Part 23 (2/2)

Frank did not find this news rea.s.suring. He believed that Wain was a liar and a scoundrel. He had nothing more than his intuitions upon which to found this belief, but it was none the less firm. If his estimate of the man's character were correct, then his wealth might be a fiction, pure and simple. If so, the truth should be known to Mis'

Molly, so that instead of encouraging a marriage with Wain, she would see him in his true light, and interpose to rescue her daughter from his importunities. A day or two after this conversation, Frank met in the town a negro from Sampson County, made his acquaintance, and inquired if he knew a man by the name of Jeff Wain.

”Oh, Jeff Wain!” returned the countryman slightingly; ”yas, I knows 'im, an' don' know no good of 'im. One er dese yer biggity, braggin'

n.i.g.g.e.rs--talks lack he own de whole county, an' ain't wuth no mo' d'n I is--jes' a big bladder wid a handful er shot rattlin' roun' in it. Had a wife, when I wuz dere, an' beat her an' 'bused her so she had ter run away.”

This was alarming information. Wain had pa.s.sed in the town as a single man, and Frank had had no hint that he had ever been married. There was something wrong somewhere. Frank determined that he would find out the truth and, if possible, do something to protect Rena against the obviously evil designs of the man who had taken her away. The barrel factory had so affected the cooper's trade that Peter and Frank had turned their attention more or less to the manufacture of small woodenware for domestic use. Frank's mule was eating off its own head, as the saying goes. It required but little effort to persuade Peter that his son might take a load of buckets and tubs and piggins into the country and sell them or trade them for country produce at a profit.

In a few days Frank had his stock prepared, and set out on the road to Sampson County. He went about thirty miles the first day, and camped by the roadside for the night, resuming the journey at dawn. After driving for an hour through the tall pines that overhung the road like the stately arch of a cathedral aisle, weaving a carpet for the earth with their brown spines and cones, and soothing the ear with their ceaseless murmur, Frank stopped to water his mule at a point where the white, sandy road, widening as it went, sloped downward to a clear-running branch. On the right a bay-tree bending over the stream mingled the heavy odor of its flowers with the delicate perfume of a yellow jessamine vine that had overrun a clump of saplings on the left.

From a neighboring tree a silver-throated mocking-bird poured out a flood of riotous melody. A group of minnows; startled by the splas.h.i.+ng of the mule's feet, darted away into the shadow of the thicket, their quick pa.s.sage leaving the amber water filled with laughing light.

The mule drank long and lazily, while over Frank stole thoughts in harmony with the peaceful scene,--thoughts of Rena, young and beautiful, her friendly smile, her pensive dark eyes. He would soon see her now, and if she had any cause for fear or unhappiness, he would place himself at her service--for a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime, if need be.

His reverie was broken by a slight noise from the thicket at his left.

”I wonder who dat is?” he muttered. ”It soun's mighty quare, ter say de leas'.”

He listened intently for a moment, but heard nothing further. ”It must 'a' be'n a rabbit er somethin' scamp'in' th'ough de woods. G'long dere, Caesar!”

As the mule stepped forward, the sound was repeated. This time it was distinctly audible, the long, low moan of some one in sickness or distress.

”Dat ain't no rabbit,” said Frank to himself. ”Dere's somethin' wrong dere. Stan' here, Caesar, till I look inter dis matter.”

Pulling out from the branch, Frank sprang from the saddle and pushed his way cautiously through the outer edge of the thicket.

”Good Lawd!” he exclaimed with a start, ”it's a woman--a w'ite woman!”

The slender form of a young woman lay stretched upon the ground in a small open s.p.a.ce a few yards in extent. Her face was turned away, and Frank could see at first only a tangled ma.s.s of dark brown hair, matted with twigs and leaves and c.o.c.kleburs, and hanging in wild profusion around her neck.

Frank stood for a moment irresolute, debating the serious question whether he should investigate further with a view to rendering a.s.sistance, or whether he should put as great a distance as possible between himself and this victim, as she might easily be, of some violent crime, lest he should himself be suspected of it--a not unlikely contingency, if he were found in the neighborhood and the woman should prove unable to describe her a.s.sailant. While he hesitated, the figure moved restlessly, and a voice murmured:--

”Mamma, oh, mamma!”

The voice thrilled Frank like an electric shock. Trembling in every limb, he sprang forward toward the prostrate figure. The woman turned her head, and he saw that it was Rena. Her gown was torn and dusty, and fringed with burs and briars. When she had wandered forth, half delirious, pursued by imaginary foes, she had not stopped to put on her shoes, and her little feet were blistered and swollen and bleeding.

Frank knelt by her side and lifted her head on his arm. He put his hand upon her brow; it was burning with fever.

”Miss Rena! Rena! don't you know me?”

She turned her wild eyes on him suddenly. ”Yes, I know you, Jeff Wain.

Go away from me! Go away!”

Her voice rose to a scream; she struggled in his grasp and struck at him fiercely with her clenched fists. Her sleeve fell back and disclosed the white scar made by his own hand so many years before.

”You're a wicked man,” she panted. ”Don't touch me! I hate you and despise you!”

Frank could only surmise how she had come here, in such a condition.

When she spoke of Wain in this manner, he drew his own conclusions.

Some deadly villainy of Wain's had brought her to this pa.s.s. Anger stirred his nature to the depths, and found vent in curses on the author of Rena's misfortunes.

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