Told in the Hills: A Novel Read online

  Produced by Chris Curnow, Michael, Mary Meehan and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  TOLD IN THE HILLS

  A NOVEL

  BY MARAH ELLIS RYAN

  AUTHOR OF THAT GIRL MONTANA, THE BONDWOMAN, A FLOWER OF FRANCE, ETC.

  NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

  Copyright, 1891 By Rand McNally & Co. Chicago. Copyright, 1905 By Rand McNally & Co. Chicago. All Rights Reserved (Told in the Hills)

  IN ALL REVERENCE--IN ALL GRATITUDE TO THE FRIENDS GRANTED ME BY THE WEST

  FAYETTE SPRINGS, PENN.

  KOPA MESIKA--

  Nika sikhs klaksta kumtucks-- Klaksta yakwa mamook elahan, Nika mahsie--mahsie kwanesum.

  M. E. R.

  Thou shalt not see thy brother's ox, or his sheep, go astray.

  ... Thou shalt bring it unto thine own house, and it shall be with thee until thy brother seek after it, and thou shalt restore it to him again....

  ... And with all lost things of thy brother's which he hath lost, and thou hast found, shalt thou do likewise....

  In any case thou shalt deliver him the pledge again when the sun goeth down.--Deuteronomy.

  Mowitza forged ahead, her sturdy persistence suggestinga realization of her own importance]

  List of Illustrations

  Mowitza forged ahead, her sturdy persistence suggesting a realization ofher own importance

  At a sharp cut of the whip, Betty sprang forward

  Cooling it to suit baby's lips, she knelt beside the squaw

  TOLD IN THE HILLS

  PART FIRST

  THE PLEDGE

  "The only one of the name who is not a gentleman"; those words wererepeated over and over by a young fellow who walked, one autumn morning,under the shade of old trees and along a street of aristocratic housesin old New Orleans.

  He would have been handsome had it not been for the absolutely wickedexpression of his face as he muttered to himself while he walked. Helooked about twenty-five--dark and tall--so tall as to be a noticeableman among many men, and so well proportioned, and so confidentlycareless in movement as not to be ungainly--the confidence of strength.

  Some negroes whom he passed turned to look after him, even the whites hemet eyed him seriously. He looked like a man off a sleepless journey,his eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard, and over all was a malignantexpression as of lurking devilishness.

  He stopped at a house set back from the street, and half-smothered inthe shade of the trees and great creeping vines that flung out long armsfrom the stone walls. There was a stately magnificence about its grandentrance, and its massive proportions--it showed so plainly thehabitation of wealth. Evidently the ill-natured looking individual wasnot a frequent visitor there, for he examined the house, and the numbersabout, with some indecision; then his eyes fell on the horse-block, inthe stone of which a name was carved. A muttered something, which wasnot a blessing, issued from his lips as he read it, but with indecisionat an end he strode up the walk to the house. A question was answered bythe dubious-looking darky at the door, and a message was sent somewhereto the upper regions; then the darky, looking no less puzzled, requestedthe gentleman to follow him to the "Young Massa's" study. The gentlemandid so, noting with those wicked side glances of his the magnificence ofthe surroundings, and stopping short before a picture of a brunette,willowy girl that rested on an easel. The face was lovely enough to winpraise from any man, but an expression, strangely akin to that bestowedon the carven name outside, escaped him. Through the lattice of thewindow the laughter of woman came to him--as fresh and cheery as thelight of the young sun, and bits of broken sentences also--words ofbanter and retort.

  "Ah, but he is beautiful--your husband!" sighed a girlish voice with theaccent of France; "so impressibly charming! And so young. You twochildren!"

  Some gay remonstrance against childishness was returned, and then thefirst voice went on:

  "And the love all of one quick meeting, and one quick, grand passionthat only the priest could bring cure for? And how shy you were, and howsecret--was it not delightful? Another Juliet and her Romeo. Only it iswell your papa is not so ill-pleased."

  "Why should he be? My family is no better than my husband's--only somericher; but we never thought of that--we two. I thought of his beautifulchangeable eyes, and he thought of my black ones, and--well, I came hometo papa a wife, and my husband said only, 'I love her,' when we wereblamed for the haste and the secrecy, and papa was won--as I think everyone is, by his charming boyishness; but," with a little laugh, "he isnot a boy."

  "Though he is younger than yourself?"

  "Well, what then? I am twenty-three. You see we are quite an old couple,for he is almost within a year of being as old. Come; my lord has notyet come down. I have time to show you the roses. I am sure they are thekind you want."

  Their chatter and gaiety grew fainter as they walked away from thewindow, and their playful chat added no light to the visitor's face. Hepaced up and down the room with the eager restlessness of some cagedthing. A step sounded outside that brought him to a halt--a step and amellow voice with the sweetness of youth in it. Then the door opened anda tall form entered swiftly, and quick words of welcome and of surprisecame from him as he held out his hand heartily.

  But it was not taken. The visitor stuck his hands in the pockets of hiscoat, and surveyed his host with a good deal of contempt.

  Yet he was a fine, manly-looking fellow, almost as tall as his visitor,and fairer in coloring. His hair was a warmer brown, while the otherman's was black. His eyes were frank and open, while the other's werescowling and contracted. They looked like allegorical types of light anddarkness as they stood there, yet something in the breadth of foreheadand form of the nose gave a suggestion of likeness to their faces.

  The younger one clouded indignantly as he drew back his offered hand.

  "Why, look here, old fellow, what's up?" he asked hastily, and then theindignation fled before some warmer feeling, and he went forwardimpulsively, laying his hand on the other's arm.

  "Just drop that," growled his visitor, "I didn't come here for that sortof thing, but for business--yes--you can bet your money on that!"

  His host laughed and dropped into a chair.

  "Well, you don't look as if you come on a pleasure trip," he agreed,"and I think you might look a little more pleasant, considering theoccasion and--and--everything. I thought father would come down sure,when I wrote I was married, but I didn't expect to see anyone come inthis sort of a temper. What is it? Has your three-year-old come in lastin the fall race, or have you lost money on some other fellow's stock,and what the mischief do you mean by sulking at me?"

  "It isn't the three-year-old, and it isn't money lost," and the darkeyes were watching every feature of the frank young face; "the businessI've come on is--you."

  "Look here," and the young fellow straightened up with the convictionthat he had struck the question, "is it because of my--marriage?"

  "Rather." Still those watchful eyes never changed.

  "Well," and the fair face flushed a little, "I suppose it wasn't justthe correct thing; but you're not exactly the preacher for correctdeportment, are you?" and the words, though ironical, were accompaniedby such a bright smile that no offense could be taken from them. "ButI'll tell you how it happened. Sit down. I would have sent word before,if I'd suspected it myself, but I didn't. Now don't look so glum, oldfellow. I never imagined you would care. You see we were invited to makeup a yachting party and go to Key West. We never had seen each otheruntil the trip, and--we
ll, we made up for the time we had lost in therest of our lives; though I honestly did not think of gettingmarried--any more than you would. And then, all at once, what littlebrains I had were upset. It began in jest, one evening in Key West, andthe finale of it was that before we went to sleep that night we weremarried. No one knew it until we got back to New Orleans, and then Iwrote home at once. Now, I'm ready for objections."

  "When you left home you were to be back in two months--it is four now.Why didn't you come?"

  "Well, you know I was offered the position of assistant here to DoctorGrenier; that was too good to let go."

  "Exactly; but you could have got off, I reckon, to have spent yourdevoted father's birthday at home--if you had wanted to."

  "He was your father first," was the good-humored retort.

  "Why didn't you come home?"

  There was a hesitation in the younger face. For the first time he lookedill at ease.

  "I don't know why I should give you any reason except that I did notwant to," he returned, and then he arose, walking back and forth acouple of times across the room and stopping at a window, with his backto his visitor. "But I will," he added, impulsively. "I stayed away onaccount of--Annie."

  The dark eyes fairly blazed at the name.

  "Yes?"

  "I--I was a fool when I was home last spring," continued the youngfellow, still with his face to the window. "I had never realized beforethat she had grown up or that she was prettier than anyone I knew, untilyou warned me about it--you remember?"

  "I reckon I do," was the grim reply.

  "Well, I tried to be sensible. I did try," he protested, though nocontradiction was made. "And after I left I concluded I had better stayaway until--well, until we were both a little older and morelevel-headed."

  "It's a pity you didn't reach that idea before you left," said the othersignificantly.

  "What!"

  "And before you turned back for that picture you had forgotten."

  "What do you mean" and for the first time a sort of terror shone in hisface--a dread of the dark eyes that were watching him so cruelly. "Tellme what it is you mean, brother."

  "You can just drop that word," was the cold remark. "I haven't anyrelatives to my knowledge. Your father told me this morning I was theonly one of the name who was not a gentleman. I reckon I'll get alongwithout either father or brother for the rest of my life. The thing Icame here to see about is the homestead. It is yours and mine--or willbe some day. What do you intend doing with your share?"

  "Well, I'm not ready to make my will yet," said the other, still lookinguneasy as he waited further explanations.

  "I rather think you'll change your mind about that, and fix it righthere, and now. To-day I want you to transfer every acre of your share toAnnie."

  "What?"

  "To insure her the home you promised your mother she should alwayshave."

  "But look here--"

  "To insure it for her and--her child."

  The face at the window was no longer merely startled, it was white asdeath.

  "Good God! You don't mean that!" he gasped. "It is not true. It can't betrue!"

  "You contemptible cur! You damnable liar!" muttered the other throughhis teeth. "You sit there like the whelp that you are, telling me ofthis woman you have married, with not a thought of that girl up inKentucky that you had a right to marry. Shooting you wouldn't do her anygood, or I wouldn't leave the work undone. Now I reckon you'll make thetransfer."

  The other had sat down helplessly, with his head in his hands.

  "I can't believe it--I can't believe it," he repeated heavily. "Why--whydid she not write to me?"

  "It wasn't an easy thing to write, I reckon," said the other bitterly,"and she waited for you to come back. She did send one letter, but youwere out on the water with your fine friends, and it was returned. Thenext we heard was the marriage. Word got there two days ago, andthen--she told me."

  "You!" and he really looked unsympathetic enough to exempt him frombeing chosen as confidant of heart secrets.

  "Yes; and she shan't be sorry for it if I can help it. What about thattransfer?"

  "I'll make it;" and the younger man rose to his feet again with eyes inwhich tears shone. "I'll do anything under God's heaven for her! I'venever got rid of the sight of her face. It--it hoodooed me. I couldn'tget rid of it!--or of remorse. I thought it best to stay away, we wereso young to marry, and there was my profession to work for yet; and thenon top of all my sensible plans there came that invitation on theyacht--and so you know the whole story; and now--what will become ofher?"

  "You fix that transfer, and I'll look after her."

  "You! I don't deserve this of you, and--"

  "No; I don't reckon you do," returned the other, tersely; "and whenyou--damn your conceit!--catch me doing that or anything else on youraccount, just let me know. It isn't for either one of you, for thatmatter. It's because I promised."

  The younger dropped his arms and head on the table.

  "You promised!" he groaned. "I--I promised as well as you, and motherbelieved me--trusted me, and, now--oh, mother! mother!"

  His remorseful emotion did not stir the least sympathy in his listener,only a chilly unconcern as to his feelings in the matter.

  "You, you cried just about that way when you made the promise," heremarked indifferently. "It was wasted time and breath then, and Ireckon it's the same thing now. You can put in the rest of your life inthe wailing and gnashing of teeth business if you want to--you might getthe woman you married to help you, if you tell her what she has for ahusband. But just now there are other things to attend to. I am leavingthis part of the country in less than six hours, and this thing must besettled first. I want your promise to transfer to Annie all interest youhave in the homestead during your life-time, and leave it to her by willin case the world is lucky enough to get rid of you."

  "I promise."

  His head was still on the table; he did not look up or resent in any waythe taunts thrown at him. He seemed utterly crushed by the revelationshe had listened to.

  "And another thing I want settled is, that you are never again to putfoot on that place or in that house, or allow the woman you married togo there, that you will neither write to Annie nor try to see her."

  "But there might be circumstances--"

  "There are no circumstances that will keep me from shooting you like thedog you are, if you don't make that promise, and keep it," said theother deliberately. "I don't intend to trust to your word. But you'llnever find me too far out of the world to get back here if you make itnecessary for me to come. And the promise I expect is that you'll neverset foot on the old place again without my consent--" and the phrase wastoo ironical to leave much room for hope.

  "I promise. I tell you I'll do anything to make amends," he moanedmiserably.

  "Your whole worthless life wouldn't do that!" was the bitter retort."Now, there is one thing more I want understood," and his face becamemore set and hardened; "Annie and her child are to live in the housethat should be theirs by right, and they are to live there respected--doyou hear? That man you call father has about as much heart in him as asponge. He would turn her out of the house if he knew the truth, and inthis transfer of yours he is to know nothing of the reason--understandthat. He is quite ready to think it prompted by your generous,affectionate heart, and the more he thinks that, the better it will befor Annie. You will have a chance to pose for the rest of your life asone of the most honorable of men, and the most loyal to a dead mother'strust," and a sound that would have been a laugh but for its bitternessbroke from him as he walked to the door; "that will suit you, I reckon.One more lie doesn't matter, and the thing I expect you to do is to makethat transfer to-day and send it to Annie with a letter that anyonecould read, and be none the wiser--the only letter you're ever to writeher. You have betrayed that trust; it's mine now."

  "And you'll be worth it," burst out the other heart-brokenly; "worth adozen times over more than I ever could b
e if I tried my best. You'lltake good care of her, and--and--good God! If I could only speak to heronce!"

  "If you do, I'll know it, and I'll kill you!" said the man at the door.

  He was about to walk out when the other arose bewilderedly.

  "Wait," he said, and his livid face was convulsed pitifully. He was solittle more than a boy. "This that you have told me has muddled my head.I can't think. I know the promises, and I'll keep them. If shootingmyself would help her, I'd do that; but you say you are leaving thecountry, and Annie is to live on at the old place, and--and yet berespected? I can't understand how, with--under the--the circumstances.I--"

  "No, I don't reckon you can," scowled the other, altogether unmoved bythe despairing eyes and broken, remorseful words. "It isn't natural thatyou should understand a man, or how a man feels; but Annie's name shallbe one you had a right to give her four months ago--"

  "What are you saying?" broke in the other with feverish intensity; "tellme! tell me what it is you mean!"

  "I mean that she shan't be cheated out of a name for herself and childby your damned rascality! Her name for the rest of her life will be thesame as yours--just remember that when you forward that transfer. She ismy wife. We were married an hour before I started."

  Then the door closed, and the dark, malignant looking fellow stalked outinto the morning sunlight, and through the scented walk where latelillies nodded as he passed. He seemed little in keeping with theirfragrant whiteness, for he looked not a whit less scowlingly wicked thanon his entrance; and of some men working on the lawn, one said toanother:

  "Looks like he got de berry debbel in dem snappin' eyes--see how deyshine. Mighty rakish young genelman to walk out o' dat doah--look likehe been on a big spree."

  And when the bride and her friend came chattering in, with their handsfull of roses, they found a strange, unheard-of thing had happened. Thetall young husband, so strong, so long acclimated, had succumbed to theheat of the morning, or the fragrance of the tuberose beside him, andhad fallen in a fainting fit by the door.

  PART SECOND

  "A CULTUS CORRIE"