All that day Auntie Sue wondered about Judy, while Brian and Betty Jo exhausted their inventive faculties in efforts to satisfy the dear old lady with plausible reasons for the mountain girl's disappearance.
During the forenoon, Brian canvassed the immediate neighborhood, and returned with the true information that Judy had stopped at the first house below Elbow Rock for breakfast, where she had told the people that she was going back to her father, because she was “doggone tired of working for them there city folks what was a-livin' at Auntie Sue's.”
This was, in a way, satisfactory to Auntie Sue, because it assured her that the girl had met with no serious accident and because she knew very well the mountain-bred girl's ability to take care of herself in the hills. But, still, the gentle mistress of the log house by the river was troubled to think that Judy would leave her so without a word.
Betty Jo was so occupied during the day by her efforts to relieve Auntie Sue that she had but little time left for thought of herself or for reflecting on the situation revealed in her encounter with Judy. But many times during the day the mountain girl's passionate accusation came back to her, “You-all are a-lyin'! You-all come back 'cause HE is here.” Nor could she banish from her memory the look that was on Brian Kent's face that morning when he was carrying her in his arms back from the brink of the river-bank, over which the frenzied Judy had so nearly sent her to her death. And so, when the day at last was over, and she was alone in her room, it was not strange that Betty Jo should face herself squarely with several definite and pointed and exceedingly personal questions.
It was like Betty Jo to be honest with herself and to demand of herself that her problems be met squarely.
“First of all, Betty Jo,” she demanded, in her downright, straightforward way of going most directly to the heart of a matter, “are you in love with Brian Kent?”
Without hesitation, the answer came, “I have not permitted myself to love him.”
“You have not permitted yourself to love him? That means that you would be in love with him if you dared, doesn't it?”
And Betty Jo, in the safe seclusion of her room, felt her cheeks burn as she acknowledged the truth of the deduction.
The next question was inevitable: “Is Brian Kent in love with you, Betty Jo?”
And Betty Jo, recalling many, many things, was compelled to answer, from the triumphant gladness of her heart: “He is trying not to be, but he can't help himself. And”—the downright and straightforward young woman continued—“because I know that Brian Kent is trying so hard not to love me is the real reason why I have not permitted myself to love him.”
But the clear-thinking, practical Betty Jo protested quickly: “You must remember that you are wholly ignorant of Brian Kent's history, except for the things he has chosen to tell you. And those things in his life which he has confessed to you are certainly not the things that could win the love of a girl like you, even though they might arouse your interest in the man. Interest is not love, Betty Jo. Are you quite sure that you are not making the mistake that is most commonly made by young women?”
Betty Jo was compelled to answer that she was not mistaking interest for love, because had such been the case, she would not be able to so analyze the situation. Betty Jo's quite womanly prejudice is admitted, because the prejudice was so womanly, and because Betty Jo herself was so womanly.
“Very well, Miss Betty Jo,” the young woman continued inexorably, “you are not permitting yourself to love Brian Kent because Brian Kent is trying not to love you. But, why is the man trying so hard not to love you?”
Betty Jo thought very hard over this question, and felt her way carefully to the answer. “It might be, of course, that it is because he is a fugitive from the law. A man under such circumstances could easily convince himself that no good woman would permit herself to love him, and he would therefore, in reasonable self-defense, prevent himself from loving her if he could.”
But surely Brian Kent had every reason to know that Betty Jo did not at all regard him as a criminal. Betty Jo, as Auntie Sue, recognized only the re-created Brian Kent. If that were all, they need only wait for the restitution which was so sure to come through his book. And Brian Kent himself, through Auntie Sue's teaching and through his work, had come to recognize only his real self, and not the creature of circumstances which the river had brought to the little log house. Betty Jo felt sure that there was more than this that was forcing the man to defend himself against his love for her. Thus she was driven to the conclusion that there was something in Brian Kent's history that he had not made known to her,—a something that denied him the right to love her, and that,—reasoned poor Betty Jo in the darkness of her room,—could only be a woman,—a woman to whom he was bound, not by love indeed,—Betty Jo could not believe that,—but by ties of honor and of the law.
And very clearly Betty Jo reasoned, too, that Brian's attitude toward her evidenced unmistakably his high sense of honor. The very fact that he had so persistently—in all their companionship, in their most intimate moments together even—held this invisible and, to her, unknown barrier between them, convinced her beyond a doubt of the essential integrity of his character, and compelled her admiration and confidence.
“That is exactly it, Betty Jo,” she told herself sadly; “you love him because he tries so hard to keep himself from loving you.”
And thus Betty Jo proved the correctness of Auntie Sue's loving estimate of her character and justified the dear old teacher's faith in the sterling quality of her womanhood.
Face to face with herself, fairly and squarely, the girl accepted the truth of the situation for Brian and for herself, and determined her course. She must go away,—she must go at once.
She wished that she had not returned to the log house by the river. She had never fully admitted to herself the truth of her feeling toward Brian until Judy had so unexpectedly precipitated the crisis; but, she knew, now, that Judy was right, and that the real reason for her return was her love for him. She knew, as well, that her very love,—which, once fully admitted and recognized by her, demanded with all the strength of her young womanhood the nearness and companionship of the mate her heart had chosen,—demanded, also, that she help him to keep that fine sense of honor and true nobility of character which had won her.
She understood instinctively that,—now that she had confessed her love to herself,—she would, in spite of herself, tempt him in a thousand ways to throw aside that barrier which he had so honorably maintained between them. Her heart would plead with him to disregard his better self, and come to her. Her very craving for the open assurance of his love would tempt him, perhaps beyond his strength. And, yet, she knew as truly that, if he should yield; if he should cast aside the barrier of his honor; if he should deny his best self, and answer her call, it would be disastrous beyond measure to them both.
To save the fineness of their love, Betty Jo must go. If it should be that they never met again, still she must go.
But there were other currents moving in the river that night. In the steady onward flow of the whole, Betty Jo's life-currents seemed to be setting away from the man she loved. But other currents, unknown to the girl, who faced herself so honestly, and who so bravely accepted the truth she found, were moving in ways beyond her knowledge. Directed and influenced by innumerable and unseen forces and obstacles, the currents which, combined, made the stream of life in its entirety, were weaving themselves together,—interlacing and separating,—drawing close and pulling apart,—only to mingle as one again.
Betty Jo saw only Brian Kent and herself, and their love which she now acknowledged, and she had, as it were, only a momentary glimpse of those small parts of the stream.
Betty Jo could not know of those other currents that were moving so mysteriously about her as the river poured itself onward so unceasingly to the sea.
In spite of all their care, Brian and Betty Jo did not wholly convince Auntie Sue that there was no more in Judy's disappearance than the report from the neighbors indicated. The dear old lady felt that there was something known to the young people that they were keeping from her; and, while she did not question their motives, and certainly did not worry,—for Auntie Sue never worried,—she was not satisfied with the situation. When she retired to her room for the night, she told herself, with some spirit, that she would surely go to the bottom of the affair the next morning.
It happened that Auntie Sue went to the bottom of the affair much sooner than she expected.
It must have been about that same hour of the night when Betty Jo, after reaching her decision to go away, retired to her bed, that Auntie Sue was aroused by a low knocking at the open window of her room.
The old teacher listened without moving, her first thought being that her fancy was tricking her. The sound came again, and, this time, there could be no mistake. Sitting up in her bed, Auntie Sue looked toward the window, and, at the sound of her movement, a low whisper came from without.
“Don't be scared, Auntie Sue. Hit ain't nobody but just me.”
As she recognized Judy's voice, she saw the mountain girl's head and twisted shoulders outlined above the window-sill. A moment more, and Auntie Sue was at the window.
“Sh-h-h!” cautioned Judy. “Don't wake 'em up. I just naturally got ter tell you-all somethin', Auntie Sue; but, I ain't a-wantin' Mr. Burns an' that there Betty Jo woman ter hear. I reckon I best come through the winder.”
Acting upon the word, she climbed carefully into the room.
“Judy, child! What—?”
The mountain girl interrupted Auntie Sue's tremulous whisper with: “I'll tell hit ter you, ma'm, in a little bit, if you'll just wait. I got ter see if they are sure 'nough a-sleepin' first, though.”
She stole silently from the room, to return a few minutes later. “They are plumb asleep, both of 'em,” she said in a low tone, when she had cautiously closed the door. “I done opened the doors ter their rooms, an' listened, an' shet 'em again 'thout ary one of 'em a-movin' even. I'll fix the winder, now, an' then we kin make a light.”
Carefully, she closed the window and drew down the shade. Then she lit the lamp.
Auntie Sue, who was sitting on the bed, looked at the girl in bewildered amazement.
With a nervous laugh, Judy fingered her torn dress and dishevelled hair. “I sure am a sight, ain't I, ma'm? I done hit a-comin' through the bresh in the dark. But, don't—don't—look so kinder lost like; you-all ain't got no call ter be scared of me.”
“Why, Judy, dear, I'm not afraid of you. Come, child; tell me what is the trouble.”
At the kindly manner and voice of the old gentlewoman, those black eyes filled with tears, which, for the moment, the mountain girl stoically permitted to roll down her thin sallow cheeks unheeded. Then, with a quick resolute jerk of her twisted body, she drew her dress sleeve across her face, and said: “I—I—reckon I couldn't hate myself no worse'n I'm a-doin'. Hit seems like I been mighty nigh plumb crazy; but, I just naturally had ter come back an' tell you-all, 'cause you-all been so good ter me.”
She placed a chair for Auntie Sue, and added: “You-all best make yourself comfertable, though, ma'm. I'm mighty nigh tuckered out myself. Hit's a right smart way from where pap's a-livin' ter here, an' I done come in a hurry.”
She dropped down on the floor, her back against the bed, and clasped her knees in her hands, as Auntie Sue seated herself.
“Begin at the beginning, Judy, and tell me exactly what has happened,” said Auntie Sue.
“Yes, ma'm, I will,—that's what I was aimin' ter do when I made up ter come back.”
And she did. Starting with her observation of Brian and Betty Jo, and her conviction of their love, she told of her interview with Brian the night she warned him not to let Betty Jo return, and finished with the account of her attack on Betty Jo that morning.
Auntie Sue listened with amazement and pity. Here, indeed, was a wayward and troubled life-current.
“But, Judy, Judy!” exclaimed the gentle old teacher, “you would not really have pushed Betty Jo into the river. She would have been drowned, child. Surely, you did not mean to kill her, Judy.”
The girl wrung her hands, and her deformed body swayed to and fro in the nervous intensity of her emotions. But she answered, stubbornly: “That there was just what I was aimin' ter do. I'd a-killed her, sure, if Mr. Burns hadn't a-come just when he did. I can't rightly tell how hit was, but hit seemed like there was somethin' inside of me what was a-makin' me do hit, an' I couldn't, somehow, help myself. An'—an'—that ain't all, ma'm; I done worse'n that,” she continued in a low, moaning wail. “Oh, my God-A'mighty! Why didn't Mr. Burns sling me inter the river an' let me be smashed an' drowned at Elbow Rock while he had me, 'stead of lettin' me git away ter do what I've gone an' done!”
Auntie Sue's wonderful native strength enabled her to speak calmly: “What is it you have done, Judy? You must tell me, child.”
The older woman's voice and manner steadied the girl, and she answered more in her usual colorless monotone, but still guarded so as not to awaken the other members of the household: “Hit seemed like Mr. Burns ketchin' me, like he did, an' me a-seein' him with her in his arms, made me plumb crazy-mad, an' I 'lowed I'd fix hit so's he couldn't never have her nohow, so I—I—done told pap 'bout him bein' Brian Kent what had robbed that there bank, an' how there was er lot of reward-money a-waitin' for anybody that'd tell on him.”
Auntie Sue was too shocked to speak. Was it possible that, now, when the real Brian Kent was so far removed from the wretched bank clerk; when his fine natural character and genius had become so established, and his book was—No, no! It could not be! God could not let men be so cruel as to send Auntie Sue's Brian Kent to prison because that other Brian Kent, tormented by wrong environment, and driven by an evil combination of circumstances, had taken a few dollars of the bank's money! And Betty Jo—No, no! Auntie Sue's heart cried out in protest. There must be some way. She would find some way. The banker—Homer Ward! Auntie Sue's mind, alert and vigorous as the mind of a woman of half her years, caught at the thought of her old friend and pupil. She leaned forward in her chair over the girl who sat on the floor at her feet, and her voice was strong and clear with the strength of the spirit which dominated her frail body.
“Judy, did you tell any one else besides your father?”
“There wasn't nobody else ter tell,” came the answer. “An' pap, he 'lowed he'd kill me if I said anythin' ter anybody 'fore he'd got the money. He aims ter git hit all for hisself.”
“What will he do? Will he go to Sheriff Knox?”
“No, ma'm; pap, he 'lowed if he done that a-way, the Sheriff he'd take most of the money. Pap's a-goin' right ter that there bank feller hisself.”
“Yes, yes! Go on, Judy!”
“You see, ma'm, I done remembered the name of the bank an' where hit was an' Mr. Ward's name an' all, on 'count of that there money letter what you done sent 'em an' us bein' so worried 'bout hit never gittin' there an' all that. An' pap, he knows er man over in Gardner what's on the railroad, you see, what'll let him have money enough for the trip,—a licker-man, he is,—an' pap's aimin' ter make hit over ter Gardner ter git the money in time ter ketch that there early mornin' train. Hit's a right smart way over the mountains, but I reckon's how pap'll make hit. Soon's pap left, I got ter thinkin' what I'd done, an' the more I studied 'bout hit,—'bout Mr. Burns a-havin' ter go ter prison, an' 'bout you-all a-carin' for him the way you does, an' 'bout how happy you was over his book, an'—an'—how good you'd been ter me,—the sorrier I got, 'til I just couldn't stand a-thinkin' 'bout hit no longer; an'—an'—so I come fast as I could ter tell you. I 'lowed you'd make out ter fix hit some way so—Mr. Burns won't have ter go ter prison. Couldn't you-all send—send a telegraph ter the bank man, er somethin'? I'd git it inter Thompsonville for you, ma'm; an' Mr. Burns, he needn't never know nothin' 'bout hit.”
Auntie Sue was dressing when Judy finished speaking. With a physical strength that had its source in her indomitable spirit, she moved about the room making the preparations necessary to her plan, and as she worked she talked to the girl.
“No, Judy, a telegram won't do. I must go to Homer Ward myself. That morning train leaves Thompsonville at six o'clock. You must slip out of the house, and harness 'Old Prince' to the buggy as fast as you can. You will drive with me to Thompsonville, and bring 'Prince' back. You can turn him loose when you get near home, and he will come the rest of the way alone. You must not let Mr. Burns nor Betty Jo see you, because they mustn't know anything about what you have done. Do you understand, child?”
“Yes, ma'm,” said Judy, eagerly. She was on her feet now.
“You can go to the neighbors and find some place to stay until I return,” continued Auntie Sue.
“You don't need ter worry none 'bout me,” said Judy. “I kin take care of myself, I reckon. But ain't you plumb seared ter go 'way on the cars alone an' you so old?”
“Old!” retorted Auntie Sue. “I have not felt so strong for twenty years. There is nothing for me to fear. I will be in St. Louis to-morrow night, and in Chicago the next forenoon. I guess I am not so helpless that I can't make a little journey like this. Homer Ward shall never send my boy to prison,—never,—bank or no bank! Go on, now, and get 'Prince' and the buggy ready. We must not miss that train.” She pushed Judy from the room, and again cautioned her not to awaken Brian or Betty Jo.
When she had completed her preparations for the trip, Auntie Sue wrote a short note to Betty Jo, telling her that she had been called away suddenly, and that she would return in a few days, and that she was obliged to borrow Betty Jo's pocket-book. Grave as she felt the situation to be, Auntie Sue laughed to herself as she pictured the consternation of Betty Jo and Brian in the morning.
Silently, the old lady stole into the girl's room to secure the money she needed and to leave her letter. Then, as silently, she left the house, and found Judy, who was waiting with “Old Prince” and the buggy, ready to start.
The station agent at Thompsonville was not a little astonished when Auntie Sue and Judy appeared, and, with the easy familiarity of an old acquaintance greeted her with, “Howdy, Auntie Sue! What in thunder are you doin' out this time of the day? No bad news, I hope?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Jackson,” Auntie Sue answered easily. “I'm just going to Chicago for a little visit with an old friend.”
“Sort of a vacation, eh?” returned the man behind the window, as he made out her ticket. “Well, you sure have earned one, Auntie Sue. It's gittin' to be vacation time now, too. Bunch of folks come in yesterday to stay at the clubhouse for a spell. Pretty wild lot, I'd say,—wimmen as well as the men. I reckon them clubhouse parties don't disturb you much, though, if you be their nearest neighbor,—do they?”
“They never have yet, Mr. Jackson,” she returned. “Their place is on the other side of the river, and a mile above my house, you know. I see them in their boats on The Bend, though, and once in a while they call on me. But the Elbow Rock rapids begin in front of my place, and the clubhouse people don't usually come that far down the river.”
She turned to Judy, and, with the girl, went out of the waiting room to the platform, where she whispered: “You must start back right away, Judy. If your father is on the train, he might see you.”
“What if pap ketches sight of you-all?” Judy returned nervously.
“He will not be so apt to notice me as he would you,” she returned, “even if he does catch a glimpse of me. And it can't be helped if he does. I'll be in Chicago as quick as he will, and I know I will see Mr. Ward first. Go on now, dear, and don't let Mr. Burns or Betty Jo see you, and be a good girl. I feel sure that everything will be all right.”
With a sudden awkward movement, poor Judy caught the old gentlewoman's hand and pressed it to her lips; then, turning, ran toward the buggy.
When the train arrived, the station agent came to help Auntie Sue with her handbag aboard, and she managed to keep her friend between herself and the coaches, in case Jap Taylor should be looking from a window. As the conductor and the agent assisted her up the steps, the agent said: “Mind you take good care of her, Bill. Finest old lady God-Almighty ever made! If you was to let anything happen to her, you best never show yourself in this neighborhood again; we'd lynch you, sure!”
The conductor found a good seat for his lovely old passenger, and made her as comfortable as possible. As he punched her ticket, he said, with a genial smile, which was the voluntary tribute paid to Auntie Sue by all men: “You are not much like the passengers I usually carry in this part of the country, ma'm. They are mostly a rather rough-lookin' lot.”
She smiled back at him, understanding perfectly his intended compliment. “They are good people, though, sir,—most of them. Of course, there are some who are a little wild, sometimes, I expect.”
The railroad man laughed again, shaking his head. “I should say so. You ought to see the specimen I've got in the smoker. I picked him up back there at Gardner. Perhaps you have heard of him—Jap Taylor. He is about the worst in the whole country, I reckon.”
“I have heard of him,” she returned. “I do hope he won't come into this coach.”
“Oh, he won't start anything on my train,” laughed the man in blue reassuringly. “He would never come in here, anyhow. Them kind always stay in the smoker. Seems like they know where they belong. He is half-scared to death himself, anyway; he is going to Chicago, too, and I'll bet it's the first time in his life he has ever been farther from these hills than Springfield.”
When Brian went to the barn the next morning he found “Old Prince” standing at the gate. While he was still trying to find some plausible explanation of the strange incident, after unharnessing the horse and giving him his morning feed, an excited call from Betty Jo drew his attention. With an answering shout, he started for the house. The excited girl met him halfway, and gave him Auntie Sue's note.
When Brian had read the brief and wholly inadequate message, they stood looking at each other, too mystified for speech. Brian read the note, again, aloud, speaking every word with slow distinctness. “Well, I'll be hanged!” he ejaculated, at the close of the remarkable communication, staring at Betty Jo.
“It wouldn't in the least surprise me if we were both hanged before night,” returned Betty Jo. “After this from Auntie Sue, I am prepared for anything. What on earth DO you suppose has happened?”
Brian shook his head: “It is too much for me!”
Together they went to the house, and the place seemed strangely deserted. Every possible explanation that suggested itself, they discussed and rejected.
“One thing we can depend upon,” said Brian, at last, when they had exhausted the resources of their combined imaginations: “Auntie Sue knows exactly what she is doing, and she is doing exactly the right thing. I suppose we will know all about it when she returns.”
Betty Jo looked again at the note: “'I will be back in a few days,'” she read slowly. “'Be good children, and take care of things.'”
Again, they regarded each other wonderingly.
Then Betty Jo broke the silence with an odd little laugh: “I feel like we were cast away on some desert island, don't you?”
“Something like that,” Brian returned. Then, to relieve the strain of the situation, he added: “I suppose 'Bess' will have to be milked and the chores finished just the same.”
“And I'll get breakfast for us,” agreed Betty Jo, as he started back to the barn.
In the safe seclusion of the stable, with no one but “Old Prince” and “Bess” to witness his agitation, Brian endeavored to bring his confused and unruly thoughts under some sort of control.
“Several days; several days.” The words repeated themselves with annoying persistency. And they—Betty Jo and he, Brian Kent—were to “take care of things”;—they were to keep house together;—they were to live together, alone,—in the log house by the river,—alone. She was even then preparing their breakfast. They would sit down at the table alone. And there would be dinner and supper; and the evening,—just for them. He would work about the place. She would attend to her household duties. He would go to his meals, and she would be there expecting him,—waiting for him. And when the tasks of the day were finished, they would sit on the porch to watch the coming of the night,—Betty Jo and he, Brian Kent—“What in God's name,” the man demanded of the indifferent “Bess,” did Auntie Sue mean by placing him in such a situation? Did she think him more than human?
It had not been easy for Brian to maintain that barrier between himself and Betty Jo, even with the constant help of Auntie Sue's presence. Many, many times he had barely saved himself from declaring his love; and, now, he was asked to live with her in the most intimate companionship possible.
For the only time in his life Brian Kent was almost angry at Auntie Sue. “By all that was consistent, and reasonable, and merciful, and safe,” he told himself, “if it was absolutely necessary for the dear old lady to disappear so mysteriously, why had she not taken Betty Jo along?”
In the meantime, while Brian was confiding his grievances to his four-footed companions in the barn, Betty Jo was expressing herself in the kitchen.
“Betty Jo,” she began, as she raked the ashes from the stove preparatory to building the fire, “it appears to me that you have some serious considering to do, and”—with a glance toward the barn, as she went out to empty the ash-pan—“you must do it quickly before that man comes for his breakfast. You were very right, last night, in your decision, to go away. It is exactly what you should have done. I am more than ever convinced of that, this morning. But you can't go now. Even if Auntie Sue had not taken your pocket-book and every penny in it, you couldn't run away with Auntie Sue herself gone. If she hadn't wanted you to stay right here for some very serious reason, Betty Jo, she would have taken you with her last night. Auntie Sue very pointedly and definitely expects you to be here when she returns. And she will be away several days,—several days, Betty Jo.” She repeated the words in a whisper. “And during those several days, you are to keep house for the man you love;—the man who loves you;—the man whom you must keep from telling you his love,—no matter how your heart pleads for him to tell you, you must not permit him to speak. He will be coming in to breakfast in a few minutes, and you will sit down at the table with him,—across the table from him,—facing him,—Betty Jo,—just like—”
She looked in the little mirror that hung beside the kitchen window, and, with dismay, saw her face flushed with color that was not caused by the heat of the stove. “And you will be forced to look at him across the table, and he will look at you,—and—and you must not,—” she stamped her foot,—“you dare not look like THAT, Betty Jo.
“And then there will be the dinner that you will cook for him, and the supper; and the evenings on the porch. O Lord! Betty Jo, what ever will you do? How will you ever save the fineness of your love? If you were afraid to trust yourself with the help of Auntie Sue's presence, what in the world can you do without her—and you actually keeping house with him? Oh, Auntie Sue! Auntie Sue!” she groaned, “you are the dearest woman in the world and the best and wisest, but you have blundered terribly this time! Why DID you do such a thing! It is not fair to him! It is not fair to me! It is not fair to our love!
“All of which,”—the practical Betty Jo declared a moment later, wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, and going into the other room to set the table for breakfast,—“all of which, Betty Jo, does not in the least help matters, and only makes you more nervous and upset than you are.
“One thing is certain sure,” she continued, while her hands were busy with the dishes and the table preparations: “If we can endure this test, we need never, never, never fear that anything nor anybody can ever, ever make us doubt the genuineness of our love. Auntie Sue has certainly arranged it most beautifully for Brian Kent and Betty Jo Williams to become thoroughly acquainted.”
Betty Jo suddenly paused in her work, and stood very still: “I wonder,” she said slowly,—“can it be,—is it possible,—what if Auntie Sue has brought about this situation for that very reason?”
“Breakfast ready?” cried Brian at the kitchen-door, and his voice was so hearty and natural that the girl answered as naturally: “It will be as soon as you are ready for it. I forget, do you like your eggs three minutes or four?”
They really managed that breakfast very well, even if they did sit opposite each other so that each was forced to look straight across the table into the face of the other. Or, perhaps, it was because they looked at each other so straight and square and frankly honest that the breakfast went so well.
And because the breakfast went so well, they managed the dinner and the supper also.
“I have been thinking,” said Brian at the close of their evening meal, looking straight into the gray eyes over the table, “perhaps it might be better for you to stay at neighbor Tom's until Auntie Sue returns. I'll hitch up 'Old Prince' and drive you over, if you say. Or, we might find some neighbor woman to come here to live with us, if you prefer.”
“You don't like my housekeeping, then?” asked Betty Jo.
“Like it!” exclaimed Brian; and the tone of his voice approached the danger-point.
Betty Jo said quickly: “I'll tell you exactly what I think, Mr. Burns: Auntie Sue said we were to be good children, and take care of things until she returned. She did not say for me to shirk my part by going to neighbor Tom's or by having any one come here. Don't you think we can do exactly what Auntie Sue said?”
“Yes,” returned Brian, heartily; “I am sure we can. And do you know,—come to think about it,—I believe the dear old lady would be disappointed in us both if we dodged our—well,—” he finished with emphasis,—“our responsibilities.”
And after that, somehow, the evening on the porch went as well as the breakfast and dinner and supper had gone.
It was the second day of their housekeeping that Betty Jo noticed smoke coming from the stone chimney of the clubhouse up the river. She reported her observation to Brian when he came in from his work for dinner. During the afternoon, they both saw boats on the quiet waters of The Bend, and at supper told each other what they had seen. And in the evening they together watched the twinkling lights of the clubhouse windows, and once they heard voices and laughter from somewhere on the river as though a boating party were making merry.
Two days later, Brian and Betty Jo were just finishing dinner when a step sounded on the porch, and a man appeared in the open doorway.
The stranger was dressed in the weird and flashy costume considered by his class to be the proper thing for an outing in the country, and his face betrayed the sad fact that, while he was mentally, spiritually, and physically greatly in need of a change from the unclean atmosphere that had made him what he was, he was incapable of benefiting by more wholesome conditions of living. He was, in fact, a perfect specimen of that type of clubman who, in order to enjoy fully the beautiful life of God's unspoiled world, must needs take with him all of the sordid and vicious life of that world wherein he is most at home.
With no word of greeting, he said, with that superior air which so many city folk assume when addressing those who live in the country: “Have you people any fresh vegetables or eggs to sell?”
Brian and Betty Jo arose, and Brian, stepping forward, said, with a smile: “No, we have nothing to sell here; but I think our neighbor, Mr. Warden, just over the hill, would be glad to supply you. Won't you come in?”
The man stared at Brian, turned an appraising eye on Betty Jo; then looked curiously about the room.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, removing his cap, “I thought, when I spoke, that you were natives. My name is Green,—Harry Green. There is a party of us stopping at the clubhouse, up the river, there;—just out for a bit of a good time, you know. We are from St. Louis,—first time any of us were ever in the Ozarks,—friends of mine own the clubhouse.”
“My name is Burns,” returned Brian. “We noticed your boats on the river. You are enjoying your outing, are you?”
Again the man looked curiously from Brian to Betty Jo. “Oh, yes; we can stand it for awhile,” he answered. “We're a pretty jolly bunch, you see;—know how to keep things going. It would kill me if I had to live here in this lonesome hole very long, though. Don't you find it rather slow, Mrs. Burns?”
Poor Betty Jo's face turned fairly crimson. She could neither answer the stranger nor meet his gaze, but stood with downcast eyes;—then looked at Brian appealingly.
But Brian was as embarrassed as Betty Jo; while the stranger, as he regarded them, smiled with an expression of insolent understanding.
“I guess I have made another mistake,” he said, with a meaning laugh.
“You have,” returned Brian, sharply, stepping forward as he spoke; for the man's manner was unmistakable. “Be careful, sir, that you do not make another.”
Mr. Green spoke quickly, with an airy wave of his hand: “No offense; no offense, I assure you.” Then as he moved toward the door, he added, still with thinly veiled insolence: “I beg your pardon for intruding. I understand, perfectly. Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns! Good-afternoon, miss!”
Brian followed him out to the porch; and the caller, as he went down the steps, turned back with another understanding laugh: “I say, Burns, you are a lucky devil. Don't worry about me, old man. I envy you, by Jove! Charming little nest. Come over to the club some evening. Bring the little girl along, and help us to have a good time. So-long!”
Mr. Harry Green probably never knew how narrowly he escaped being manhandled by the enraged but helpless Brian.
Brian remained on the porch until he saw the man, in his boat, leave the eddy at the foot of the garden and row away up the river.
In the house, again, the two faced each other in dismay.
Betty Jo was first to recover: “I am sure that it is quite time for Auntie Sue to come home and take charge of her own household again. Don't you think so, Mr. Burns?”
And Brian Kent most heartily agreed.
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