Part 43 (1/2)
”Yas.”
”I don't more than half believe this is the man. You know it's life imprisonment for him if it's proved on him, and you'd better be sure you have the right one. I'm in for justice, and you're in for the money, that's plain.”
”Yas, I tank you lak it money, too.”
”I'll not put him in irons to-night unless you give me some better reason for your a.s.sertion. Why is he the man?”
”I seen heem dot tam, I know. He got it mark on hees head vere de blud run dot tam, yust de sam, all right. I know heem. He speek lak heem.
He move hees arm lak heem. Yas, I know putty good.”
”You're sure you remember everything he said--all you told me?”
”Oh, yas. I write it here,” and he drew a small book from his pocket, very worn and soiled. ”All iss here writed.”
”Let's see it.” With a smile the Swede put it in Stiles' hand. He regarded it in a puzzled way.
”What's this?” He handed the book back contemptuously. ”You'll never be able to make that out,--all dirty and--”
”Yas, I read heem, you not,--dot's Swedish.”
”Very well. Perhaps you know what you're about,” and the discussion went on, until at last G. B. Stiles, partly by intimidation, partly by a.s.sumption of being able to get on without his services, persuaded Nels to modify his demands and accept three thousand for his evidence.
Then the gray was put in the shafts again, and they drove to the town quietly, as if they had been to Rigg's Corners and back.
CHAPTER XXVIII
”A RESEMBLANCE SOMEWHERE”
While G. B. Stiles and the big Swede were taking their drive and bargaining away Harry King's liberty, he had loitered about the town, and visited a few places familiar to him. First he went to the home of Elder Craigmile and found it locked, and the key in the care of one of the bank clerks who slept there during the owner's absence. After sitting a while on the front steps, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, he rose and strolled out along the quiet country road on its gra.s.sy footpath, past the Ballards' home.
Mary and Bertrand were out in the little orchard at the back of the house, gazing up at the apple blossoms that hung over their heads in great pale pink clouds. A sweet odor came from the lilacs that hung over the garden fence, and the sunlight streamed down on the peaceful home, and on the opening spring flowers--the borders of dwarf purple iris and big cl.u.s.ters of peonies, just beginning to bud,--and on the beehives scattered about with the bees flying out and in. Ah! It was still the same--tempting and inviting.
He paused at the gate, looking wistfully at the open door, but did not enter. No, he must keep his own counsel and hold to his purpose, without stirring these dear old friends to sorrowful sympathy. So he pa.s.sed on, unseen by them, feeling the old love for the place and all the tender memories connected with it revived and deepened. On he went, strolling toward the little schoolhouse where he had found dear Betty Ballard sleeping at the big school desk the evening before, and pa.s.sed it by--only looking in curiously at the tousled heads bent over their lessons, and at Betty herself, where she sat at the desk, a cla.s.s on the long recitation bench before her, and a great boy standing at the blackboard. He saw her rise and take the chalk from the boy's hand and make a few rapid strokes with it on the board.
Little Betty a school-teacher! She had suffered much! How much did she care now? Was it over and her heart healed? Had other loves come to her? All intent now on her work, she stood with her back toward him, and as he pa.s.sed the open door she turned half about, and he saw her profile sharply against the blackboard. Older? Yes, she looked older, but prettier for that, and slight and trim and neat, dressed in a soft shade of green. She had worn such a dress once at a picnic. Well he remembered it--could he ever forget? Swiftly she turned again to the board and drew the eraser across the work, and he heard her voice distinctly, with its singing quality--how well he remembered that also--”Now, how many of the cla.s.s can work this problem?”
Ah, little Betty! little Betty! Life is working problems for us all, and you are working yours to a sweet conclusion, helping the children, and taking up your own burdens and bearing them bravely. This was Harry King's thought as he strolled on and seated himself again under the ba.s.swood tree by the meadow brook, and took from his pocket the worn sc.r.a.p of paper the wind had brought him and read it again.
”Out of my life, and into the night, But never out of my heart, my own.
Into the darkness, out of the light, Bleeding and wounded and walking alone.”
Such a tender, rhythmic bit of verse--Betty must have written it. It was like her.
After a time he rose and strolled back again past the little schoolhouse, and it was recess. Long before he reached it he heard the voices of the children shouting, ”Anty, anty over, anty, anty over.”
They were divided into two bands, one on either side of the small building, over which they tossed the ball and shouted as they tossed it, ”Anty, anty over”; and the band on the other side, warned by the cry, caught the ball on the rebound if they could, and tore around the corner of the building, trying to hit with it any luckless wight on the other side, and so claim him for their own, and thus changing sides, the merry romp went on.
Betty came to the door with the bell in her hand, and stood for a moment looking out in the suns.h.i.+ne. One of the smallest of the boys ran to her and threw his arms around her, and, looking up in her face, screamed in wildest excitement, ”I caught it twice, Teacher, I did.”