Told in the Hills. Marah Ellis Ryan
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 Doctor Grenier; that was too good to let go."
"Exactly; but you could have got off, I reckon, to have spent your devoted 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 looked ill at ease.
"I don't know why I should give you any reason except that I did not want to," he returned, and then he arose, walking back and forth a couple of times across the room and stopping at a window, with his back to his visitor. "But I will," he added, impulsively. "I stayed away on account of—Annie."
The dark eyes fairly blazed at the name.
"Yes?"
"I—I was a fool when I was home last spring," continued the young fellow, still with his face to the window. "I had never realized before that she had grown up or that she was prettier than anyone I knew, until you 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 no contradiction was made. "And after I left I concluded I had better stay away until—well, until we were both a little older and more level-headed."
"It's a pity you didn't reach that idea before you left," said the other significantly.
"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 his face—a dread of the dark eyes that were watching him so cruelly. "Tell me what it is you mean, brother."
"You can just drop that word," was the cold remark. "I haven't any relatives to my knowledge. Your father told me this morning I was the only one of the name who was not a gentleman. I reckon I'll get along without either father or brother for the rest of my life. The thing I came here to see about is the homestead. It is yours and mine—or will be some day. What do you intend doing with your share?"
"Well, I'm not ready to make my will yet," said the other, still looking uneasy as he waited further explanations.
"I rather think you'll change your mind about that, and fix it right here, and now. To-day I want you to transfer every acre of your share to Annie."
"What?"
"To insure her the home you promised your mother she should always have."
"But look here—"
"To insure it for her and—her child."
The face at the window was no longer merely startled, it was white as death.
"Good God! You don't mean that!" he gasped. "It is not true. It can't be true!"
"You contemptible cur! You damnable liar!" muttered the other through his teeth. "You sit there like the whelp that you are, telling me of this woman you have married, with not a thought of that girl up in Kentucky that you had a right to marry. Shooting you wouldn't do her any good, or I wouldn't leave the work undone. Now I reckon you'll make the transfer."
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—why did 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 you were out on the water with your fine friends, and it was returned. The next we heard was the marriage. Word got there two days ago, and then—she told me."
"You!" and he really looked unsympathetic enough to exempt him from being chosen as confidant of heart secrets.
"Yes; and she shan't be sorry for it if I can help it. What about that transfer?"
"I'll make it;" and the younger man rose to his feet again with eyes in which tears shone. "I'll do anything under God's heaven for her! I've never got rid of the sight of her face. It—it hoodooed me. I couldn't get rid of it!—or of remorse. I thought it best to stay away, we were so young to marry, and there was my profession to work for yet; and then on top of all my sensible plans there came that invitation on the yacht—and so you know the whole story; and now—what will become of her?"
"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 when you—damn your conceit!—catch me doing that or anything else on your account, just let me know. It isn't for either one of you, for that matter. 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 mother believed 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," he remarked indifferently. "It was wasted time and breath then, and I reckon it's the same thing now. You can put in the rest of your life in the wailing and gnashing of teeth business if you want to—you might get the woman you married to help you, if you tell her what she has for a husband. But just now there are other things to attend to. I am leaving this part of the country in less than six hours, and this thing must be settled first. I want your promise to transfer to Annie all interest you have in the homestead during your life-time, and leave it to her by will in 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 way the taunts thrown at him. He seemed utterly crushed by the revelations he had listened to.
"And another thing I want settled is, that you are never again to put foot on that place or in that house, or allow the woman you married to go 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 the dog you are, if you don't make that promise, and keep it," said the other deliberately. "I don't intend to trust to your word. But you'll never find me too far out of the world to get back here if you make it necessary for me to come. And the promise I expect is that you'll never set foot on the old place again without my consent—" and the phrase was too ironical to leave much room for hope.
"I promise. I tell you I'll do anything to make amends," he moaned miserably.
"Your whole worthless life wouldn't do that!" was the bitter retort. "Now, there is one thing more I want understood," and his face became more set and hardened; "Annie and her child are to live in the house that should be theirs by right, and they are to live there respected—do you hear? That man you call father has about as much heart in him as a sponge. He would turn her out of the house if he knew the truth, and in this transfer of yours he is to know nothing of the reason—understand that. He is quite ready to think it prompted by your generous, affectionate heart, and the more he thinks that, the better it will be for Annie. You will have a chance to pose for the rest of your life as one of the most honorable of men, and the most loyal to a dead mother's trust," and a sound that would have been a laugh but for its bitterness broke 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 make that transfer to-day and send it to Annie with a letter that anyone could read, and be none the wiser—the only letter you're ever to write her. You have betrayed that trust; it's mine