Sandy written by Alice Hegan Rice

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At her first touch Carter started up wildly and pushed her from him.
"You said you wouldn't give me up; you promised," he said.

"I know it, Carter. I'll help you, dear. Don't be so afraid! Nobody
shall see you. Put your arm on my shoulder--there! Step down a little
farther!"

With all her slight strength she supported and helped him, the keen
wind blowing her long, thin dress about them both, and the lace
falling back from her arms, leaving them bare to the elbow.

Half-way up the walk he broke away from her and cried out: "I'll have
to go away. It's dangerous for me to stay here an hour."

"Yes, Carter dear, I know. The doctor says it's the climate. We are
going early in the morning. Everything's packed. See how cold I am
getting out here! You'll come in with me now, won't you?"

Coaxing and helping him, she at last succeeded in getting him to bed.
The blood on his handkerchief told its own story.

She straightened the room, drew a screen between him and the fire,
and then went to the bed, where he had already fallen into a deep
sleep. Sinking on her knees beside him, she broke into heavy, silent
sobs. The one grief of her girlhood had been the waywardness of her
only brother. From childhood she had stood between him and blame,
shielding him, helping him, loving him. She had fought valiantly
against his weakness, but her meager strength had been pitted against
the accumulated intemperance of generations.

She chafed his thin wrists, which her fingers could span; she tenderly
smoothed his face as it lay gray against the pillows; then she caught
up his hand and held it to her breast with a quick, motherly gesture.

"Take him soon, God!" she prayed. "He is too weak to try any more."

At midnight she slipped away to her own room and took off the dainty
gown she had put on for Sandy's coming.

For long hours she lay in her great canopied bed with wide-open eyes.
The night was a noisy one, for there was a continual passing on the
road, and occasional shouts came faintly to her.

With heavy heart she lay listening for some sound from Carter's room.
She was glad he was home. It was worse to sit up in bed and listen for
the wheels to turn in at the gate, to start at every sound on the
road, and to wait and wait through the long night. She could scarcely
remember the time when she had not waited for Carter at night.

Once, long ago, she had confided her secret to one of her uncles, and
he had laughed and told her that boys would be boys. After that she
had kept things to herself.

There was but one other person in the world to whom she had spoken,
and that was Sandy Kilday. As she looked back it seemed to her there
was nothing she had withheld from Sandy Kilday. Nothing? Sandy's face,
as she had last seen it, despairing, reckless, hopeless, rose before
her. But she had asked him to come back, she was ready to surrender,
she could make him understand if she could only see him.

Why had he not come? The question multiplied itself into numerous
forms and hedged her in. Was he too angry to forgive her? Had her
seeming indifference at last killed his love? Why had he not sent her
a note or a message? He knew that she was to leave on the early train,
that there would be no chance to speak with her alone in the morning.

A faint streak of misty light shone through the window. She watched it
deepen to rose.

By and by Rachel came in to make the fire. She tiptoed to the bed and
peeped through the curtains.

"You 'wake, Miss Rufe? Dey's been terrible goings on in town last
night! Didn't you hear de posse goin' by?"

"What was it? What's the matter?" cried Ruth, sitting up in bed.

"Dat jail-bird Wilson done shot Jedge Hollis. 'Mos' ebery man in town
went out to ketch him. Dey been gone all night."

"Sandy went with them," thought Ruth, in sudden relief; then she
thought of the judge.

"Oh, Rachel, is he dangerously hurt? Will he die?"

"De las' accounts was mighty bad. Dey say de big doctors is a-comin'
up from de city to prode fer de bullet."

"What made him shoot him? How could he be so cruel, when the dear old
judge is so good and kind to everybody?"

"Jes pore white trash, dat Wilson," said Rachel, contemptuously, as
she coaxed the kindling into a blaze.

Ruth got up and dressed. Beneath the deep concern which she felt was
the flutter of returning hope. Sandy's first duty was to his
benefactor. She knew how he loved the old judge and with what prompt
action he would avenge his wrong. She could trust him to follow honor
every time.

"Some ob 'em 's comin' back now!" cried Rachel from the window. "I's
gwine down to de road an' ax 'em if dey ketched him."

"Rachel, wait! I'm coming, too. Give me my traveling-coat--there on
the trunk. What can I put on my head? My hat is in auntie's room."

Rachel, rummaging in the closet, brought forth an old white
tam-o'-shanter. "That will do!" cried Ruth. "Now, don't make any
noise, but come."

They tiptoed through the house and out into the early morning. It was
still half dark, and the big-eyed poplars watched them suspiciously as
they hurried down to the road. Every branch and twig was covered with
ice, and the snow crackled under their feet.

"I 'spec' it's gwine be summer-time where you gwine at, Miss Rufe,"
said Rachel.

"I don't care," cried Ruth. "I don't want to be anywhere in the world
except right here."

"Dey're comin'," announced Rachel. "I hear de hosses."

Ruth leaned across the top bar of the gate, her figure enveloped in
her long coat, and her white tam a bright spot in the half-light.

On came the riders, three abreast.

"Dat's him in de middle," whispered Rachel, excitedly; "next to de
sheriff. I's s'prised dey didn't swing him up--I shorely is. He's
hangin' down his head lak he's mighty 'shamed."

Ruth bent forward to get a glimpse of the prisoner's face, and as she
did so he lifted his head.

It was Sandy Kilday, his clothes disheveled, his brows lowered, and
his lips compressed info a straight, determined line.

Ruth's startled gaze swept over the riders, then came back to him. She
did not know what was the matter; she only knew that he was in
trouble, and that she was siding with him against the rest. In the one
moment their eyes met she sent him her full assurance of compassion
and sympathy. It was the same message a little girl had sent years
ago over a ship's railing to a wretched stowaway on the deck below.

The men rode on, and she stood holding to the gate and looking after
them.

"Here comes Mr. Sid Gray," said Rachel. The approaching rider drew
rein when he saw Ruth and dismounted.

"Tell me what's happened!" she cried.

He hitched his horse and opened the gate. He, too, showed signs of a
hard night.

"May I come in a moment to the fire?" he asked.

She led the way to the dining-room and ordered coffee.

"Now tell me," she demanded breathlessly.

"It's a mixed-up business," said Gray, holding his numb hands to the
blaze. "We left here early in the night and worked on a wrong trail
till midnight. Then a train-man out at the Junction gave us a clue,
and we got a couple of bloodhounds and traced Wilson as far as
Ellersberg."

"Go on!" said Ruth, shuddering.

"You see, a rumor got out that the judge had died. We didn't say
anything before the sheriff, but it was understood that Ricks wouldn't
be brought back to town alive. We located him in an old barn. We
surrounded it, and were just about to fire it when Kilday came tearing
up on horseback."

"Yes?" cried Ruth.

"Well," he went on, "he hadn't started with us, and he had been riding
like mad all night to overtake the crowd. His horse dropped under him
before he could dismount. Kilday jumped out in the crowd and began to
talk like a crazy man. He said we mustn't harm Ricks Wilson; that
Ricks hadn't shot the judge, for he was sure he had seen him out the
Junction road about half-past five. We all saw it was a put-up job; he
was Ricks Wilson's old pal, you know."

"But Sandy Kilday wouldn't lie!" cried Ruth.

"Well, that's what he did, and worse. When we tried to close in on
Wilson, Kilday fought like a tiger. You never saw anything like the
mix-up, and in the general skirmish Wilson escaped."

"And--and Sandy?" Ruth was leaning forward, with her hands clasped and
her lips apart.

"Well, he showed what he was, all right. He took sides with that
good-for-nothing scoundrel who had shot a man that was almost his
father. Why, I never saw such a case of ingratitude in my life!"

"Where are they taking him?" she almost whispered.

"To jail for resisting an officer."

"Miss Rufe, de man's come fer de trunks. Is dey ready?" asked Rachel
from the hall.

Ruth rose and put her hand on the back of the chair to steady herself.

"Yes; yes, they are ready," she said with an effort. "And, Rachel,
tell the man to go as quietly as possible. Mr. Carter must not be
disturbed until it is time to start."

CHAPTER XXIII

"THE SHADOW ON THE HEART"

Just off Main street, under the left wing of the court-house, lay the
little county jail. It frowned down from behind its fierce mask of
bars and spikes, and boldly tried to make the town forget the number
of prisoners that had escaped its walls.

In a small front cell, beside a narrow grated window, Ricks Wilson had
sat and successfully planned his way to freedom.

The prisoner who now occupied the cell spent no time on thoughts of
escape. He paced restlessly up and down the narrow chamber, or lay on
the cot, with his hands under his head, and stared at the grimy
ceiling. The one question which he continually put to the jailer was
concerning the latest news of Judge Hollis.

Sandy had been given an examining trial on the charge of resisting an
officer and assisting a prisoner to escape. Refusing to tell what he
knew, and no bail being offered, he was held to answer to the grand
jury. For two weeks he had seen the light of day only through the
deep, narrow opening of one small window.

At first he had had visitors--indignant, excited visitors who came in
hotly to remonstrate, to threaten, to abuse. Dr. Fenton had charged in
upon him with a whole battery of reproaches. In stentorian tones he
rehearsed the judge's kindness in befriending him, he pointed out his
generosity, and laid stress on Sandy's heinous ingratitude. Mr.
Moseley had arrived with arguments and reasons and platitudes, all
expressed in a polysyllabic monotone. Mr. Meech had come many times
with prayers and petitions and gentle rebuke.

To them all Sandy gave patient, silent audience, wincing under the
blame, but making no effort to defend himself. All he would say was
that Ricks Wilson had not done the shooting, and that he could say no
more.

A wave of indignation swept the town. Almost the only friend who was
not turned foe was Aunt Melvy. Her large philosophy of life held that
all human beings were "chillun," and "chillun was bound to act bad
sometimes." She left others to struggle with Sandy's moral welfare and
devoted herself to his physical comfort.

With a clear conscience she carried to her home flour, sugar, and lard
from the Hollises' store-room, and sat up nights in her little cabin
at "Who'd 'a' Thought It" to bake dumplings, rolls, and pies for her
"po' white chile."

Sandy felt some misgivings about the delicacies which she brought, and
one day asked her where she made them.

"I makes 'em out home," she declared stoutly. "I wouldn't cook nuffin'
fer you on Miss Sue's stove while she's talkin' 'bout you lak she is.
She 'lows she don't never want to set eyes on you ag'in as long as she
lives."

"Has the judge asked for me?" said Sandy.

"Yas, sir; but de doctor he up and lied. He tol' him you'd went back
to de umerversity. De doctor 'lowed ef he tole him de trufe it might
throw him into a political stroke."

Sandy leaned his head on his hand. "You're the only one that's stood
by me, Aunt Melvy; the rest of them think me a bad lot."

"Dat's right," assented Aunt Melvy, cheerfully. "You jes orter hear de
way dey slanders you! I don't 'spec' you got a friend in town 'ceptin'
me." Then, as if reminded of something, she produced a card covered
with black dots. "Honey, I's gittin' up a little collection fer de
church. You gib me a nickel and I punch a pin th'u' one ob dem dots to
sorter certify it."

"Have you got religion yet?" he asked as he handed her some small
change.

Her expression changed, and her eyes fell. "Not yit," she acknowledged
reluctantly; "but I's countin' on comin' th'u' before long. I's done
j'ined de Juba Choir and de White Doves."

"The White Doves?" repeated Sandy.

"Yas, sir; de White Doves ob Perfection. We wears purple calicoes and
sets up wid de sick."

"Have you seen Miss Annette?"

"Lor', honey! ain't I tol' you 'bout dat? De very night de jedge was
shot, dat chile wrote her paw de sassiest letter, sayin' she gwine run
off and git married wif dat sick boy, Carter Nelson. De doctor headed
'em off some ways, and de very nex' day what you think he done? He put
dat gal in a Cafolic nunnery convent! Dey say she cut up scan'lous at
fust, den she sorter quiet down, an' 'gin to count her necklace, an'
make signs on de waist ob her dress, an' say she lak it so much she
gwine be a Cafolic nunnery sister herself. Now de doctor's jes
tearin' his shirt to git her out, he's so skeered she'll do what she
says."

Sandy laughed in spite of himself, and Aunt Melvy wagged her head
knowingly.

"He needn't pester hisseif 'bout dat. Now Mr. Carter's 'bout to die,
an' you's shut up in jail, she's done turnin' her 'tention on Mr. Sid
Gray. Dey ain't no blinds in de world big enough to keep dat gal from
shinin' her eyes at de boys!"

"Is Carter about to die?" Sandy had become suddenly grave.

"Yas, sir; so dey say. He's got somepin' that sounds lak tuberoses.
Him and Mrs. Nelson and Miss Rufe never did git to Californy. Dey
stopped off in Mobile or Injiany, I can't ricollec' which. He took de
fever de day dey lef', an' he ain't knowed nothin' since."

After Aunt Melvy left, Sandy went to the window and leaned against the
bars. Below him flowed the life of the little town, the men going home
from work, the girls chattering and laughing through the dusk on
their way from the post-office. Every figure that passed, black or
white, was familiar to him. Jimmy Reed's little Skye terrier dashed
down the street, and a whistle sprang to his lips.

How he loved every living creature in the place! For five years he had
been one of them, sharing their interests, part and parcel of the life
of the community. Now he was an outcast, an alien, as much a stranger
to friendly faces as the lad who had knelt long ago at the window of a
great tenement and had been afraid to be alone.

"I'll have to go away," he thought wistfully. "They'll not be wanting
me here after this."

It grew darker and darker in the gloomy room. The mournful voice of a
negro singing in the next cell came to him faintly:

"We'll hunt no moah fo' de possum and de coon,
On de medder, de hill, an' de shoah.
We'll sing no moah by de glimmer ob de moon,
On de bench by de old cabin doah.

"De days go by like de shadow on do heart,
Wid sorrer, wha' all wuz so bright;
De time am come when do darkies hab to part--
Den, my ole Kaintucky home, good night."

Sandy's arm was against the grating and his head was bowed upon it.
Through all the hours of trial one image had sustained him. It was of
Ruth, as he had seen her last, leaning toward him out of the
half-light, her brown hair blowing from under her white cap and her
great eyes full of wondering compassion.

But to-night the darkness obscured even that image. The judge's life
still hung in the balance, and the man who had shot him lay in a
distant city, unconscious, waiting for death. Sandy felt that by his
sacrifice he had put the final barrier between himself and Ruth.

With a childish gesture of despair, he flung out his arms and burst
into a passion of tears. The intense emotional impulse of his race
swept him along like a feather in a gale. His grief, like his joy,
was elemental.

When the lull came at last, he pressed his hot head against the cold
iron grating, and his thoughts returned again and again to Ruth. He
thought of her tender ministries in the sick room, of her intense love
and loyalty for her brother. His whole soul rose up to bless her, and
the thought of what she had been spared brought him peace.

Through days of struggle and nights of pain he fought back all
thoughts of the future and of self.

These times were ever afterward a twilight-place in his soul, hallowed
and sanctified by the great revelation they brought him, blending the
blackness of despair with the white light of perfect love. Here his
thoughts would often turn even in the stress and strain of the daily
life, as a devotee stops on his busy round and steps within the dim
cathedral to gain strength and inspiration on his way.

The next time Aunt Melvy came he asked for some of his law-books, and
from that on there was no more idling or dreaming.

Among the volumes she brought was the old note-book in which the judge
had made him jot down suggestions during those long evening readings
in the past. It was full of homely advice, the result of forty years'
experience, and Sandy found comfort in following it to the letter.

For the first time in his life he learned the power of concentration.
Seven hours' study a day, without diversion or interruption, brought
splendid results. He knew the outline of the course at the university,
and he forged ahead with feverish energy.

Meanwhile the judge's condition was slowly improving.

One afternoon Sandy sat at his table, deep in his work. He heard the
key turn in its lock and the door open, but he did not look up.
Suddenly he was aware of the soft rustle of skirts, and, lifting his
eyes, he saw Ruth. For a moment he did not move, thinking she must be
but the substance of his dream. Then her black dress caught his
attention, and he started to his feet.

"Carter?" he cried--"is he--"

Ruth nodded; her face was white and drawn, and purple shadows lay
about her eyes.

"He's dead," she whispered, with a catch in her voice; then she went
on in breathless explanation: "but he told me first. He said, 'Hurry
back, Ruth, and make it right. They can come for me as soon as I can
travel. Tell Kilday I wasn't worth it.' Oh, Sandy! I don't know
whether it was right or wrong,--what you did,--but it was merciful: if
you could have seen him that last week, crying all the time like a
little child, afraid of the shadows on the wall, afraid to be alone,
afraid to live, afraid to die--"

Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.

Sandy started forward, then he paused and gripped the chair-back
until his fingers were white.

"Ruth," he said impatiently, "you'd best be going quick. It'll break
the heart of me to see you standing there suffering, unless I can take
you in me arms and comfort you. I've sworn never to speak the word;
but, by the saints--"

"You may!" sobbed Ruth, and with a quick, timid little gesture she
laid her hands in his.

For a moment he held her away from him. "It's not pity," he cried,
searching her face, "nor gratitude!"

She lifted her eyes, as honest and clear as her soul.

"It's been love, Sandy," she whispered, "ever since the first."

[Illustration: "'It's been love, Sandy, ... ever since the first'"]

Two hours later, when the permit came, Sandy walked out of the jail
into the court-house square. A crowd had collected, for Ruth had told
her story and the news had spread; public favor was rapidly turning in
his direction.

He looked about vaguely, as a man who has gazed too long at the sun
and is blinded to everything else.

"I've got my buggy," cried Jimmy Reed, touching him on the arm. "Where
do you want to go?"

Sandy hesitated, and a dozen invitations were shouted in one breath.
He stood irresolute, with his foot on the step of the buggy; then he
pulled himself up.

"To Judge Hollis," he said.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE PRIMROSE WAY

Spring and winter, and spring again, and flying rumors fluttered
tantalizing wings over Clayton. Just when it was definitely announced
that Willowvale was to be sold, Ruth Nelson returned, after a year's
absence, and opened the old home.

Mrs. Nelson did not come with her. That excellent lady had concluded
to bestow her talents upon a worthier object. In her place came Miss
Merritt, a quiet little sister of Ruth's mother, who proved to be to
the curious public a pump without a handle.

About this time Sandy Kilday returned from his last term at the
university, and gossip was busy over the burden of honors under which
he staggered, and the brilliance of the position he had accepted in
the city. In prompt contradiction of this came the shining new sign,
"Hollis & Kilday," which appeared over the judge's dingy little
office.

Nobody but Ruth knew what that sign had cost Sandy. He had come home,
fresh from his triumphs, and burning with ambition to make his way in
the world,--to make a name for her to share, and a record for her to
be proud of. The opportunity that had been offered him was one in a
lifetime. It had taken all his courage and strength and loyalty to
refuse it, but Ruth had helped him.

"We must think of the judge first, Sandy," she said. "While he lives
we must stay here; there'll be time enough for the big world after a
while."

So Sandy gave up his dream for the present and tacked the new sign
over the office door with his own hand.

The old judge watched him from the pavement. "That's right," he said,
rubbing his hands together with childish satisfaction; "that's just
about the best-looking sign I ever saw!"

"If you ever turn me down in court I'll stand it on its head and make
my own name come first," threatened Sandy; and the judge repeated the
joke to every one he saw that day.

It was not long until the flying rumors settled down into positive
facts, and Clayton was thrilled to its willow-fringed circumference.
There was to be a wedding! Not a Nelson wedding of the olden times,
when a special car brought grand folk down from the city, and the
townspeople stayed apart and eyed their fine clothes and gay behavior
with ill-concealed disfavor. This was to be a Clayton wedding for high
and low, rich and poor.

There was probably not a shutter opened in the town, on the morning of
the great day, that some one did not smile with pleasure to find that
the sun was shining.

Mrs. Hollis woke Sandy with the dawn, and insisted upon helping him
pack his trunk before breakfast. For a week she had been absorbed in
his nuptial outfit, jealously guarding his new clothes, to keep him
from wearing them all before the wedding.

Aunt Melvy was half an hour late in arriving, for she had tarried at
"Who'd 'a' Thought It" to perform the last mystic rites over a
rabbit's foot which was to be her gift to the groom.

The whole town was early astir and wore a holiday air. By noon
business was virtually abandoned, for Clayton was getting ready to go
to the wedding.

Willowvale extended a welcome to the world. The wide front gates stood
open, the big-eyed poplars beamed above the oleanders and the myrtle,
while the thrushes and the redwings twittered and caroled their
greetings from on high. The big white house was open to the sunshine
and the spring; flowers filled every nook and corner; even the
rose-bush which grew outside the dining-room window sent a few
venturesome roses over the sill to lend their fragrance to those
within.

And such a flutter of expectancy and romance and joy as pervaded the
place! All the youth of Clayton was there, loitering about the grounds
in gay little groups, or lingering in couples under the shadow of the
big porches.

In the library Judge and Mrs. Hollis did the honors, and presented the
guests to little Miss Merritt, whose cordial, homely greetings
counteracted the haughty disapproval of the portraits overhead.

Mr. Moseley rambled through the rooms, indulging in a flowing
monologue which was as independent of an audience as a summer brook.

Mr. Meech sought a secluded spot under the stairway and nervously
practised the wedding service, while Mrs. Meech, tucked up for once in
her life, smiled bravely on the company, and thought of a little green
mound in the cemetery, which Sandy had helped her keep bright with
flowers.

They were all there, Dr. Fenton slapping everybody on the back and
roaring at his own jokes; Sid Gray carrying Annette's flowers with a
look of plump complacency; Jimmy Reed constituting himself a bureau of
information, giving and soliciting news concerning wedding presents,
destination of wedding journey, and future plans.

Up-stairs, at a hall window, the groom was living through rapturous
throes of anticipation. For the hundredth time he made sure the ring
was in the left pocket of his waistcoat.

From down-stairs came the hum of voices mingled with the music. The
warm breath of coming summer stole through the window.

Sandy looked joyously out across the fields of waving blue-grass to
the shining river. Down by the well was an old windmill, and at its
top a weather-vane. When he spied it he smiled. Once again he was a
ragged youngster, back on the Liverpool dock; the fog was closing in,
and the coarse voices of the sailors rang in his ears. In quick
flashes the scenes of his boyhood came before him,--the days on
shipboard, on the road with Ricks, at the Exposition, at Hollis Farm,
at the university,--and through them all that golden thread of romance
that had led him safe and true to the very heart of the enchanted land
where he was to dwell forever.

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