CHAPTER IV

It was little Tom Culley, weasel-faced and dirty, who, for a pint of moonshine whiskey offered by Bud, took to Roxie at the Howe bungalow one night the lying message that her mother was sick and the summons to come home at once. For the previous three days Bud had waited from dusk until dark only to be forced back over the trail to Big Laurel Cove disappointed and alone. The girl had not come out.

Roxie herself might have found difficulty in explaining why she kept so tight within doors, for it was not wholly on account of Bud Childers. True enough the man had been pestering her; had followed her home against her will and made his threats. And yet when quite honest with herself she knew she was not afraid of him. He might pinch her arm with his big hand, and he might scowl, and he might say he was going to do this and do that, but in the end what could he do? Once she had cowed him with a smile, and once again she had said to him in a voice hardly above a whisper:

“Bud Childers--stop.”

And he had stopped.

It had given her a new sense of power.

He was more a nuisance than anything else--a nuisance at a time when she wanted to be left alone with her thoughts. If Bud had been able to read these, he would have waited even more restlessly than he did, down there by the ford. There were others, too, who might have grown restless.

But the thoughts of a young woman, until she chooses to voice them, are her own. They are her sacred city. Bold adventurers or the merely curious may try to enter through the eyes and guess what lies behind, but it is more than probable they will guess wrong. At any rate, they can never know with certainty if only the lady keeps her lips sealed.

And that, Roxie--cross her throat and hope to die--meant to do. It was her one excuse for not at the very beginning running from her dreams like a startled fawn. She could not be blamed for getting them--they came from around a corner as suddenly as Allston’s machine had that day; but she could be blamed for keeping them. Way down deep in her romantic little heart--where half of what she knew came from--she understood her danger. It was one thing to have a fairy prince safe within the covers of a story-book, where he could be shut in again at the end of the day, and quite another to have him walking around the house in flesh and blood, sometimes within arm’s length, where closing a door upon him did no good whatever. Because often enough she could still hear his voice as he talked to Miss Wilmer or at least hear his footsteps as he strode about his room.

Allston had risked his life to save her life. That was the beginning of her dream. He had done a fine thing, as a prince might do it--head up, a smile on his lips, and quietly. He had staked his life for hers--even when she was at fault. And this gave a new value to her life. It gave a new dignity. One moment she was nothing much to any one; the next, more than a king’s ransom--a king’s son--had been offered for her.

If, after this, he had vanished, it would still have been safe for Roxie to dream on. Princes are harmless enough until they begin to stalk around in the daytime. Then they become dangerous--however well meaning.

Allston stayed on. This was at the suggestion of Howe. Certain parts of the wrecked car had to be sent away for and this took time. Besides, there was no especial reason why he should not remain, anyway--as far as he or any one else could see at the time. Both father and daughter proved congenial to him and he, apparently, proved congenial to them. He had driven far enough to get a certain amount of restlessness out of his system and the idea of basking for a while beneath this golden sun rather appealed.

So Roxie cooked his breakfast and served it to him; so, too, she did his lunch; so, too, his dinner. She cared for his room--humbly, gratefully, almost religiously. She made his bed and smoothed out his pillows with her eyes aglow. She picked up all his things--he was none too tidy--and placed them where they belonged. She even polished his shoes. He caught her at it once. She was using his kit when by chance he came back into his room after some forgotten thing. She did not know he was there until she felt his hand on her shoulder.

“Roxie,” he said quietly, “I’ll do that myself.”

Startled, she faced him.

“It’s a man’s job,” he explained.

“But I don’t mind--honest I don’t.”

“But I mind,” he returned.

She dropped the brushes obediently and he went out. Allston had never been able to accustom himself in France to the sight of women burdened with the tasks of men.

Roxie gathered brown-eyed Susans and placed them in his room--secretly. And happily. And when he came downstairs with one of the posies in his buttonhole, she felt like singing. He did not know she had picked them, but that made no difference to her. She was asking no reward for her service other than he had already given; other than he was giving her every day he remained.

Allston, for his part, spoke her fair always; without either condescension or boldness. She was white; she was young; she was native. She was, he felt, in every way entitled to his respect. Even to the Howes she was more like one of the family than a servant. To Allston she possessed the added interest of a whimsical personality new to him so that he never missed an opportunity of speaking to her.

“I suppose these folk are more nearly native American than most,” he once suggested to Wilmer.

“The American of eighteen-fifty,” she answered.

Hesitatingly one day Allston took from his wallet a dollar bill, prompted solely by the desire to recompense her for the extra work he felt he had occasioned.

“This is for you,” he explained.

“What fer?” she demanded.

“For ribbons or anything you need. I’ve been a lot of bother.”

“You ain’t bothered me none.”

“But--”

“You ain’t bothered me none.”

“I’ve made you more work.”

Her face colored as it always did in spite of herself when she tried to talk to him.

“I don’t call that bother,” she replied.

“Well,” he laughed. “Then all I can do is to thank you again.”

“That’s--enough,” she said.

As it turned out, however, Allston did find an opportunity to do a little more. When Roxie came to Wilmer with that message from Tom Culley reporting her mother’s sickness, it was already dark. Even so, had it not been for the recent advances of Bud Childers to Roxie, Wilmer would have considered the walk safe enough for the girl. As it was she was a bit worried. Voicing her fears to her father, Allston overheard.

“I’ll go along with her,” he suggested on the instant.

Howe demurred a moment.

“I don’t suppose there’s any danger, but those mountain folk are a queer lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“If Childers should be along the way--”

He paused a moment, and then added:

“He’s pretty free with a gun.”

“That’s simple,” answered Allston. “I’ll carry one myself.”

“I don’t imagine you’ll need it, but it might be as well to have it.”

So Allston thrust his automatic in his pocket and immediately forgot it. He joined Roxie and she led the way from the open valley to the winding, rocky road which ran along the thickly wooded mountain-side. The hush of the early night was here. The great symphony of the forest’s nocturnal players had not yet begun their overture, awaiting the last bar of the catbird’s vesper song. High above the trees a full moon furnished a silver light where it could get through.

Roxie was as sure-footed as he, but instinctively he steadied her with his hand. She was, if anything, less steady after that than before. It was as though she became a little dizzy.

“Am I going too fast for you?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

Yet twice she stumbled and would have fallen had he not caught her.

“Careful there,” he warned. “It’s a rough old road.”

So they came to the bend. Rounding it, the girl was the first to see the dim figure of a man on horseback a few paces before them. Against the impenetrable background of foliage, the sharply drawn contour of the rider’s face stood out like the countenance of a monk from a black cowl.

It was Bud. She could see him only dimly, but she knew his eyes had left her to question the man by her side. And she caught the slow, stealthy movement of his hand creeping back to his hip.