CHAPTER I

DESCRIBES A MEETING OF IMPORT

This narrative should begin with the death-sob of Red Rory as the
murderous bullet smote him from life; it should continue with the sick
awaking of young Keith, Dallas, Chisholm in a certain evil haunt of
Hell’s Kitchen, New York City, to find himself staring into a hated
face, seen as it were through a swirling mist, a ghastly face—grey,
dead, blood-smeared, and beneath his own lax fingers a revolver, while
with throbbing brain and mind a very chaos of horror he strove
desperately to think back . . . dispel this dreadful mist that benumbed
his every faculty . . . to remember. . . .

But:

This narrative really opens with song of a lark carolling joyously in
the sunny air high over a certain noble swell of the Sussex Downs
whereon lay young Keith, Dallas, Chisholm flat on his back, a dusty,
travel-worn figure, gazing up at the soaring bird with such wistful,
haggard eyes. Sitting up wearily at last, he glanced down at the
crumpled letter in his fingers, a large sheet of thick notepaper bearing
neither date nor address but these words in bold, hasty scrawl:

“There are sins I can forgive and have forgiven you, but murder
is not one of them. Your allowance shall be paid as usual so
long as you keep clear of the States and forget you were ever
the son of

“WILBUR I. CHISHOLM.”

“And that’s—that!” sighed the outcast. “It’s rough on the poor old Dad,
yes—it’s certainly mighty tough . . . !” And presently, crumpling the
letter in quivering fingers, he struck a match, lighted the paper and,
sighing dismally, watched it burn.

“Ooh—a bun-fire!” cried a gleeful voice, and glancing swiftly up and
around, he saw a very small damsel scrambling towards him down the
grassy slope. Mutely he stared at this child with his troublous,
long-lashed grey eyes and she at him with eyes very wide, brown, and
critical.

“Good afternoon, man!” said she, demurely.

“Hello—girlie!” he answered, gently.

“But aren’t you going to make a bun-fire, please?”

“Why no,” he replied, almost apologetically and smiled, whereat she
smiled also and in manner so friendly that he felt strangely comforted,
and reached out as if to touch her bright hair, then hesitated, stared
at his hand with dilating eyes, clenched it suddenly and let it fall.
The child came nearer.

“Yesterday,” she announced, “our cat ’Blinda found three teeny-weeny
kittens in our Sarah’s work-box!”

“You don’t say?”

“Yes I do, man. And Sarah was dreffle cross, an’ said drattem, she’d
drownem. So I said she was a beast, an’ so she is. Sometimes I can’t
’bide our Sarah. Then Aunt Jemima, that isn’t our real aunt, you know,
sent me to bed and no tea—not a scrinch only my sister Jo brought me
some an’ jam too, an’ kissed me. Jo’s nice though she is all growed up.
An’ she’s going to let me have one of the weeny kittens for my own
self—you see she likes me, Jo does, though I am troublesome—a bit.”

“Sure she does, girlie. But what are you doing out here all alone?”

“Well,” she answered, sitting down beside him and arranging the somewhat
shaggy bunch of cowslips she had gathered, “I’m looking about for a rich
husbant.”

“Gee-whiz!” he murmured, staring into the demure little face. “You’ve
sure started mighty early!”

“Oh yes,” she sighed, “hours an’ hours ago, but I haven’t found any yet,
there don’t seem many about on the Downs to-day, though I’ve looked an’
looked.”

“Well, well!” said he, opening his grey eyes a little wider. “Now what
d’you know about that!”

“Only what our Aunt Jemima said this morning—she said: ‘Someday we must
find Patience a rich husbant,’ an’ I’m Patience so I came out to find
one for my ownself. You see I’m nearly growed into eight.”

“And—are you named Patience, really and truly?”

“I are, man. Though our Sarah says mother should have put an ’im’ in
front, ’cause I’se so impatient.”

“And what does your mother say?”

“She can’t say anything now, man, ’cause she’s a holy angel.”

“Oh!” he murmured, “So is mine,” and he turned to stare down and away
across the wide valley where village and hamlet nestled amid the green
of bowery trees.

“An’ now, man, please what’s your name?”

“Well folks call me . . . you can call me . . . Dallas, Dal, for short.”

“But you’re awful’ long, you know!” she answered, pointing at his dusty
legs. “But I like your face, ’specially when you smile.”

“Do you, Honey, do you?” he inquired with a strange eagerness. “Honest
and true, Hon, do you?”

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Are you a rich man?”

“Why no . . . no I’m afraid not—”

“No, I was ’fraid not,” she sighed, glancing at his shabby person. “Your
hat’s not a rich man’s hat—nor your boots. But if you could only grow
yourself rich you’d do an’ then I’d marry you an’ have a motorcar like
Mr. Meredith, an’ give Jo a ride in it if she ’haved herself an’ was
p’lite to me.”

“Jo?” he repeated. “That sounds a kind of pretty name to me, Honey.”

“Well her reel name’s Josepha an’ she’s quite growed up, with red
hair—bobbed you know, and keeps bees an’ they stung me once oh triffic!
But I love honey, only she sells it nearly all. And Aunt Jemima says
bees are spiteful beasts, an’ so they are. An’ she keeps chickens
too—lots an’ lots, only it’s been such a drefful bad season for eggs.”

“Josepha!” he murmured. “That sure is a dandy name, Honey, as pretty as
your own. And where do you live?”

“Oh miles an’ miles—triffic!” answered the Small Damsel stabbing slim
finger towards the wide valley below. “There, behind those trees, the
thatched cottage. You can’t see it, but it’s there. And nobody ever
called me ‘Honey’ before. Why do you call me honey, please?”

“Well it’s just an American love-name.”

“Well, I like it better than Patience or Pat or Patty, an’ I simply
’dore honey!”

“Then won’t you please call me ‘Dal’—just once?” he pleaded, with look
and tone so wistful that she edged nearer, and proffered him three
wilting cowslips.

“Why do your eyes look so big an’—weepy?” she demanded.

“Do they, Hon?” said he, glancing down at the flowers in his hand.

“Yes—jest like Jo’s when she hasn’t got quite ’nough to pay Mr.
Jessam—he’s a great beast, he is an’ with a beard. I hate beards, don’t
you, Dal?”

“Sure thing, Hon. But who’s Mr. Jessam?”

“A large man that comes in a car an’ lives on our rent. You see our
cottage b’longs to him reely, an’ he won’t mend the sitting-room
chimbley though it smokes dreffly awful sometimes.”

Now listening to this sweet, childish voice, looking into these clear,
childish eyes, there rushed upon him the blasting memory of those latter
discreditable months in New York with their final culminating horror,
and, knowing himself for what he was become—a fugitive from Justice, an
outlaw branded by stain indelible, he bowed his head while the soul
within him grew sick. . . .

“Now you look weepy again!” sighed little Patience suddenly. “Haven’t
you any friends—is that why?”

“Yes I . . . I guess that’s why, Honey,” he answered, keeping his eyes
averted. . . . Out to him came a little hand, somewhat grubby, but full
of cowslips.

“Ne-ver mind!” said she consolingly. “Here’s more flowers what I picked
for my angel, but she’s got heaps of flowers in heaven an’ you’re a
lone, lorn soul like Jesse Blee, the shepherd, only he’s old with
whiskers.”

So the hand of Innocence took and clasped the hand of Guilt wherefore
Dallas spoke, below his breath:

“God bless you, Honey!”

“Thank you!” said she, demurely.

“But, say now why do you thank me?”

“’Cause you prayed for me, an’ our Sarah says I need sech a lot of
praying for—”

At this moment, above a tussock of grass, a few yards away, rose a
weather-beaten old hat shading a weather-beaten old face, yet a ruddy
face lit by shrewd, bright eyes and framed in wiry whisker.

“Lordy!” exclaimed this head, and up from steep, grassy hollow rose a
somewhat bowed figure yet all vigorous strength from stooping shoulders
to lean, gaitered legs. “Lordy!” repeated the new-comer, and leaning
upon the crook he carried, stared very hard at Dallas who, meeting this
sharp scrutiny, immediately blenched with sense of guilt and extreme
unworthiness.

“Good afternoon, Jesse!” quoth the Small Damsel in dignified yet kindly
greeting. “He’s a shepherd, Dal, an’ his name’s Jesse Blee,” she
explained. “How’s your rheumatics, Jesse, an’ where’s your Roger?”

“Whoy Roger ’e be down-along Deepdene way arter them ewes, Mis’ Pat, an’
me rheumatics be naun so bad ’cept for me back, an’ me feet, an’ me
’ands, an’ the j’ints o’ me knees an’ elbers, an’ a crick in me back as
ketches me crool noo an’ then, otherwise I be purty chig. But Lordy,
Mis’ Patience, wot be doin’ up ’ere arl b’yeself—an’ ’long of a
stranger tu?”

“Oh—but this isn’t a stranger any more, Jesse,” she answered, pointing
small finger at Dallas’s despondent figure. “You see I know him now, an’
his name’s Dal-for-short, an’ he’s a lone, lorn soul—jest the same as
you, Jesse.”

“Then ’e didn’t ought to be!” retorted the old shepherd, frowning at the
silent Dallas and shaking his head. “No ’e didn’t nowise ought to
be—nohow.”

“But you’re a lorn soul, Jesse, you tell everybody you are——”

“Sure-ly, Mis’ Patience. But ’tis nat’ral in me for I be a old un. But
’e be a young un, and to be young an’ lorn beant nat’ral—and yon come
them ewes!”

Sheep were bleating, lambs were wailing and up from grassy steeps below
a dog came bounding, a large, very shaggy, tailless dog who leapt
towards Patience, red tongue a-flutter in joyous welcome, then turned to
survey Dallas with a pair of light-grey, inquiring eyes, his shaggy coat
seeming slightly more shaggy than usual.

“This,” explained the Small Damsel, “is Roger an’ he only bites beasts,
doesn’t he Jesse?”

“Ar!” nodded the shepherd, glancing at Dallas, his dusty garments,
somewhat askance. “Roger don’t like strangers—specially tramps an’
sich.”

Dallas smiled and reached out a large, well-cared-for and perfectly
assured hand.

“Come, Roger!” said he gently. The dog cocked an ear, tilted his head to
the right, tilted it to the left, snuffed, stepped forward and butted
shaggy crest to Dallas’s caressing fingers.

“So—Roger’s took to ee, then!” quoth the shepherd gloomily.

“Why sure,” nodded Dallas, pulling the dog’s ear, “I like all animals,
especially dogs and horses, and I guess they know it.”

“That theer dog knows a sight more ’n you’d think,” quoth his master.
“Got more sense nor a good many huming beinks. My Roger’s full of
instink an’ that’s better nor reason, leastways ’tis surer.”

“And that’s right, too!” nodded Dallas.

“Ar!” quoth old Jesse, nodding also. “My Roger ain’t to be took in by
nothink nor nobody on four legs or two, ’e knows ’is friends and ’is
henemies an’ ax accordin’. An’ theer aren’t a better ship-dog in Sussex,
nor nowheres else an’ wots more——”

Roger growled suddenly and sat up, shaggy coat bristling, whereupon the
old shepherd glanced round about and pointed triumphantly with his
crook.

“Theer, wot did I tell ee neow?” he demanded, “Roger knowed.”

“Knew what?”

“Why yonder comes young Ben Lomax—theer ’e be a-comin’ over Windover
’long by ‘the Giant’.”

“Eh, Giant?” questioned Dallas.

“Ay, sure-ly! Doant ee know ‘the Giant,’ young feller?”

“Jesse means the ‘Long Man’,” Patience explained. “Haven’t you seed him,
Dal?”

“Why no, Honey.”

“Then I’ll ’duce you to him prensly——”

“And theer comes Ben, dannel ’im!” quoth the shepherd, pointing at a
distant figure with his crook. “A bad un be Ben, allus usin’ his fistes
on folkses an’ knockin’ folkses down. Ye see ’e were a pugglist-chap up
to Lonnon an’ ’e can’t nowise forget it.”

“Meanin’ he’s fought in the ring?” inquired Dallas sitting up.

“Ar!” growled the old shepherd, “an’ moighty ready to fight out of it
tu—at any time.”

“What’s he doing down here?”

“’E be in Lord Withymore’s stables. They du say as ’im an’ ’is ludship
punches each other regular—wi’ them boxin’-gloves.”

“Aha!” murmured Dallas, and turned to survey the approaching figure with
a new interest, while Roger rumbled and growled in such uneasy fashion
that the old shepherd thrust crook into his collar and bade him “lie
down!”

“So Mr. Ben Lomax kind of loves to fight, does he?” inquired Dallas,
musingly.

“Ar! But theer aren’t nobody left as dare stand up to ’im ’ereabouts,”
sighed Jesse, mournfully.

“Our Tom did last week, though!” said the Small Person. “Tom’s our
gardener, Dal!” she explained, “an’ helps Jo with the chickens——”

“Ar, so ’e did, Miss Patty,” answered the old shepherd sighing deeper
than ever, “and got ’isself knocked down for ’is pains!”

“’Cause our Tom’s only a little man, you see, Dal.”

“Why then, bully for him!” nodded Dallas, still eyeing the approaching
Ben, who showed as a smartish, fresh-complexioned, burly fellow, small
as to eye and nose but large as to chin and thick of neck and shoulders.

“Looks pretty hefty!” murmured Dallas.

“But only a Londoner!” quoth Jesse. “’E aren’t Sussex ’e aren’t, no—an’
never can be!”

“Though a trifle heavyish about the pins!” murmured Dallas. Then the
legs in question halted within a few yards of them and their owner spoke
in voice aggressive as his looks:

“Hey, shepherd—you Jess, look arter that dawg o’ yourn. I thrashed ’im
once mind. One o’ these days I’ll take a gun to ’im——”

“Will ’ee so—will ’ee so?” cried old Jesse fiercely. “Then b’ the pyx
I’ll tak’ a gun to ’ee, sure-ly I will!”

“Shurrup!” cried Lomax, flourishing the stout ash-plant he carried.
“Gimme any o’ your lip an’ I’ll thrash ’im again——”

“You tech my dog an’ I’ll jag ye wi’ me crook! Ar—jab yer eye out I
will!” So saying the old shepherd turned and strode away, dragging the
snarling Roger with him. Ben Lomax made to follow but meeting the
unswerving gaze of Dallas, paused to eye him truculently.

“Well?” he demanded. “Wot are you starin’ at?”

“I’m sure wondering,” murmured Dallas.

“Well—wot abaht it? You’ll know me again, praps?”

“No, sir-ree, not unless I have to.”

“Wot d’ye mean, eh?”

“Into the discard for yours——”

“Eh?” demanded Lomax, seeming all jaw and chin.

“You sure pack some grouch——”

“Garn! You sounds like one o’ them blarsted Ameri——”

“Hush-up!” said Dallas, admonishing finger upraised. “Remember the
child!”

“Lumme! I bleeve you are a perishin’ Yank——”

“And you,” nodded Dallas, “fought in the States and were beaten by
Gunshot Gragson in the third——”

“On a foul!” cried Lomax hoarsely. “On a foul as weren’t a foul——”

“I saw the blow!” quoth Dallas.

“You’ll see some more in a minute!” snorted Lomax. “Ah, an’ feel ’em
too—unless you’re one o’ them Yanks as is too proud to fight an’
collared all our gold species—one o’ them cursed Americans as we’re
payin’ for keepin’ out o’ the war when it was a war—one o’ them
damned——”

“Bottle it—can the rough stuff!” quoth Dallas, reverting to the
vernacular. “The girlie’s piping us, so cut it out right now—pronto!”
And his voice was soft as ever, but his eyes glittered suddenly beneath
their long lashes. Ben Lomax’s answer was an oath as, clenching his
fists, he stepped forward eager for strife, in which same instant Dallas
was on his feet and his smile, like the glint in his eyes, was a menace;
then, even as they fronted each other thus, the Small Person was between
them:

“Oh, Ben!” she exclaimed, little chin aloft, brown eyes serene, bearing
herself like the small, great lady she was, “I’m s’prised at you!
What’ll ever our Sarah say? An’ she won’t let you kiss her any more—I
know!”

Ben’s fierce gaze wavered, his fists dropped and he scowled round about
at the far-flung landscape like one at sudden loss, while the Small
Person, pointing slim finger at him, continued inexorably:

“Sarah’ll hate an’ ’spise you worser an’ worser—an’ so shall I too!”

“Miss Pat,” said Ben, his gaze still afar, “get out o’ my way, like a
good, little gal.”

Patience merely wagged her small finger at him, quoth she:

“Sarah told my sister Jo she’ll never let you be her husbant—never.
‘Drattim!’ she said—I heard her—‘drattim, I’d rayther marry Farmer
Jordan’s prize pig’ . . . an’ then she said you was a blood-thirsty
hoger . . . and Oh Ben, what’ll she say if you knock down Dal like you
did our Tom? She’ll say something drefful—trifically awful!”

Ben quailed anew, gurgled hoarsely in bull throat, and shook his bullet
head:

“You don’t ’ave to go tellin’ Sairey nothing, Missy,” he growled (albeit
pleadingly). “Sairey knows an’ says a sight too much——”

“Then you’ll please not to knock Dal down.”

“Right O, Miss Patty,” sighed Mr. Lomax heavily, “only don’t ye say
nothin’ about me to Sairey—promise now! See this wet—see this dry——”

“‘Cross my heart I hope to die!’” added Patience as per the formula. “I
promise, Ben.”

“Right y’are, Missy!” he nodded and turned to be gone but, so doing,
scowled at Dallas across broad shoulder and silently mouthed the words:
“Next time!” And so, away he strode.

“Ben’s a beast!” said the Small Person, gazing after him, “but sometimes
almost a nice beast—to me. An’ his heart b’longs to our Sarah, he gave
it to her one evening by the big chicken-coop. I heard him tell her so,
an’ she said she’d rather have a wrist-watch. An’ so should I—a
teeny-weeny one, you know, all real gold with di’monds onto it like
Jo’s, only she had to sell hers to pay Mr. Jessam an’ buy some new
brooders only they died, the chickens in the brooders I mean—the rain
an’ the damp, you know, chickens all hate rain an’ so do I. Now hold my
hand and I’ll take and ’duce you to the ‘Giant’.”

So Dallas took the small hand she proffered and off they tramped
together; she led him up steep, grassy slopes upon whose velvety ling
the foot trod unwearied, up and up and so at last to a noble eminence
upreared in a gentle grandeur, whence he might look down across this
wide Sussex country—sunny meadows, darkling woods, winding roads,
sparkling streams, with grey church-towers peeping here and there amid
the green of ancient trees—a smiling, rural landscape stretching away
mile on mile to where afar sea seemed to meet sky in a vague, blue
mystery.

She brought him at last to a narrow grassy path bound on the one hand by
a swelling, green upland and on the other by precipitous green slope
whereon, deep cut into the soft turf was the colossal figure of a man
who stood, mighty arms outstretched, grasping a staff or spear in either
vasty fist.

“There he is!” cried Patience, flourishing her posy of cowslips as if in
greeting. “There’s the giant, isn’t he triffic?”

“My, yes, he’s certainly some monster!” answered Dallas, gazing down
upon the thing of wonder.

“Yes,” nodded Patience, “and a long, long time ago when I was young I
used to be ’fraid of him ’cause he is so ’normous big, but now that I’m
growder-up I know that big men are kind—an’ you’re awful’ big you know,
Dal. An’ now let me please ’troduce you. Dear Giant,” she called in
soft, caressing voice, “I’ve brought you a friend ’cause you must be so
lonely sometimes, ’specially at night in the rain an’ wind. Dear Giant
this is Dal-for-short that I’ve found for a husbant, so I want you to
like him a lot please. . . . Dal this is Mr. Giant Long-Man an’ whenever
you see him you must ’member me ’cause we’se all friends now for ever
an’ ever. And now, Dal, what do you say to him?”

Very gravely Dallas took off his shabby hat and bowed:

“Mighty pleased to meet you, Mr. Giant,” said he, “and whenever I see
you I’ll sure remember our Honey—well, I guess yes!”

So they presently rambled on together again; and listening to the Small
Person’s artless chatter concerning Jo, her chickens, her ducks and her
other worries in regard to proper feeding, bills, eggs, rent, broody
hens, Mr. Jessam, murderous rats and divers other inconsequent items,
Dallas, began to understand how very hard and difficult life may be for
one, especially a woman, young and spirited, whose father did not happen
to be a multi-millionaire.

“So your sister Jo’s all alone in the world, eh, Hon?”

“Oh no, she’s got me, an’ Sarah, an’ B’lindy—that’s the cat that found
the teeny kittens——”

“I mean she hasn’t a mother or father?”

“Well, I haven’t either, you know, that’s why she cries over me
sometimes when she’s very tired.”

“Cries, does she, Honey?”

“Yes, an’ calls me a norphan. The other night when I was saying my
prayers she cried all over me—such watery tears, an’ said ‘however am I
going to bring you up properly if things get any worser?’ I s’pose she
meant the chickens, they’ve gone off laying again—the beasts! So then a
course I kissed her an’ told her she must marry Mr. Meredith like he
wants her to ’cause he’s rich with a great, big house—oh fine! What’s
your house like, Dal?”

“Like nothing on earth, Hon—you see I haven’t got one.”

“Oh but everybody has a house of some kind, else where do they go at
night? Everybody must have a home, Dal, so where’s yours?”

“Here and there, Hon, anywhere under my hat.”

“Oh! An’ your hat’s so drefful old, Dal!”

“It sure is, girlie.”

After this they went awhile in silence until at last she paused, sighing
heavily.

“Tired, Honey?” he inquired tenderly.

“Not very—only I do wish you were rich, Dal, an’ I want my tea.”

“A great idea!” he nodded. “Where can we get some?”

“I’ll show you, come ’long with me.”

So down went they and down, across a chalky, flinty road, down a narrow,
winding lane, past a small, bleak-seeming inn, along a shady path,
through a small wicket-gate and then—Dallas halted suddenly, opened his
long-lashed, sleepy-looking eyes, drew in his breath and stood staring.