CHAPTER XXIX

One night, two days later, Rowland had retired early, and the boys, having worked hard all day, soon followed him. Charles was seated on a rustic bench on the lawn. He had noted the change in Rowland's manner toward him and had promptly coupled it with the sheriff's visit. That something of a serious nature was impending he did not doubt. Several times he had caught Mary's glance, and each time he had felt that she was trying to convey some hint that she wanted to speak to him, but that no suitable opportunity had presented itself. Something told him now that she would join him where he sat; he knew that she had not yet retired, for now and then she passed the window of the lighted sitting-room. The anticipation of meeting her was not that of unalloyed joy, for he felt more and more that he had no moral right to the trust she was so blindly placing in him. She had bared her soul to him; he was unable to do the same to her. Loving her as he did more than life itself, yet he was sure he had no right to foster love in her breast. The burning tobacco died in his pipe as he held it in his tense hand between his knees and again thought out the sinister situation. For the sake of his love's life and hers he might wreck the hope and happiness of a whole family to whom he had pledged fidelity; but if he did that even Mary herself would spurn him. Yes, for had she not been ready to sacrifice herself on a bare chance to save her brothers? No, she loved him for what she thought he was, not for what he would be if he failed in his righteous undertaking. He might tell her how he was bound, but that would sound like self-glorification and would do no good, since her only chance for happiness lay in forgetting him.

He felt rather than saw her as she approached soundlessly on the dewy grass. He stood up. The seat was short, and the wild thought flashed through his brain that he had no more right to sit close beside her than the humblest subject beside his queen; so he stood bowing, and with his hand mutely indicated the seat. She took it, and then, as he remained standing, she suddenly reached out, caught his hand, and drew him down beside her.

"What is the matter?" she asked, insincerely, for she knew the cause of his restraint.

"Nothing," he answered.

"Oh, I know there is; but never mind," she continued, still holding his hand. "I had to see you to-night, Charlie. I could not have waited longer."

"Is it about Albert Frazier?" he asked.

"No, you know it is not. Besides, he has gone away for good and all. He released me from my—my understanding with him. We are not even going to write to each other."

The heart of the listener bounded, but it sank a moment later, for, pressing his hand, as if to console him, Mary went on:

"I wanted to see you about yourself, Charlie—yourself."

"I can guess," he said, grimly. "It has to do with the sheriff's visit the other day. I felt that something was wrong from the way your father acted. He tries to treat me the same, but can't."

Mary lowered her head. She toyed with his big fingers as a nervous child might have done. "I think Albert started his brother's suspicions against you soon after you came to us," she said, gently.

"Suspicions?" Charles was speaking merely to fill awkward pauses.

"Yes, it is outrageous, but he has you mixed up with the men who left the circus when you did. I suppose his idea is to get information from you if he can—force it from you by unfair means. A man like him will balk at nothing to gain his point."

"I can give him no information," Charles answered, in a low, forced tone. "I knew such men were with the circus, and that they had left about the time I did, but I did not even know them personally."

"I know that," Mary said, her hand now like a lifeless thing in his clasp, "but you do not want to be arrested and—and questioned, do you?"

He started, stared steadily, and then released her hand. "No," he answered, after a pause, "I don't want to go through that. I am sorry to have to admit it to you, but it is a fact. I am—am really not prepared for—for that. In fact, that is why I left the circus just when I did. The report was out that the entire company was to be grilled, and I had reasons for—for—But I think you know what I mean. I've tried hard to make you understand that I am unworthy of—"

"Stop!" Mary cried, sharply. "This is no time to go through all that. I know you are worthy, and that settles it. But I have not told you all. Charlie, you are being watched day and night."

"Watched?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, the sheriff told father so, and I myself have seen the men. One in the day and another at night. At this very moment we may be under the eye of one of them."

"What is the sheriff's object?" Charles asked, in a tone of dead despair. "I mean in having me shadowed this way?"

"I think he has an idea that the friend of yours who was here the other day is in some way connected with the men he is after, and that he may return to see you."

"Thank Heaven, Mike is gone, and is out of it!" Charles said, half to her and as much to himself. "It would have been terrible if that poor chap had been drawn into it. Well, well, you see what I have brought down on you for so kindly giving me work and shelter and treating me as an equal when I am simply an outlaw trying to escape imprisonment."

"Hush! hush!" Mary cried, fiercely. "I shall not listen to you."

He had made a movement as if to rise, but again she caught his hand and detained him.

"I know what you are at heart, and that is all I want to know of your affairs. You have said you were bound by honor not to tell everything, and I would not want you to break your word even to enlighten me."

His face was set and pale, his lips twisted awry. Again he drew his hand away. "Have you any idea when they will arrest me?" he asked, hollowly.

"Not for a week or so, anyway," Mary responded. "The sheriff said that you would not be allowed to leave here. Do you want to get away, Charlie?"

"It would do no good to try," he sighed, and yet bravely, for he was not thinking of himself at all. "It would be an open admission that I was avoiding the law." He sighed again and stood up. "Pardon me," he said, "but I mustn't let you compromise yourself like this. You say I am watched, and it would be unfair to you—to your father—to your brothers—for your name to be associated in the slightest with mine."

"Oh, what can I do?" Mary was standing by him now, her hand upon his arm. "I thought I was unhappy over my brothers, but, now that they are out of trouble, I am in agony over you. Oh, Charlie, don't you see—don't you understand—"

Her voice broke in a sob. He was swayed by a storm of emotion. He was about to take her in his arms, when the thought of being seen by a hidden observer checked him.

"You must go in now," he said. "See how the dew is settling on your hair."

She nodded mutely, and side by side they went to the house. The sitting-room on the left of the hall was lighted, the parlor on the right was dark.

"Come into the parlor," she said, in a low, firm tone. "No one could see us there, and—and—oh, Charlie! I can't part with you like this! I can't bear it. I'd lie awake all night."

In the silence of the big room they stood facing each other. Their hands met like drowning persons afloat in a dark, calm sea. He could see her eyes in the gloom. They seemed like portals of escape from a living hell. Her quick breath fanned his face; the warmth of her being drove the deathlike chill from his body. He took her face into his hands, and bent and kissed her lips. She put her head on his breast, her arms about his neck, and held him tightly.

"They shall not part us," she whispered against his cheek. "Never, never, never!"