CHAPTER XIII
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK
Although Isom Chase had been in his grave a week, and Judge Little hadbeen cracking his coat-tails over the road between his home and thecounty-seat daily, the matter of the will and the administration of theestate remained as in the beginning.
Judge Little had filed the will for probate, and had made applicationfor letters of administration, which the court had denied. Under theterms of the will, it was pointed out, he was empowered to act in thatcapacity only in case of the testator's death before the majority of thelegatee. The date of the document proved that the heir was now long pasthis majority, and the only interest that remained to Judge Little in thematter seemed to be the discovery of the testator's unknown, unseen, andunbelieved-in son.
If Isom ever had fathered a son, indeed, and the child had died ininfancy, the fact had slipped the recollection of the oldest settler.Perhaps the proof of that mysterious matter lay in the hands of the twowitnesses to Isom's will. They should know, if anybody knew, peoplesaid.
One of these witnesses, Thomas Cogshawl, had died long since, and thereremained behind neither trace nor remembrance of him save a leaning,yellowed tombstone carrying the record of his achievements in thisworld. They were succinctly recounted in two words: Born and Died. Hisdescendants were scattered, his family dispersed.
The other witness, John Owens, was in the county poorhouse, deaf, dumb,and blind, his children dead, his money gone. Communication with him,except by prods and thumps, had been out of the question for ten yearsand more.
On the advice of her neighbors, Ollie had engaged a lawyer to guard herinterests, and make a fight in the courts, if it came to that, in aneffort to retain the property. It was a shame, said the neighbors; Isomnever had a son, or, if he did have one, he had no business to do anysuch surreptitious fathering.
While they denounced Isom, Judge Little was advertising in themetropolitan papers for the mysterious legatee, for there is no man sofaithful to his trust as the administrator of another's estate. Althoughthe property had not yet succeeded to his hands, the judge wasproceeding in confidence. If the existence of Isom Chase's son could notbe proved, neither could it be disproved.
And there stood the will in Isom's writing as plain as cow tracks,naming him as administrator. It would all work into his hands at theend, and there were rewards and emoluments for an administrator whounderstood his business, in that estate.
That is true in the case of any executor in the affairs of dead men, orreceiver in the muddled business of the living. That accounts for suchmen's inflexibility in carrying out the provisions of unfeelingtestators and the decrees of heartless courts. The law must be appliedto the letter, the wishes of the deceased fulfilled to the last hatefulparticular, for the longer the administrator or receiver is in place,the longer flows the soothing stream of fees.
Ollie had passed out of the brief tranquillity which had settled on herafter the inquest and funeral. Worry had overtaken her again, and alonging for the return of Morgan, which seemed destined never to bequieted.
There was not so much concern for her in the ultimate disposal of Isom'sestate, for she had consoled herself all along, since the discovery ofthe will, that she would soon be above the need of his miserly scrapingsand hoarded revenues of stint. Morgan would come, triumphant in hisred-wheeled buggy, and bear her away to the sweet recompense of love,and the quick noises of life beyond that drowsy place. For Morgan, andlove, she could give it all over without one regret, or a glancebehind.
Yet, with the thought of what she already had given for Morgan and lovea quick catching of pain, a troubled stirring bordering on panic, rosein her breast. Where was Morgan, why did he remain away when he mightcome boldly now, like a man, and claim his own? What if Morgan nevershould come back? What if she should find herself a double widow, bereftof both the living and the dead?
During her days she watched for him, straining her eyes up and down thedust-white road. At night her cheek burned upon her pillow, and hertears ran down, yearning for the man who had her heart's love in hiskeeping and seemed unworthy of the trust.
At such times her anger would flame hot against Joe. If he had not comeinto her affairs and muddled them, like a calf in a kitchen, all of thisuncertainty and longing would have been spared her. And it would be likethe fool now, the miserable, bleating bull-calf, to turn back on hisword and betray her. In that case, what should she do? Bow her head,meekly, and bear him out? She did not think so. There was little chancethat anybody would credit Joe if he should turn now on his own evidence,less if she should maintain that his first version of the tragedy wastrue. For what he had done by his impertinent meddling between her andMorgan he deserved to suffer. He must grin and bear it now, said she.
Besides this feeling of revenge on Joe's luckless head, Ollie had herreasons of selfishness and security for desiring him out of the way.With him in prison for a long time--people said it would be forlife--the secret of her indiscretion with Morgan would be safe. Andthen, if Morgan never came back, perhaps another.
But she recoiled from the thought that they might hang Joe for themurder of Isom. She did not want him hung, for through her gatheringcloud of blame for his too faithful guardianship of his master's house,she had gleams of tenderness and gratitude for him. She could not helpcomparing him with Morgan in such moments of softness. Morgan had letthat boy drive him away; he seemed to have gone with such a terror ofhim that he never had looked back. Joe, on the other hand, had stood byher through the storm. No, she did not want them to hang Joe, but itwould be quite easy and comfortable with him out of the way for a long,long time.
Public opinion was framing toward giving her the relief that shedesired. If anybody suspected that Ollie was concerned in her husband'sdeath, it was some remote person whose opinion did not affect the publicmind. The current belief was that Joe alone was to blame.
No matter how severe the world may be upon a woman after she is down inthe mire, there is no denying that it is reluctant to tumble her fromher eminence and throw her there. A woman will find more champions thandetractors in the face of the most serious charge; especially a youngand pretty one, or one whose life has been such as to shape sympathy forher in itself.
All her neighbors knew that Isom's wife had suffered. That year ofpenance in her life brought Ollie before them in a situation which wasan argument and plea for their sympathy and support.
In spite, then, of the coroner's attempt at the inquest to drag Ollieinto the tragedy, and to give foundation for his shrewd suspicion thatthere had been something between Isom's wife and bondman which thehusband was unaware of, no sensation nor scandal had come of that. Thecase was widely talked of, and it was the hope of every voter in thecounty that he would be drawn on the jury to try the boy accused of themurder. Even the busiest farmers began to plan their affairs so theywould have at least one day to spare to attend the trial at its mostinteresting point.
The date set for the trial was approaching, and so was election day. Theprosecuting attorney, being up for reelection, hadn't time, at that busyhour, to try a homicide case. He had to make speeches, and bestirhimself to save his valuable services to the state. The man penned injail, growing thin of cheek and lank of limb, could wait. There would beother homicide cases, but there never would be another prosecutingattorney so valuable as that one offering himself, and his youngambitions, on the altar of public service. That was according to hisview. So he notified Hammer that the state would not be ready for trialon the day set.
This pleased Hammer well enough, for the greater the delay the wider thenotoriety of the case would spread, the larger his audience would be. Bymutual agreement, the case was put over for one month.
Joe protested against this delay in vain. Hammer said that they wouldprofit by it, as the ferment of the public mind would settle meantime,and prejudice would not be so sharp. He talked a great deal about"character witnesses," which Joe couldn't see the need of, and took downthe names of all the peopl
e whom Joe could name as having known him allhis life. Then Hammer went his way, to make speeches in the campaign insupport of the worthy sheriff.
So Joe found himself with another month ahead of him before he couldeven hope to walk out into the sun again.
Jail was wearing on him. The disgrace of it was torture to his sensitivemind, without the physical chafing to pull him down to bones. Those twoweeks had taken off his frame a great deal of the flesh that he hadgained during the summer. His gauntness was more pronounced than it everhad been before.
Mrs. Newbolt walked in twice a week to see him, carrying with her abasket of biscuits and other homely things dear to her son's palate. Allof which the sheriff speared with knitting-needles, and tried on variousdomestic animals, to make certain that the Widow Newbolt did not cheatthe gallows out of its due by concealing saws in pies, or introducingpoison to her hopeless offspring in boiled eggs.
But all of her tempting relishes, or such of them, at least, as reachedJoe, were powerless to fill his hollow cheeks, growing thinner and palerday by day. He could not eat with relish, he could not sleep with peace.If it had not been for the new light that Alice Price had brought intohis life, he must have burned his young heart to ashes in hisrestiveness.
Twice again the colonel and Alice had visited Joe, once to carry to himthe books for which he had expressed a desire, and again to bring the_Meditations of Marcus Aurelius_, which Alice herself had gone after toJudge Maxwell's house. Each time Joe fancied that she left a radiancebehind her that brightened and warmed his cell for days.
Nobody else in the town troubled himself about the prisoner's welfare,for nobody else knew him. Two of the ministers had called at the jail inthe first days of Joe's incarceration, in a sort of urging-to-penitencestate of mind, just as if they were assured of Joe's guilt by reason ofhis very obscurity. Joe had told them that he had a religion of his ownwhich seemed to fill all present needs, and did not want to make anychange. He was respectful, but lofty in his bearing. So they put himdown as a stiff-necked son of Belial, and went away, leaving him to savehimself if he thought he was equal to the task, in a manner ofchallenge.
In the face of this clerical abandonment, people wondered over the deepinterest that Colonel Price and his daughter seemed to have in the WidowNewbolt's son, who had neither pride of family nor of possessions torecommend him.
Joe had not yet brought himself to the belief that it was necessary totake his lawyer into his confidence, although Hammer had made itunfeelingly plain to him that the withholding of any vital fact would befatal to his cause. Although Joe was beginning to experience a deep anddisquieting concern about the outcome of the trial, he was disposed togive Morgan an honest man's chance to come forward and take his share ofit upon himself. If he should do that, then Joe felt that he would bemorally free to disclose all that took place in the kitchen on the nightIsom lost his life.
In case that Morgan did not come, or that he had gone beyond the reachof Hammer or anybody else to fetch him back, then there would not be oneword of evidence to uphold him, or justify his seemingly ridiculousstand of reticence. Yet, perhaps Morgan was waiting until the trial day;perhaps he knew all about it, and would appear in time. So argued Joe,in his great desire to be just to everybody.
He reviewed the matter in this wise with ceaseless repetition, alwaysarriving at this same end, from which he drew the comfort of hope.Perhaps Morgan would come in time. At any event, he would wait until thelast minute of the last hour, and give him a man's chance to do what washonorable and fair.
The talkative horse-thief had been tried and condemned, and had gone hischeerful way to the penitentiary to serve three years. Before leaving hehad taken pains to sound again his forecast of what was waiting Joe"down the river," in case they did not give him the "quick andpainless." He never had forgiven Joe his unwillingness to gossip withhim in jail. The fellow's vindictiveness was evident in the sneeringdelight that he took on his last night in jail in calling Joe out of hissleep, or pretended sleep, to hear his description of the terrorswaiting a man condemned to prison for life.
Now that he was gone, Joe felt that his words lived after him, like moldupon the walls, or a chilling damp between the stones. The recollectionof them could not be denied his abnormally sharpened senses, nor theundoubted truth of their terrifying picture shut out of his imaginationby any door of reasoning that he had the strength to close. Condemnationto prison would mean the suspension of all his young hopes and healthydesires; it would bring him to the end of his activities in the world assuddenly as death. Considering ambition, love, happiness, men in prisonwere already dead. They lived only in their faculty for suffering.
Would Morgan come to save him from that fate? That was his solespeculation upon a solution of his pressing trouble. Without Morgan, Joedid not consider any other way.
Colonel Price had received lately a commission for a corn picture from aSt. Louis hotel, upon which he was working without pause. He had reachedthat state of exalted certainty in relation to corn that he never wasobliged to put aside his colors and wait the charge of inspiration. Hisinspirational tide always was setting in when corn was the subject. Workwith the colonel in such case was a matter of daylight.
On account of the order, the colonel had no time for Joe, for art withhim, especially corn art, was above the worries and concerns of all men.He did not forget the prisoner in the white heat of his commission. Forseveral days he had it in his mind to ask Alice to visit him, and carryto him the assurance of the continuance of the family interest andregard. But it was an unconventional thing to request of a young lady; aweek slipped past before the colonel realized it while he temporized inhis mind.
At last he approached it circuitously and with a great deal ofdiplomatic concealment of his purpose, leaving ample room for retreatwithout unmasking his intention, in case he should discern indicationsof unwillingness.
By that time the election was over and the country regularly insuredagainst anarchy, devastation, and ruin for two years longer. Theprosecuting attorney and the sheriff had been reelected; the machineryof the law was ready to turn at the grist.
The colonel was pleased to see that Alice seconded him in his admissionthat they had been treating Joe Newbolt shamefully. Of course thesheriff was partly to blame for that, having set himself up withmetropolitan importance, now that he was secure in office. He had putaside Wednesday as the one day of the week on which visitors, other thanrelatives or counsel of prisoners, would be permitted to enter thejail.
It chanced to be a Wednesday morning when the colonel got around to itfinally, and they agreed heartily and warmly that somebody ought to goand carry a little gleam of cheer and encouragement to Joe. The colonellooked at his unfinished picture, then at the mellow light of the autumnday, so much like the soul of corn itself, and then at Alice. He liftedhis eyebrows and waved his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"Never mind," said she; "you go ahead with the picture; I'll go alone."
The colonel blessed her, and turned to his picture with a great sigh ofrelief. Alice left him to prepare for her visit, a flutter of eagernessin her heart, a feeling of timid nervousness which was unaccountable andstrange.
She was not accustomed to trembling at the thought of meeting young men.Usually she went forward to the ordeal with a smile, which the victimwould not have gathered a great deal of pleasure from, in most cases, ifhe had been able to read, for he would have seen her appraisement of himon her lips. There was none of this amusing measurement of Joe, nosounding of his shallows with her quick perception like a sunbeamfinding the pebbles in the bottom of a brook. There was something in hispresence which seemed like a cool wind on the forehead, palpable, yetprofound from the mystery of its source.
She had been surprised by the depth of this unpromising subject, to whomshe had turned at first out of pity for his mother. The latent beautiesof his rugged mind, full of the stately poetry of the old Hebrewchronicles, had begun to unfold to her sympathetic perception in thethree
visits she had made in her father's company. Each visit hadbrought some new wonder from that crude storehouse of his mind, whereJoe had been hoarding quaint treasures all his lonely, companionlessyears.
And Joe, even in his confinement, felt that he was free in a largersense than he ever had been before. He was shaking out his wings andbeginning to live understandingly and understood. It was beyond him tobelieve it sometimes; beyond him always to grasp the reality of AlicePrice, and her friendship for one so near the dust as he.
What was there about the poor folks' boy, bound out but yesterday toIsom Chase, and still bound to his estate under the terms of hisarticles? What was there in him to reach out and touch the sympathies ofthis beautiful young woman, who came to him with the scent of violets inher hair? Others had despised him for his poverty, and fastened a nameupon him which was in itself a reproach. And still misunderstanding,they had carried him off to prison, charged with a dark and hideouscrime. Now this light had come to him in his despair, like the beam ofthat white star above the Judean plains. Like that star, she would standfar off to guide him, and exalt his soul by its strivings to attain herlevel. There their relations must cease. He might yearn his heart awayin the gulf that lay between them, and stretch out his empty hands forevermore, never to feel its nearer warmth upon his breast. He was thepoor folks' boy.
There was a wan sun on the day she came alone to the jail, a day so longremembered by Joe and held by him so dear. A solemn wind was roaming thetree-tops outside his cell window; the branches stood bleak and bareagainst the mottled sky.
Alice wore a dress of some soft gray material, which seemed to embraceher in warm comfort, and reveal her in a new and sprightly loveliness.Her rippled hair was free upon her temples, her ear peeped out frombeneath it with a roguish tint upon it, as if it waited to be kissed,and blushed for its own temerity. A gay little highland bonnet rode thebrown billows of her abundant hair, saucy and bold as a corsair, withone bright little feather at its prow. Perhaps it was no more than agoose quill, or a cock's plume dipped in dye, but to Joe it seemed asglorious as if it had been plucked from the fairest wing in the gardensof paradise.
The marvel of it came over Joe again as he stood close against the barsto greet her. She, so rare and fine, so genteel and fair, caring enoughfor him and his unpromising fate to put aside the joyous business of herunhampered life and seek him in that melancholy place. It seemed adream, yet she was there, her delicate dark brows lifted questioningly,as if uncertain that he would approve her unconventional adventure, asmile in the depths of her serene, frank eyes. Her cheeks were glowingfrom the sparks of morning, and her ungloved hand was reaching out tomeet him.
He clasped it, and welcomed her with joy that he could not havesimulated any more than he could have hidden. There was a tremor in hisvoice; a hot sweep of blood flamed in his face like a confession of hissecret soul.
"I never saw you look so tall," said he slowly, measuring her withadoring eyes.
"Maybe it's the dress," said she, looking herself over with a littleexpressive sweep of the hands, as if to put all the blame on thatinnocent nun-gray gown, if there was blame to be borne.
She wore a little bunch of mignonette upon her breast, just at the pointwhere the slashing of her bodice ended, and the gray gave way to a wedgeof virginal white, as if her sempstress had started to lay bare herheart. The flowers quivered as from some internal agitation, nestlingtheir pale gold spikes against their lovely bed.
"I don't know that it's the dress," said he, "but you do look tallerthan usual, it seems to me."
She laughed, as if she found humor in his solemn repetition of such atrivial discovery.
"Well, I can't help being tall," she said. "How tall would you have alady grow? How tall do you think one ought to be?"
"'As high as my heart,'" said Joe, remembering _Orlando's_ words.
The color deepened in her cheeks; she caught her breath with a little"Oh!"
She wondered what sprout of blue-blooded and true-blooded nobility inShelbyville there was capable of turning a reply like that withoutstraining for it more than that pale cavalier with his worn clothinghanging loose upon his bony frame. When she ventured to lift her eyes tohis face, she found him grasping a bar of the cell door with one hand,as if he would tear it from its frame. His gaze was fixed upon the highwindow, he did not turn. She felt that he was struggling with himselfthat moment, but whether to drive to speech or to withhold it, she couldnot tell.
"I wish I could go out there and run about five miles this morning," hesighed.
She gave him sigh for sigh, feeling that something was lost. He had notstriven with himself merely to say that. But from there they went on totalk of his coming trial, and to expose the mutual hope that no furtherexcuse would be advanced for its continuance. He seemed to be certainthat the trial would see an end of his difficulty, and she trembled tocontemplate any other outcome.
So they stood and talked, and her face was glowing and her eyes werebright.
"Your cheeks are as red as bitter-sweet," said he.
"There was frost last night," she laughed, "and the cool wind makes myface burn."
"I know just how it feels," said he, looking again toward the windowwith pathetic wistfulness, the hunger of old longings in his eyes.
"It will not be long now until you are free," she said in low voice ofsympathy.
He was still looking at the brown branches of the bare elm, now palelytouched with the cloud-filtered autumn sun.
"I know where there's lots of it," said he, as if to himself, "out inthe hills. It loves to ramble over scrub-oak in the open places wherethere's plenty of sun. I used to pick armloads of it the last year Iwent to school and carry it to the teacher. She liked to decorate theroom with it."
He turned to her with apologetic appeal, as if to excuse himself forhaving wandered away from her in his thoughts.
"I put it over the mantel," she nodded; "it lasts all winter."
"The wahoo's red now, too," said he. "Do you care for it?"
"It doesn't last as long as bitter-sweet," said she.
"Bitter-sweet," said he reflectively, looking down into the shadowswhich hung to the flagstones of the floor. Then he raised his eyes tohers and surprised them brimming with tears, for her heart was achingfor him in a reflection of his own lonely pain.
"It is emblematic of life," said he, reaching his hand out through thebars to her, as if to beg her not to grieve over the clouds of a day;"you know there are lots of comparisons and verses and sayings about itin that relation. It seems to me that I've always had more of the bitterthan the sweet--but it will all come out right in time."
She touched his hand.
"Do you like mignonette?" she asked. "I've brought you some."
"I love it!" said he with boyish impetuosity. "I had a bed of itlast--no, I mean the summer before last--before I was--before I went towork for Isom."
She took the flowers from her bosom and placed them in his hand. Thescent of them was in his nostrils, stirring memories of his old days ofsimple poverty, of days in the free fields. Again he turned his facetoward the window, the little flowers clutched in his hand. His breastheaved as if he fought in the deep waters of his soul against someignoble weakness.
She moved a little nearer, and reached timidly through the bars with thebreathless quiet of one who offers a caress to a sleeper. Herfinger-tips touched his arm.
"Joe," said she, as if appealing in pity to him for permission to sharehis agony.
He lifted the flowers to his lips and kissed the stems where her handhad clasped them; then bowed his head, his strong shoulders against thebars.
"Joe!" Her voice was a whisper in his ear, more than pity in it, so itseemed to him in the revelation of that moment; more than entreaty, morethan consolation.
Her hand was on his arm; he turned to her, shaking the fallen locks ofhis wild hair back from his brow. Then her hand was in his, and therewas a warm mist, as of summer clouds, before his eyes. Her face wasbefore h
im, and near--so near. Not red like the bitter-sweet, but paleas the winter dawn. Her eyes were wide, her chin was lifted, and he wasstraining her to him with the jail door bars against his breast.
Love comes that way, and death; and the blow of sorrow; and the wrenchof life's last bitter pang. Only life is slow; tedious and laggard withits burdens and its gleams.
He remembered in a moment; the pressure of the bars against his breastrecalled him to his sad estate. He released her hand and fell back astep from her, a sharp cry on his lips as if he had seen her crushed andmangled just beyond his reach.
"I didn't mean to do that, Alice; I didn't mean to do that!" said he,dropping to his knees before her as if struck down by a stunning blow.He bowed his head in contrite humiliation.
"I forgot where I was, Alice; I forgot!"
There was no displeasure in her face as she stood panting before thebarred door, her hands to her heaving breast, her head thrown back. Herlips were parted; there was a light of exaltation in her eyes, as of onewho has felt the benediction of a great and lasting joy. She put herhand through the bars again, and touched his bowed head.
"Don't do that, Joe," said she.
The sheriff's key sounded in the lock of the corridor gate.
"Time's up," he called.
"All right; I'm coming," Alice returned.
Joe stood, weak and trembling. He felt as if he had, in the heat of somegreat passion, rashly risked life, and more than life; that he had onlynow dragged his battered body back to the narrow, precarious ledge fromwhich he had leaped, and that safety was not his.
"I must go now," said she, soft and low and in steady voice. "Good-bye."
She gave him her hand, and he clung to it like a nestling fastening uponthe last branch interposing between it and destruction.
"I forgot where I was," said he weakly, his shaken mind incapable ofcomprehending things as they were, his abasement over the breach that hehad committed being so profound. She withdrew her hand. When it was goneout of his, he remembered how warm it was with the tide of her youngbody, and how soft for his own work-roughened fingers to meet andenfold.
"I must go now," said she again. Her feet sounded in the corridor as sheran away. A little way along she stopped. She was beyond his sight, buther voice sounded near him when she called back "Good-bye!"
She had not gone in anger nor displeasure, thought he, getting hand ofhis confused senses after a while, standing as she had left him, theflowers in his hand. Strangely exulting, strangely thrilling, mounting amoment like an eagle, plunging down now like a stone, Joe walked hiscell.
What had he done, drawn on by that which he had read in her eyes in thatpoignant moment! In jail, locked behind a grated door of steel, he hadtaken her hand and drawn her to him until the shock of the bars hadcalled back his manhood. He had taken advantage of her friendship andsympathy.
Prison was no place for love; a man locked in jail charged with acrime had no right to think of it. It was base of him, and unworthy.Still--mounting again in a swift, delicious flight--it was sweet toknow what her eyes had told him, sweeter to rest assured that she hadnot left him in scorn. Down again, a falling clod. Unless he hadmisinterpreted them in the ignorance of his untutored heart. Yet, thatis a language that needs no lexicon, he knew.
Who is so simple, indeed, as to be unaware of that? How different thispassion from that which Ollie's uncovered bosom had stirred; how heburned with shame at the memory of that day!
Up and down he strode the morning through, his long, thin legs now sparein his boot-tops, his wide, bony shoulders sharp through his coat. Thestrong light fell on his gaunt face as he turned toward the window;shadows magnified its hollows when he turned toward the door. Now thatthe panic of it had left him, the sweetness of it remained.
How soft her hand was, how her yielding body swayed in his arm! Howdelicious her breath was on his face; how near her eyes, speaking tohim, and her lips; how near her parted, warm, red lips!
He took up the Book, and turned with trembling hands to a place that heremembered well. There was something that he had read, not feeling, notunderstanding, words of which came back to him now. The Songs of Songs,Which is Solomon's.
Ah, the Song of Songs! The music of it now was written in his heart. Itwas not the song in glorification and exaltation of the church that thetranslators had captioned it; not a song full of earthly symbols meantto represent spiritual passions. Joe had read it, time and again, inthat application, and it had fallen flavorless upon his understanding.No; it was the song of a strong man to the woman whom he loved.
And the music of it, old but ever new in its human appeal, now waswritten in his heart.
Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely. Thouart all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.... Until the day break,and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved....
Ah, until the day break!
In his rapt exaltation the boy's face beamed as he strode swiftly thelength of his cell. It would not be long until daybreak now. The judgewould understand him, and would not press a man to tell what he haddelicate reasons for concealing, when the concealment could bring harmto nobody, but boundless good to one weak creature who must witherotherwise in the blaze of shame.
He remembered the strong face and the long iron-gray hair of JudgeMaxwell; only a little while ago Joe had given him some apples which hehad stopped to admire as he drove past Isom's orchard in his sagging,mud-splashed, old buggy. He was a good man; the uprightness of his lifespoke from his face. Judge Maxwell was a man to understand.
Poor Ollie; poor weak, shrinking Ollie! Her frightened eyes glowed hotin his memory of the day of the inquest, carrying to him their appeal.Poor, mistaken, unguided Ollie! He would protect her to the last, as hehad done at the beginning, and trust and hope that the judge, and Alice,and the colonel, and the whole world, would understand in due and propertime.
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