CAPTAIN ALLEN HAS AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

Dr. Cary had hardly been laid away, when the County had to face another sorrow.

The trial of Captain Allen was set for the next day, and the county seat was in a fever of expectation and apprehension. It was the final struggle between the old residents and the new invaders, and it seemed that the latter must triumph. There was no hope. It was the beginning of the complete subjugation of the people. All thoughts were centred on the little village where the battle was to be joined and fought. A dark cloud seemed to have settled like a pall over the place which even the soft afterglow of a summer evening could not lighten. The breath of flowers was on the breeze that came from the shrubbery-filled yards and rustled the trees. Yet the sounds were subdued, and the faces of the people were gloomy and grim. The Judge had arrived, and had taken his room in the old Hotel. Leech, solemn and once more self-assertive, with a face still pale from his recent attack, but a gleam of joy in his pale blue eyes, was quartered with Judge Bail in the hotel. Some said he was afraid to go to his house; some that he wanted to be near the Judge, and keep his mind filled with his insinuations. It was hinted that he was afraid Bail would offer to sell out. McRaffle had quarrelled with Leech and had made such an offer. He had also said that the Judge could be reached, if the sum tendered were large enough. At least, such was the rumor about the village. The jury was assembled and kept together. The witnesses had been brought to town and were also keeping together. The lawyers, with grave faces, were consulting behind locked doors and closely shut windows—those who represented the Government in a room adjoining Leech’s, and not far from the Judge’s chamber; and those who were for the prisoner, among them some of the ablest lawyers in the State, in Steve’s old office. Mr. Bagby and General Legaie were the leading counsel, and Jerry lounged about the door like a Bashi-Bazouk. The crowd in the village was larger than it had been in a good while. Men were assembled in groups in the suburbs or on the verandas, sullen and almost awe-struck, discussing the points in the case with the intelligence of those trained by sharp experience to know the gravity of such an occasion and to weigh the chances. It was known that the principal evidence against Captain Allen was his own confession. This was his chief danger. Leech (it was noticeable that, when Leech was there, it was not the Government, whose soldiers were still quartered in the village, but Leech that was spoken of as representing the prosecution)—Leech could not prove any act of his without that. The lawyers could break down all the witnesses except one—the one to whom Captain Allen had been fool enough to talk; her testimony they could not get around. Mr. Bagby and General Legaie had said so. Mr. Bagby said that a man’s own confession was the hardest thing in the world to overcome; that one was a fool ever to confess anything. Such were the observations of a group assembled on one of the street corners, out of hearing of the sentries.

This idea gave the discussion another turn. “Was Captain Allen really in love with Miss Welch?” someone questioned. He had been in love with her beyond a doubt, but he had stopped visiting her. Some thought she had led him on, to get all out of him she could; others that he had stopped, and that she was taking her revenge. One element considered that it served him right. Why should he have to go off after a Yankee girl, whose people were all against them, when there were plenty of their own girls just as pretty and more attractive? Others took Steve’s part. If a man fell in love he fell in love, that was all; and if he was in love, he had a right to do as he chose—there was no Mason and Dixon line in love. Even these, however, thought that Miss Welch was taking her revenge.

Andy Stamper, who had come up and was grimly listening with unwonted silence, broke forth with a strong denunciation of such nonsense. He did not believe a word of it. Miss Welch had been to see Miss Blair Cary and Miss Thomasia, old Mr. Langstaff and Mr. Bagby, and had done all she could to keep from testifying. She was “cut up as the mischief about it,” declared Andy. She had wanted to go away, but Leech was too sharp for her; he had had her recognized to appear. He knew he could not convict the Captain without her. Her father, too, was awfully troubled about it, and had been to Washington to see what he could do. He could not bear Leech. Was he not getting ready to sue him about that railroad steal? He had just come back from the North. They had not come to the court-house. Perhaps he had been able to do something?

The crowd did not accept Andy’s views. Some of them thought the attitude of Major Welch was all a sham; that his anger with Leech was just a pretence, and that he was really in collusion with him. Had he not objected to Captain Allen’s visiting at his house, and hadn’t he done all he could to trace up Leech when the Captain had him hidden. He had made a big show of giving up when Captain Steve and Mr. Gray proved Hiram Still’s rascality; but he had bided his time, and he was getting a pretty sweet revenge. He had been North; but the speakers believed it was to push the case against the Captain, not to stop it. He could have stopped it easy enough, if he had chosen. He was “in with the biggest of ’em.”

Little Andy chewed in glum silence. Suddenly he burst out:

“Well, I say that man don’t pretend to nothin’. Whether he likes the Captain or whether he don’t, or whether you like him or whether you don’t, is one thing. But what he is, he is; and he don’t pretend to nothin’. If all Yankees was like him, I wouldn’t care how many they was—unless I had to fight ’em.”

This sententious speech had its effect on the crowd, and the sergeant was proceeding to expound further his opinion. But just then the sound of wheels was heard; and the next moment a close carriage, with a good pair of horses, drove quickly by them in a cloud of dust. It was recognized as Major Welch’s carriage, and, though the curtains were half-drawn, the group recognized the occupants as Major and Mrs. Welch and their daughter, and one other person, who was leaning back. One man thought it looked like old Mr. Langstaff; but, of course, it was not he. A number of groans followed the carriage as it passed on down the street toward the hotel. Andy’s countenance and stock both fell.

To a man like Steve Allen the sentence which appeared to wait for him on the morrow was worse than death. He had faced death scores of times, and would readily have done so again, on any occasion. But he had never apprehended that a shameful sentence, however undeserved, would be passed on him. Better, a thousand times, that he had died in battle and lain with his comrades, who had left honorable names. He summoned to his aid all his fortitude, and tried to soothe himself with the knowledge that he had never committed a dishonorable act; that the cause of his present situation was the desire to act a noble part and save others. But do what he might, he could not keep from his mind the feeling that, deserved or not, a conviction and sentence to the penitentiary placed a stigma on him never to be erased. All his high hopes would be blighted, his future ruined; he would have brought disgrace on his family; he could never more face men as he had done heretofore; he would not be fit to speak to a lady.

He was aware at intervals that this was a weakness, for he had moments when he recognized that an undeserved sentence could not degrade; but do what he might, the horror of it would come back to him. With it was another wound. The blow had been struck by her whom he loved. The girl whom he had given his whole heart to and whom he had thought the truest, bravest, highest woman in all the world, to whom he had spoken as he would not have spoken to any other man or woman, and who, he had hoped, cared for him, had turned and betrayed him. But for her he would be free to-morrow. He knew it himself, and his lawyers, in their last interview with him, just over, had told him so. They would do what they could; but the fact remained that he had confessed his part in the act for which the prosecution was brought, and they did not see how they could get around it. Some of them had suggested that they had a single chance. The witness was in a condition of high excitement; and they might, by severe cross-examination, confuse her and destroy the force of her evidence. This Steve promptly vetoed. He would not have it done. The lawyers gazed at him in dismay.

“My dear sir, it is your only chance.”

“I do not care, I will not have it,” said Steve, firmly. “I said it, and I will have no cross-examination on that point.”

“That is Quixotic.”

“Then I’ll be Quixotic. I’ve been so before. Don Quixote was a gentleman.” General Legaie’s eyes sparkled suddenly as they rested on him.

They had left him, saying good-by with that solemnity which showed how forlorn their hope was. As they reached the outer door and passed across the court-green, old Mr. Bagby said, “That is really a most extraordinary young man, and to think that such a man should be in prison under indictment.”

The little General breathed a deep and fervent oath.

“What a pity that he could not have married that nice young lady, Miss Welch—such a nice young lady!” proceeded Mr. Bagby, half in soliloquy.

“Marry her! Marry that woman! The viper!” exploded the General. “I’d rather die!”

“Oh, a very nice young lady,” pursued Mr. Bagby to himself, as he walked on, feeling his way in the darkness. He did not tell the General that he had lately had an interview which had raised Miss Ruth Welch in his esteem and changed her, in his mind, from the viper which the General conceived her to be, to the nice young lady of whom he muttered in the dusk of the summer night.

This interview with his lawyers had been over an hour ago. Steve was still in the room in which the interview had been held; but the high stand which he had taken with his counsel had now lost some of its loftiness as the hardness of his position stood nakedly before him. After all, had not this girl betrayed him? Why should he sacrifice himself for her? This thought flitted before Steve, only for an instant. He put it away from him with a gesture of bitterness. At least he would be a gentleman, whatever befell. He took from his pocket a pistol which he wore when he surrendered, and which had not been taken from him, and examined it attentively, with a curious expression on his face. He was thinking deeply. Suddenly his expression changed. “Never! Cowardice!” He flung the pistol over on the cot by the window. The reflection had come to him that it would be taken as a proof of fear as well as of guilt. And, moreover, the thought had come that he might still be of use.

The triumph of Leech recurred to him. He very often thought of Leech—of Leech, who had hounded him down, and not only him, but others a thousand times better: Dr. Cary, the high-minded, noble gentleman, the faithful Christian. Leech, the vampire, sucking the life-blood of the people; the harpy, battening on the writhing body of the prostrate State, had broken Dr. Cary’s heart. Jacquelin had told Steve how the Doctor looked as he lay in his coffin, murdered; his face full of scars, but calm with the stamp of immortal courage—like an old knight, paladin of a lost cause, stricken through the heart in a final charge, before the light of victory could fade from his brow. Steve, thinking of this, was leaning against the bars of his open window, looking away into space through the dusk. The window was in the rear of the jail, and looked down on a vacant, weed-grown lot, back of the court-green. Steve became conscious of the presence of two men in the open space beneath. They had just moved, so as to be in the shadow of the building, and were right below his window, conversing earnestly. Suddenly their voices rose, and Steve was almost startled to recognize Leech and McRaffle. He could not help hearing what they were saying. McRaffle was insisting on something, and Leech was refusing. McRaffle broke out in a passion. He was evidently under the influence of liquor.

“You owe it to me. You said you would pay me $1,000 for him, alive or dead,” he asserted. “I kept my part of the bargain; now, blank you! stand up to yours.”

“If you had brought him dead, I might have paid; but you did not capture him,” said Leech, with a harsh laugh. “He gave himself up.”

“Well, it was in consequence of the report I circulated,” insisted McRaffle. “Do you suppose he’d have given himself up, if he had not heard that if he did so the others would be released?”

Leech laughed incredulously. “More fool he!”

“And whose idea was that?”

“My friend, there’s no use to try that game on me. What good would that have done, if I had not induced Miss Welch to tell what your friend was fool enough to confide to her? Where would we have been but for her testimony? If anyone is entitled to claim the reward I offered, I am the man. I must protect the Government.” He spoke unctuously.

“You think you are entitled to everything. I know how you’ll protect the Government!” sneered McRaffle. “Suppose your important witness won’t testify?” he asked.

“She’ll sleep in jail. I’ll make Bail give her the apartment next her friend,” said Leech, scornfully. “They’ll enjoy that.”

Leech never knew how close Death brushed by him that instant. Steve’s pistol was lying on the bed, within a foot of him. He seized it. He would rid the country of that cursed presence, and pay his own debt at the same time. He had cocked the pistol involuntarily, when he came to himself. Oh! if he only had him face to face, in an open field, both armed, he could settle the final score! He uncocked the pistol and flung it away from him.

“Miss Welch won’t refuse,” Leech went on, “I am smart enough to know how to deal with women as well as men.” He laughed arrogantly.

“You think so? You are sometimes too blanked smart for your own good,” said McRaffle.

Leech, stung by the speech, turned on him.

“I’ll put you on the stand,” he threatened.

“Not much, you won’t. I won’t testify.”

“You’re getting pretty squeamish all of a sudden,” sneered Leech.

McRaffle wheeled on him in a rage.

“Don’t you dare sneer at me that way,” he said. “If you do, I’ll——”

He seized Leech by the shoulder.

“I’ll tell how you deal with women—for instance, with Miss Bush, the school-teacher, alias Mrs. Jonadab Leech!” he hissed.

Leech seemed suddenly to shrink up.

“What do you know about—about her?”

“Put me on the stand, and I’ll tell you all you want to know,” said McRaffle, tauntingly. “Perhaps, you don’t want me as a witness now? Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Pay me the thousand dollars, or—I tell you—endorse my note for a thousand, and I’ll keep quiet. Otherwise, I’ll have to get Dr. Still to endorse it, or maybe even the Governor,” he said, meaningly.

“Well, if I do, will you swear that you will never open your mouth again about this to a single soul on earth?”

“Make it twelve hundred,” said McRaffle. “The Governor’d give twice that to know of Mrs. Leech. I reckon it would be some time before you’d dine with Miss Krafton again.”

Leech seized him to stop him.

The rest of the conversation was in a lower key, and they soon moved off together, leaving Steve still in darkness, literally and figuratively. But he had conquered a great temptation. This reflection, after a time, brought a feeling almost of peacefulness. He threw himself on the bed, and began to go over his life. Presently he began in humility to look to a Higher Power.

At that moment his door was opened, and a voice said:

“A visitor to see you, Capt’n. Will you come to the parlor?” The messenger was the old Sergeant, O’Meara, whom Thurston had placed in charge of the prison.

Steve, after a moment, left his cell and walked slowly through the corridor to the apartment adjoining the jailer’s quarters, which was dignified by the name of parlor. It was lighted by a small lamp, the rays of which hardly reached the walls. The room was empty. But Steve could hear from the voices that there were two persons in the next room. He walked to the open window and waited, with his head resting on his arm against the bars. The same reverie from which he had been aroused returned.

The door behind him opened and closed softly.

“Captain Allen!” said a faint voice. Steve turned.

“Miss Welch!” He stood dumbfounded. Before him, with her veil only half thrown back, was Ruth Welch. She stood just inside the door, motionless as though planted on the spot; and, as Steve did not move, the whole space of the room was between them. Her eyes, which she lifted for a second to Steve’s face, fell.

“Captain Allen,” she began, and then faltered. After a second, however, with an effort she began again.

“I have come to see you; to see—to see if there is nothing I can do to—to help you?”

At the words, Steve’s heart hardened.

“No, thank you, there is nothing,” he said. His voice was hard and unnatural. She made a movement, almost as if she shrank back. But she began again, speaking very slowly and painfully:

“I do not know what to say. But I want—I want to see if there is nothing——?” She broke off, but began again: “You don’t know how deeply—how terribly—I——” Her voice failed her. She stopped and wrung her hands. “Is there nothing—nothing I can do?”

Steve stood like stone. “No, nothing.”

She broke the silence that fell.

“I thought there was—there might be. I hoped—there might be. You do not know how terribly I feel. I hoped there might be some way for me to help you, to atone for my wicked folly. I did not know——”

Her voice failed again, and she put her handkerchief quickly to her eyes.

Steve, up to this time, had not volunteered a word or stirred from where he stood. His heart began to relent, and he felt that he must say something.

“You need not reproach yourself,” he said. “I have not done so. It was my folly, not yours.”

“Oh, no, no! I will not let you say that,” she broke out, vehemently. “You trusted me. You have been only brave and noble. But I did not know! I thought, when I told it, it would help you. You will believe that, will you not?”

She came a step or two nearer in her intensity, and gazed at him earnestly.

“Yes, if you say so,” said Steve.

“I do,” she declared, earnestly. “I thought, when they were prosecuting you, that it would set you in the right light; and it seems that dreadful man knew how to distort it and knew— Oh! it all seems like a dreadful nightmare! I have done everything I could. And my father has, too. Is there no way? Do you not know of one way in which my testimony could not be taken?” Her voice faltered, so that Steve could scarcely catch the words.

“No, none whatsoever.”

“Yes. There is one way. I have heard—I have been told there is one,” she persisted, faintly.

“And what is that?” asked Steve, coldly. Suddenly she broke down.

“How can you be so hard on me—so cruel?” she sobbed.

Steve watched her, at first almost grimly; but her weeping softened him.

“Miss Welch, do not distress yourself,” he said, quietly. “There is no way to help me; but it is not your fault. I believe what you have told me.”

“There is one way,” she said.

“And that is?”

“To marry me.”

“What!” Steve almost tottered.

“To marry me. If you marry me, I could not be made to testify against you. I have been told so.” She had recovered her composure and was speaking quite calmly.

“I could not let you do that,” said Steve, firmly.

“I have come to ask you to do it,” she went on, speaking quite as if she were but finishing her first sentence. “And afterward, you could—get—a—a—divorce. I would go away and hide myself, and never, never trouble you again.” Her composure deserted her, and she buried her face in her hands. If she could have seen Steve’s face at that moment—the sudden flame which lit it up—and the gesture which he made, as though he would have caught her in his arms, and that with which he restrained himself and reasserted his self-control, she might not have wept. But she did not see it, and Steve was able to master himself, though when he spoke his voice had wholly changed.

“I could not do that,” he said, gently, and with a new tone. “I could not allow you to sacrifice yourself.”

“It would not be— Yes, you can,” she pleaded.

“No,” said Steve, almost sternly. “Do not, I beg you.” He lifted his hand as though to put her from him; but suddenly clutched at his heart.

She stopped sobbing. He turned half-away.

“Go,” he said. “Leave me, please.”

His voice could scarcely be heard, and he put his hand to his forehead. She turned without a word, and moved slowly toward the door. As she put out her hand to open it, she suddenly sank in a heap on the floor. In a second Steve was at her side. He stooped and lifted her, as though she were a child.

“Ruth,” he said; and, as she opened her eyes, “forgive me.” He caught the hem of her dress and crushed it against his lips. “I could not let you do that. I could not let you sacrifice yourself.”

“It is no sacrifice. Do you not see? Oh! Can you not see that—I—love——?” She could not complete the sentence. Her head drooped.

“What! Ruth!” Steve stood her up on her feet and held her at arm’s length. “Ruth Welch, for God’s sake do not tell me that unless it is true.” His eyes were burning, and were fastened on her face with a gaze that seemed almost to scorch her.

“It is true,” she said, in a low voice, and tried to turn her face away. Steve did not stir.

“Wait,” he said, hoarsely. “Does your mother know of this?”

“Yes.” She was looking in his eyes now quite calmly.

“Where is she?”

“In the next room.”

Steve suddenly caught her in his arms.

A little later Mrs. Welch and Steve had an interview. Steve told her that while he had loved her daughter better than his life, ever since the day he had met her, and while the knowledge that she cared for him had changed the world for him, that very fact would not permit him to let her take the step she proposed. He would not allow her to sacrifice herself by marrying him when under a criminal charge, and with a sentence staring him in the face. Mrs. Welch adroitly met this objection with the plausible argument that it was as much on her daughter’s account as on his that she desired it. She spoke for her husband as well as for herself. It would prevent the horror of her daughter’s having to appear, and give testimony against him, in open court. She did not believe Ruth could stand the ordeal. She knew she would not testify, even though she should be sent to jail and kept there. This Ruth stoutly confirmed. She would die before she would answer a question.

Mrs. Welch, having come over to Steve’s side, was a powerful ally; and as Ruth resolutely maintained her position that she would die in prison before she would utter one word, there was nothing else for Steve to do but yield to their proposal. He raised the point that it was too late, as it was now midnight, and no license could be secured or clergyman be found. But Mrs. Welch was prepared to meet this objection. Captain Thurston had authority under the law to issue the license, and a preacher could be secured. Indeed, Mr. Langstaff had come down to the county seat with them.

So in a short time these preliminaries were settled. A few friends were brought in quietly: General Legaie, who knelt on one knee and lifting Ruth’s hand kissed it reverently; Mr. Bagby, whose eyes twinkled with deep satisfaction over a double victory; Reely Thurston and Jacquelin Gray, and Andy Stamper who had got wind of the matter and asked permission to come. And there in the little dingy room, in the presence of these and of Major and Mrs. Welch, Steve Allen and Ruth Welch were married at midnight by old Mr. Langstaff.