"They are getting out the horses," she whispered.

"Yes," he replied, calmly. "He thought we were running away." There was not a tremor in his voice. She was reared in a society where physical bravery is the first of virtues, and even in that terrible moment she could not help feeling a thrill of pride as she looked at him.

She never thought of asking him to fly. She could hear the horses as they were led out of their stalls one by one, their hoofs echoing sharply on the stone flagging. Her excited imagination supplied all the details. Now they were putting on the bridles; now they were fastening the saddles; they were mounted; the gate was being opened; in another moment they would sweep down on them. Then she looked at her lover standing there so motionless, waiting--for what? The thought of it was maddening.

"Quick! quick!" she cried, wildly, catching his arm; "I will go with you."

Without a word he lifted her up in his arms and seated her on one of the horses. He carefully tested the saddle, although the hoofs of their pursuers' horses were already ringing on the street behind the house. Then he swung himself easily into the saddle, and was hardly there before the General and his two sons swept around the neighboring corner, not fifty yards away.

"Good-bye, Elias," called the Colonel, cheerfully, as they shot out into the moonlit street; and Elias's "G.o.d bless you bofe, Ma.r.s.e Bill!" came to them above the rush of the horses.

As they went clattering through the quiet streets and past the rows of darkened houses, the horses, with their sinewy necks straightened out speeding so swiftly that the balmy air blew a soft wind in their riders'

faces, Colonel Bill, with a slight shade of disappointment in his voice, said:

"I guess you didn't get a good look at the horses, or you would have recognized them. That's old Beau Brummel you're on, and this is Queen of Sheba. They're both fit, although they haven't been particularly trained for these free-for-all scrambles, owners' handicap, ten miles straightaway.

But I don't believe there's a horse in Kentucky can catch us to-night," he concluded, proudly patting the neck of his thoroughbred. He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, and noted that the distance between them and their pursuers was constantly widening, until, turning a corner, they could neither see nor hear them.

And now the Colonel's spirits fairly bubbled over. He was a superb rider, and swinging carelessly in his saddle, his hands hardly touching the reins, he kept up a running stream of jocular comment.

"It looks to me like the old gentleman's going to be distanced," he cried, with a chuckle, "He can't say a word, though, for he made the conditions of this race. The start was a trifle straggling, as Jack Calloway told me once when he left seven horses at the post in a field of ten, and perhaps the Beau and the Queen didn't have the worst of it."

In every possible way he sought to divert his companion's mind. Once or twice she delighted him by faintly smiling a response to his speeches. They had pa.s.sed the last of the straggling houses, and the turnpike stretched before them, a white ribbon winding through the green meadow-land. They had to wait while a sleepy tollgate-keeper lifted his wooden bar, and straining their ears, they could just catch the faint, far-away sound of galloping horses.

"In another hour," he cried, pressing her hand, and once more they were off. A mile farther on they stopped again. Before them was a narrow lane debauching from the turnpike.

"That lane," he said, reflectively, "would save us a good two miles, for the 'pike makes a big bend here. Elias told me that he heard it was closed up, and we might get in there and not be able to get out. We can't afford to take the chance," he concluded, thoughtfully, and they continued on their journey. For some time neither spoke. As they were about to enter the wood through which the road pa.s.sed they stopped to breathe their horses.

"I don't hear them," said the girl. Then she added, joyfully, "Perhaps they have turned back."

He listened attentively. "Perhaps they have," he said, at last.

As they rode forward more than once an anxious expression pa.s.sed over his face, although his conversation was as cheerful as ever. Miss Braxton, from whose mind a great weight had been lifted, laughed and chatted as she had not done since the journey began.

They had pa.s.sed through the wood and were out in the open country again. As they galloped on, only the distant barking of a watch-dog guarding some lonely farm-house, or the premature crowing of a barn fowl, deceived by the brilliancy of the moonlight into thinking that day had come, broke the absolute silence. They might have been the one woman and the one man in a new world, so profound was their isolation.

"Do you see that group of trees on the hill there just ahead of us," he asked, carelessly, as the horses slowed to a canter. "Well, just the other side of those trees the lane we pa.s.sed joins the 'pike again. Now it is possible that instead of your amiable relatives going home, they may have taken to the lane. If it hasn't been closed, they may be waiting there to welcome us." For a moment the girl was deceived by the lightness of his manner; and then, as she realized what such a situation meant, she grew white to the lips. "The chances are," he continued, cheerfully, "that they won't be there, but we had just as well be prepared. If they are there we must approach them just as if we were going to talk to them, slowing up almost to a walk. They will be on my side, and I will keep in the middle of the 'pike. You remain as close to the fence as you can. When we get opposite them I'll yell, 'Now!' You can give your horse his head, and before they know what's happened we will be a hundred yards away. All my horses have been trained to get away from the post, and these two are the quickest breakers on the Western Circuit. Now let's go over the plan again." And the Colonel carefully repeated what he had said, ill.u.s.trating it as he went along. Yes, she understood him. It was very simple. How could she forget it? As she told him this her frightened eyes never left his face, and she followed his movements with such a look of pain that he swore at her father, under his breath, with a vigor which did full justice to the occasion.

A few minutes' ride brought them to the top of the hill, and they both looked eagerly before them. A furlong away, standing perfectly still in the middle of the lane, their horses' heads facing the turnpike, were three mounted men. It required no second glance to identify the watchers. Colonel Bill's eyes blazed, and his right hand went back instinctively to his empty pistol-pocket. He regained his composure in a moment. "Go very slow," he whispered, "and don't make a move till I shout. Keep as far over to your side as you can." They approached the three grim watchers, their horses almost eased to a walk. Not a word was spoken on either side. When they had reached a point almost directly opposite their pursuers, Colonel Bill made a pretence of pulling up his horse, only to catch the reins in a firmer grip, and then, with a sudden dig of the spurs, he yelled, "Now!" and his horse sprang forward like a frightened deer. At the same instant Miss Braxton deliberately swung her horse across the road and behind his. Then there came the sharp report of a pistol, followed by the rush of the pursuing horses. But high above all other sounds rose General Braxton's agonized voice: "My G.o.d, don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Before the Colonel could turn in his saddle Miss Braxton was beside him.

"Why didn't you stay where you were?" he cried, sharply, the sense of her peril setting his nerves on edge. As he realized that it was for his sake she had come between him and danger, his eyes grew moist. "Suppose you had been hurt?" he added, reproachfully. She did not reply, and they rode on at full speed. They had once more left their pursuers behind; but as the church was now only a few miles away, and they needed every spare moment there, they urged their horses to renewed effort.

"There is the church now, and it's lighted up," cried the Colonel, joyfully, as they dashed around a bend in the road, pointing to a little one-story building tucked away amid trees and under-brush beside the turnpike. In the doorway the minister stood waiting for them--a tall young man whose ruddy face, broad shoulders, and humorous blue eyes suggested the relationship the Colonel had mentioned. As they pulled up, the young minister came forward and was introduced by the Colonel as "My cousin, Jim Bradley." While they were both a.s.sisting Miss Braxton to dismount and fastening the horses, the Colonel, in a few words, told of the pursuit and of the necessity of haste. Mr. Bradley led the way into the church, the lovers following arm in arm. It was a plain whitewashed little room, with wooden benches for the worshippers, and a narrow aisle leading up to the platform, where stood the preacher's pulpit. Half a dozen lamps with bright tin reflectors behind them, like halos, were fastened to brackets high up on the walls. The young couple stopped when they reached the platform, and at Mr. Bradley's request joined their hands. He had opened the prayer-book at the marriage service, and was beginning to read it, when he gave a start. Far away down the turnpike, faint but unmistakable--now dying away into a mere murmur, now rising clear and bold--came the sound of galloping horses. The Colonel felt the girl's hand cold in his, and he whispered a word of encouragement. Mr. Bradley hurried on with the ceremony. The centuries-old questions, so often asked beneath splendid domes before fashionable a.s.semblages to the accompaniment of triumphant music, were never answered with more truth and fervor than in that little roadside church, with no one to hear them but the listening trees and the heart of the night wind.

"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

How he pressed the trembling little hand in his, and how devotedly he answered, "I will."

"Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

The downcast eyes were covered with the drooping lids, and the voice was faint and low, but what a world of love was in the simple, "I will."

As the young minister, very solemn and dignified now, paused for each reply, there came ever nearer and ever louder the ringing of the hoof-beats. Once he stole a hurried glance through the window which gave on the turnpike. Not half a mile away, their figures black against the sky-line, fiercely lashing their tired horses to fresh effort, were three desperate riders. The couple before him did not raise their eyes.

And now the concluding words of the service had been reached, and the minister had begun, "Those whom G.o.d hath joined together--" when the rest of the sentence was lost in the old General's angry shout, as he flung himself from his horse, and, with his sons at his heels, rushed into the church. At the threshold they stopped with blanched faces, for, as they entered, the girl, uttering a faint cry, her face whiter than her gown, down which a little stream of blood was trickling, reeled and tottered, and fell senseless into her husband's arms.

A few days later Major Johnson's Lexington _Chronicle_, under the heading "Jarvis--Braxton," contained the following:

"Colonel William Jarvis, the distinguisbed and genial young turfman, and Miss Susan Braxton, the beautiful and accomplished daughter of General Thomas Anderson Braxton, the hero of two wars, whose name is a household word wherever valor is honored and eloquence is admired, were united in marriage Monday night. With the romance of youth, the young couple determined to avoid the conventionalities of society, and only the bride's father and two brothers were present. Immediately preceding the ceremony the lovely bride was accidentally injured by the premature explosion of a fire-arm, but her hosts of friends will be delighted to learn that the mishap was not of a serious character. The young couple are now the guests of General Braxton at the historic Elms. We are informed, however, that Colonel Jarvis contemplates retiring from the turf and purchasing a stock-farm near Lexington. As a souvenir of his marriage he has promised his distinguished father-in-law the first three good horses he raises."

The Balance of Power

BY MAURICE THOMPSON

"I don't hesitate to say to you that I regard him as but a small remove in nature from absolute trash, Phyllis--absolute trash! His character may be good--doubtless it is; but he is not of good family, and he shows it. What is he but a mountain cracker? There is no middle ground; trash is trash!"

Colonel Mobley Sommerton spoke in a rich ba.s.s voice, slowly rolling his words. The bagging of his trousers at the knees made his straight legs appear bent, as if for a jump at something, while his daughter Phyllis looked at him searchingly, but not in the least impatiently, her fine gray eyes wide open, and her face, with its delicately blooming cheeks, its peach-petal lips, and its saucy little nose, all attention and half-indignant surprise.

"Of course," the Colonel went on, with a conciliatory touch in his words, when he had waited some time for his daughter to speak and she spoke not--"of course you do not care a straw for him, Phyllis; I know that. The daughter of a Sommerton couldn't care for such a--"

"I don't mind saying to you that I do care for him, and that I love him, and want to marry him," broke in Phyllis, with tremulous vehemence, tears gushing from her eyes at the same time; and a depth of touching pathos seemed to open behind her words, albeit they rang like so many notes of rank boldness in the old man's ears.

"Phyllis!" he exclaimed; then he stooped a little, his trousers bagging still more, and he stood in an att.i.tude almost stagy, a flare of choleric surprise leaping into his face. "Phyllis Sommerton what _do_ you mean? Are you crazy? You say that to me?"

The girl--she was just eighteen--faced her father with a look at once tearfully saucy and lovingly firm. The sauciness, however, was superficial and physical, not in any degree a part of her mental mood. She could not, had she tried, have been the least bit wilful or impertinent with her father, who had always been a model of tenderness. Besides, a girl never lived who loved a parent more unreservedly than Phyllis loved Colonel Sommerton.

"Go to your room, miss! go to your room! Step lively at that, and let me have no more of this nonsense. Go! I command you!"

The stamp with which the Colonel's rather substantial boot just then shook the floor seemed to generate some current of force sufficient to whirl Phyllis about and send her up-stairs in an old-fashioned fit of hysteria.

She was crying and talking and running all at the same time, her voice made liquid like a bird's, and yet jangling with its mixed emotions. Down fell her wavy, long, brown hair almost to her feet, one rich strand trailing over the rail as she mounted the steps, while the rustling of her muslin dress told off the springy motion of her limbs till she disappeared in the gilt-papered gloom aloft, where the windowless hall turned at right angles with the stairway.

Colonel Sommerton was smiling grimly by this time, and his iron-gray mustache quivered humorously.

"She's a little brick," he muttered; "a chip off the old log--by zounds, she is! She means business. Got the bit in her teeth, and fairly splitting the air!" He chuckled raucously. "Let her go; she'll soon tire out."

Sommerton Place, a picturesque old mansion, as mansions have always gone in north Georgia, stood in a grove of oaks on a hill-top overlooking a little mountain town, beyond which uprose a crescent of blue peaks against a dreamy summer sky. Behind the house a broad plantation rolled its billow-like ridges of corn and cotton.

The Colonel went out on the veranda and lit a cigar, after breaking two or three matches that he nervously scratched on a column.

This was the first quarrel that he had ever had with Phyllis.

Mrs. Sommerton had died when Phyllis was twelve years old, leaving the little girl to be brought up in a boarding-school in Atlanta. The widowed man did not marry again, and when his daughter came home, six months before the opening of our story, it was natural that he should see nothing but loveliness in the fair, bright, only child of his happy wedded life, now ended forever.

The reader must have taken for granted that the person under discussion in the conversation touched upon at the outset of this writing was a young man; but Tom Bannister stood for more than the sum of the average young man's values. He was what in our republic is recognized as a promising fellow, bright, magnetic, shifty, well forward in the neologies of society, business, and politics, a born leader in a small way, and as ambitious as poverty and a br.i.m.m.i.n.g self-esteem could make him. From his humble law-office window he had seen Phyllis pa.s.s along the street in the old Sommerton carriage, and had fallen in love as promptly as possible with her plump, lissome form and pretty face.