Part 22 (2/2)

Dolly turned like an automaton suddenly animated. She laid her hands on her sister's shoulders and bore down fiercely. She shook her so violently from side to side that Ann's plaited hair swung like a rope in a storm.

”Don't tell that to a soul!” Dolly panted. ”You must not--don't _dare_ to! You promised you wouldn't. Sometime I will explain, but not now--not now. I'm losing my mind. Go away and leave me.”

”I really believe you think the paper is telling the truth,” Ann moaned. ”You _must_ think so, or you wouldn't look this way and beg me not to tell. Oh, I can't stand it!”

For a breathless moment Ann stood staring at her dumb-lipped sister, and then, tottering to the bed, she threw herself upon it, burying her face in a pillow. Sob after sob escaped her, but Dolly paid no heed.

Her lifeless stare on the mountain view, she stood like a creature entranced.

The sun went down. Like a bleeding ball it hung over the mountain's crest, throwing red rays into the valley. A slow step was heard on the stair, the sliding of a dry hand on the bal.u.s.trade. Mrs. Drake opened the door and advanced to Dolly.

”You mustn't take on this way,” she began. ”I want you to be sensible and strong. Thar is plenty of fish in the sea. I sort o' thought Mr.

Mostyn was talking too much to you for it to be exactly right, but you always had such a level head--more level than I ever had--that I thought you could take care of yourself.”

”Mother, please leave me alone for to-day, anyway,” Dolly pleaded.

”I--I'm not a fool. Take Ann down-stairs. I--I can't stand that noise.

It makes me desperate. I hardly know what to do or say.”

”I just asked her to tell me the truth.” Ann sat up, holding her pillow in her lap as for comfort, her eyes red with rubbing. ”But she won't say a word, when all this time I've been counting on--”

”Well, I'm going down and see about supper,” Dolly said, desperately.

”Father and George have stopped work and they will be hungry.”

Her mother tried to detain her, but she went straight down the stairs.

Mrs. Drake crept stealthily to the door, peered after her daughter, and then, heaving a sigh, she stood before the girl on the bed.

”Now,” she said, grimly, ”out with it! Tell me all you know about this thing--every single thing!”

”But, mother”--Ann's eyes fell--”I promised-”

”It don't make no difference what you promised,” Mrs. Drake blurted out. ”This ain't no time for secrets under this roof. I want the facts.

If you don't tell me I'll get your pa to whip you.”

Half an hour later, as Tom Drake trudged across the old wheat-field back of the barn, his scythe on his shoulder, he met his wife at the outer fence of the cow-lot. There she stood as still and silent as a detached post.

”Whar's your bucket?” he asked, thinking she had come to milk the cow, which was one of her evening duties.

”I'm goin' to let it go over to-night,” she faltered. Then she laid a stiff hand on her husband's sweat-damp sleeve. ”Tom Drake,” she gulped, ”I'm afraid me an' you are facin' the greatest trouble we've ever had.”

”What's wrong now?” he asked, swift visions of moons.h.i.+ne stills, armed officers, and grim court officials flas.h.i.+ng before him.

Haltingly she explained the situation. He bore it stolidly till, in a rasping whisper, she concluded with the information forced from Ann.

She told him of the low whistle in the moonlight at their daughter's window, of Dolly's cautious exit from the house, of the tender embrace on the lawn. Drake turned his tortured face away. She expected a storm of fury, but no words came from his ghastly lips.

”Now, Tom,” she half wailed, ”you _must_ be sensible. This is a family secret. For once in your life you've got to keep your temper till we can see our way clear. After all, goin' out that way to meet 'im don't actually prove that our girl is bad; you know it don't. Young folks these days--”

”Don't tell _me_ what it meant!” He bent fiercely toward her. ”I know.

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