Chapter XI

Left alone with her _fiancé_, perhaps Nellie expected a word of praise for her gallant public demonstration in his favor. If so, she was disappointed.

“Upon my word!” he exclaimed, as the door shut after Vickers. “I never in all my life heard such an audacious impostor. Imagine his daring to pass himself off as Mr. Lee’s son throughout an entire month!”

“He told me within twenty-four hours of his arrival that he was not Bob Lee, and I think he told you, too, James; only you would not believe him.”

Emmons took no notice of this reply, but continued his own train of thought. “When I think that for four weeks you have been practically alone in the house with an escaped murderer--for I don’t believe a word of all this story about false testimony--my blood runs cold. And it is only by the merest chance that we have succeeded in rescuing all your uncle’s property from his hands.”

“I think you are wrong, James. Mr. Vickers never intended to accept my uncle’s property.”

“My dear Nellie! Women are so extraordinarily innocent in financial matters. That was the object of his whole plot.”

“I don’t think it was a plot. It seems to me, indeed, that we both owe an apology to Mr. Vickers.”

“An apology!” said Emmons, and his color deepened. “I think you must be mad, Nellie. I think I owe an apology to the community for having left him at large so long. I ought to have telegraphed to the sheriff of Vickers’s Crossing at once, and I mean to do so without delay.”

Nellie rose to her feet. “If you do that, James--” she began, and then, perhaps remembering that she had been accused of being over-fond of threats in the past, she changed her tone. “You will not do that, I am sure, James, when you stop to consider that you heard Mr. Vickers’s story only because I insisted on having you present. It would be a breach of confidence to me as well as to him.”

Emmons laughed. “The law, my dear girl,” he said, “does not take cognizance of these fine points. It is my duty when I have my hand on an escaped murderer to close it, and I intend to do so. He probably means to leave Hilltop to-night, and I shall not be able to get a warrant from Vickers’s Crossing until to-morrow, but I can arrange with the local authorities to arrest him on some trumped-up charge that will hold him, until we get the papers.”

He moved toward the door; to his surprise Nellie was there before him.

“One moment,” she said. “I don’t think you understand how I feel about this matter. I know Mr. Vickers better than you do. Whatever he may have done in the past, I feel myself under obligations to him. He has done more than you can even imagine, James, to make my uncle’s last days happy. He has been more considerate of me,” she hesitated, and then went on,--“more considerate of me, in some ways, than any one I have ever met, though I have been uniformly insolent and high-handed with him. I admire Mr. Vickers in many respects.”

“It is not ten minutes, however, since you turned him out of your house.”

Nellie was silent, and then she made a decisive gesture. “I will not have you telegraph for that warrant, James. I let you stay under the impression that you were an honorable man, and I will not have Mr. Vickers betrayed through my mistake.”

“Honor! betrayed!” cried Emmons. “Aren’t we using pretty big words about the arrest of a common criminal? I am very sorry if you disapprove, Nellie, but I have never yet allowed man or woman to interfere with what I consider my duty, and I don’t mean to now. Let me pass, please.”

She did not at once move. “Oh, I’ll let you pass, James,” she answered deliberately, “only I want you to understand what it means. I won’t marry you, if you do this. I don’t know that I could bring myself to marry you anyhow, now.”

She had the art of irritating her opponent, and Emmons exclaimed, “I dare say you prefer this jailbird to me.”

She did not reply in words, but she moved away from the door, and Emmons went out of it. The instant he had gone she rang the bell, and when Plimpton appeared she said: “Tell the coachman that I want a trap and the fastest horse of the pair just as quickly as he can get it. Tell him to hurry, Plimpton.”

Plimpton bowed, though he did not approve of servants being hurried. He liked orders to be given in time. Nevertheless, he gave her message, and within half an hour she was in Mr. Overton’s drawing-room. The great man greeted her warmly.

“Do you know, my dear Nellie,” he said, almost as he entered, “I was just thinking that I ought to have made an appointment to see you again. Of course you are in a hurry to get a complete schedule of your new possessions, and to know what you may count on in the future. Shall we say to-morrow--that is Saturday, isn’t it?--about three?”

“Oh, there is not the least hurry about that,” returned Nellie, and her manner was unusually agitated, “any time you like. I did not come about that. I came to ask you if you knew where Bob is--Mr. Vickers, I mean?”

“Yes,” said Overton, “I do!”

“Something dreadful has happened,” Nellie went on with less and less composure. “I have only just found it out. As soon as our interview was over, James Emmons told me he meant to telegraph to Vickers’s Crossing, or whatever the name of the place is, for a warrant. He expects to be able to arrest Mr. Vickers at once.”

“He does, does he--the hound!” cried Overton, for the first time losing his temper. He rang a bell, and when a servant answered it he ordered a trap to be ready at once. Returning to Nellie, he found that she had buried her face in her handkerchief, and he repented his violence.

“There, there, forgive me, Miss Nellie,” he said. “I did not mean to call him a hound. I forgot that you were going to marry him.”

“Oh, don’t apologize to me,” replied Nellie, with some animation; “I wish I had said it myself. I am not going to marry him.”

The news startled Overton. “Why, is that wise, my dear child?” he said. “Perhaps neither of us does him justice. He is a good, steady, reliable man, and if I were you, I would not go back on him in a hurry.”

“He is not any one of those things,” said Nellie, drying her eyes, and looking as dignified as the process allowed. “He is base. He took advantage of what he heard in confidence--of what he only heard at all because I made a point of his being there. Is that reliable, or steady? I call it dishonorable and I would rather die than marry such a creature, and so I told him.”

“You know your own business best,” answered Overton, “but the world is a sad place for lonely women.”

“It would be a very sad place for both James and me, if I married him feeling as I do,” said Nellie, and judging by her expression Overton was inclined to agree with her. “It was all very well while I could respect James, but now----”

“Still, ordinary prudence--” the lawyer began, but she interrupted.

“Don’t talk to me about ordinary prudence. That is what led me into the awful mistake of being engaged to him at all. I thought it would be wise. I used to get thinking about the future, and whether I should have anything to live on----”

“And you don’t think of these things now?”

“I don’t care sixpence about the future,” returned Nellie, “and I’m sure I don’t know why I’ve been crying, except that I am tired, and I think I’ll go home. You’ll warn Mr. Vickers, won’t you?”

“I will,” said Overton.

Nellie still hesitated. “He is here, I suppose.”

“Yes. He was thinking of staying to dine with me, and taking a late train to town. He has a steamer to catch to-morrow; but after what you say”--Overton looked at his watch--“I rather think that he had better go at once. There’s a train within half an hour.”

“Oh, he had much better go at once, before James has time to make trouble,” she answered; and then added gravely, “Mr. Overton, do you believe that the murder happened just as Mr. Vickers said?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“So do I,” Overton answered, “but then I have some reason, for I remember something of the case, which was a very celebrated one up the State. And now, Nellie, I’ll tell you a secret which I wouldn’t trust to any one else. I have an impression--a vague one, but still I trust it--that that case was set straight, somehow or other. If it should be----”

“Telegraph and find out.”

“I wrote some days ago--the night before your uncle was taken ill; but I have had no answer. But mind, don’t tell him. It would be too cruel, if I should turn out to be wrong.”

“I?” said Nellie. “I don’t ever expect to see the man again.”

“I suppose not,” he returned, “and yet I wish it were not too much to ask you to take him to the station in your trap. He won’t have more than time, and mine has not come to the door yet.”

Nellie looked as if she were going to refuse, but when she spoke she spoke quite definitely: “I’ll take him,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Overton, and left the room.

In his library he found Vickers standing on the hearthrug, though there was no fire in the chimney-place. His head was bent and he was vaguely chinking some coins in his pocket.

“Well, Vickers,” said his host coolly, “I have a disagreeable piece of news for you. Emmons, it seems, has telegraphed for a warrant, and does not intend to let you go until he gets it, but possibly he won’t be prepared for your slipping away at once. There’s a train at five-ten. Do you care to try it?”

Vickers looked up, as if the whole matter were of very small interest to him. “There does not seem to be anything else to do, does there?” he said.

“Of course, my offer of a position is still open to you.”

“I can’t stay in this country with Emmons on my heels. They’d lock me up in a minute.”

“You have never heard anything further about your case, have you?”

“Not a word. There wasn’t much to hear, I expect. I suppose I had better be going.”

“Your bags are at the Lees’ still, aren’t they?”

“And can stay there, for all I care. I’ll not put foot in that house again.”

“I hope you don’t feel too resentfully towards Miss Lee,” Overton began, “for in the first place it was she who brought me word of this move of Emmons, and in the second----”

“I don’t feel resentful at all,” interrupted Vickers. “But I don’t feel as if I wanted to go out of my way to see her again.”

“And in the second,” Overton went on, “the only way you can possibly catch your train now is to let her drive you down. She has a trap outside, and she seemed to be----”

He paused, for the door had slammed behind Vickers, and when he followed, the two were already in the trap. Overton smiled.

“That’s right,” he said, “make haste; but you might at least say good-by to a man you may never see again. Good-by, my dear fellow; good luck.”

Vickers, a little ashamed, shook hands with the older man in silence, and Overton went on: “Whatever happens, Vickers, do not resist arrest. I have ordered a trap and I’ll follow you as soon as it comes. Not that I anticipate any trouble.”

They drove away, and Overton as he entered the house murmured to himself, “Not that they listened to a word I said.”

Yet if they had not listened, it did not seem to be from any desire to talk themselves. They drove out of the gates in silence, and had gone some distance before Nellie asked,

“Where shall you go to-night, Mr. Vickers?”

“Thank you for your interest,” returned Vickers bitterly, “but it seems that my plans have been quite sufficiently spread about Hilltop. Perhaps it would be as well for me not to answer your question. I am going away.”

Not unnaturally this speech angered Nellie. “You do not seem to understand,” she said, “that I came to warn you that you must go.”

“I was going anyhow,” he retorted, “but of course I am very much obliged to you for any trouble you may have taken.”

“I thought it my duty,” she began, but he interrupted her with a laugh.

“Your duty, of course. You never do anything from any other motive. That is exactly why I do not tell you my plans. You might feel it your duty to repeat them to Emmons. I think I remember your saying that you always tell him everything.”

“You are making it,” said Nellie, in a voice as cool as his own, “rather difficult for me to say what I think is due to you--and that is that I owe you an apology for having insisted yesterday----”

“You owe me so many apologies,” returned Vickers, “that you will hardly have time to make them between here and the station, so perhaps it is hardly worth while to begin.”

“You have a right to take this tone with me,” said Nellie, acutely aware how often she had taken it with him. “But you shall not keep me from saying, Mr. Vickers, that I am very conscious of how ill I have treated you, and that your patience has given me a respect for you--” She stopped, for Vickers laughed contemptuously; but as he said nothing in answer, she presently went on again: “I do not know what it is that strikes you as ludicrous in what I am saying. I was going to add that I should like to hear, now and then, how you are getting on, if it is not too much to ask.”

He turned on her. “You mean you want me to _write_ to you?”

She nodded.

“I am afraid your future husband would not approve of the correspondence, and as you tell him everything--no, I had far better risk it now, and tell you my plans at once. I am going to South America, where I am going to be a real live general over a small but excellent little army. I know, for I made some of it myself.”

“And will you be safe there?”

“Yes, if you mean from Emmons and the process of the law. On the other hand, some people do not consider soldiering the very safest of professions--especially in those countries, where they sometimes really fight, and, contrary to the popular notion, when they do fight, it is very much the real thing. Fancy your feelings, Nellie, when some day you read in the papers: ‘The one irreparable loss to the Liberal party was the death of General Don Luis Vickers, who died at the head of his column....’ Ah, I should die happy, if only I could die with sufficient glory to induce Emmons to refer to me in public as ‘an odd sort of fellow, a cousin of my wife’s.’ I can hear him. My spirit would return to gloat.”

“He will never say that,” said Nellie, with a meaning which Vickers, unhappily, lost.

“Ah, you can’t tell, Nellie. ‘General Luis Vickers’ sounds so much better than ‘Vickers, the man the police want.’ And Emmons’s standards, I notice, depend almost entirely on what people say. Nellie,” he went on suddenly, “I have something to say to you. You and I are never going to see each other again, and Heaven knows I don’t want to write to you or hear from you again. This is all there will ever be, and I am going to offer you a piece of advice as if I were going to die to-morrow. Don’t marry Emmons! He is not the right sort. Perhaps you think I have no right to criticise a man who has always kept a good deal straighter than I, but it is just because I have knocked about that I know. He won’t do. You are independent now. Your farm will bring you in something. Keep the fellow I put in there, and sell a few of the upland lots. You won’t be rich, but you’ll be comfortable. Don’t marry Emmons.”

“Why do you say this to me?”

“Because I know it’s the right thing to say. I can say anything to you. As far as a woman like you is concerned, I realize a man like myself--without a cent, without even a decent name--doesn’t exist at all; not even Emmons himself could suppose that in advising you not to marry him, I have any hope for myself.”

“And yet that is just what he does think.” She forced herself to look at him, and her look had the anxious temerity of a child who has just defied its elders.

“Nellie, what do you mean?”

“I am not going to marry Mr. Emmons.”

“You are not! You are _not_!! Oh, my darling! What a place the world is! Have I really lost you?”

Nellie smiled at him, without turning her head. “I thought you had no hope.”

He had no sense of decency, for he kissed her twice on the public highway. “I haven’t,” he answered. “I can’t stay, and you can’t go with me. Imagine you in the tropics.”

“I certainly can’t go if I’m not asked.”

“Think what you are saying to me, woman,” he answered. “In another moment I shall ask you if you love me, and then----”

She turned to him, and put her hand in his. “Suppose you do ask me,” she said.

Vickers held it, and bent his head over it, and laid it against his mouth, but he shook his head. “No,” he said, “I won’t. I have just one or two remnants of decency left, and I won’t do that.”

He stopped: for Nellie had turned the horse down an unexpected road. “Where are you going?” he said.

“Back to the house. You can’t sail without your things.”

“My dear girl, I’ve spent half my life traveling without my things.”

“Well, you aren’t going to do it any more,” she answered, and her tone had so domestic a flavor that he kissed her again.

Plimpton met them in the hall, and Nellie lost no time.

“Pack Mr. Vickers’s things at once, please,” she said, and would have passed on, but she was arrested by Plimpton’s voice.

“_Whose_, Madam?” he asked; like many men of parts, he believed that to be puzzled and to be insulted are much the same thing.

“Mine, Plimpton, mine,” said Vickers. “And just for once leave out as much of the tissue paper and cotton wool as possible. I’ve a train to catch.”

“And tell my maid to pack something for me--as much as she can get into a valise; and tea at once, Plimpton.”

Plimpton did not say that he totally disapproved of the whole plan, but his tone was very cold, as he said that tea was already served in the drawing-room.

“Goodness only knows when we shall see food again,” Nellie remarked as she sat down behind the tea-kettle.

“I can hardly catch my train, Nellie.”

“No matter. We can drive over to the other line--nine or ten miles.”

“It will be rather a long lonely journey back, won’t it?”

“For the horse, you mean?” said Nellie. “Well, to tell the truth I don’t exactly know how the horse is going to get back and I don’t much care.”

“Nellie,” said Vickers, and he laid his hand on her shoulder with a gesture that was almost paternal. “I can’t let you do this. You have no idea what a life it would be,--what it would mean to be the wife of a man who----”

“I shall know very soon,” returned she irrepressibly. “But I have some idea what a life it would be to be left behind, and so I am afraid you must put this newly-found prudence of yours in your pocket, and make up your mind----”

But she did not finish a sentence whose end was fairly obvious, for the door was thrown open in Plimpton’s best manner, and Emmons entered. He stopped on seeing Vickers, and stared at him with round eyes.

“_You!_” he cried. “This is the last place I should have thought of looking for you.”

“But does not a meeting like this make amends--” Vickers began lightly, but Nellie struck a better note with her cool: “I should think this would have been the most natural place to look. Tea, James?”

“No, thank you,” replied Emmons sternly. “I’ve no time for tea just now. I parted from the sheriff not ten minutes ago, and I must go and find him at once.”

“Sorry you won’t stay and have a chat,” said Vickers. “But doubtless you know best.”

“You’ll find out what I know within half an hour,” said Emmons, and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

“James is developing quite a taste for repartee,” observed Vickers.

Nellie rose, put out the light under the kettle, and began to draw on her gloves. “We must start now,” she said.

“Now, or never,” said Vickers.

They were half-way down the drive before Nellie asked in the most matter-of-fact tone, “Are the bags in?”

He nodded.

“Mine, too?”

“Yours, too, Nellie. Weak-kneed that I am, when I felt it in my hand, I said a brave man would leave this one behind, but--I put it in.”

Catching his eye, she smiled. “That was very kind of you,” she said, “for I, you know, have not spent half my life traveling without my things.”

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“A noteworthy book.... There are things said in these pages, and said very plainly, which need to be said, which are rarely enough said--almost never so well said. The book contains unforgettable scenes, persons, phrases, and such a picture of the hardness of a good woman as exists nowhere else in our literature.”--_New York Times Saturday Review._

“Masterly ... artistic to the core.”--_Boston Advertiser._

“No criticism of trifles can leave in doubt the great distinction of her craftsmanship. Very certainly she must have made her reputation by this book, if it had not been already won.”--_Punch_ (London).

MAY SINCLAIR’S THE DIVINE FIRE

A story of a London poet. 13th printing. $1.50.

“In all our new fiction I have found nothing worthy to compare with ‘The Divine Fire.’”--MARY MOSS in _The Atlantic Monthly_.

“A full-length study of the poetic temperament, framed in a varied and curiously interesting environment, and drawn with a firmness of hand that excites one’s admiration.... Moreover, a real distinction of style, besides being of absorbing interest from cover to cover.”--_Dial._

“I find her book the most remarkable that I have read for many years.”--OWEN SEAMAN in _Punch_ (London).

=MAY SINCLAIR’S THE TYSONS= 4th printing. $1.50

“Maintains a clinging grip upon the mind and senses, compelling one to acknowledge the author’s genius.”--_Chicago Record-Herald._

=MAY SINCLAIR’S SUPERSEDED= 2nd printing. $1.25

“Makes one wonder if in future years the quiet little English woman may not be recognized as a new Jane Austen.”--_New York Sun._

=MAY SINCLAIR’S AUDREY CRAVEN= 2nd printing. $1.50

“It ranks high in originality, interest and power.... Audrey is a distinct creation.”--_Times Review._

* * * * *

⁂ If the reader will send his name and address the publisher will send, from time to time, information regarding their new books.

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS (X-’07) NEW YORK

Transcriber’s Notes

A few minor punctuation errors have been silently corrected.