The Prodigal Judge
CHAPTER VIII
ON THE RIVER
Betty stood under a dripping umbrella in the midst of a drenching downpour,
her boxes and trunks forming a neat pyramid of respectable size beside her. She
was somewhat perturbed in spirit, since they contained much elaborate finery all
in the very latest eastern fashion, spoils that were the fruit of a heated
correspondence with Tom, who hadn't seemed at all alive to the fact that Betty
was nearly eighteen and in her own right a young woman of property. A tarpaulin
had been thrown over the heap, and with one eye on it and the other on the
stretch of yellow canal up which they were bringing the fast packet Pioneer, she
was waiting impatiently to see her belongings transferred to a place of safety.
Just arrived by the four-horse coach that plyed regularly between Washington
and Georgetown, she had found the long board platform beside the canal crowded
with her fellow passengers, their number augmented by those who delight to share
vicariously in travel and to whom the departure of a stage or boat was a matter
of urgent interest requiring their presence, rain or shine. Suddenly she became
aware of a tall, familiar figure moving through the crowd. It was Bruce
Carrington. At the same moment he saw her, and with a casual air that quite
deceived her, approached; and Betty, who had been feeling very lonely and very
homesick, was somehow instantly comforted at sight of him. She welcomed him
almost as a friend.
"You're leaving to-night?" he asked.
"Yes—isn't it miserable the way it rains? And why are they so slow—why don't
they hurry with that boat?"
"It's in the last lock now," explained Carrington.
"My clothes will all be ruined," said Betty. He regarded the dress she wore
with instant concern. "No—I mean the things in my trunks; this doesn't matter,"
and Betty nodded toward the pile under the steaming tarpaulin. Carrington's dark
eyes opened with an expression of mild wonder. And so those trunks were full of
clothes—Oh, Lord!—he looked down at the flushed, impatient face beside him with
amusement.
"I'll see that they are taken care of," he said, for the boat was alongside
the platform now; and gathering up Betty's hand luggage, he helped her aboard.
By the time they had reached Wheeling, Betty had quite parted with whatever
superficial prejudice she might have had concerning river-men. This particular
one was evidently a very nice river-man, an exception to his kind. She permitted
him to assume the burden of her plans, and no longer scanned the pages of her
Badger's and Porter's with a puckered brow. It reposed at the bottom of her
satchel. He made choice of the steamer on which she should continue her journey,
and thoughtfully chose The Naiad—a slow boat, with no reputation for speed to
sustain. It meant two or three days longer on the river, but what of that? There
would be no temptation in the engine-room to attach a casual wrench or so to the
safety-valve as an offset to the builder's lack of confidence in his own
boilers. He saw to it that her state-room was well aft—steamers had a trick of
blowing up forward.
Ne had now reached a state of the utmost satisfaction with himself and the
situation. Betty was friendly and charming. He walked with her, and he talked
with her by the hour; and always he was being entangled deeper and deeper in the
web of her attraction. "When alone he would pace the deck recalling every word
she had spoken. There was that little air of high breeding which was Betty's
that fascinated him. He had known something of the other sort, those who had
arrived at prosperity with manners and speech that still reflected the meaner
condition from which they had risen.
"I haven't a thing to offer her—this is plain madness of mine!" he kept
telling himself, and then the expression of his face would become grim and
determined. No more of the river for him—he'd get hold of some land and go to
raising cotton; that was the way money was made.
Slow as The Naiad was, the days passed much too swiftly for him. When Memphis
was reached their friendly intercourse would come to an end. There would be her
brother, of whom she had occasionally spoken—he would be pretty certain to have
the ideas of his class.
As for Betty, she liked this tall fellow who helped her through the fatigue
of those long days, when there was only the unbroken sweep of the forest on
either hand, with here and there a clearing where some outrageous soul was
making a home for himself. The shores became duller, wilder, more uninteresting
as they advanced, and then at last they entered the Mississippi, and she was
almost home.
Betty was not unexcited by the prospect. She would be the mistress of the
most splendid place in West Tennessee. She secretly aspired to be a brilliant
hostess. She could remember when the doors of Belle Plain were open to whoever
had the least claim to distinction—statesmen and speculators in land; men who
were promoting those great schemes of improvement, canals and railroads;
hard-featured heroes of the two wars with England—a diminishing group; the men
of the modern army, the pathfinders, and Indian fighters, and sometimes a titled
foreigner. She wondered if Tom had maintained the traditions of the place. She
found that Carrington had heard of Belle Plain. He spoke of it with respect, but
with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, for how could he feel enthusiasm when he
must begin his chase after fortune with bare hands?—he suffered acutely whenever
it was mentioned. The days, like any other days, dwindled. The end of it all was
close at hand. Another twenty-four hours and Carrington reflected there would
only be good-by to say.
"We will reach New Madrid to-night," he told her. They were watching the
river, under a flood of yellow moonlight.
"And then just another day—Oh, I can hardly wait!" cried Betty delightedly.
"Soon I shall hope to see you at Belle Plain, Mr. Carrington," she added
graciously.
"Thank you, your—your family—" he hesitated.
"There's only just Tom—he's my half-brother. My mother was left a widow when
I was a baby. Later, some years after, she married Tom's father."
"Oh—then he's not even your half-brother?"
"He's no relation at all—and much older. When Tom's father died my mother
made Tom, manager, and still later he was appointed my guardian."
"Then you own Belle Plain?" and Carrington sighed.
"Yes. You have never seen it?—it's right on the river, you know?" then
Betty's face grew sober: "Tom's dreadfully queer—I expect he'll require a lot of
managing!"
"I reckon you'll be equal to that!" said-Carrington, convinced of Betty's
all-compelling charm.
"No, I'm not at all certain about Tom—I can see where we shall have serious
differences; but then, I shan't have to struggle single-handed with him long; a
cousin of my mother's is coming to Belle Plain to make her home with me—she'll
make' him behave," and Betty laughed maliciously. "It's a great nuisance being a
girl!"
Then Betty fell to watching for the lights at New Madrid, her elbows resting
on the rail against which she was leaning, and the soft curve of her chin sunk
in the palms of her hands. She wondered absently what Judith would have said of
this river-man. She smiled a little dubiously. Judith had certainly vindicated
the sincerity of her convictions regarding the importance of family, inasmuch as
in marrying Ferris she had married her own second cousin. She nestled her chin a
little closer in her palms. She remembered that they had differed seriously over
Mr. Yancy's defiance, of the law as it was supposed to be lodged in the sacred
person of Mr. Bladen's agent, the unfortunate Blount. Carrington, with his back
against a stanchion, watched her discontentedly.
"You'll be mighty glad to have this over with, Miss Malroy—" he said at
length, with a comprehensive sweep toward the river.
"Yes—shan't you?" and she opened her eyes questioningly.
"No," said Carrington with a short laugh, drawing a chair near hers and
sitting down.
Betty, in surprise, gave him a quick look, and then as quickly glanced away
from what she encountered in his eyes. Men were accustomed to talk sentiment to
her, but she had hoped—well, she really had thought that he was, superior to
this weakness. She had enjoyed the feeling that here was some one, big and
strong and thoroughly masculine, with whom she could be friendly without—she
took another look at him from under the fringe of her long lashes. He was so
nice and considerate—and good looking—he was undeniably this last. It would be a
pity! And she had already determined that Tom should invite him to Belle Plain.
She didn't mind if he was a river-man—they could be friends, for clearly he was
such an exception. Tom should be cordial to him. Betty stared before her,
intently watching the river. As she looked, suddenly pale points of light
appeared on a distant headland.
"Is that New Madrid?—Oh, is it, Mr. Carrington?"' she cried eagerly.
"I reckon so," but he did not alter his position.
"But you're not looking!"
"Yes, I am—I'm looking at you. I reckon you'll think me crazy, Miss
Malroy-presumptuous and all that but I wish Memphis could be wiped off the map
and that we could go on like this for ever!—no, not like this but together—you
and I," he took a deep breath. Betty drew a little farther away, and looked at
him reproachfully; and then she turned to the dancing lights far down the river.
Finally she said slowly:
"I thought you were—different."
"I'm not," and Carrington's hand covered hers.
"Oh—you mustn't kiss my hand like that—"
"Dear—I'm just a man—and you didn't expect, did you, that I could see you
this way day after day and not come to love you?" He rested his arm across the
back of her chair and leaned toward her.
"No—no—" and Betty moved still farther away.
"Give me a chance to win your love, Betty!"
"You mustn't talk so—I am nothing to you—"
"Yes, you are. You're everything to me," said Carrington doggedly.
"I'm not—I won't be!" and Betty stamped her foot.
"You can't help it. I love you and that's all there is about it. I know I'm a
fool to tell you now, Betty, but years wouldn't make any difference in my
feeling; and I can't have you go, and perhaps never see you again, if I can help
it. Betty—give me a chance—you don't hate me—"
"But I do—yes, I do—indeed—"
"I know you don't. Let me see you again and do what I can to make you care
for me!" he implored. But he had a very indignant little aristocrat to deal
with. She was angry with him, and angry with herself that in spite of herself
his words moved her. She wouldn't have it so! Why, he wasn't even of her
class—her kind! "Betty, you don't mean—" he faltered.
"I mean—I am extremely annoyed. I mean just what I say." Betty regarded him
with wrathful blue eyes. It proved too much for Carrington. His arm, dropped
about her shoulders.
"You shall love me—" She was powerless in his embrace. She felt his breath on
her cheek, then he kissed her. Breathless and crimson, she struggled and pushed
him from her. Suddenly his arms fell at his side; his face was white. "I was a
brute to do that!—Betty, forgive me! I am sorry—no, I can't be sorry!"'
"How do you dare! I hope I may never see you again—I hate you—" said Betty
furiously, tears in her eyes and her pulses still throbbing from his fierce
caress.
"Do you mean that?" he asked slowly, rising.
"Yes—yes—a million times, yes!"
"I don't believe you—I can't—I won't!" They were alongside the New Madrid
wharf now, and a certain young man who had been impatiently watching The Naiad's
lights ever since they became visible crossed the gang-plank with a bound.
"Betty—why in the name of goodness did you ever, choose this tub?—everything
on the river has passed it!" said the newcomer. Betty started up with a little
cry of surprise and pleasure.
"Charley!"
Carrington stepped back. This must be the brother who had come up the river
from Memphis to meet her—but her brother's name was Tom! He looked this
stranger—this Charley—over with a hostile eye, offended by his good looks, his
confident manner, in which he thought he detected an air of ownership, as
if—certainly he was holding her hands longer than was necessary! Of course,
other men were in love with her, such a radiant personality held its potent
attraction for men, but for all that, she was going to belong to him—Carrington!
She did like him; she had shown it in a hundred little ways during the last
week, and he would give her up to no man—give her up?—there wasn't the least tie
between them—except that kiss—and she was furious because of it. There was
nothing for him to do but efface himself. He would go now, before the boat
started—and an instant later, when Betty, remembering, turned to speak to him,
his place by the rail was deserted.