers you, let me know.”

“I’m goin’ ter bed now,” she repeated.

“All right, little girl. Good-night.”

He dropped his warm hand from her shoulder. She felt as though it must have left a red mark there.

“Good-night,” she stammered.

He left her side and made his way across the dark room to the door into the sitting-room. He opened it and in the full light she saw him framed.

It was a lie about Miss Wilmer. Her mouth half opened to call him back. If she told him everything, of how Bud had come to carry her off and was waiting out there, he could get his own gun and fight him off. There was still time. Even now he turned back as though expecting to hear her voice. Clenching her two fists she closed her lips tight. She had given her word and crossed her throat and even in a fair fight there would always be danger.

The door closed behind him. The room was in utter darkness again. Roxie, her hot eyes filling, fumbled her way up the stairs and into her attic chamber. She lighted her lamp and began to roll up a few things into a bundle; stockings, shoes, a nightgown--anything she happened to see. This gave a definiteness to Bud’s proposal that terrified her anew. He was going to take her up there before she was married. To-morrow, he had said, they would go to the minister’s--but what of to-night? She grew hot and cold. She rose from the bureau drawer in which she was fumbling and stood upright--an animal about to spring. At sight of herself in the mirror, she grew flaming red with shame. She blew out the lamp and, crumbling, knelt by her bed as she did every night. She said her prayer--the only one she knew:

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

She had known this from childhood and it had always brought her comfort. But it was not adequate for now. In superstitious awe of what she was doing--half fearing it was blasphemy--she added a line of her own:

“Lord! Lord, please to let me die afore I wake.”

If at that moment she had felt herself suddenly swooning off into death, she would not have been greatly surprised. She waited a minute expectantly, but nothing happened. It was life she must face, not death.

Suddenly--as though in answer to her prayer--she thought of a long, steel-bladed knife she used in the kitchen. She could take that with her. It would give her something to fight through this night with. It would save her until to-morrow, and that was all she asked.

It would save her to herself, but not to the world. She realized that. No one would believe, with the opportunity for escape she now had, she went with Bud other than voluntarily. Her mother would not believe; the Mission would not believe; Miss Wilmer would not believe--because never, never, never could she tell why she did this thing.

Mr. Allston himself might not believe. He had warned her; had offered his protection. If, in the face of that, she went, he must think it was because she chose to go.

“Lord,” she repeated, “dear, good, kind Lord--please to take my soul right away. I wanter be good, Lord. Please to take it.”

If poignant earnestness can wing a prayer straight to God, that prayer sped like an arrow. And yet if He heard, He gave no evidence of it. Roxie breathed on, her white, girlish bosom heaving. The knife would save her to herself, but not to the others.

Weak-kneed and dazed, she rose to her feet again. Time was passing and Bud was waiting. She had promised to be back in half an hour and the period of grace might have passed already. In the grip of a new fear akin to panic, she re-lighted her lamp. God was going to make her go.

It was curious how easily she swung in her thoughts from God to Allston. From this point it was upon him that she concentrated. In this mood she conceived a new idea. It might be that he would have another of those queer notions he called “hunches” and come up here to see if she was asleep. She must protect him against that possibility. To throw him off his guard she must write a note and leave it on her pillow.

She found the stub of a pencil and a bit of paper. She wrote impulsively and with little thought of what she was writing except the object to be obtained. Her letters were big and scrawly and many of her words mis-spelled.

Deer sir [she wrote]. I’m goin off tonite and not comin back. You will no why sum day. I am allrite. Plese dont hunt for me. You have been orful good to me an with meny thanks I am your frend

ROXIE KESTER

If he did not find this to-night some one would find it in the morning. It would explain to Allston why his hot muffins were not ready. When Roxie rose from the table she looked all about the room to make sure no one saw her. As an extra precaution she blew out the light. Then she pressed the note to her lips over the words “Deer sir,” and kissed them again and again--wildly, passionately, sobbingly.

A moment later she pawed around in the dark for her half-made-up bundle, placed it under her arm, and stole down the kitchen stairs. Every time they creaked she paused and held her breath, though she knew the half-hour must be almost spent. Reaching the bottom she tiptoed to the kitchen table and felt around in the drawer until she found her knife. She concealed this in the bundle.

From the next room came the sound of voices; first Miss Wilmer’s voice; then Allston’s voice; then Miss Wilmer’s voice, and finally a hearty laugh from Allston. She closed her eyes as though to shut out the picture this called up.

“It’s a lie,” she said to herself.

She went on out the door and across the grass. Bud was waiting. Detaching himself from the dark he hurried forward to meet her.