Chapter XXII: Von Rittenheim Collects his Rent

It was in the cool of the next day's afternoon that von Rittenheim, with 'Gene Frady, who was working for him, drove up to the field where was piled his rent corn. Bud was awaiting him there, and after he had chosen his heap from the three which were as nearly alike as it was possible to make them, he sat on a fallen tree and idly watched the two men loading the wagon. The western sky gave prophecy of a cloudless sunset, and Friedrich wished that his own path towards oblivion were as free and clear, and smiled faintly at the triteness of his comparison.

He owned to himself as he sat there that he was contented. He had entered upon his business with the desire to retrieve his past, and to make for himself a future that might be worthy for Sydney to share. Now the latter spur to ambition was gone, but it was replaced by an urgent desire to forget in work the bitter disappointment that had befallen him. Pushed by that incentive his venture could not long remain a venture. Such energy was bound to bring success. And the victory, which was daily more evident and more substantial, combined with the feeling that he was doing his duty as he saw it, to produce content.

But happiness? No. Never while---- Oh, what was the use of thinking about it? He rose impatiently, and walked through the brush at the top of the field, slapping at the leaves with a switch that he had been stripping.

Of a sudden he stopped and sat down on a stump.

"Goin' down with me, Mr. Baron?" called 'Gene from the top of the loaded wagon.

"No, I think not. I'll stay and talk with Bud a while. Come up here, Yare-brough," he added, as Frady drove off, whistling.

Bud approached, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with his shirt sleeve.

"Bud, did you know this was here?"

Von Rittenheim reached behind him and tapped something that gave forth a sound of earthenware.

"Know what was there?"

"Come and see."

Yarebrough stepped behind the stump, upon whose top the Baron swung around so as to keep his face in view.

"Whose jug?" asked Bud.

"I know not. I thought you might know."

Bud picked it up, disclosing a silver half-dollar upon which it had been resting. He looked at it as if afraid, and then glanced sheepishly at Friedrich.

"A half a gallon," remarked the German, dryly.

The mountaineer reddened and stooped for the coin.

"Wait!" commanded von Rittenheim. "Before you touch that, I want to ask you if you would be willing that your wife should know how you ear-rned that money?"

Yarebrough changed his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, and then sat down suddenly, as if his legs were not equal to his support.

"Well, Ah wasn' fixin' to tell M'lissy," he acknowledged.

"Know you not that that so good little woman would r-rather be hungr-ry than have you give her money that you gained by br-reaking the law?"

"Well, Ah wasn' fixin' to give hit to her."

"You weren't? What are you going to do with it?"

Unfortunately for the success of Friedrich's plan for Bud's moral regeneration, Yarebrough's affection for the Baron made him reticent on the fact of his debt to Pressley.

"For," he thought, sagely, "if Ah tell him Ah owe Pink, he'll go to lend me the money, 'n Ah know he cain' afford hit. Would he ever 'a' gone into sellin' blockade himself if he hadn' been as pore as a crow?"

His wit not being very ready, however, he offered no excuse, but said,--

"Ah reckon Ah don' care to tell ye."

Friedrich laid his hand on the young man's shoulder as he sat beside him on the ground.

"Think what it means, Bud, to do what now you do. You put yourself in the class of wr-rongdoers instead of in the r-ranks of those who do r-right. You will br-reak Melissa's heart if she finds it out, as certainly she will. And think of the baby. You want her to have an honest father, don't you?"

Bud was ground between the upper and the nether millstone. On one side of his weak will was his affection for his wife and child, and his desire to please the Baron. On the other was his fear of Pressley's sneers and his habit of submission to the older man's domination. And since his inclination towards good was not assisted by the mighty lever of a love of good for virtue's sake, the millstones clung close together, and the grinding still went on.

To compromise with a disagreeable present is a desire which it takes a stronger man than Bud to shake off. His inner light showed him no reason for making such an effort.

"Ah s'pose Ah hadn' oughter do hit," he admitted, "but hit's mahty temptin'. Now that there's the first money Ah seen from hit yet. Hit's all been hard work up to now, an' nothin' comin' in."

He lifted the jug and looked longingly at the coin on the ground.

"You don' know what hit is to wan' hit so bad, Mr. Baron."

"Do I not know? Good God! Bud, it was because I wanted half that sum so much that I couldn't r-resist the temptation of it shining in a man's hand, that I did the thing for which never shall I for-rgive myself. You know, Bud; you r-recollect----"

He hid his face in his hands and gave a sob of tortured remembrance. Bud's easy sympathies were strained almost to the point of tears.

"Ah know," he responded, hastily; "you hadn' oughter 'a' done hit. Don', Mr. Baron, don'! Ah'll think about stoppin', Ah certainly will. Sit up, Mr. Baron," he cried, agitatedly, "here's folkses comin',--Mrs. Baron an' Miss Sydney."

Von Rittenheim raised his head, hardly believing Bud's cry to be other than an excuse to rouse him from his emotion. But he saw in the road below him a party of four people on horseback approaching his cabin. Even from his elevation he could recognize Sydney's erect carriage, and the white habit that it pleased Hilda to wear. He rose to his feet.

"Think of what I say, boy," he said to Yarebrough. "I am older than you, and God knows I've earned my experience."

Bud watched him down the hill. When he was greeting his guests at the door of his cabin, Yarebrough picked up the jug and the coin, and disappeared into the woods.

Wendell was taking the baroness off her horse, and Bob was performing the same office for Sydney, when Von Rittenheim reached them.

"We are come to beg a welcome fr-rom you for a few minutes, dear Friedrich," said Hilda, in English.

"Which surely is yours," returned Von Rittenheim, kissing her hand. He turned to Sydney, but she was busy doing something to her saddle, and greeted him over her shoulder. His hand dropped to his side.

"Let me help you tie the horses, Bob," he insisted, and took Sydney's animal from him.

"Dear Yonny," he murmured, in the unresponsive ear, as he fastened him in the shade, and gave him a pat and a lump of sugar from his pocket.

"May we go in?" asked Hilda. "I want to see the state of your storeroom," she added, with an air of protecting care that sat prettily on her youthful face.

"_Natuerlich_," called Friedrich from Johnny's side. "The key of the cupboard is in the table-drawer."

Sydney was alone on the porch when Friedrich came up the steps.

"Your view is lovely," she said. "I think I like Pisgah better from this angle than from any other."

"Then do I, too," he replied, looking at her with his heart in his eyes, for it was long since he had seen her, and to a lover yesterday, when it is passed, is as a thousand years.

Sydney threw up her chin haughtily, and von Rittenheim thought ruefully of the category in which undoubtedly she classed all his remarks of that kind.

"Will you not enter?" he said. "Never have you honored my roof, I think." And Sydney was glad to do so to avoid being alone with him.

They found Hilda leaning against the table opposite the cupboard, while Bob recited the contents of the shelves, and Wendell wrote them down.

"Two packages of oatmeal."

"Oatmeal," echoed John.

"One tin of mustard."

"Mustard."

"A sack half-full of cornmeal."

"Cornmeal."

"What in the world are you doing?" cried Sydney, in amazement.

Friedrich looked annoyed. No one likes to have his house-keeping arrangements too closely scrutinized.

"Friedrich, this list is going to help you ver-ry much to know what you must or-rder from the--how you call him?" She appealed to John and Bob in turn. "The grocy?"

Friedrich smiled to conceal his irritation.

"My way, Hilda, is to get more of something when I find empty the box that holds it. I'm afr-raid I am not pr-rovident."

She returned his smile adorably.

"That I must teach you," she said, and Sydney and John turned away.

Sydney walked to the mantel-shelf, which was so high that it was on a level with her eyes. There was an array of pipes and a tin box of tobacco; a volume of Schiller, with some matches lying loose upon it; and, flat on the board, a photograph. She picked it up idly, not noticing what she was doing, conscious only of doing something, so that her separation from the others might not be noticeable. Her discovery proved to be half of a picture of a Neighborhood picnic, taken by an itinerant photographer who had established his tent near the Flora post-office. It was that side of the group in which she was standing, and her figure was brought into relief by a frame of card-board slipped over it like a mat. It had become a picture of herself, and of herself alone.

Her first feeling--the instinct that comes before thought--was one of pleasure; he had cared enough to do that. But quick upon it came the cry of wounded pride. She found von Rittenheim at her side, and turned upon him fiercely.

"How dare you?" she cried, in an undertone. "How dare you do such a thing? You know I never have given any man my picture,--once I told you so,--and you have made this a picture of me alone. You, who----"

She broke off, choking, but she had enough voice to add,--

"But it is like you, it is like you!" as she tore the card into bits and flung it into the fireplace.

Friedrich stooped involuntarily to catch the falling fragments, but he saw at once the foolishness of his movement, and desisted. He said nothing, and Sydney, made ashamed of her tirade by his silence, as she would not have been by any words, at last looked up at him. The expression on his face was so hopeless, so unutterably sad, that she, in her turn, stood silent.

"Could you not have left me that?" he whispered, hoarsely.

Sydney was held by the inexplicable bond of his mute pain. A sense of comprehension went through her, and with it a thrill of happiness. It might be that after all--yes, it _must_ be that he had not been trifling with her, that he had cared, that he was suffering as she herself was suffering. And if so, how rewarded was her sacrifice! Her love had been strong enough to make her willing that he should love another woman, if his happiness lay in so doing. Her reward came in the knowledge that after all his love was hers--that he was sharing her sacrifice. _Why_ this was she did not understand; she only felt sure that she was right, and she gloried in it. Then, woman-like, she reproached herself for the moments when she had cheapened her renunciation by the suspicion that he had been flirting with her.

Friedrich stood beside her, his left hand clutching his heart. He felt as if, in destroying that picture, so often gazed at through clouds of meditative smoke, so often kissed, she had done him a physical injury. Through his coat he pinched hard her little handkerchief, which always rested over his heart, lest she should divine its presence, and in some way tear that from him, too. His suffering was so great that he did not follow her change of expression, but his fingers felt hers touch them ever so fleetingly, and her whisper came to his ears,--

"Forgive me. I think I understand now."

Across the room came Hilda, who never could stay away from Friedrich many minutes, in spite of Wendell's efforts to interest her; and Wendell himself, following her reluctantly only when her progress brought him near von Rittenheim; and Bob, never truly happy except near Sydney. There was laughing and talking, in which Friedrich and Sydney heard themselves taking part, and wondered how it could be.

"Also we br-rought you an invitation," said Hilda, "as well as our so interesting selves."

"Yes," said Bob, "we're going on a 'possum-hunt to-morrow night, and we want you and your best dog."

"You shall have me! I r-remember last year when first I came I heard the dogs on the mountain, but then I had no kind fr-riends to make me the invitation."

"It's a little early, but we want to be sure to have one before Mr. Wendell goes."

"You go soon?"

Von Rittenheim's interest was only a courteous expression of concern, but John, fretted by Hilda's alternate encouragement and coldness, was tormented by his nerves, and not in command of his judgment. He saw in the Baron's question a malicious pleasure in his prospective departure.

"Yes," he said, "I must go soon, I'm afraid. You're playing in luck these days, old man. You gain what I lose--and the close season for moonshiners is coming on, now that the corn is ripe."

Hilda, who did not understand a word he said, laughed softly, as if in amusement at his wit. Von Rittenheim, who had not been able to follow the colloquialisms, frowned at "moonshining," which rang out for his ears above all else. Sydney and Bob looked with horror at the sneering face before them.

"John," said Sydney, sternly, "you forget yourself strangely."

As they were about to start she leaned from her horse and gave her hand to Friedrich.

"You have much to forgive me," she said.

"For much have I to thank you," he returned.