Part 15 (1/2)

It was nearly six when she went up, engulfed in children, to the circulating room. There the night-librarian caught her. She had evidently been told to try to get Phyllis for more story-hours, for she did her best to make her promise. They talked shop together for perhaps an hour and a half. Then the growing twilight reminded Phyllis that it was time to go back. She had been s.h.i.+rking going home, she realized now, all the afternoon. She said good-by to the night-librarian, and went on down the village street, lagging unconsciously. It must have been about eight by this time.

It was a mile back to the house. She could have taken the trolley part of the way, but she felt restless and like walking. She had forgotten that walking at night through well-known, well-lighted city streets, and going in half-dusk through country byways, were two different things.

She was destined to be reminded of the difference.

”Can you help a poor man, lady?” said a whining voice behind her, when she had a quarter of the way yet to go. She turned to see a big tramp, a terrifying brute with a half-propitiating, half-fierce look on his heavy, unshaven face. She was desperately frightened. She had been spoken to once or twice in the city, but there there was always a policeman, or a house you could run into if you had to. But here, in the unguarded dusk of a country lane, it was a different matter. The long gold chain that swung below her waist, the big diamond on her finger, the gold mesh-purse--all the jewelry she took such a childlike delight in wearing--she remembered them in terror. She was no brown-clad little working-girl now, to slip along disregarded. And the tramp did not look like a deserving object.

”If you will come to the house to-morrow,” she said, hurrying on as she spoke, ”I'll have some work for you. The first house on this street that you come to.” She did not dare give him anything, or send him away.

”Won't you gimme somethin' now, lady?” whined the tramp, continuing to follow. ”I'm a starvin' man.”

She dared not open her purse and appease him by giving him money--she had too much with her. That morning she had received the check for her monthly income from Mr. De Guenther, sent Wallis down to cash it, and then stuffed it in her bag and forgotten it in the distress of the day.

The man might take the money and strike her senseless, even kill her.

”To-morrow,” she said, going rapidly on. She had now what would amount to about three city blocks to traverse still. There was a short way from outside the garden-hedge through to the garden, which cut off about a half-block. If she could gain this she would be safe.

”Naw, yeh don't,” snarled the tramp, as she fled on. ”Ye'll set that bull-pup o' yours on me. I been there, an' come away again. You just gimme some o' them rings an' things an' we'll call it square, me fine lady!”

Phyllis's heart stood still at this open menace, but she ran on still. A sudden thought came to her. She s.n.a.t.c.hed her gilt sash-buckle--a pretty thing but of small value--from her waist, and hurled it far behind the tramp. In the half-light it might have been her gold mesh-bag.

”There's my money--go get it!” she gasped--and ran for her life. The tramp, as she had hoped he would, dashed back after it and gave her the start she needed. Breathless, terrified to death, she raced on, tearing her frock, dropping the library cards and parasol she still had held in her hand. Once she caught her sash on a tree-wire. Once her slipper-heel caught and nearly threw her. The chase seemed unending. She could hear the dreadful footsteps of the tramp behind her, and his snarling, swearing voice panting out threats. He was drunk, she realized with another thrill of horror. It was a nightmare happening.

On and on--she stumbled, fell, caught herself--but the tramp had gained.

Then at last the almost invisible gap in the hedge, and she fled through.

”_Allan! Allan! Allan!_” she screamed, fleeing instinctively to his chair.

The rose-garden was like a place of enchanted peace after the terror of outside. Her quick vision as she rushed in was of Allan still there, moveless in his chair, with the little black bull-dog lying asleep across his arms and shoulder like a child. It often lay so. As she entered, the scene broke up before her eyes like a dissolving view. She saw the little dog wake and make what seemed one flying spring to the tramp's throat, and sink his teeth in it--and Allan, at her scream, _spring from his chair_!

Phyllis forgot everything at the sight of Allan, standing. Wallis and the outdoor man, who had run to the spot at Phyllis's screams, were dealing with the tramp, who was writhing on the gra.s.s, choking and striking out wildly. But neither Phyllis nor Allan saw that. Which caught the other in an embrace they never knew. They stood locked together, forgetting everything else, he in the idea of her peril, she in the wonder of his standing.

”Oh, darling, darling!” Allan was saying over and over again. ”You are safe--thank heaven you are safe! Oh, Phyllis, I could never forgive myself if you had been hurt! Phyllis! Speak to me!”

But Phyllis's own safety did not concern her now. She could only think of one thing. ”_You can stand! You can stand!_” she reiterated. Then a wonderful thought came to her, striking across the others, as she stood locked in this miraculously raised Allan's arms. She spoke without knowing that she had said it aloud. ”_Do you care, too?_” she said very low. Then the dominant thought returned. ”You must sit down again,” she said hurriedly, to cover her confusion, and what she had said. ”Please, Allan, sit down. Please, dear--you'll tire yourself.”

Allan sank into his chair again, still holding her. She dropped on her knees beside him, with her arms around him. She had a little leisure now to observe that Wallis, the ever-resourceful, had tied the tramp neatly with the outdoor man's suspenders, which were nearer the surface than his own, and succeeded in prying off the still unappeased Foxy, who evidently was wronged at not having the tramp to finish. They carried him off, into the back kitchen garden. Allan, now that he was certain of Phyllis's safety, paid them not the least attention.

”Did you mean it?” he said pa.s.sionately. ”Tell me, did you mean what you said?”

Phyllis dropped her dishevelled head on Allan's shoulder.

”I'm afraid--I'm going to cry, and--and I know you don't like it!” she panted. Allan half drew, half guided her up into his arms.

”Was it true?” he insisted, giving her an impulsive little shake. She sat up on his knees, wide-eyed and wet-cheeked like a child.

”But you knew that all along!” she said. ”That was why I felt so humiliated. It was _you_ that _I_ thought didn't care----”

Allan laughed joyously. ”Care!” he said. ”I should think I did, first, last, and all the time! Why, Phyllis, child, didn't I behave like a brute because I was jealous enough of John Hewitt to throw him in the river? He was the first man you had seen since you married me--attractive, and well, and clever, and all that--it would have been natural enough if you'd liked him.”

”Liked him!” said Phyllis in disdain. ”When there was you? And I thought--I thought it was the memory of Louise Frey that made you act that way. You didn't want to talk about her, and you said it was all a mistake----”