Part 68 (1/2)

”To sound the clarion means riot and bloodshed--and failure for the cause.”

”To let things drift,” put in Brotherton, ”puts Grant in danger.”

”Of what?” asked the Doctor.

”Well, of indignities unspeakable and cruel torture,” returned Brotherton.

”I'm sure that's all, George. But can't we--we four stop that?” said Fenn. ”Can't we stand off the mob? A mob's a coward.”

”It's the least we can do,” said Perry.

”And all you can do, Nate,” added the Doctor, with the weariness of age in his voice and in his counsel.

But when the group separated and the Doctor purred up the hill in his electric, his heart was sore within him and he spoke to the wife of his bosom of the burden that was on his heart. Then, after a dinner scarcely tasted, the Doctor hurried down town to meet with the men at Brotherton's.

As Mrs. Nesbit saw the electric dip under the hill, her first impulse was to call up her daughter on the telephone, who was at Foley that evening. For be it remembered Mrs. Nesbit in the days of her prime was dubbed ”the General” by George Brotherton, and when she saw the care and hovering fear in the pink, old face of the man she loved, she was not the woman to sit and rock. She had to act and, because she feared she would be stopped, she did not pick up the telephone receiver. She went to the library, where Kenyon Adams with his broken leg in splints was sitting while Lila read to him. She stood looking at the lovers for a moment.

”Children,” she said, ”Grant Adams is in great danger. We must help him.”

To their startled questions, she answered: ”He is asking your father, Lila, to release him from the prison to-night. If he is not released, a mob will take Grant as they took that poor fool last night and--” She stopped, turned toward them a perturbed and fear-wrinkled face. Then she said quickly: ”I don't know that I owe Grant Adams anything but--you children do--” She did not complete her sentence, but burst out: ”I don't care for Tom Van Dorn's court, his grand folderol and mummery of the law. He's going to send a man to death to-night because his masters demand it. And we must stop it--you and Lila and I, Kenyon.”

Kenyon reached out, tried to rise and failed, but grasped her strong, effective hand, as he cried: ”What can we do--what can I do?”

She went into the Doctor's office and brought out two old crutches.

”Take these,” she said, ”then I'll help you down the porch steps--and you go to your mother! That's what you can do. Maybe she can stop him--she has done a number of other worse things with him.”

She literally lifted the tottering youth down the veranda steps and a few moments later his crutches were rattling upon the stone steps that rose in front of the proud house of Van Dorn. Margaret had seen him coming and met him before he rang the bell.

She looked the dreadful wonder in her mind and as he took her hand to steady himself, he spoke while she was helping him to sit.

”You are my mother,” he said simply. ”I know it now.” He felt her hand tighten on his arm. She bent over him and with finger on lips, whispered: ”Hush, hush, the maid is in there--what is it, Kenyon?”

”I want you to save Grant.”

She still stood over him, looking at him with her glazed eyes shot with the evidence of a strong emotion.

”Kenyon, Kenyon--my boy--my son!” she whispered, then said greedily: ”Let me say it again--my son!” She whispered the word ”son” for a moment, stooping over him, touching his forehead gently with her fingers. Then she cried under her breath: ”What about that man--your--Grant? What have I to do with him?”

He reached for her hands beseechingly and said: ”We are asking your husband, the Judge, to let him out of jail to-night, for if the Judge doesn't release Grant--they are going to mob him and maybe kill him! Oh, won't you save him? You can. I know you can. The Judge will let him out if you demand it.”

”My son, my son!” the woman answered as she looked vacantly at him. ”You are my son, my very own, aren't you?”

She stooped to look into his eyes and cried: ”Oh, you're mine”--her trembling fingers ran over his face. ”My eyes, my hair. You have my voice--O G.o.d--why haven't they found it out?” Then she began whispering over again the words, ”My son.”

A clock chimed the half-hour. It checked her. ”He'll be back in half an hour,” she said, rising; then--”So they're going to mob Grant, are they?

And he sent you here asking me for mercy!”

Kenyon shook his head in protest and cried: ”No, no, no. He doesn't even know--”

She looked at the young man and became convinced that he was telling the truth; but she was sure that Laura Van Dorn had sent him. It was her habit of mind to see the ulterior motive. So the pa.s.sion of motherhood flaring up after years of suppression quickly died down. It could not dominate her in her late forties, even for the time, nor even with the power which held her during the night of the riot in South Harvey, when she was in her thirties. The pa.s.sion of motherhood with Margaret Van Dorn was largely a memory, but hate was a lively and material emotion.