P BRIAN: KENT B.ROLD BELL WRIGHT iiiii' •mmam CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Gift of Ella Thompson Wright COi CDS rv>i 0)i The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924074604764 The RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT Books by Harold Bell Wright Philadelphia Sunday Dispatch — "The secret of his power is the same God-given secret that inspired Shakespeare and upheld Dick- ens." Oregon Journal, Portland — "It is this almost clairvoyant power of reading the human soul that has made Mr. Wright's books among the most remarkable works of the present age." THAT PRINTER OF UDELL'S Illustrations by Gilbert THK lEPHERD OF THE HILLS Illustrations by Cootes THE CALLING OF DAN MATTHEWS Illustrations by Keller THE WINNING OF BARBARA WORTH Illustrations by Cootes THEIR YESTERDAYS Illustrations by Cootes THE EYES OF THE WORLD Illustrations by Cootes WHEN A MAN'S A MAN Illustrations and Decorations by the Author THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT Illustrations by St. John The above are uniformly bound Cloth, i2mo. Each, $1.50 Net THE UNCROWNED KING Illustrations by Neill. i6mo. Cloth, 60c Net Full Leather, $1.25 Net The RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT A NOVEL BY HAROLD BELL WRIGHT AUTHOR OF "THE SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS" "WHEN A MAN'S A MAN" Etc., Etc. Illtutrations by J. ALLEN ST. JOHN THE BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY PUBLISHERS, CHICAGO The Re-Creation of Brian Kent Copyright, 1919 By HAROLD BELL WRIGHT Copyright, 1919 By ELSBERY W. REYNOLDS All Rights Reserved Published August, 1919 Printed in the United States of America Dear Auntie Sue: I have wondered many times, while writing this simpla story of life and love, if you would ever forgive me for put- ting you in a hook. I hope you will, because if you do not, I shall be heartbroken, and you wouldn't want me that way, would you. Auntie Sue? I fancy I can hear you say: "But, Harold, how could you! You know I never did the things you have made me do in your story. You know I never lived in a little log house by the river in the Ozark Mountains! What in the world will people think!" Well, to tell the truth, dear, I don't care so very much what people think if only they will love you ; and that they are sure to do, because, — well, just because — You must remember, too, that you will be eighty-seven years old the eighteenth of next November, and it is therefore quite time that someone put you in a book. And, after all. Auntie Sue, are you very sure that you have never lived in a little log house by the river, — are you very sure. Auntie Sue? Forgive my impertinence, as you have always forgiven me everything; and love me 3ust the same, because I have written only in love of the dearest Auntie Sue in the world! The Glenwood Mission Inn, Riverside, California, April 30, 1919. "And see the rivers, how they run Through ixoodLs and meads, in shade and sun. Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, — Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep Like human life to endless sleep!" John Dyer — "Grongar Hill." CONTENTS CHAPTES PAGE I. A Kemaekable Womait 13 II. The Majst iisr the Dark 23 III. A Missing Letter 34 IV. The Will of the Eivee 49 V. Auntie Sue Eecognizes a Gentle- man 52 VI. In the Log House by the Eivee. . 67 VII. Officees of the Law V7 VIII. That Which Is Geeatee Than the Law 91 IX. Auntie Sue's Peoposition 104 X. Beian Kent Decides 119 XI. Ke-Ceeation 133 XII. Auntie Sue Takes a Chance. . . . 151 XIII. Judy to the Kescue 158 XIV. Betty Jo Considees 175 9 CONTENTS CHAPTKE PAGE XV. A Mattee of Business 196 XVI. The Seceet of Auntie Sue's Life 211 XVII. An Awkwaed Situation 225 XVIII. Betty Jo Faces Heeself 236 XIX. Judy's Confession 244r XX. Beian and Betty Jo Keep House. 257 XXI. The Woman at the Window 269 XXII. At the Empiee Consolidated Sav- ings Bank 287 XXIII. In the Elbow Eock Eapids 300 XXIV. Judy's Ketuen 320 XXV. The Eivee 326 10 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Betty Jo Frontispiece ''Look, Judy ! Look !" 40 Auntie Sue said, softly, "She did not under- stand, Beian" 148 * * * She made the little book of pain- ful MEMORIES A BOOK OF JOYOUS PEOMISB . . 328 11 rhe Re-Creation of Brian Kent CHAPTER I. A REMARKABLE WOMAN. EEMEMBEE as well as though it were yes- terday the first time I met Auntie Sue. It happened during my first roaming visit to the Ozarks, when I had wandered by chance, one day, into the Elbow Rock neighborhood. Twenty years it was, at least, before the time of this story. She was standing in the door of her little schoolhouse, the ruins of which you may still see, halfway up the long hill from the log house by the river, where the most of this story was lived. It was that season of the year when the gold and brown of our Ozark Hills is overlaid with a filmy veil of delicate blue haze and the world is hushed with the solemn sweetness of the passing of the summer. And as the old gentlewoman stood there in the open door of that rustic temple of learning, with the deep- 13 THE RE-CEEATION OF BEIAN KENT shadowed, wooded hillside in the background, and, in front, the rude clearing with its crooked rail fence along which the scarlet sumac flamed, I thought, — as I still think, after all these years, — that I had never before seen such a woman. Fifty years had gone into the making of that sterling character which was builded upon a foun- dation of many generations of noble ancestors. With- out home or children of her own, the life strength of her splendid womanhood had been given to the teaching of boys and girls. An old-maid school- teacher ? Yes, — if you will. But, as I saw her standing there that day, — ^tall and slender, dressed in a simple gown that was fitting to her work, — there was a queenly digaity, a stately sweetness, in her bearing that made me feel, somehow, as if I had come unexpectedly into the presence of royalty, !N^ot the royalty of caste and court and station with their glit- tering pretenses of superiority and their superficial claims to distinction, — I do not mean that; I mean that true royalty which needs no caste or court or sta- tion but makes itself felt because it is. She did not notice me at first, for the noise of the children at play in the yard covered the sound of 14 THE EE-OEEATION OF BEIAN KENT my approach, and she was looking far, far away, over the river which lay below at the foot of the hill; over the forest-clad mountains in the glory of their brown and gold; over the vast sweep of the tree-crowned Ozark ridges that receded wave after wave into the blue haze until, in the vastness of the distant sky, they were lost. And something made me know that, in the moment's respite from her task, the woman was looking even beyond the sky itself. Her profile, clean-chiselled, but daintily formed, was beautiful in its gentle strength. Her hair was soft and silvery like the gray mist of the river in the morning. Then she turned to greet me, and I saw her eyes. Boy that I was then, and not given overmuch to serious thought, I knew that the high, unwavering purpose, the loving sympathy, and tender understanding that shone in the calm depth of those eyes could belong only to one who habitually looks unafraid beyond all earthly scenes. Only those who have learned thus to look beyond the material horizon of our little day have that beautiful inner light which shone in the eyes of Auntie Sue- — the teacher of a backwoods school. 15 THE RE-CREATIO^nT OF BRIAN KENT Auntie Sue had come to the Elbow Rock neighbor- hood the summer preceding that fall when I first met her. She had grown too old, she said, with her delightful little laugh, to be of much use in the larger schools of the more thickly populated sec- tions of the country. But she was still far too young, she stoutly maintained, to be altogether useless. Tom Warden, who lived just over the ridge from the schoolhouse, and who was blessed with the largest wife, the largest family, and the most pretentious farm in the county, had kinsfolk somewhere in Illi- nois. Through these relatives of the Ozark farmer Miss Susan Wakefield had learned of the needs of the Elbow Rock school, and so, finally, had come into the hills. It was the influential Tom who secured for her the modest position. It was the motherly Mrs. Tom who made her at home in the Warden household. It was the Warden boys and girls who first called her "Auntie Sue." But it was- Auntie Sue herself who won so large a place in the hearts of the simple mountain folk of the district that she held her position year after year, until she finally gave up teaching altogether. Not one of her Ozark friends ever came to know 16 THE EE-CKEATION OF BEIAN KENT in detail the history of this remarkable woman's life. It was known in a general way that she was bom in Connecticut ; that she had a brother somewhere in some South- American country ; that two other broth- ers had been killed in the Civil War; that she had taught in the lower and intermediate grades of pub- lic schools in various places all the years of her womanhood. Also, it was known that she had never married. "And that," said Uncle Lige Potter, voicing the unanimous opinion of the countryside, "is a doggone funny thing and plumb unnatural, considerin' the kind of woman she is." To which Lem Jordan, — ^who was then living with his ^f ourth wife, and might therefore be held to speak with a degrefe of authority, — added: "Hit sure is a dad burned shame, an' a plumb disgrace to the men of this here country, when you come to look at the sort of wimmen most of 'em are a marryin' most of the time." Another matter of universal and never-failing inr terest to the mountain folk was the unprecedented number of letters that Auntie Sue received and wrote. That some of these letters written by their 17 THE EE-CREATION OF BEIAN" KENT backwoods teacher were addressed to men and women of such prominence in the world that their names were known even to that remote Ozark district was a source of no little pride to Auntie Sue's immediate neighbors, and served to mark her in their eyes with no small distinction. It was during the fourth year of her life amid the scenes of this story, — as I recall time, — that Auntie Sue invested the small savings of her working years in the little log house by the river and the eighty acres of land known as the "Old Bill Wilson place." The house was a substantial building of three rooms, a lean-to kitchen, and a porch overlooking the river. The log barn, with "Prince," a gentle old horse, and "Bess," a mild-mannered, brindle cow, completed the modest establishment. About thirty acres of the land were cleared and un.der cultivation of a sort. The remaining acreage was in timber. The price, under the kindly and expert supervision of Tom Warden, was fifteen dollars an acre. But Auntie Sue always laughingly insisted that she really paid fifty cents an acre for the land and fourteen dollars and a half an acre for the sunsets. 18 THE RE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT Tlie tillable land, except for the garden, she "let out on shares," always under the friendly guardian- ship of neighbor Tom; while Tom's boys cared for the little garden in season, and saw to it that th& woodpile was always ample and ready for the stove. And, in addiuion to these fixed and regular homely services, there were many offerings of helpful hands whenever other needs arose ; for, as time passed, there came to be in all the Elbow Rock district scarce a man, young or old, who did not now and then honor himself by doing some little job for Auntie Suej while the women and girls, in the same neighborly spirit, brought from their own humble households many tokens of their loving thoughtfulness. And never did one visit that little log house by the river without the consciousness of something received from the silvery-haired old teacher — a something intangi- ble, perhaps, which they could not have expressed in words, but which, nevertheless, enriched the lives of those simple mountain people with a very real joy and a very tangible happiness. For six years. Auntie Sue continued teaching the Elbow Rock school ; — climbing the hill in the morn- ing from her log house by the river to the cabin- 19 THE KE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side above; returning in the late afternoon, when her day's work was over, down the winding road to her little home, there to watch, from the porch that over- looked the river, the sunset in the evening. And every year the daily climb grew a little harder ; the days of work grew a little longer; she went dovra the hiR in the afternoon a little slower. And every year the sunsets were to her eyes more beautiful ; the ■evening skies to her understanding glowed with richer meaning; the twilight hours filled her heart vdth a deeper peace. And so, at last, her teaching days were over ; that is, she taught no more in the log schoolhouse in the clearing on the mountain-side. But in her little home beside the river she continued her work; not from text-books, indeed, but as all such souls must continue to teach, until the sun sets for the last time upon their mortal days. Work-worn, toil-hardened mountaineer mothers, whose narrow world denied them so many of the finer thoughts and things, came to counsel with this childless woman, and to learn from her a little of the ^rt of contentment and happiness. Strong men, of 20 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT rude dress and speech, whose lives were as rough as the hills in which they were reared, and whose thoughts were often as crude as their half-savage and sometimes lawless customs, came to sit at the feet, of this gentle one, who received them all with such kindly interest and instinctive understanding. And young men and girls came, drawn by the magic that was hers, to confide in this woman who listened with such rare tact and loving sympathy to their troubles and their dreams, and who, in the deepest things of their young lives, was mother to them all. Nor were the mountain folk her only disciples. Always there were the letters she continued to write, addressed to almost every corner of the land. And every year there would come, for a week or a month,, at different times during the summer, men and women from the great world of larger affairs who had need of the strength and courage and patience and hope they never failed to find in that little log house by the river. And so, in time, it came to be known that those letters written by Auntie Sue went to men and women who, in their childhood school days, had received from her their first lessons in writing; and that her visitors, many of them distinguished in the 21 THE EE-OEEATION OF BRIAN KENT "world of railroads and cities, were of that large circle of busy souls who had never ceased to be her pupils. Thus it came that the garden was made a little larger, and two rooms were added to the house, with other modest improvements, to accommodate Auntie Sue's grown-up boys and girls when they came to visit her. But never was there a hired servant, so that her guests must do their own household tasks, because. Auntie Sue said, that was good for them and mostly what they needed. It should also be said here that among her many pupils who lived beyond the sky-line of the far, blue hills, not one knew more of the real secret of Auntie Sue's life and character than did the Ozark moun- taineers of the Elbow Rock district, among whom she had chosen to pass the evening of her day. Then came one who learned the secret. He learned — ^but that is my story. I must not tell the secret here. 22 CHAPTER II. THE MAN IN THE DARK. MAN stood at a window, looking out into the night. There was no light in the room. The stars were hidden behind a thick curtain of sullen clouds. The house was a wretchedly constructed, long- neglected building of a type common to those old river towns that in their many years of uselessness have lost all civic pride, and in their own resultant squalor and filth have buried their self-respect. A dingy, scarcely legible sign over the treacherous board walk, in front, by the sickly light of a smoke-grimed kerosene lantern, announced that the place was a hotel. Dark as it was, the man at the window could see the river. The trees that lined the bank opposite the town were mere ghostly shadows against the gloomy masses of the low hills that rose from the water's edge, indistinct, mysterious, and unreal, into the threatening sky. The higher mountains that reared 23 THE EE-CEEATIOlSr OF BEIAN KENT their crests beyond the hills were invisible. The stream itself swept sullenly through the night, — a resistless flood of dismal power, as if, turbid with wrecked souls, with the lost hopes and ruined dreams of men, it was fit only to bear vessels freighted with sorrow, misfortune, and despair. The manner of the man at the window was as if some woeful spirit of the melancholy scene were call- ing him. With head bowed, and face turned a little to one side, he listened intently as one listens to voices that are muffled and indistinct. He pressed his face close to the glass, and with straining eyes tried to see more clearly the ghostly trees, the sombre hills, and the gloomy river. Three times he turned from the window to pace to and fro in the darkened room, and every time his steps brought him again to the casement, as if in obedience to some insistent voice that summoned him. The fourth time, he turned from the window more quickly, with a gesture of assenting decision. The crackling snap of a match broke the dead still- ness. The sudden flare of light stabbed the darkness. As he applied the tiny, wavering flame to the wick of a lamp that stood on the cheap, old-fashioned 24 THE RE-CKEATION OF BEIAN KENT bureau, the man's hand shook until the chimney rat- tled against the wire standards of the burner. Turn- ing quickly from the lighted lamp, the man sprang again to the window to jerk down the tattered, old shade. Facing about, he stood with his back to the wall, searching the room with wide, fearful eyes. His fists were clenched. His chest rose and fell heavHy with his labored breathing. His face worked with emotion. With trembling limbs and twitching muscles, he crouched like some desperate creature at bay. But, save for the wretched man himself, there was in that shabby, dingy-papered, dirty-carpeted, poorly furnished apartment no living thing. Suddenly, the man laughed ; — and it was the reck- less, despairing laughter of a soul that feels itself slipping over the brink of an abyss. With hurried step and outstretched hands, he crossed the room to snatch a bottle of whisky from its place beside the lamp on the bureau. With trembling eagerness, he poured a water tumbler half-full of the red liquor. As one dying of thirst, he drank. Draw- ing a deep breath, and shaking his head with a wry smile, he spoke in hoarse confidence to the image of 25 THE RE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT himself in the dingy mirror : "They nearly had me, that time." Again, he poured, and drank. The whisky steadied him for the moment, and with bottle and glass still in hand, he regarded himself in the mirror with critical interest. Had he stood erect, with the vigor that should have been his by right of his years, the man would have measured just short of six feet; but his shoulders — naturally well set — sagged with the weariness of ex- cessive physical indulgence; while the sunken chest, the emaciated limbs, and the dejected posture of his misused body made him in appearance, at least, a wretched weakling. His clothing — of good material and well tailored — was disgustingly soiled and neglected ; — the shoes thickly coated with dried mud, and the once-white shirt, slovenly unfastened at the throat, without collar or tie. The face which looked back from the mirror to the man was, without ques- tion, the countenance of a gentleman ; but the broad forehead under the unkempt red-brown hair was fur- rowed with anxiety; the unshaven cheeks were lined and sunken; the finely shaped, sensitive mouth drooped with nervous weakness; and the blue, well- 26 THE I-iE-CREATlOI>r OF BRIAN KENT placed eyes were bloodshot and glittering with the light of near-insanity. The poor creature looked at the hideous image of his ruined self as if fascinated with the horror of that which had been somehow wrought. Slowly, as one in a trance, he went closer, and, without moving his gaze from the mirror, placed the bottle and tum- bler upon the bureau. As if compelled by those burn- ing eyes that stared so fixedly at him, he leaned for- ward stiU closer to the glass. Then, as he looked, the distorted features twitched and worked grotesquely with uncontrollable emotions, while the quivering lips formed words that were not even whispered. With trembling fingers he felt the unshaven cheeks and touched the unkempt hair questioningly. Sud- denly, as if to shut out the horror of that which he saw in the mirror, the man hid his face in his hands, and with a sobbing, inarticulate cry sank to the floor. Silently, with pitiless force, the river swept on- ward through the night, following its ordained way to the mighty sea. As if summoned again by some dark spirit that brooded over the sombre, rushing flood, the man rose 27 THE KE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT heavily to his feet. His face turned once more to- ward the window. A moment he stood there, listen- ing, listening; then wheeling back to the whisky bottle and the glass on the bureau, he quickly poured, and drank again. Nodding his head in the manner of one reaching a conclusion, he looked slowly about the room, while a frightful grin of hopeless, despairing triumph twisted his features, and his lips moved as if he breathed reckless defiance to an invisible ghostly company. Moving, now, with a decision and purpose that suggested a native strength of character, the man quickly packed a suit-case with various articles of clothing from the bureau drawers and the closet. He was in the act of closing the suit-case when he stopped suddenly, and, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned away. Then, as if struck by another thought, he stooped again over his baggage, and drew forth a fresh, untouched bottle of whisky. "I guess you are the only baggage I'll need where I am going," he said, whimsically; and, leaving the open suit-case where it lay, he crossed the room, and extinguished the light. Cautiously, he unlocked and 28 THE KE-CKEATION OF BRIAN KENT opened the door. For a moment, he stood listening. Then, with the bottle hidden under his coat, he stole softly from the room. A few minutes later, the man stood out there in the night, on the bank of the river. Behind him the outlines of the scattered houses that made the little town were lost against the dusk of the hillside. From the ghostly tree-shadows that marked the opposite bank, the solemn hills rose out of the deeper darkness of the lowlands that edged the stream in sombre mys- tery. There was no break in the heavy clouds to permit the gleam of a friendly star. There was no sound save the soft swish of the water against the bank where he stood, the chirping of a bird in the near-by willows, and the occasional splash of a leaping fish or water animal. But to the man there was a feeling of sound. To the lonely human wreck stand- ing there in the darkness, the river called— called with fearful, insistent power. From under the black wall of the night the dread- ful flood swept out of the Somewhere of its beginning. Past the man the river poured its mighty strength with resistless, smoothly flowing, terrible force. Into the darkness it swept on its awful way to the ISTo- 29 THE EE-CREATION OF BEIAN KENT where of its ending. For uncounted ages, the river had poured itself thus between those walls of hills. For untold ages to come, until the end of time itself, the stream would continue to pour its strength past that spot where the man stood. Out of the night, the voice of the river had called to the man, as he stood at the window of his darkened room. And the man had come, now, to answer the call. Cautiously, he went down the bank toward the edge of the dark, swirling water. His purpose was unmistakable. Nor was there any hint of falter- ing, now, in his manner. He had reached his de- cision. He knew what he had come to do. The man's feet were feeling the mud at the margin of the stream when his legs touched something, and a low, rattling sound startled him. Then he remem- bered. A skiff was moored there, and he had brushed against the chain that led from the bow of the boat to the stump of a willow higher up on' the bank. The man had seen the skiff, — a rude, flat-bottomed little craft, known to the Ozark natives as a John-boat — just before sunset that evening. But there had been no boat in his thoughts when he had come to answer the call of the river, and in the preoccupation of his 30 THE KE-CREATION OF BRIAN" KENT mind, as lie stood there in the night beside the stream, he had not noticed it, as it lay so nearly invisible in the darkness. Mechanically, he stooped to feel the chain with his free hand. A moment later, he had placed his bottle of whisky carefully in the boat, and was loosing the chain painter from the willow stump. "Why not ?" he said to himself. "It will be easier in midstream, — and more certain." Carefully, so that no sound should break the still- ness, he stowed the chain in the bow, and then worked the skiff around until it pointed out into the stream. Then, with his hands grasping the sides of the little craft, and the weight of his body on one knee in the stern, he pushed vigorously with his free foot against the bank and so was carried well out from the shore. As the boat lost its momentum, the strong current caught it and whirled it away down the river. Groping in the darkness, the man foimd his bottle of whisky, and working the cork out with his pocket- knife, drank long and deep. Already, save for a single light, the town was lost in the night. As the man watched that red spot on the black wall, the stream swung his drifting boat around a bend, and the light vanished. The dreadful 31 THE RE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT mystery of the river drew close. The world of men was far, very far away. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in the mirror, and had obeyed the voice that summoned him into the darkness. In fancy, now, he saw his empty boat swept on and on. Through what varied scenes would it drift ? To what port would the mysterious will of the river carry it ? To what end would it at last come in its helplessness ? And the man himself, — the human soul-craft, — what of him? As he had pushed his material boat out into the stream to drift, unguided and helpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the shore of all that men call life. Through what scenes would he drift ? To what port would the will of an awful invisible stream carry him? To what end would he finally come, in his helplessness? Again the man drank — and again. And then, with face upturned to the leaden clouds, he laughed aloud — laughed until the ghostly shores gave back his laughter, and the voices of the night were hushed and still. The laughter ended with a wild, reckless, defiant yell. Springing to his feet in the drifting boat, the man 32 THE RE-CKEATION OF BRIAN KENH shook his clenched fist at the darkness, and with insane fury cursed the life he had left behind. The current whirled the boat around, and the mam faced down the stream. He laughed again ; and, lift ing his bottle high, uttered a reckless, profane toast to the unknown toward which he was being carried by the river in the night. as CHAPTER III. A MISSING LETTER. JUNTIE SUE'S little log house by the river was placed some five hundred yards back from the stream, on a bench of land at the foot of Schoolhouse Hill. From this bench, the ground slopes gently to the river-bank, which, at this point, is sheer and high enough to be well above the water at flood periods. The road, winding down the hill, turns to the right at the foot of the steep grade, and leads away up the river; and between the road and the river, on the up-stream side of the house, was the garden. At the lower corner of the garden, farthest from the house, the strong current had cut a deep inward curve in the high shore-line, forming thus an eddy, which was margined on one side, at a normal stage of water, by a narrow shelf of land between the water's edge and the foot of the main bank. A flight of rude steps led down from the garden above to this natural land- iag, which, for three miles up and down the river, 34 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT was the only point, on Auntie Sue's side of the stream, where one could go ashore from a skiff. From the porch of the house, one, facing up the river, looked over the gently sloping garden, over the eddy lying under the high bank, and away over a beautiful reach of water known as The Bend, — a wide, sweeping curve which, a mile distant, is lost behind a wooded bluff where, at times, during the vacation or hunting season, one might see the smoke from the stone chimney of a clubhouse which was built and used by people who lived in the big, noisy city many miles from the peaceful Ozark scene. From the shore of The Bend, opposite and above Auntie Sue's place, beyond the willows that fringe the water's edge, the low bottom-lands extend back three-quarters of a mile to the foot of a heavily tim- bered ridge, beyond which rise the higher hills. But directly across from Auntie Sue's house, this ridge curves sharply toward the stream.; while less than a quarter of a mile below, a mighty mountain-arm is thrust out from a shoulder of Schoolhouse Hill, as if to bar the river's way. The high bluff thus formed i» knovm to the natives throughout aU that region as Elbow Rock. 35 ffHB EE-CEEATION OF BKIAN KENT The quirt waters of The Bend more »© gently on ilieir broad course that from the porch, looking up the fltream, the eye could scarcely mark the current. But in front of the little log house, where the restrain- ing banks of the river draw closer together, the lazy ffurrent awakens to quickening movement. Looking down the stream, one could see the waters leaving the broad and quiet reaches of The Bend above and rishing away with fast increasing speed between the narrowing banks until, in ail their vicious might, they dashed full ag'ainst the Elbow Rock cliff, where, boiling and tossing in mad fury, they roared away at a right angle and so around the point and on to another quiet stretch below. And many were the tales of stirring adventure and tragic accident at this dangerous point of the river's journey to the far-away Bea. Skilled rivermen, by holding their John-boats and cano^ dose to the far shore, might run the rapids with safety. But no boat, once caught in the vicious grip of the main current between the comparatively still waters of The Bend and that wild, roaring tumult at Elbow Eock, had ever survived. It was nearing the close of a late summer day, and Awitie Sue, as was her custom, stood cai the pordi 36 THE KE-OREATION OF BRIAN" KENT watching tho Btmset In the vast field of sky thai arched above the softly rounded hills there was not a cloud. No wind stirred the leaves of the far-reach- ing forests, or marred the bright waters of the quiet Bend that mirrored back the green, tree-fringed banks and blue-shadowed moimtains. Faintly, through the hush, from beyond the bottom-lands on the other side of the stream, came the long-drawn "Wh-o-«-e! Wh-o-e-e !" of farmer Jackson calling his hoga. From the hillside, back of the house, sounded the deep, mellow tones of a cowbell, telling Auntie Sue that neighbor Tom's cattle were going home from their woodland pastures. A company of crows crossed the river on leisure wing, toward some evening rendea- V0U3. A waterfowl flapped slowly up the stream. And here and there the swallows wheeled m graceful circles above the gleaming Bend, or dipped, flashlike, to break the silvery surface. As the blue of the moun- tains deepened to purple, and the rosy light from below the western hills flushed the sky, the eilvar sheen of the quiet water changed with the changing tints above, and the shadows of the tre«8 along tl» bank deepened until the shore-line was lost ia tli* dusk of the •uming night. 87 THE RE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT And even as the river gave back the light of the &ky and the color of the mountains, so the gentle face of the gray-haired woman, who watched with such loving reverence, reflected the beauty of the scene. The peace and quiet of the evening of her life was as the still loveliness of that twilight hour. And, yet, there was a suggestion of pathos in the loneliness of the slender figure standing there. Now and again, she clasped her delicate hands to her breast as if moved by emotions of a too-poignant sweetness, while in her eyes shone the soft light of fondest memories and dearest dreams. Several times she turned her head to look about, as if wishing for some one to share with her the beauty that moved her so. At last, she called ; and her voice, low and pure- toned, had in it the quality that was in the light of her eyes. "Judy ! Judy, dear ! Do come and see this wonder- ful, wonderful sky!" From within the house, a shrill, querulous, drawl- ing voice, so characteristic of the Southern "poor- white" mountaineer, answered: "Wha-a-t?" A quick little smile deepened the crows'-feet at the corners of Auntie Sue's eyes, as she called again with 38 THE EE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT gentle patience : "Do come and see the sunset, Judy, dear! It is so beautiful!" And, this time, in an- swer, Judy appeared in the doorway. From appearances, the poor creature's age might have been anywhere from fifteen to thirty-five; for the twisted and misshapen body, angular and hard; the scrawny, wry neck ; the old-young face, thin and sallow, with furtive, beady-black eyes, gave no hint of her years. As a matter of fact, I happened to know that Judith Taylor, daughter of the notorious Ozark moonshiner, Jap Taylor, was just past twenty the year she went to live with Auntie Sue. Looking obliquely at the old gentlewoman, with a curious expression of mingled defiance, suspicion, and affection on her almost vicious face, Judy drawled, "Was you-all a-yellin' for me ?" "Yes, Judy ; I want you to help me watch the sun- set," Auntie Sue answered, with bright animation; and, turning, she pointed toward the glowing west, — - "Look!" Judy's sly, evasive eyes did not cease to regard the illumined face of her old companion as she returned, in her dry, high-pitched monotone : "I don't reckon as how you-all are a-needin' much help, seein' as how 39 \ THE EE-CEEATIOIT OF BEIAlf KENT 7»u are alius a-watchin' hit. A body'd think you-all was mighty nigh old 'nough, by now, ter look at hit alone." Auntie Sue laughed, a low, musical, chuckling laugh, and, with a hint of loving impatience in her gentle roice, replied to Judy's observation: "But, don't you understand, child? It adds so to one's happiness to share lovely scenes like this. It makes it all 30 much — so much — ^well, — bigger, to have some one enjoy it with you. Come, dear!" And she held out her hand with a gesture of entreaty, and a look of yearning upon her dear old face that no human being could have withstood. Judy, still slyly watchful, went cautiously nearer ; and Auntie Sue, putting an arm lovingly about the crooked shoulders of the mountain girl, pointed again toward the west as she said, in a low voice that vi-^ brated with emotion, "Look, Judy ! Look !" The black eyes shifted, and the old-young, expres- sionless face turned toward the landscape, which lay before th«m in all its wondrous beauty of glowing aky and tinted mountain and gleaming river. And there might have been a faint touch of softness, now, hx tk» querulous monotone as Judy said: "I can't 40 'Luiik, Judy! Look! THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT •ee as how hit eould be ary bigger. Hain't ary rea- son, as I kin see, why hit should be ary bigger if hit could. Lord knows there's 'nough of hit as 't is; rough 'nough, too, as you-all 'd sure know if you-all had ter trapse over them there hills all yer life like I've had ter." "But, isn't it wonderful to-night, Judy ? It seems to me I have never seen it so perfect." "Hit's just like hit's alius been, so far as I kin Bee, 'ceptin' that the river's higher in the spring an' more muddier," returned the mountain girl. "I was homed over there on yon side that there flat-topped mountain, nigh the mouth of Red Creek. I growed up on the river, mostly ; — ^learned ter swim an' paddle er John-boat 'fore I kin remember. Red Creek, hit heads over there behind that there long ridge, in Injin Holler. There's a still—" She checked herself suddenly, and shot a fearful •idewise look at Auntie Sue ; then turned and pointed in the opposite direction with a pretense of excited interest. "Look down there, ma'm ! See how black tie old river is where she smashes inter Elbow Rock, im.' how white them waves be where the water biles •■.' throws hitself . Hit'd sure git you if you was ter 41 THE KE-CEEATION OF BEIAN" KENT git ketched in there witii er John-boat, wouldn't hit ? Listen, ma'm! You kin hear hit a-roarin' like hit was mad, can't you ?" But the older woman turned to face, again, the quiet reaches of The Bend. "I think I like The Bend best, though, Judy. See how p'jrfectly those trees and hills are mirrored in the river; and how the water holds the color of the sky. Don't you think God is good to make the world so beautiful for us, child ?" " 'Beautiful' !" cried poor, deformed Judy, in a voice that shrilled in vicious protest. "If there is a God, like you-all are alius a-talkin' 'bout, an' if He sure 'nough made them things, like you-all sees 'em, He sure hain't toted fair with me." "Hush, Judy!" pleaded Auntie Sue. "Please don't, child!" But the mountain girl rebeUiously continued: "Look at me! Just look at me! If that there God of your'n is so all-fired good, what did He go an' let my pap git drunk for, an' beat me like he done when I was a baby, an' make me grow up all crooked like what I be ? 'Good' ? "Hell ! A dad burned ornery kind of a God I call Him!" 42 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT For some time, Auntie Sue did not speak, but stood with her face upturned to the sky. Then the low, gentle voice again broke the silence : "See, Judy, dear ; the light is almost gone now, and there is not a cloud anywhere. Yesterday evening, you remember, we could not see the sunset at all, the clouds were so heavy and solid. The moon will be lovely to-night. I think I shall wait for it." "You-all best set down then," said Judy, speaking again in her querulous, drawling monotone. "I'll fetch a chair." She brought a comfortable rustic rocking-chair from the farther end of the porch ; then disappeared into the house, to return a moment later with a heavy shawl. "Hit'll be a-turnin' cold directly, now the sun's plumb down," she said, "an' you-all mustn't get to chillin', nohow." Auntie Sue thanked her with gentle courtesy, and, reaching up, caught the girl's hand as Judy was awkwardly arranging the wrap about the thin old shoulders. "Won't you bring a chair for yourself, and sit with me awhile, dear ?" As she spoke. Auntie Sue patted the hard, bony hand caressingly. But JuJj pulled her hand away roughly, saying: "You-all ain't got no call ter do sich as that ter me. 43 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT I'll set a-while with you but I ain't a-needin' n« chair." And with that, she seated herself on the floor, her back against the wall of the house. The last of the evening was gone from the sky, now. The soft darkness of a clear, star-light night lay over the land. A gentle breeze stole over the mountains, rustled softly through the forest, and, drifting across the river, touched Auntie Sue's sil- very hair. Judy was first to break the silence : "I took notice neighbor Tom brung you-all a right smart bunch of letter mail this evenin'," she said, curiously. There was a troubled note in Auntie Sue's gentle voice as she returned, "The letter from the bank did not come, Judy." "Hit didn't?" "No ; and, Judy, it is nearly four weeks, now, since I sent them that money. I can't understand it." "I was plumb scared at the time, you oughten ter sent hit just in er letter that a-way. Hit sure looked like a heap of money ter be a-trustin' them there ornery post-office feUers with, even if hit was funny, new-fangled money like that there was. Why, ma'm^ 44 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT 70U take old Tod Stimson, down at the Ferry, now, $00.' that old devil'd steal anythin' what wam't too much trouble for him ter lift." "Argentine notes the money was, Judy. I felt sure that it would be aU right because, you know, Brother John sent it just in a letter all the way from Buenos Aires. And, you remember, I folded it up in extra heavy paper, and put it in two envelopes, one over the other, and mailed it at Thompsonville with my own hands." "Hit sure looks like hit ought ter be safe er nough, so long as hit wam't mailed at the Ferry where old Stimson could git his hands on hit," agreed Judy. Then, after a silence of several diinutes, she added, in a more reassuring voice: "I reckon as how hit'U be all right, ma'm. I wouldn't worry myself, if I was you. That there bank-place, like as not, gits er right smart lot of letters, an' hit stands ter reason the feller just naturally can't write back ter ev'rybody at •nee." "Of course," agreed Auntie Sue. "It is just some delay in their acknowledgment, that is all. Per- haps they are waiting to find out if the notes are 45 THE EE-CREATIOIT OF BRIAN KENT genuine; or it may be that their letter to me went astray, and will have to be returned to them, and then remailed all over again. I feel sure I shall hear from them in a few days." So they talked until the moon appeared from be- hind the dark mountains that, against her light, were silhouetted on the sky. And, as the old gentlewoman watched the queen of the night rising higher and higher on her royal course, and saw the dusky land- scape transformed to a fairy-scene of ethereal loveli- ness. Auntie Sue forgot the letter that had not come. With the enthusiasm that never failed her, the sil- very-haired teacher tried to give the backwoods girl a little of her wealth of vision. But though they looked at the same landscape, the eyes of twenty could not see that which was so clear to the eyes of seventy. Poor Judy ! The river, sweeping on its winding way through the hills, from the springs of its far-away beginnings to the ocean of its final endeavor, — in all its varied moods and changes, — in all its beauty and its irresistible power, — the river could never mean to Judy what it meant to Auntie Sue. "Bit sure is er fine night for to go 'possum hunt- 46 THE RE-CEEATION" OF BRIAN" KENT in'," said the girl, at last, getting to her feet and standing in her twisted attitude, with her wry neck holding her head to one side. "Them there Jackson boys'll sure be out." Auntie Sue laughed her low chuckling laugh. From the edge of the timber that borders the fields of the bottom-lands across the river, came the baying of hounds. "There they be now," said Judy. "Hear 'em ? The Billingses, 'cross from the clubhouse, '11 be out, too, I reckon. When hit's moonlight, they're alius a-huntin' 'possum an' 'coon. When hit's dark, they're out on the river a-giggin' for fish. Well, I reckon I'll be a-goin' in, now, ma'm," she concluded, with a yawn. "Ain't no use in a body stayin' up when there ain't nothin' ter do but ter sleep, as I kin see." With an awkward return to Auntie Sue's "Good- night and sweet dreams, dear," the mountain girl went into the house. For an hour longer, the old gentlewoman sat on the porch of her little log house by the river, looking out over the moonlit scene. Nor did she now, as when she had watched the sunset, crave human companion- 47 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN" E^INT ship. In spirit, she was far from all earthly need* or cares, — ^where no troubled thoughts could disturb her serene peace and her dearest dreams were real. The missing letter was forgotten. iS CHAPTER IV. THE WILL OF THE RIVER. AD Auntie Sue remained a few minutes longer on the porch, that evening, she might have seen an object drifting down the river, in the gentle current of The Bend. Swinging easily around the curve above the club- house, it would not have been visible at first, because of the deep shadows of the reflected trees and moun- tains. But, presently, as it drifted on into the broader waters of The Bend, it emerged from the shadows into the open moonlit space, and then, to any one watching from the porch, the dark object, drawing nearer and nearer in the bright moonlight, would have soon shaped itself into a boat — an empty boat, the watcher would have said, that had broken from its moorings somewhere up the river ; — and the watcher would have heard, through the still, night air, the dull, heavy roar of the mad waters at Elbow Bock. Drifting thus, helpless in the grip of the main 49 THE RE-CKEATION OF BEIAN KENT current, the little craft apparently was doomed to certain destruction. Gently, it would float on the easy surface of the quiet, moonlit Bend. In front of the house, it would move faster and faster. Where the river narrows, it would be caught as if by mighty hands hidden beneath the rushing flood, and dragged onward still faster and faster. About it, the racing waters would leap and boil in their furious, headlong career, shaking and tossing the helpless victim of their might with a vicious strength from which there would be no escape, until, in the climax of the river's mad- ness, the object of its angry sport would be dashed against the cliff, and torn, and crushed, and hammered by the terrific weight of the rushing flood against that rocky anvil, into a battered and shapeless wreck. The drifting boat drew nearer and nearer. It reached the point where the curve of the opposite bank draws in to form the narrow raceway of the rapids. It began to feel the stronger pull of those hidden hands that had carried it so easily down The Bend. And then — and then — the unguided, helpless craft re- sponded to the gentle pressure of some swirl or cross- current in the main flow of the stream, and swung a little to one side. A few feet farther, and the new 50 THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT impulse became stronger. Yielding easily to the cuiy rent that drew it so gently across the invisible divid- ing-line between safety and destruction, the boat swung in toward the shore. A minute more, and it had drifted into that encircling curve of the bank where the current of the eddy carried it around and around. The boat seemed undecided. Would it hold to the harbor of safety into which it had been drawn by the friendly current? Would it swing out, again, into the main stream, and so to its own destruction ? Three times the bow, pointing out from the eddy, crossed the danger-line, and, for a moment, hung on the very edge. Three times, the invisible hands which held it drew it gently back to safety. And so, finally, the little craft, so helpless, so alone, amid the many currents of the great river, came to rest against the narrow shelf of land at the foot of the bank below Auntie Sue's garden. The light in the window of Auntie Sue's room went out. The soft moonlight flooded mountain and valley and stream. The mad waters at Elbow Rock roared in their wild fury. Always, always, — irresistibly, in- evitably, unceasingly, — ^the river poured its strength toward the sea. ^^ 51 CHAPTER V- AUhfTIE SUB RECOGNIZES A GENTLEMAN. |EFORE the sun was high enough to look over Schoolhouse Hill, the next morning, Judy went into the garden to dig some potatoes. Tom Warden's boys would come, some day before long, and dig them all, and put them away in the cellar for the winter. But there was no need to hurry the gathering of the f uU crop, so the boys would come when it was most convenient ; and, in the meantime, Judy would continue to dig from day to day all that were needed for the kitchen in the little log house by the river. In spite of her poor crooked body, the mountain girl was strong and well used to hard work, so the light task was, for her, no hardship at all. As one will when first coming out of doors in the morning, Judy paused a moment to look about. The Bky, so clear and bright the evening before, was now a luminous gray. The mountains were lost in a ghostly world of fog, through which the river moved in stealthy silence, — a duU thing of mystery, with 52 THE KE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT only here and there a touch of silvery light upon its clouded surface. The cottonwoods and willows, on the opposite shore, were mere dreams of trees, — ^gray, formless, and weird. The air was filled with the dank earth-smell. The heavy thundering roar of the never- ending war of the waters at Elbow Rock came louder and more menacing, but strangely unreal, as if the mist itself were filled with threatening sound. But to Judy, the morning was only the beginning of another day ; — she looked, but did not see. To her, the many ever-changing moods of Nature were with- out meaning. With her basket in hand, she went down to the lower end of the garden, where she had dug potatoes the time before, and where she had left the fork sticking upright in the ground. A few minutes served to fill the basket ; but, before starting back to the house, the mountain girl paused again to look out over the river. Perhaps it was some vague memory of Auntie Sue's talk, the night before, that prompted her ; perhaps it was some instinct, in- definite and obscure; — ^whatever it was that influ- enced her, Judy left hw basket, and went to the brink of the high bank above the eddy for a closer view of the water. 53 THE RE-CKEATION OF BRIAN KEITT The next instant, with the quick movement of an untamed creature of her native mountain forests, the girl sprang back, and crouched close to the ground to hide from something she had seen at the foot of the bank. Every movement of her twisted body expressed amazement and fear. Her eyes were wild and ex- cited. She looked carefully about, as if for dangers that might be hidden in the fog. Once, she opened her mouth as if to call. Half-rising, she started as if to run to the house. But, presently, curiosity appar- ently overruled her fear, and, throwing herself flat on the ground she wormed her way back to the brink of the river-bank. Cautiously, without making a sound, she peered through the tall grass and weeds that fringed the rim above the eddy. The boat, which some kindly impulse of the river had drawn so gently aside from the stronger current that would have carried it down the rapids to the certain destruction waiting at Elbow Rock, still rested with its bow grounded on the shore, against which the eddying water had pushed it. But the thing that had so startled Judy was a man who was lying, apparently unconscious, on the wet and I luddy bottom-boards of the little craft. 54 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT Breathlessly, the girl, looking down from the top of the bank, watched for some movement; but the dirty huddled heap of wretched humanity was so still that she could not guess whether it was living or dead. Fearfully, she noted that there were no oars in the boat, nor gun, nor fishing-tackle of any sort. The man's hat was missing. His clothing was muddy and disarranged. His position was such that she could not see the face. Drawing back, Judy looked cautiously about ; then, picking up a heavy clod of dirt from the ploughed edge of the garden, and crouching again at the brink of the bank, ready for instant flight, she threw the clod into the water near the boat. The still form in the boat made no movement following the splash. Selecting a smaller clod, the girl threw the bit of dirt into the stem of the boat itself, where it broke in fragments. And, at this, the figure moved slightly. "Hit's alive, all right," commented Judy to her- self, with a grin of satisfaction, at the result of her investigation. "But hit's sure time he was a-gittin* up." Carefully selecting a still smaller bit of dirt, she deliberately tossed it at the figure itself. Her aim 55 THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT was true, and the clod struck the man on the shoulder, with the result that he stirred uneasily, and, mutter- ing something which Judy could not hear, half -turned on his back so that the girl saw the haggard, un- shaven face. She saw, too, that, in one hand, the man clutched an empty whisky bottle. At sight of the bottle, the mountain girl rose to her feet with an understanding laugL "Hell !" she said aloud; "drunk, — that's all — dead drunk. I'll flure fetch him out of hit." And then, grinning with malicious delight, she proceeded to pelt the man in the boat with clods of dirt until he scrambled to a sitting posture, and looked up in bewildered con- fusion. "If you please," he said, in a hoarse voice, to the sallow, old-young face that grinned down at him from the top of the bank, "which one of the Devil's imps are you ?" As she looked into that upturned face, Judy's grin vanished. "I sure 'lowed as how you-all was dead," she explained. "Well," returned the man in the boat, wearily, "I can assure you that it's not in the least my fault if I disappoint you. I feel as bad about it as you do. 56 THE RE-CEEATION OF BEIAN KENT However, I don't think I am so much alive that it makes any material diflference." He lifted the whisky bottle, and studied it thoughtfully. "You-all come dad burned near not bein' ary bit alive," returned the girl. "Yes ?" said the man, inquiringly. "Yep; you sure did come mighty nigh hit. If your old John-boat had a-carried you-all on down ter Elbow Rock, 'stead of bein' ketched in the eddy here, you-all would sure 'nough been a-talkin' to the Devil by now." The man, looking out over the river into lie fog, muttered to himself, "I can't even make a success of dying, it seems." Again, he regarded the empty bottle in his hand with studied interest. Then, tossing the bottle into the river, he looked up, once more, to the girl on the bank above. "Listen, sister !" he said, nervously. "Is there any place around here where I can buy a drink ? I need something rather badly. Where am I, anyway ?" "You-all are at Auntie Sue's place," said Judy; "an' there sure ain't no chance for you-all ter git ary licker here. Where'd you-all come from, anyhow? 57 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT How'd you-all git here 'thout no oars ner paddle ner nothin' ? Where was you-all aimin' ter go ?" "Your questions, my good girl, are immaterial and irrelevant," returned the man in the boat. "The all- important matter before us for consideration is, — how can I get a drink ? I must have a drink, I tell you !" He held up his hands, and they were shaking as if with palsy. "And I must have it damned quick!" "You-all sure do talk some powerful big words," said Judy, with critical interest. "You-all sure must be some eddecated. Auntie Sue, now, she talks — " The man interrupted her: "Who is 'Auntie Sue' ?" "I don't know," Judy returned; "she's just Auntie Sue — that's all I know. She sure is — " Again the man interrupted : "I think it would be well for me to interview this worthy aunt of yours." And then, while he raised himself, unsteadily, to his feet, he continued, in a muttering undertone : "You don't seem to appreciate the situation. If I don't get some sort of liquor soon, things are bound to happen." He attempted to step from the boat to the shore; but the instability of the light, flat-bottomed skiff, .58 THE EE-CKEATION OF BRIAN KENT together with his own unsteady weakness, combined to land him half in the water and half on the muddy bank where he struggled helplessly, and, in his weak- ened condition, would have slipped wholly into the river had not Judy rushed down the rude steps to his assistance. With a strength surprising in one of her appar- ent weakness, the mountain girl caught the stranger under his shoulders and literally dragged him from the water. When she had further helped him to his feet, Judy surveyed the wretched object of her benefi- cence with amused and curious interest. The man, with his unkempt hair, unshaven, hag- gard face, bloodshot eyes, and slovenly dishevelled dress, had appeared repulsive enough while in the boat ; but, now, as he stood dripping with water and covered with mud, there was a touch of the ridiculous in his appearance that brought a grin to the un- lovely face of his rescuer, and caused her to exclaim with unnecessary frankness : "I'll be dad burned if you-all ain't a thing ter look at, mister !" As the poor creature, who was shaking as if with the ague, regarded the twisted form, the wry neck, and the saUow, old-young face of the girl, wh(? was 59 THE KE-CKEATION OF BRIAN KENT laughing at him, a gleam of sardonic humor flashed in his bloodshot eyes. "Thanks," he said, huskily; "you are something of a vision yourself, aren't you ?" The laughter went from Judy's face as she caught the meaning of the cruel words. "I ain't never laid no claim ter bein' a beauty," she retorted in her shrill, drawling monotone. "But, I kin tell you-all one thing, mister: Hit was God-A'mighty Hisself an' my drunken pap what made me ter look like I do. While you, — damn you! — ^you-all just naturally made yourself what you be." At the mountain girl's illiterate words, so pregnant with meaning, a remarkable change came over the face and manner of the man. His voice, even, for the moment, lost its huskiness, and vibrated with sin- cere feeling as he steadied himself ; and, bowing with courteous deference, said : "I beg your pardon, miss. That was unkind. You really should have left me to the river." "Tou-all would a-drownded, sure, if I had," she re- torted, somewhat mollified by the effect of her obser- vation. "Which," he returned, "would have been so beauti- fully right and fitting that it evidently could not be." 60 THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT And with this cynical remark, his momentary bearing of self-respect was gone. "Are you-all a-meanin' ter say that you-aU was a-wantin' ter drown. ?" "Something like that," he returned. And then, with a hint of ugliness in his voice and eyes, he rasped : "But, look here, girl ! do you think I'm going to stand like this all day indulging in idle conversa- tion with you ? Where is this aunt of yours ? Can't you see that I've got to have a drink ?" He started \mcertainly toward the steps that led to the top of the bank, and Judy, holding him by his arm, helped him to climb the steep way. A part of the ascent he made on hands and knees. Several times he would have fallen except for the girl's sup- port But, at last, they gained the top, and stood in the garden. "That there is the house," said Judy, pointing. "But I don't reckon as how you-aU kin git ary licker there." The wretched man made no reply ; but, with Judy still supporting him, stumbled forward across the rows of vegetables. The two had nearly reached the steps at the end of 61 THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT the porch when Auntie Sue came from the house to see why Judy did not return with the potatoes. The dear old lady paused a moment, startled at the pres- ence of the unprepossessing stranger in her garden. Then, with an exclamation of pity, she hurried to meet them. The man, whose gaze as he shambled along was fixed on the ground, did not notice Auntie Sue until, feeling Judy stop, he also paused, and raising his head looked full at the beautiful old lady. "Why, Judy!" cried Auntie Sue, her low, sweet voice filled with gentle concern. "What in the world has happened?" With an expression of questioning bewilderment and rebuke on his haggard face, the man also turned to the mountain girl beside him. "I found him in er John-boat what done come ashore last night, down there in the eddy," Judy explained to Auntie Sue. To the man, she said: "This here is Auntie Sue, mister ; but, I don't reckon as how she's got ary licker for you." " 'Liquor' ?" questioned Auntie Sue. "What in the world do you mean, child?" Then quickly to the stranger; — "My dear man, you are wringing wet. THE RE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KE:N"T You must have been in the river. Come, come right in, and let us do something for you." As she spoke, she went toward him with outstretched hands. But the wretched creature shrank back from her, as if in fear ; — his whole body shaking with emotion ; his fluttering hands raised in a gesture of imploring protest ; — ^while the eyes that looked up at the saintly countenance of the old gentlewoman were the eyes of a soul sunken in the deepest hell of shame and humiliation, Shocked with pitying horror, Auntie Sue paused. The man's haggard, unshaven face twitched and worked with the pain of his suffering. He bit his lips and fingered his quivering chin in a vain effort at self-control ; and then, as he looked up at her, the sunken, bloodshot eyes filled with tears that the tor- aented spirit had no power to check. And Auntie Sue turned her face away. For a little, they stood so. Then, as Auntie Sue faced him again, the stranger, with a supreme effort of his will, gained a momentary control of his shat- tered nerves. Drawing himself erect and standing steady and tall before her, he raised a hand to his uncovered head as if to remove his hat. When his 63 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT hand found no hat to remove, he snuled as if at some jest at his own expense. "I am so sorry, madam," he said, — and his voice was musically clear and cultured. "Please pardon me for disturbing you ? I did not know. This young woman should have explained. You see, when she spoke of 'Auntie Sue,' I assumed, of course, — I mean, — I expected to find a native woman who would — " He paused, smiling again, as if to assure her that he fully appreciated the humor of his ridiculous predicament. "But, my dear sir," cried Auntie Sue, eagerly, "there is nothing to pardon. Please do come into the house and let us help you." But the stranger drew hack, shaking his head sadly. "You do not understand, madam. It is not that my clothes are unpresentable, — it is I, myself, who am unfit to stand in your presence, much less to enter your house. I thank you, but I must go." He was turning away, when Auntie Sue reached his side and placed her gentle old hand lightly on his arm. "Please, won't you come in, sir? I shall never forgive myseK if I let you go like this." 64 THE RE-OEEATION OF BRIAN KENT The nian'3 voice was hoarse and shaking, now, aa he answered : "For God's sake, madam, don't touch me ! Let me go ! You must ! I — I — am not my- self ! You might not be safe with me! Ask her — she knows !" He turned to Judy. "He's done said hit, ma'm," said Judy, in answer to Auntie Sue's questioning look. "My pap, he was that way when he done smashed me up agin the wall, when I was nothin' but a baby, an' hit made me grow up all crooked an' ugly like what I be now." With one shamed glance at Auntie Sue, the wretched fellow looked down at the ground. His head drooped forward. His shoulders sagged. His whole body seemed to shrink. Turning sadly away, he again started back toward the river. "Stop !" Auntie Sue's voice rang out imperiously The man halted. "Look at me," she commanded. Slowly, he raised his eyes. The gentle old teacher spoke with fine spirit, now, but kindly still : "This is sheer nonsense, my boy. You wouldn't hurt me. Why, you couldn't! Of course, you are not your- self; but, do you think that I do not know a gentle- man when I meet one ? Come — " She held out her hand. g5 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT ^ A moment he stood, gazing at her in wondering awe. Then his far-overtaxed strength failed; — his abused nerves refused to bear more, — and he sank,— a pitiful, cx)wering heap at her feet. Hiding his face in his shaking hands, he sobbed like a child. 66 CHAPTER VI. IN THE LOG HOUSE BY THE RIVER. jHOSE two women managed, somehow, to get the almost helpless stranger into the house, where Auntie Sue, after providing hrm with nightclothes, left by one of her guests, by tactful entreaty and judicial commands, persuaded him to go to bed. Then followed several days and nights of weary watching. There were times when the man lay with closed eyes, so weak and exhausted that he seemed to be drifting out from these earthly shores on the deep waters of that wide and unknown sea into which all the streams of life finally flow. But, always, Auntie Sue miraculously held him back. There were other times when, by all the rules of the game, he should have worn a strait-jacket; — when his delirium filled the room with all manner of horrid creatures from the pit; when leering devils and loathsome serpents and gibbering apes tormented him until his unnatural strength was the strength of a fiend, and 67 THE RE-CREATION OE BRIAN KENT his tortured nerves shrieked in agony. But Auntie Sue perversely ignored the rules of the game. And never did the man, even in his most terrible moments, fail to recognize in the midst of the hellish crew of his diseased imagination the silvery-haired old teacher as the angel of his salvation. Her gentle voice had always power to soothe and calm him. He obeyed her implicitly, and, like a frightened child, holding fast to her hand would beg piteously for her to pro- tect and save him. But no word of the man's low-muttered, broken sentences, nor of his wildest ravings, ever gave Auntie Sue a clue to his identity. She searched his clothes, but there was not a thing to give her even his name. And, yet, that first day, when Judy would have gone to neighbor Tom's for help. Auntie Sue said "No." She even positively forbade the girl to men- tion the stranger's presence in the house, should she chance to talk with passing neighbors. "The river brought him to ns, Judy, dear," she said. "We must save him. No one shall know his shame, to humili- ate and wound his pride and drag him down after lie is himself again. Until he has recovered and is once more the man I believe him to be, no one must 68 THE RE-CEEATION OF BEIAN KENT see him or know that he is here; and no one must ever know how he came to us." And late, one evening, when Judy was fast asleep, and the man was lying very still after a period of feverish tossing and muttering, the dear old gentle- woman crept quietly out of the house into the night. She was gone some time, and when she returned again to the stranger's bedside she was breathless and trembling as from some unusual exertion. And the following afternoon, when Judy came to her with the announcement that the boat which had brought the man to them was no longer in the eddy below the garden, Auntie Sue said, simply, that she was glad it was gone, and cautioned the girl, again, that the stranger's presence in the house must not be made knovm to any one. When the mountain girl protested, saying, "You-all ain't got no call ter be a-wearin' yourself ter the bone a-takin' care of such as him," Auntie Sue answered, "Hush, Judy ! How do you know what the poor boy really is?" To which Judy retorted: "He's just triflin' an' ornery an' no 'count, that's what he is, or he sure wouldn't been a-floatin' 'round in that there old John- 69 THE EE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT boat 'thout ary gun, or fishin' lines, or hat even, ter eay nothin' of that there whiBky bottle bein' plumb empty." Auntie Sue made no reply to the mountain girl's harsh summing-up of the damning evidence against the stranger, but left her and went softly to the bed- side of their guest. It was perhaps an hour later that Judy, quietly entering the room, happened upon a scene that caused her to stand as if rooted to the spot in open-mouthed amazement. The man was sleeping, and the silvery-haired old maiden-lady, seated on the side of the bed, was bend- ing over the unconscious stranger and gently stroking his tumbled, red-brown hair, even as a mother might lovingly caress her sleeping child. And then, as Judy watched, breathless with wonder, the proud old gentlewoman, bending closer over that still form on the bed, touched her lips — soft as a rose-petal — to the stranger's brow. When she arose and saw Judy standing there, Auntie Sue's delicate old cheeks flushed with color, and her eyes were shining. With a gesttire, she commanded the girl to silence, and the two tiptoed 70 THE EE-OKEATION OF BEIAN KENT from the room. When they were outside, and Auntie Sue had cautiously closed the door, she faced the speechless Judy with a deliciously defiant air that could not wholly hide her lovely confusion. "I — I — was thinking, Judy, how he — how he — might have heen — ^my son." "Your 'son' !" ejaculated the girl. "Why, ma'm, you-all ain't never even been married, as I've ever heam tell, have you?" Auntie Sue drew her thin shoulders proudly erect, and, lifting her fine old face, answered the challeng- ing question with splendid spirit : "!N"o, I have never been married ; but I might have been ; and if I had, I suppose I could have had a son, couldn't I ?" The vanquished Judy retreated to the kitchen, where, in safety, she sank into a chair, convulsed with laughter, which she instinctively mtifOied in her apron. Then came the day when the man, weak and worn with his struggle, looked up at his gentle old nurse with the light of sanity in his deep blue eyes. Very tired eyes they were, and filled with painful mem- ories, — filled, too, with worshipping gratitude and wonder. 71 THE EE-OEEATION OF BKIAN KENT She smiled down at him with delighted triumph, and drawing a chair close beside the bed, seated her- self and placed her soft hand on his where it lay on the coverlid. "You are much better, this morning-," she said cheerily. "You will soon be all right, now." And as she looked into the eyes that regarded hers so questioningly, there was in her face and manner no hint of doubt, or pretense, or reproach; — only con- fidence and love. He spoke slowly, as if feeling for words : "I have been in Hell; and you — ^you have brought me out. Why did you do it?" "Because you are mine," she answered, with her low chuckling laugh. It was so good to have him able to talk to her rationally after those long hours of fighting. "Because I am yours ?" he repeated, puzzling over her words. "Yes," she returned, with a hint of determined proprietorship in her voice; "because you belong to me. You see, that ®ddy where your boat landed is my property, and so anything that drifts down the river and lodges there belongs to me. Whatever the 72 THE EE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT river brings to me, is mine. The river brought you, and so — " She finished with another laugh, — a laugh that was filled with tender mother-yearning. The blue eyes smiled back at her for a moment; then she saw them darken with painful memories. "Oh, yes ; the river," he said. "1 wanted the river to do something for me, and — and it did something quite different from what I wanted." "Of course," she returned, eagerly, "the river is always like that. It always does the thing you don't expect it to do. Just like life itself. Don't you see ? It begins somewhere away off at some little spring, and just keeps going and going and going; and thou- sands and thousands of other springs, scattered all over the country, start streams and creeks and branches that run into it, and make it bigger and bigger, as it winds and curves and twists along, until it finally reaches the great sea, where its waters are united with all the waters from all the rivers in all the world. And in all of its many, many miles, from that first tiny spring to the sea, there are not two feet of it exactly alike. In all the centuries of its being, there are never two hours alike. An infinite variety of days and nights — an infinite variety of 73 THE RE-CREATION" OF BRIAN KENT skies and light and clouds and daybreaks and sun- sets — an infinite number and variety of currents and shoals and deep places and quiet spots and dangerous rapids and eddies — and, along its banks, an endless change of hills and mountains and flats and forests and meadows and farms and cities — and — " She paused, breathless. And then, when he did not speak, but only watched her, she continued: "Don't you see? Of course, the river never could be what you expect, any more than life could be exactly what you want and dream it will he." "Who in the world are you?" he asked, wonder- ingly. "And what in the world are you doing here in the backwoods ?" Smiling at his puzzled expression, she answered: "I am Auntie Sue. I am living here in the back- woods." "But, your real name? Won't you teU me your name? I must know how to address you." "Oh, my name is Susan E. Wakefield — Miss Wake- field, if you please. I shall be seventy-one years old the eighteenth day of next November. And you must call me 'Auntie Sue,' — ^just as every one else does." 74 THE KE-CEEATION" OF BEIAN KENT "Wakefield — Wakefield — where have I seen that name?" He wrinkled his brow in an effort to re- member. "Watefield — I feel sure that I have heard it, spmewhere." "It is not unlikely," she returned, lightly. "It is not at all an uncommon name. Amd now that I am properly introduced, don't you think — V He hesitated a moment, then said, deliberately, "My name is Brian Kent." "That is an Irish name," she said quickly; "and that is why your hair is so nearly red and your eyes so blue." ' "Yes," he returned, "from my mother. And please don't ask me more now, for I can't lie to you, and I won't tell you the truth." And she saw, again, the dark shadows of painful memories come into the blue eyes. Bending over the bed, she laid her soft hand on his brow, and pushed back his heavy hair; and her sweet old voice was very low and gentle as she said : "My dear boy, I shall never ask you more. The river brought you to me, and you are mine. You must not even think of anything else, just now. 75 THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT When you are stronger, and are ready, we will talk of your future ; but of your past, you — " A loud knock sounded at the door of the living room. "There is someone at the door," she said hastily. "I must go. Lie still, and go to sleep like a good boy; won't you?" Swiftly, she leaned over, and, before he realized, he felt her lips touch his forehead. Then she was gone, and Brian Kent's Irish eyes were filled with tears. Turning to the wall, he hid his face in the pillow. 76 CHAPTER VII. OFFICERS OF THE LAW. |S Auntie Sue was closing the door of her guest's room carefully behind her, Judy came from the kitchen in great excitement, and the knocking at the front door of the house was repeated. "Hit's the Sheriff, ma'm," whispered Judy. "I was just a-comin' ter tell you. I seed 'em from the kitchen-winder. He's got two other men with him. Their hosses is tied ter the fence in front. What in hell will we do, now ? They are after him in there, sure 's death!" Auntie Sue's face was white, and her lips trem- bled, — but only for a moment. "Go back into the kitchen, Judy, and stay there," she commanded, in a whisper ; and went to open the front door as calmly as if nothing unusual had happened. Sheriff Knox was a big man, with a bluff, kindly manner, and a voice that made nothing of closed 11 ■THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT doors. He returned Auntie Sue's greeting heartily, and, with one of his companions, — a quiet, business- looking gentlemaij, — accepted her cordial invitation to come in. The third man of the party remained near the saddle-horses at the gate. "Well, Auntie Sue," said the Sheriff, settling his ponderous bulk in one of the old lady's rocking- chairs, which certainly was not built to carry such a weight, "how are you? I haven't seen you in a coon's age. I'll swear, though, you ain't a minute older than you was when you first begun teachin' the little Elbow Kook school up there on the hill, are you?" "I don't know, Sheriff," Auntie Sue returned, with a nervous little laugh. "I sometimes think that I am a few days older. I have watched a good many sunsets since then, you know." The big officer's laughter almost shook the log walls of the house. To his quiet companion, who had taken a chair near the window, he said: "I'll have to tell you, Ross, that Auntie Sue owns every sunset in these Ozark Mountains. What was it you paid for them?" He turned again to their smiling hostess. "Oh, yes; fifty cents an acre for the land 78 THE KE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT and foTirteen dollars and a half for the sunsetsj You'll have to be blamed careful not to trespass on the sunsets in this neighborhood, Eoss." Again, his hearty laugh roared out, while his chair threatened to collapse with the quaking of his massive body. The gentleman seated at the window laughed quietly, in sympathy. "You'U be all right, though, Eoss," the Sheriff continued, "as long as you're with me. Auntie Sue and me have been friends for about twenty year, now. I always stop to see her whenever I'm passing through the Elbow Eock neighborhood, if I ain't in too big a hurry. Stayed with her a week, once, five years ago, when we was after that Lewis gang. She knows I'd jail any man on earth that would even touch one of her sunsets." Then, as if the jesting allusion to his office re- minded him of his professional duties, he added : "I plumb forgot, Auntie Sue, this gentleman is Mr. Eoss. He is one of William J. Bums's crack de- tectives. Don't be seared, though, he ain't after you." Auntie Sue, while joining in the laughter, and acknowledging the introduction, regarded the busi- 70 THE KE-CREATION OF BEIAN KEl^T ness-looking gentleman by the window with intense interest. "I think," she said, slowly, — and the sweetness of her low, cultured voice was very marked in contrast to the Sheriff's thundering tones, — "I think, sir, that this is the first time in my life that I ever saw a real detective. I have read about them, of course." Mr, Koss was captivated by the charm of this beautiful old gentlewoman, who regarded him with such child-like interest, and who spoke with such sweet frankness and dignity. Smilingly, he returned : "1 fear, madam, that you would find me very dis- appointing. 1^0 one that I ever knew in my pro- fession could hope to live up to the reputation given us by the story-books. ISTo secret service man living can remotely approximate the deeds performed by the detectives of fiction. We are very, very human, I can assure you." "I am sure ihat you, at least, must be very kind," returned Auntie Sue, gently. And the cheeks of the experienced officer flushed like the cheeks of a school- boy. "Mr. Ross, Auntie Sue," said the Sheriff, "is, as 80 THE EE-CEEATIOiq" OF BRIAN" KENT I was telling you, one of William J. Buna's big men." Auntie Sue gave her attention to her big friend: "Yes?" The Sheriff continued: "Now, the Bums people, you see, protect the banks all over the country." "Yes?" came, again, in a tone so lov/ and gentle that the monosyllable was scarcely heard. The officer's loud voice went on: "And Mr. Boss, here, works most of his time on these bank cases. Just now, he is trailing a fellow that got away with a lot of money from the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, of Chicago, about a month ago; — that is, the man disappeared about a month ago. Ho had been stealing along from the bank for about a year, — worked for them, you see." "The Empire Consolidated Savings Bank !" Auntie Sue spoke the words in a voice that was little more than a whisper. It was to the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank that she had sent the money v/liich she had received from her brother in Buenos Airec; and Homer T. Ward, the president of that bank, was one of her old pupils. Why, her stranger guest, in the 81 THE KE-CKEATION OF BKIAN" EJIITT other room there, was that very moment wearing one of the bank president's nightshirts. "And do you" — Auntie Sue addressed the de- tective — "do you know the man's name, Mr. Ross ?" "Oh, yes," returned the officer, "his name is Brian Kent." Some source of strength, deep-hidden in her gentle niiture, enabled Aiintie Sue to control her emotions, though her voice broke a little as she slowly repeated the man's name, "Brian Kent. And do I under- stand, sir, that you have traced the man to this — neighborhood ?" The detective was too skilled not to notice Auntie Sue's manner and the break in her voice ; but he never dreamed that this old gentlewoman's agitation was caused by a deeper interest than a quite natural fear that a dangerous criminal might be lurking in the immediate vicinity. "N'ot exactly, Mrs. — ah — " "Miss Wakefield," — she supplied her name with a smile. With a courteous bow, the detective continued: "We do not know for sure that the man is in this neighborhood. Miss Wakefield. There is really no 82 THE RE-CREATION" OF BRIAN KENT cause for you to be alarmed. Even if he should call at your house, here, you need not be frightened, for I assure you the man is not at all a dangerous char- acter." "I am glad," said Auntie Sue; and she laughed a little with a relief more genuine than her callers knew. Detective Ross continued as if anxious to finish his unpleasant duty: "It is too bad for us to be disturbing you with this business. Miss Wakefield, and I hope you will forgive us ; but, the case is like this: We traced our man to the little town of Borden, some forty miles up the river from here. He disappeared from the hotel one night, leaving his suit-case and, apparently, everything he had with him, and not a soul that we can find has seen him since. Of course, everybody says 'suicide.' He had been drinking heavily and acting rather queer the two or three days he was at the hotel, — it seems. But I am not willing, yet, to accept the suicide idea as final, because it would be too easy for him to give things that appearance in order to throw us off; and I can't get away from the fact that a John-boat that was tied to the bank near the hotel managed to break 83 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT loose and drift off down the river that same night. Working on my theory, we are following down the river, trying to get trace of either the boat or the man. So far, we haven't heard of either, which rather strengthens me in my belief that the boat and the man went away together. He is probably travel- ing nights, and lying up under the willows in day- light. But he will be compelled to show himself somewhere, soon, in order to get something to eat, for he couldn't have taken much with him, trying, as he was, to create the impression that he had committed suicide. You have a wonderful view of the river here, Miss Wakefield." "Yes, sir; it is beautiful from the porch." "You spend a good deal of time on the porch, do you?" "Yes, sir." "And you would be quite likely to notice any boat passing, "wouldn't you?" "Yes, sir." "Could you see a boat at night, — in the moonlight, I mean ?" "I coidd if it were well out in the middle of the 84 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT stream, away from the shadow of the trees, along the bank." "Have you seen any boats pass lately, Miss Wake- field ?" "No, sir ; I haven't seen a boat on the river for a month, at least." "Dead certain about it, are you, Auntie Sue?" asked the SheriflE. "Yes, sir; I am very sure," she returned. "Judy and I were talking about it yesterday." "WLi, IS d udy ?" asked the detective. The Sheriif answered, "Just a girl that lives with Auntie Sue." And Auntie Sue added: "I know Judy has seen no boats passing, because, as I say, we were talking about it." "I see," said the detective. "And niay I ask. Miss Wakefield, if any one — any stranger, I mean — has called at the house lately, or if you have seen any one in the vicinity ?" The gentle old lady hesitated. The ofiicers thought she was searching her memory to be sure before she answered. 85 THE EE-CEEATION OF BEIAN KENT Then Auntie Sue said, deliberately: "No, sir; we have not seen a stranger in this vicinity for sev- eral weeks. The last one was a mule-buyer, who stopped to ask if he was on the right road to Tom Warden's; and that must have been fully six weeks ago." The detective looked at Sheriff Knox. "Well," said the big officer, "I reckon we might as well push along." The two men arose. "Oh, but surely you will stay for dinner," said Auntie Sue, while her dear heart was faint with fear lest they accept, and thus bring about who could say what disastrous consequences through their meeting with Judy. "Not this time, Auntie Sue," returned the Sheriff. "Mr. Ross is anxious to get on down the river as fast as he can. He's got men on watch at White's Cross- ing, and if our man ain't passed there, or if we don't strike his trail somewhere before we get there, we will jump back on the railroad, and get some boy to bring the horses through later." "I see," returned Auntie Sue. And to the detective she added, smiling: "I am sure it must be very 86 THE RE-CKEATION OF BRIAN KEI^T difficult for any one to escape you, Mr. Eoss. I have read such wonderful things about Mr. Burns and the work of his organization; and now that I have met you, — a real live detective, — I shall be very careful, indeed, about what I do in the future. I shouldn't want to have you on my track, I assure you." The two men laughed heartily, and the detective, as he extended his hand in farewell, returned: "1 count it a great privilege to have met you. Miss Wakefield; and if you will promise to do one thing for me, I'll agree to be very lenient with you if I am ever assigned to a case in which you are to be brought to justice." "I promise," returned the old lady, quickly. "I reaUy wouldn't dare to refuse under the circum stances, would I ? What do you want me to do, Mr. Ross?" "If this man Brian Kent should happen to appear in this vicinity, will you get a message as quickly as possible, at any cost, to Sheriff Knox ?" "Why, of course," agreed Auntie Sue. "But you have not yet told me what the man looks like, Mr. Ross." "He is really a fine looking chap," the detective 87 THE RE-CEEATION OF BRIAN- KENT answered. "Thirty years old — fully six feet tall — rather slender, but well built — weighs about one hundred fifty — a splendid head — smooth shaven — reddish hair — dark blue eyes — and a high, broad forehead. He is of Irish extraction — is cultured — very courteous in his manner and speech — dresses well — and knows a lot about books and authors and such things." "I would surely know him from that description," said Auntie Sue, thinking of the wretched creature who had fallen, sobbing, at her feet so short a time before. "But, you do not make him seem like a criminal at all. It is strange that a man such as you describe should be a fugitive from the law, is it not?" "We come in contact with many strange things in our business, Miss Wakefield," the Burns operative answered — a little sadly. Auntie Sue thought. "Life itself is so strange and complex, though you in your quiet retreat, here, can scarcely find it so." "Indeed, I find life very wonderful, Mr. Ross, even here in my little house by the river," she an- swered, slowly. 88 THE RE-CEEATIOIT OF BEIAN KENT Shciiff Knox held out a newspaper to Auntie Sue : "Just happened to remember that I had it in my pocket," he said. "It gives a pretty full account of this fellow Kent's case. You will notice there is a big reward offered for his capture. If you can catch him for us, you'll make enough money to keep you mighty nigh all the rest of your life." And the offi- cer's great laugh boomed out at the thought of the old school-teacher as a thief-catcher. "By the way, Sheriff," said Auntie Sue, as they were finally saying good-bye at the door, "you didn't happen to ask at Thompsonville for my mail, did you, as you came through?" Her voice was trembling, now, with eagerness and anxiety. "I'm plumb sorry, Auntie Sue, but I didn't. Tou see, we were so busy on this job, I clean forgot about stopping here; and, besides, we might have caught our man before we got this far, you see." "Of course," returned Auntie Sue, "I should have thought of that ; but I have been rather anxious about an important letter that seems to have been delayed. Some of the neighbors will probably be going to the office to-day, though. Good-bye ! You know you are 89 THE KE-CREATION" OF BRIAN KENT always welcome, Sheriff; and you, too, Mr. Ross, if you should ever happen to be in this part of the country again." "A wonderful old woman, Ross," commented Sheriff Knox as they were riding away. x\nd the quiet, business-looking detective, whose life had been spent in combating crime and deception, answered, as he waved farewell to Auntie Sue, who watched them from the door of the little log house by the river, "A very wonderful woman, indeed, — the love- liest old lady I have ever met, — and the most remarkable." 90 CHAPTER VIII. THAT WHICH IS GREATER THAN THE LAW. IHEE" she had watched Sheriff Knox and his two companions ride out of sight, Auntie Sue turned slowly back into the house to face Judy, who stood accusingly in the kitchen doorway. For what seemed a long time, the old gentlewoman and the deformed mountain girl stood silently looking at each other. Then Auntie Sue nervously crossed the room to lay the newspaper, which the Sheriff had given her, on the table beside her basket of sewing. Without speaking, Judy followed her, watching every movement intently. Turning to face her companion again, Aimtie Sue stood, still speechless, clasping and unclasping her thin old hands. Judy spoke in her shrill, drawling monotone: "You-all have sure fixed hit this here time, hain't you ? Can't you-all see what a hell of a hole you've done got us inter?" When Auntie Sue apparently could not reply, 91 THE RE-CEEATION OF BKIAN KE^T Judy continued: "Just as if hit wasn't more 'n enougL. for you-all ter go an' wear yourself plumb out a-takin' keer of that there ornery, no-'coujit feller, what I never ought ter dragged out of the river nohow. An', now, you-all got ter go an' just naturally lie like you did ter the Sheriff an' that there deteckertive man. I was plumb scared to death a-listenin' ter you through the crack in the kitchen door. I 'lowed every minute they'd ketch you, sure. My Lord-A'mlghty ! ma'm, can't you-all figger what'll happen ter weuns if they ever finds out that weuns done had him hid right here in this here house all the time ? I never heard toll of such dad burned, fool doin's in all my bom days ! I sure wish ter God that there old John-boat had a-tuck him oil down the river an' smashed him up agin Elbow Rock, like hit ort, an' not a-fetched him ter our door ter git weuns in jail for savin' his worthless, no-' count hide, —I sure do!" "But, Judy, I never in all my life did such a thing before," said Auntie Sue in a tremulous whisper, too overwrought to speak aloud. "You-all ain't a-needin' ter do hit but onct, neither. Onct Is sure a heap plenty for that there big Sheriff 92 TEE EE-OKEATION" OF milAN KENT man. Just look what he did ter my pap I He's jailed pap seven times, that I kin rec'lecL God- A'mighty knows how many times he ketched him 'fore I was horned. An' pap, he didn't do so mighty much ary time, neither." "I just had to do it, Judy, dear," protested Auntie Sue. "It seemed as if I simply could not tell the truth: something wouldn't let me." Judy, unheeding her companion's agitation, con- tinued reviewing the situation: "An' just look at all the money you-all done lost!" "Money ?" questioned Auntie Sue. "Yep, ^money:' — that there reward what they'd a-paid you-all if you-all hadn't a-lied like you did. I reckon as how there'd a-been as much, maybe, as what was in that there letter you-all done sent ter the bank an' ain't never heard tell of since. Hit's most likely clean gone by now, an' here you done gone an' throw'd this other away, — plumb throw'd hit away!" At this, Auntie Sue's spirit suddenly flashed into fiery indignation. "Judith Taylor," she said sharply, "how can you suggest such a wicked thing? Why, I would — I would — die before I would accept a peimy for doing such a thing!" 93 THE RE-CREATIOl^ OF BRIAN KEIfT And it was Judy, now, who stood silent and abashed before the aroused Auntie Sue. "Don't ever speak of such a thing again!" con- tinued the old lady. "And remember, we must be more careful than ever, now, not to let any one — not a soul — ^know that Mr. — Mr. — Burns is in the house, or that we ever saw him !" "That there deteckertive man said as how the feller's name was Brian Kent, didn't he ?" muttered the sullen Judy. "I don't care what the detective man s^id!" re- torted Auntie Sue. "I am telling you that his name is Brian Burns, and you had better remember it! Tou had better remember, too, that if anybody ever finds out the truth about him, you and I will go right along to jail with him!" "Yes, ma'm; I sure ain't aimin' ter forgit that," replied the humbled Judy; and she slouched away to the kitchen. Auntie Sue went to the door of Brian Kent's room. But, with her hand outstretched toward the latch, she hesitated. Had he heard ? The Sheriff's voice had been so loud. She feared to enter, yet she knew that she must. At last, she knocked timidly, and, when 94 THE KE-CREATION OF BEIAN KENT there was no answer, knocked again, louder. Cau- tiously, she opened the door. The man lay with his face to the wall, — to all appearances fast asleep. She tiptoed to the bed, and stood looking down upon the stranger for whom, without a shadow of reason, — one would have said, — she had violated one of the most deeply rooted principles of her seventy years. To Auntie Sue, daughter of ^New England Puri- tanism, and religious to the deeps of her being, a lie was abhorrent, — and she had lied, — deliberately, care- fully, and with painstaking skill she had lied. She had not merely evaded the truth ; she had lied, — and that to save a man of whom she knew nothing except that he was a fugitive from the law. And the strangest thing about it was this, that she was glad. She could not feel one twinge of regret for her sin. She could not even feel that she had, indeed, sinned. She had even a feeling of pride and triumph that she had lied so successfully. She was troubled, though, about this new and wholly unexpected development in her life. It had been so easy for her. She had lied so naturally, so instinctively. 95 THE EE-CEEATION OF BKIAN KENT She remeinbered how she had spoken to Brian Kent of the river and of life. She saw, now, that tke river symbolized not only life as a whole, with its many ever-changing conditions and currents, amid which the individual must live; — the river symbolized, as truly, the individual life, with its ever-changing moods and motives, — its ever-varying and often-con- flicting currents of instinct and training, — its infinite variety of intellectual deeps and shallows, — its gentle places of spiritual calm, — and its wild and turbulent rapids of dangerous passion. "What hitherto unsuspected currents in her life- river," she asked herself, "had carried her so easily into falsehood ? What strange forces were these,"' she wondered, "that had set her so suddenly against honesty and truthfulness and law and justice? And this stranger, — this wretched, haggard-faced, drunken creature, who had been brought by the mysterious currents of life to her door, — what was there in him that so compelled her protecting interest? What was it within him, deeply hidden under the repellent exterior of his being, that had so awakened in her that strange feeling of possession, — of motherhood ?" It was not strange that, in her mental and spiritual 96 THE KE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT extremity, tlie dear old gentlewoman's life-long habit should lead her to kneel beside the stranger's bed and pray for understanding and guidance. It was signifi- cant that she did not ask her God to forgive the- lie. And, presently, as she prayed, she felt the man on the bed move. Then a hand lightly touched her hair. She remained very still for a little, — her head still bowed. The hand that touched so reverently the silvery gray hair trembled a little. Slowly, the old teacher raised her face to look at him ; and the Irish blue eyes of Brian Kent were wide with wondering awe and glowing with a light that warmed her heart and strengthened her. "Why did you do it ?" he asked. "You wonderful, wonderful woman ! Why did you do it ?" Slowly, she rose from her knees to sit beside him on the bed. "You heard ?" He nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak. "I was afraid the Sheriff talked too loud," she said, "But, why did you do it ?" he persisted. "I think it was because I couldn't do anything else," she answered, with her little chuckling laugh. Then she added, seriously: "How could I let theia 97 THE RE-CEEATIOX OE BRIAN" KEN"T take you away ? Are you not mine ? Did not the river bring you to me ?" "I must tell you," he answered, sadly, "that what ±he detective told you about me is true." "Yes ?" she answered, smiling. "I was a clerk in the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank," he continued, "and I stole money, — for nearly a year I stole, — not large sums, but a little at a time. Then, when I knew that it was going to be discovered, I took quite a lot, and ran away." "Yes?" said Auntie Sue. "Do you not care that I am a thief?" he ques- tioned, wonderingly. "Oh, yes ; I care very much," she returned. "But, you see, after all, your stealing is a little thing that can be made all right. Your being a thief is so small in comparison with other things which you might have been, but which you are not, and of so little importance in comparison with what you really are, that I can't feel so very bad about it." "But — but — my drinking, — my condition when — " He could not go on. "Why, you see," she answered, "I can't think of ihat man as being you at all. That was something 98 THE EE-CREATION OF BBIAN KENT that the accident of your being a thief did to you, — like catching cold, and being sick, after accidentally falling in the river." After a little silence, the man spoke, slowly: "I suppose every thief, when he is caught, says the same thing; but I really never wanted to do it. Circum- stances — " he paused, biting his lip, and turning away. "What was she like ?" asked Auntie Sue, gently. "She ?" and his face reddened. "Yes, I have observed that, to a man, 'circum- stances' nearly always mean a woman. To a woman^ of course, it is a man." "I cannot tell you about her, now," he said. "Some day, perhaps, when I am further away from it. But she is not at all like you." And this answer, for some strange reason, brought a flush of pleasure to the face of the old school- teacher, "I did not mean for you to tell me now," she returned. "I only wanted you to know that, even though I am an old maid, I can understand." She left him then, and went to attend to her simple household duties. THE RE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT It was not until quite late in the evening that Auntie Sue took up the newspaper which Sheriff Knox had given her. Judy had retired to her room, and Brian Burns — as they had agreed he should be called — was fast asleep. To-morrow, Brian was going to sit up. His cloth- ing had been washed and ironed and pressed, and Auntie Sue was making some little repairs in the way of darning and buttons. She had finished, and was putting her needle and scissors in the sewing- basket on the table beside her, when she noticed the paper, which she had forgotten. The article headed "BANK CLERK DISAP- PEARS" was not long. It told, in a matter-of-fact, newspaper way, how Brian Kent had, at different times, covering a period of several months, taken Tarious sums from the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, and gave, so far as was then known, the accumulated amount which he had taken. The dis- ihonest clerk had employed several methods in his operations ; but the particular incident — read Auntie Sue — which had led to the exposure of Kent's steal- ings was the theft of a small sum of money in bank- 100 THE KE-CEEATIOlsr OF BEIAIT KENT notes, whieli had been sent to the bank in a letter by one of the bank's smaller depositors. The newspaper fell from Auntie Sue's hand. Me- chanically, she fingered the garment lying in her lap. She, too, had sent a sum of money in a letter for deposit to her small account in this bank from which Brian Kent had stolen. She would not have sent tha familiar paper currency of the United States that way; but this money was in Argentine notes. Her brother from far-away Buenos Aires had sent it to her, saying that it would help to keep her during the closing years of her life ; and she had added it to her small savings with a feeling of deepest gratitude that her last days were now fully provided for. And she had received from the bank no acknowledgment of her letter with its enclosures. Taking up the paper with hands that trembled so she scarce could distinguish the words, she read the paragraph again. Suddenly, she recalled the man's puzzled expres- sion when she had told him her name, and she seemed to hear him say, again, "Wakefield? Wakefield? Where have I seen that name ?" 101 THE KE-CREATION OF BEIAN KENT She looked at the date of the paper. Beyond all doubt, the man sleeping there in the other room; — the man whom she had saved from a saicide's end in the river ; — whom she had nursed through the hell of delirium tremens; — whom she had yearned over as over her ovsn son, and for whom, to save from the just penalty of his crime, she had lied — ^beyond all doubt that man had robbed her of the money that was to have insured to her peace and comfort in the clos- ing years of her life. Carefully, Auntie Sue laid the garment she had just mended with such loving care, with the rest of Brian Kent's clothing, on the near-by chair. Eising, she went with slow, troubled step to the porch. There was no moon, that ni^t, to turn the waters of The Bend into a stream of silvery light. But the stars were shining bright and clear, and she could see the river where it made its dark, mysterious way between the walls of shadowy hills ; and borne to her ears on the gentle night wind came the deep, thunder- ing roar of the angry waters at Elbow Eock. For a long time she stood there on the porch look- ing into the night, with the light from the open door of her little house behind her ; and she felt very 102 THE EE-CKEATION OF BKIAN KENT lonely, very tired, and very old. With her beautiful old face upturned to the infinite sky, where shining worlds are scattered in such lavish profusion, she listened, listened to the river that, with its countless and complex currents, swept so irresistibly onward along the way that was set for it by Him who swung those star-worlds in the limitless space of that mighty arch above. And something of the spirit that broods' ever over the river must have entered into the soul of Auntie Sue. When she turned back into the house,^. there was a smile on her face, though her eves were wet vidth tears. Going to the chair that held Brian Kent's clothings she took the garments in her arms and pressed them to her lips. Then she carried them to his room. For some time she remained in that darkened chamber beside the sleeping man. When she returned to the living-room, she again took up the newspaper. Very carefully, that her sleeping companions in the house might not hear her, she went to the kitchen, the paper in her hand. Very carefully, that no sound should betray her act, she burned the paper in the kitchen stove. 103 CHAPTER IX. AUNTIE SUE'S PROPOSITION. UjRIlSrGr the next few days, Brian Kent rapidly regained his strength. !N"o one seeing the tall, self-possessed gentleman who sat with Auntie Sue on the porch overlooking the river, or strolled about the place, could have imagined him the wretchedly repulsive creature that Judy had dragged from the eddy so short a time before. And no one, — excepting, perhaps, detective Ross, — ^would have identified this bearded guest of Auntie Sue's as the absconding bank clerk for whose arrest a sub- stantial reward was offered. But Mr. Eoss had departed from the Ozarks, to report to the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank that, to the best of his knowledge and belief, Brian Kent . had been drowned. Homer T. Ward, himself, wrote Auntie Sue about the case, for the detective had told the bank president about his visit to the little log house by the river, and the banker knew that his 104 THE EE-CEEATION OF BEIAN KENT old teacher would wish to hear the conclusion of the affair. The facts upon which the detective based his con- clusion that Brian Kent was dead, were, first of all, the man's general character, temperament, habits, and ambitions, — aside from his thefts from the bank, — prior to the time of his exposure and flight, and his known mental and physical condition at the time he disappeared from the hotel in the little river town of Borden. The detective reasoned (and there are thousands of cases that could be cited to support his contention) that by such a man as Brian Kent,— knowing, as he must have known, the comparative certainty of his ultimate arrest and conviction, and being in a mental and nervous condition bordering on insanity, as a result of his constant brooding over his crime and the excessive drinking to which he had resorted for relief, — by such a man, death would almost inevitably be chosen rather than a life of humiliation and disgrace and imprisonment. Acting upon the supposition, however, that the man had gone down the river in that missing boat, and 105 THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAX KENT that the appearance of suicide was planned by the fugitive to trick his pursuers, the detectives ascer- tained that he had provided no supplies for a trip down the river. The man would be compelled to seek food. The mountain country through which he must pass was sparsely settled, and for a distance that would have taken a boat many days to cover, the officers visited every house and cabin and camp on either side of the river without finding a trace of the hunted man. The river had been watched night and day. The net set by the Burns operatives touched every settlement and village for many miles around. And, finally, the battered and broken wreck of the lost boat had been found some two miles below Elbow Rock. ". . . And so, my dear Auntie Sue," Banker Ward wrote, in conclusion, "you may rest in peace, secure in the certainty that my thieving bank clerk is not lurking anywhere in your beautiful Ozarks to pounce down upon you imawares in your little house b "WeU, George?" The secretary smiled as he spoke: "Mr. Ward, there is an old lady out here who insists that you wiU see her. The boys passed her on to me, because, — well, she is not the kind of woman that can be re- fused. She has no card, but her name is Wakefield. She—" The dignified President of the Empire Consoli- dated Savings Bank electrified his secretary by springing from his chair like a schoolboy from his seat at the tap of the teacher's dismissing bell. "Auntie Sue ! I should say she couldn't be refused I Where is she ?" And before the secretary could col- lect his startled thoughts to answer, Homer T. Ward was out of the room. 287 d:he re-ceeatiox of beiaf kent iWHen the smiling secretary, the stenographers, and other attending employees had witnessed a meeting between their dignified chief and the lovely old lady, which strengthened their conviction that the great financier was genuinely human, President Ward and Auntie Sue disappeared into the private oQice. "George," said j\Ir. Ward, as he closed the door of that sacred inner sanctuary of the Empire Consoli- dated Savings Bank, "remember I am not in to any one; — from the Secretary of the Treasury to the Sheriff, I am not in." "I understand, sir," returned the still smiling George. And from that moment until Homer T. Ward should open the door, nothing short of a regi- ment could have interrupted the interview between Auntie Sue and her old pupil. Placing the dear old lady tenderly in a deep, leather-upholstered chair, Mr. Ward stood before her as though trying to convince himself that she was real; while his teacher of those long-ago, boyhood days gazed smilingly up at him. "What in -the name of all that is unexpected are you doing here, Auntie Sue ?" he demanded ; "and why is not Betty Jo with you? Isn't the girl ever 288 THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT coming home ? There is nothing the matter with her, is there ? Of course not, or you would have wired me." It was not at all like the bank president to ask so many questions all at once. Auntie Sue looked around the private office curiously, then smilingly back to the face of the j&nan- cier. "Do you know. Homer," she said with her chuck- ling little laugh, "I — I — am almost afraid of you in here. Everything is so grand and rich-looking; and there were so many men out there who tried to tell me you would not see me. I — I am glad I didn't know it would be like this, or I fear I never could have found the courage to come." Homer T. Ward laughed, and then — rather fuU- waisted as he was — ^went down on one knee at the arm of her chair so as to bring his face level with her eyes. "Look at me. Auntie Sue," he said ; "look straight through me, just as you used to do years and years ago, and tell me what you see." And the dear old lady, with one thin soft hand on his heavy shoulder, answered, as she looked: 289 THE EE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT "Why, I see a rather naughty boy, whom I ought to spank for throwing spitballs at the old schoolroom ceiling," she retorted. "And I am not a bit afraid to do it either. So sit right over there, sir, and listen to me." They laughed together then; and if Auntie Sue wiped her eyes as the schoolboy obediently took his seat in the big chair at the banker's desk, Homer T. Ward's eyes were not without a suspicious moisture. "Tell me about Betty Jo first," the man insisted. "You know, Auntie Sue, the girl grows dearer to me every year." "Betty Jo is that kind of a girl, Homer," Auntie Sue answered. "I suppose it is because she is all I have to love," he said, "but, you know, ever since Sister Grace died and left the fatherless little kid to me, it seems like all my plans have centered around her; and now that she has finished her school ; has travelled abroad, and gone through with that business-college course, I am beginning to feel like we should sort of settle down together. I am glad for her to be with you this summer, though, for the finishing touches ; and when she comes home to stay, you are coming -with, her." 290 THE RE-CKEATIOF OF BEIAN KENT Auntie Sue shook her head, smiling: "E'ow, Homer, you know that is settled : I will never leave my little log house by the river until I have watched the last sunset. You know, my dear boy, that I would be miserable in the city." It was an old point often argued by them, and the man dismissed it, now, with a brief: "We'll see about that when the time comes. But, why didn't you bring Betty Jo with you?" •- ■^' "Because," Auntie Sue answered, "I came away hurriedly, on a very important trip, for only a day, and it is necessary for her to stay and keep house while I am gone. The child must learn to cook, Homer, even if she is to inherit all your money." "I know," answered the banker; — "the same as you make me work when I visit you. But your com- ing to me sounds rather serious, Auntie Sue. What is your trouble ?" The dear old lady laughed, nervously; for, to tell the truth, she did not quite know how she was going to manage to present Brian Kent's case to Homer T. Ward without presenting more than she was at this time ready to reveal. "Why, you see, Homer," she began, "it is not 291 THE RE-CEEATION" OF BRIAN KENT really my trouble as nnich as it is yours, and it is not yours as much as it is — " "Betty Jo's?" he asked quickly, when she hesi- tated. "No ! no !" she cried. "The child doesn't even know why I am here. Just try to forget her for a few minutes, Homer." "All right," he said ; "but you had me worried for a minute." Auntie Sue might have answered that she was somewhat worried herself; but, instead, she plunged with desperate courage: "I came to see you about Brian Kent, Homer." It is not enough to say that the President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank was astonished. "Brian Kent ?" he said at last. "Why, Auntie Sue, I wrote you nearly a year ago that Brian Kent was dead." "Yes, I know; but he was not — that is, he is not. But the Brian Kent your detectives were hunting was — I mean — is." Homer T. Ward looked at his old teacher as though he feared she had suddenly lost her mind. "It is like this. Homer," Auntie Sue explained : "A 292 THE KE-CREATIOI^ OF BEIAF KENT few days after your detective, Mr. Eoss, called on me, this stranger appeared in the neighborhood. ISTo one dreamed that he was Brian Kent, because, you see, he was not a bit like the description." "Full beard, I suppose?" commented the banker, grimly. "Yes: and every other way," continued Auntie Sue. "And he has been working so hard all winter; and everybody in the country respects and loves him so; and he is one of the best and truest men I ever knew; and he is planning and working to pay back every cent he took; and I cannot — I will not — ^let you send him to prison now." The lovely old eyes were fixed on the banker's face with sweet anxiety. Homer T. Ward was puzzled. Strange human problems are often presented to men in his position; but, certainly, this was the strangest; — his old teacher pleading for his absconding clerk who was supposed to be dead. At last he said, with gentle kindness : "But, why did you come to tell me about him. Auntie Sue ? He is safe enough if no one knows who he is." "That is it!" she cried. "Some one found out 293 THE EE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT about him, and is coming here to tell you, for the re- ward." The banker whistled softly. "And you — you — grabbed a train, and beat 'em to it!" he exclaimed. "Well, if that doesn't—" Auntie Sue clasped her thin hands to her breast, and her sweet voice trembled with anxious fear: "You won't send that poor boy to prison, now, will you. Homer? It — it — ^would kiU me if such a ter- rible thing were to happen now. Won't you let him go free, so that he can do his work, — won't you, Homer ? I — I — " The strain of her anxiety was almost too much for the dear old gentlewoman's physical strength, and as her voice failed, the tears streamed down the soft cheeks unheeded. In an instant the bank president was again on his knees beside her chair. "Don't, Auntie Sue : don't, dear ! Why, you know I would do anything in the world you asked, even if I wanted to send the fellow up; but I don't. I wouldn't touch him for the world. It is a thousand times better to let him go if he is proving himself an honest man. Please, dear, don't feel so. Why, I will be glad to let him off. I'll help him, Auntie 294 THE RE-OEEATION OF BRIAN KENT Sue. I — I — am aa glad as you are that we didn't get him. Please don't feel so about it. There, there, — it is all right, now." So he comforted and reassured her until she was able to smile through her tears. "I knew I could depend on you. Homer." A few minutes later, she said: "And what about that man who is coming to claim the reward, Homer ?" "Never you mind him!" cried the banker; "I'll fix that. But, teU me, Auntie Sue, where is young Kent now ?" "He is working in the neighborhood," she re- turned. He looked at her shrewdly, "You have seen a lot of him, have you ?" "I have seen him occasionally," she answered. Homer T. Ward nodded his head, as if well pleased with himself. "You don't need to tell me any more. I understand, now, exactly. It is very clear what has reformed Brian Kent ; you have been up to your old tricks. It is a wonder you haven't taken him into your house to live with you, — to save him from asso- ciating with bad people." 295 THE RE-CREATION" OF BRIAN" KENT He laughed, and when Auntie Sue only smiled, as though humoring him in his little joke, he added: "By the way, has Betty Jo seen this latest patient of yours? What does she think of his chances for complete recovery ?" "Yes," Auntie Sue returned, calmly; "Betty Jo has seen him. But, really. Homer, I have never asked her what she thought of him." "Do you know, Auntie Sue," said the banker, re- flectively, "I never did believe that Brian Kent was a criminal at heart." "I know he is not," she returned stoutly. "But, tell me. Homer, how did it ever happen?" "Well, you see," he answered, "young Kent had a wife who couldn't somehow seem to fit into his life. Ross never went into the details with me, fully, be- cause that, of course, had no real bearing on the fact that he stole the money from the bank. But it seems that the youngster was rather ambitious, — studied a lot outside of business hours and that sort of thing. I know he made his ovm way through business college before he came to us. The wife didn't receive the attention she thought she should have, I 296 THE EE-CREATION OE BRIAN KENT suppose. Perhaps she was right at that. Anyway, she wanted a good time; — ^wanted him to take her out more, instead of spending his spare time digging away at his books. And so it went the usual way, — she found other company. Rather a gay set, I fancy ; at least it led to her needing more money than he was earning, and so he helped out his salary, think- ing to pay it back before he was caught, I suppose. Then the crash came, — some other man, you know, — and Brian skipped, which, of course, put us next to his stealing. I don't know what has become of the woman. The last Ross knew of her she was living in St. Louis, and running with a pretty wild bunch, — glad to get rid of Brian, I expect. She couldn't have really cared so very much for him. "Do you know, Auntie Sue, I have seen so many cases like this one. I have been glad, manjf times, that I never married. And then, again, sometimes, I have seen homes that have made me sorry I never took the chance. I am glad you saved the boy. Auntie Sue : I am mighty glad." "You have made me very happy, Homer," Auntie Sue returned. "But are you sure you can fix it 297 THE RE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT about that reward ? The man who is coming to claim it will make trouble, won't he, if he is not paid, somehow ?" "Yes, I expect he would," returned the president, thoughtfully. "And my directors might have some- thing to say. And there are the Bums people and the Bankers' Association and all. Hum-m-m!" Homer T. Ward considered the matter a few mo- ments, then he laughed. "I'll tell you what we will do. Auntie Sue; we will let Brian Kent pay the re- ward himself. That would be fair, wouldn't it ?" Auntie Sue was sure that Brian would agree that it was a fair enough arrangement; but she did not see how it was to be managed. Then her old pupil explained that he would pay the reward-money to the man who was coming to claim it, and thus satisfy him, and that the bank would hold the amount as a part of the debt which Brian was expected to pay. Auntie Sue never knew that President Ward him- self paid to the bank the full amount of the money stolen by Brian Kent in addition to the reward- money which he personally paid to Jap Taylor, in order to quiet him, and thus saved Brian from the 298 THE RE-CREATION" OF BRIAN" KENT publicity that surely would liave followed any other course. It should also be said here that Judy's father never again appeared in the Ozarks ; at least, not in the Elbow Rock neighborhood. It might be that Jap Taylor was shrewd enough to know that his reputa- tion would not permit him to show any considerable sum of money, where he was known, without starting an investigation; and for men of his type investiga- tions are never to be desired. Or it is not unlikely that the combination of money and the city proved the undoing of the moonshiner, and that he came to his legitimate and logical end among the dives and haunts of his kind, to which he would surely gravitate. 299 CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE ELBOW ROCK RAPIDS. SHE day following that night of Brian Kent's uneasy wakefulness was a hard day for the man and the woman in the little log house by the river. For Brian, the morning dawned with a sense of impending disaster. He left his room while the sky was still gray behind the eastern mountains, and the mist that veiled the brightness of the hills seemed to hide in its ghostly depths legions of shadowy spir- its that from his past had assembled to haunt him. The sombre aisles and caverns of the dimly lighted forest were peopled with shadowy memories of that life which he had hoped would never again for him awake. And the river swept through its gray world to the crashing turmoil at Elbow Kock like a thing doomed to seek forever in its own irresistible might the destruction of its ever-living self. As one moving in a world of dreams, he went about his morning's work, "Old Prince" whinnied his 300 THE KE-CREATION OF BRIAl^ KENT Tisual greeting, but received no answer. "Bess" met Mm at the barnyard gate, but he did not speak. The sun leaped above the mountain-tops, and the world was filled with the beauty of its golden glory. Erom tree and bush and swaying weed, from forest and pasture, and garden and willow-fringed river-bank, the birds voiced their happy greetings to the new day. But the man neither saw nor heard. When he went to the house with his full milk- pail, and Betty Jo met him at the kitchen-door with her cheery "Good-morning!" he tried resolutely to free himself from the mood which possessed him, but only partially succeeded. Several times, as the two faced each other across the breakfast table, Brian saw the gray eyes filled with questioning anxiety, aa though Betty Jo, also, felt the presence of some for- bidding spectre at the meal. After several vain attempts to find something they could talk about, Betty Jo boldly acknowledged the situation by saying: "What in the world is the mat- ter with us, this morning, Mr. Bums ? I am pos- sessed with the feeling that there is some one or something behind me. I want to look over my shoul- der every minute." 301 THE EE-CREATIOI^ OF BRIAN KENT At her words, Brian involuntarily turned his head for a quick backward glance. "There!" cried Betty Jo, with a nervous laugh^ not at all like her normal, well-poised self. "You feel it, too!" Brian forced a laugh in return : "It is the weather, I guess." He tried to speak with casual ease. "The atmosphere is full of electricity this morning. We'll have a thunder-storm before night, probably." "And was it the electricity in the air that kept you tramping up and down your room last night until almost morning?" she demanded abruptly, with her characteristic opposition to any evasion of the ques- tion at issue. Brian retorted with a smile: "And how do you know that I tramped up and dovrai my room last night?" The color in Betty Jo's cheeks deepened aa she answered, "I did not sleep very well either." "But, I surely did not make noise enough for you to hear in your room ?" persisted Brian. The color deepened still more in Betty Jo's cheeks, as she answered honestly: "I was not in my room 302 THE EE-OEEATION" OF BRIAN KENT "when I heard you." She paused, and when he only looked at her expectantly, but did not speak, contin- ued, in a hesitating manner quite unlike her matter- of-fact self: "When I could not sleep, and felt so as though there were somebody or something in the house that had no business here, I became afraid, and opened my door so I would not feel so much alone; and then I saw the light under the door of your room, and, — " she hesitated, but finished with a lit- tle air of defiance, — "and I went and listened out- side your door to see if you were up." "Yes?" said Brian Kent, gently. "And when I heard you walking up and down, I wanted to call to you ; but I thought I better not. It made me feel better, though, just to know that you were there; and so, pretty soon, I went back to my room again." "And then?" said Brian, "And then," confessed Betty Jo, "whatever it was that was keeping me awake came back, and went on keeping me awake until I was simply forced to go to you for help again." Poor Betty Jo! She knew very well that she 303 THE EE-OEEATION OF BRIAN KE'NT ought not to be saying those things to the man who, while he listened, could not hide the love that shone in his eyes. And Brian Kent, as he thought of this woman, whom he loved with all the strength of his best self, creeping to the door of his room for comfort in the lonely night, scarcely dared trust himself to speak. At last, when their silence was becoming unbearable, he said, gently : "You poor child ! Why didn't you call to me?" And Betty Jo, hearing in his voice that which told her how near he was to the surrender that would bring disaster to them both, was aroused to the de- fense. The gray eyes never wavered as she answered, bravely: "I was afraid of that, too." And so Betty Jo confessed her love that answered so to his need; but, in her very confession, saved their love from themselves. If she had lowered her eyes — Brian Kent, in reverent acknowledgment, bowed his head before her. Then, rising, he walked to the window, where he stood for some time looking out, but seeing nothing. "It was that horrid man coming yesterday that has 304 THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT so upset us," said Betty Jo, at last. "We were get- ting on so beautifully, too. I wish lie had gone somewhere else for his vegetables and eggs and things !" Brian was able to smile at this as he turned to face her again, and they both knew that, — for that time, at least, — the danger-point was safely past. "I wish so, too," he agreed; "but never mind; Auntie Sue will be home in a day or two, and then everything will be all right again." But when he had taken his hat and was starting out for the day's work, Betty Jo asked, "What are you doing to-day?" "I was going to work on the fence around the clearing," he answered. "Why?" "I — I — ^wish you could find something to do nearer the house," came the slow answer. "Couldn't you work in the garden, perhaps ?" "I should say I could !" he returned heartily. All that forenoon, as Betty Jo went about her household duties she felt the presence of the thing that filled her so with fear and dread. With vigor- ous determination she scolded herself for being so foolish, and argued with herself that it was all a 305 THE RE-CREATION" OF BRIAN EIENT nervous fancy bom of her restless night. But, the next moment, she would start with a sudden fear and turn quickly as if to face some one whose presence she felt behind her. And Brian, too, as he worked in the garden, caught himself often in the act of pausing to look about with nervous apprehension. During the noonday meal they made a determined effort to laugh at themselves, and by the time dinner was over had almost succeeded. But when Brian, as he pushed back his chair, said, jestingly, "Well, am I to work in the garden again this afternoon?" Betty Jo answered, emphatically, "Indeed you are! I will not stay another minute in this house alone. Goodness knows what I will do to-night I" There was no jest in the man's voice as he an- swered: "I'll tell you what you will do to-night, — you will go to bed and you will go to sleep. You will leave the door to your room wide-open, and I shall lie right there on that couch, so near that a whisper from you will reach me. We will have no more of this midnight prowling, I promise you. If any ghost dares appear, we — " The reassuring words died on Brian Kent's lips. 306 THE EE-CKEATION OF BEIAN KENT His eyes, looking over Betty Jo's shoulders, were fixed and staring, and the look on his face sent a chill of horror to the girl's heart. She dared not move nor look around as he sat like a man turned to stone. A woman's laugh broke the dead silence. With a scream, Betty Jo sprimg to her feet and whirled about. As one in a trance, Brian Kent arose and stood beside her. The woman, who stood in the open doorway, laughed again. Martha Kent's heavy drinking the night before, when her clubhouse friends in a wild debauch had tried to help her to forget, was the climax of many months of like excesses. The mood in which she had sent the man Green from her room was the last de- spairing flicker of her better instincts. Moved by her memories of better things, — of a better love and dreams and ideals, — she had spent a little hour or two in sentimental regret for that which she had so recklessly cast aside. And then, because there was within her no foundation of abiding principle for 307 THE EE-CEEATION OF BEIAN XEI^T her sentiment, she had again put on the character which had so separated her from the life of the man to whom she was married, indeed, hut with whom she was never one. With the burning consciousness of what she might have been and of what she was ever tormenting her, she sank, as the hours passed, deeper and deeper into the quicksands of physical indulgence until, in her mad determination to destroy utterly her ability to feel remorse, she lost all mental con- trol of herself, and responded to every insane whim of her drink-disordered brain. As she stood there, now, in the doorway of that little log house by the river, — face to face with the man and the woman who, though they were united in their love, were yet separated by the very fact of her existence, — she was, in all her hideous, but piti- ful, repulsiveness, the legitimate creation of those life-forces which she so fitly personified. Betty Jo instinctively drew closer to Brian's side. "Hello, Brian, dear!" said the woman, with a drunken leer. "Thought I'd call to see you in your charming love-nest that Harry Green raved so about. Can't you introduce me to your little sweetheart ?" 308 THE KE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT "No?" she continued, and laughed again. Then coming an unsteady step toward them, she added, thickly: "Very well, Brian, old sport; you won't introduce me, — I'll have to introduce myself." She grinned with malicious triumph at Betty Jo : "Don't be frightened, my dear. It's all right. I'm nobody of importance, — ^just his wife, — that's all, — ^just his wife." Betty Jo, with a little cry, turned to the man who stood as if stricken dumb with horror. "Brian?" she said. "Oh, Brian?" It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his given name, and Brian Kent, as he looked, saw in those gray eyes no hint of doubt or censure, but only the truest love and sympathy. Betty Jo had not failed in the moment of her supreme test- ing. "It's true, all right, isn't it, Brian?" said Martha Kent. "I'm his wife fast enough, my dear. But you don't need to worry, — ^you two. I'm a good sport, — I am. I've had my fun. No kick coming from me. Just called to pay my respects, — that's all. So-long, Brian, old sport ! Good-bye, my dear !" 309 THE KE-CEEATION OF BH1KN KEl^T With an uncertain wave of her hand, she staggered through the doorway and passed from their sight. In the little log house by the river the two who had kept the fineness of their love stood face to face. Eor Betty Jo, the barrier which Brian Kent had maintained between them to protect her from his love was no longer a thing unknown. But the reve- lation, coming as it did, had brought no shadow of distrust or doubt of the man to whom she had so fully entrusted herself. It had, indeed, only strength- ened her faith in him and deepened her love. Eor one glorious triumphal moment the very soul of the man exulted in the truth which Betty Jo made known to him. Then he turned slowly away, for he dared not trust himself to look at her a moment longer. With bowed head he paced up and down the room. He went to the table which held Auntie Sue's sew- ing-basket, and fingered the trifles there. Then, slowly, he passed through the open door to the porch, where Betty Jo, through the window, near which she stood, saw him look away over the river and the mountains. 310 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT Suddenly, she saw him start, and stare intently at some nearer object that had caught his attention. As Betty Jo watched, he moved to the edge of the porch, and, stooping, grasped the railing with his hands ; — his head and shoulders were thrust forward ; his lips were parted ; his whole attitude was that of the most intense and excited interest. Then, straightening up, he threw back his head, and laughed aloud. But his laughter alarmed the girl, who ran to the door, cry- ing, "What is it, Brian ?" "Look!" he shouted, madly, and pointed toward the river. "Look, Betty Jo !" Martha Kent, alone in one of the clubhouse boats, was rowing with drimken clumsiness toward the head of the Elbow Rock rapids. The woman's friends had missed her, and, guess- ing, from some remark she had made, where she had gone, had sent four men of the party after her; for they realized that she was in no condition to be alone in a boat on the river, particularly on that part of the stream near Auntie Sue's place. After leaving Brian and Betty Jo, she had gone back to her boat in the eddy at the foot of the garden, and was pulling 311 THE KE-CKEATION' OF BEIAIT KENT out into the stream when she saw her friends ap- proaching. With a drunken laugh, she waved her hand) and began rowing from them directly toward the swift water. The men shouted for her to stop, and pulled with all their strength. But the woman, taking their calls as a challenge, rowed the harder, while every awkward pull of the oars carried her nearer the deadly grip of the current. Betty Jo, as she reached Brian's side, and saw what was happening on the river, grasped the man's arm appealingly, with a cry : "Brian ! Brian ! She is going into the rapids ! She will be carried down to Elbow Eock!" But Brian Kent, for the moment, was beside him- self. All that he had suffered, — all that the woman out there on the river had cost him in anguish of soul, — all that she had taken from him of happiness, — came before him with blinding vividness; and now, — now, — in her drunkenness, she was making her own way to her own destruction. "Of course she is !" he shouted, in answer to Betty Jo. "Her friends yonder are driving her to it! Could anything be more fitting?" As though grasped by powerful unseen hands be- 312 THE RE-CREATIOF OF BRIAN" KENT neath the surface, the boat shot forward. Tie woman, feeling the sudden pull of the current, stopped row- ing, and looked about as if wondering what had hap- pened. Her friends, not daring to follow closer to the dangerous water, were pulling madly for the landing at the foot of the garden. The boat in the middle of the river moved faster. "Look, Betty Jo, look!" shouted the man on the porch, madly. "It's got her now — ^the river has got her— look!" With a scream of fear, the woman in the boat dropped her oars, and grasped the gunwale of the little craft. Brian Kent laughed. Betty Jo shrank back from him, her eyes, big with horror, &iLed upon his face. Then, with a quick movement, she sprang toward him again, and, catch- ing his arm, shook him with all her strength and struck him again and again with her fist. "Brian! Brian!" she cried. "You are insane!" The man looked down at her for an instant with an expression of bewildered astonishment on his face, as one awakened from a dream. He raised his hand and drew it across his forehead and eyes. 313 THE EE-CREATION" OF BRIAN KENT The boat with the helpless •womaa was already past the front of the house. Betty Jo cried again as if calling the man she loved from a distance: "Brian! Brian!" With a sudden movement, the man jerked away from her. The next instant, he had leaped over the railing of the porch to the ground below and was running with all his might toward the river, at an angle which would put him opposite or a little below the boat when he reached the bank. With a sob, Betty Jo followed as fast as she could. As Brian Kent raced toward the river's edge, the powerful current drew the boat with the woman into the first rough water of the rapids, and, as the skiff was shaken and tossed by the force that was sweeping it with ever-increasing speed toward the wild turmoil at Elbow Rock, the woman screamed again and again for help. The warring forces of the stream whirled the little craft about, and she saw the man who was nearing the bank. She rose to her feet in the rocking boat, and stretched out her arms, — calling his name, "Brian! Brian! Brian!" Then the impact of the boat against a larger wave of the rapids brought her 314 THE RE-CEEATION" OF BEIAN KENT to her knees, and she clung to the thwarts with piteous cries. Betty Jo and the clubhouse men, who had over- taken her, saw Brian as he reached the river opposite the boat. For a little way he raced the tumbling waters until he had gained a short distance ahead of the skiff; then they saw him, without an instant's pause, leap from the high bank far out into the boil- ing stream. Running along the bank, the helpless watchers saw the man fighting his way toward the boat. One moment, he disappeared from sight, dragged beneath the surface by the powerful currents with which he wrestled. The next instant, the boiling waters would toss him high on the crest of a rolling wave, only to drag him down again a second later. But, always, he drew nearer and nearer the object of his struggle, while the rapids swept both the helpless woman and the tossing boat and the swimming man onward to- ward the towering clifF, and the thunder-roar of the mad waters below grew louder and louder. The splendid strength of arms and shoulders which Brian Kent had acquired by his months of work with his ax on the timbered mountain-side sustained 315 THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT him now in his need. With tremendous energy, he breasted the might of the furious river. To the watchers it seemed at times that it was beyond the power of human muscles to endure the terrific strain. Then he gained the boat, and they saw him striving with desperate energy to drag it toward the opposite shore and so into the currents that would carry it past the menacing point of the cliff and perhaps to the safety of the quiet water below. All that human strength could do in that terrible situation, Brian Kent did. But the task was beyond the power of mortal man. Eor an instant the breathless watchers on the bank thought there was a chance ; but the waters with mad fury dragged their victims back, and, with terrific power, hurled them forward toward the frowning rocks. It was quickly over. In that wild turmoil of the boiling, leaping, seeth- ing, lashing, hammering waves, the boat, with the woman who crouched on her knees on the bottom, and the man who clung to the side of the craft, appeared for a second lifted high in the air. The next instant, the crash of breaking wood sounded above the thun- 316 THE EE-CEEATIOI^ OF BRIAN KENT dering roaring of the waters. The man and the woman disappeared. The wreck of the boat was flung again and again against the cliff, imtU, bat- tered and broken, it was swept away around the point. Against the dark wall of rock Brian Kent's head and shoulders appeared for an instant, and they saw that he held the woman in his arms. The furious waters closed over them. For the fraction of a sec- ond, the man's hand and arm appeared again above the surface, and was gone. Betty Jo sank to the ground with a low cry of anguish, and hid her face. Another moment, and she was aroused by a loud shout irom. one of the men who had caught a glimpse of the river's victims farther out at the point of the rocky cliff. Springing to her feet, Betty Jo started madly up the trail that leads over the bluff. The men followed. Immediately below Elbow Eock there is a deep hole formed by the waters that pour around the point of the cliff, and below this hole a wide gravelly bar pushing out from the Elbow Eock side of the stream forces the main volume of the river to the 317 THE EE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT opposite bank. In the shallow water against the upper side of the bar they found them. With the last flicker of his consciousness, Brian Kent had felt his feet touch the bottom where the water shoals against the bar, and, with his last remaining strength, had dragged himself and the body of the woman into the shallows. Betty Jo wa^ no hysterical weakling to spend the priceless seconds of such a time in senseless ravings. The first-aid training which she had received at school gave her the necessary knowledge which her native strength of character and practical common sense en- abled her to apply. Under her direction, the men from the clubhouse worked as they probably never had worked before in all their useless lives. But the man and the woman whose life-currents had touched and mingled, — drawn apart to flow ap- parently far from each other, but drawn together again to once more touch, and, as one, to endure the testing of the rapids, — the man and the woman had not brought to the terrible ordeal the same strength. One was drawn into the Elbow Rock rapids by the careless indifference and the reckless spirit that was bom of the life she had chosen; by her immediate 318 THE EE-CREATION OF BKIAN KENT associates and environment ; and by the circumstances that were, at the last analysis, of her own making. The other braved the same dangers, strong in the splendid spirit that had set him against such terrible odds to attempt the woman's rescue. Erom his work on the timbered mountain-side, from his life in the clean atmosphere of the hills, and from the spiritual and mental companionship of that little log house by the river, he had brought to his testing the splen- did strength which enabled him to endure. Somewhere in that terrible conflict with the wild waters at Elbow Eock, while the man whose life she had so nearly ruined by her wantonness was fighting to save her, the soul of Martha Kent went from the bruised and battered body which Brian drew at last from the vicious grasp of the currents. But the man lived. 319 CHAPTER XXIV- JUDY'S RETURN. \N the early evening twilight of the day follow- ing the tragedy at Elbow Rock, Betty Jo was sitting on the porch, to rest for a few minutes in the fresh air, after long hours of watching beside Brian's bed. A neighbor woman had come to help, but Betty Jo would not leave the side of the man she loved as he fought his way slowly out of the dark shadow of the death that had so nearly conquered him. Nor, indeed, would Brian let her go, for even in those moments when he appeared most unconscious of the life about him, he seemed to feel her presence. All through the long, long hours of that anxious night and day she had watched and waited the final issue ; — ^feeling the dark messenger very close at times, but gaining hope as the hours passed and her lover won his way nearer and nearer to the light ; — courageous always; — giving him the beet of her strength, so 520 THE EE-CKEATION OF BEIAN EIENT far as it was possible to give him anything ; — making him feel the steady, enduring fullness of her love. At last, they felt that the victory was won. The doctor, satisfied that the crisis was safely past, went his way to visit other patients. By evening, Brian was resting so easily that the girl had stolen away for a few minutes, leaving the neighbor to call her if he should waken. Betty Jo had been on the porch but a short time when a step sounded on the gravel walk that led from the porch steps around the corner of the house. A moment more, and Judy appeared. The mountain girl stopped when she saw Betty Jo, and the latter went to the top of the steps. "Grood-eveniag, Judy!" said Betty Jo, quietly. "Won't you come in ?" Slowly, with her black beady eyes fixed on Betty Jo's face, Judy went up the steps. As the mountain girl reached the level of the porch-floor, Betty Jo drew a little back toward the door. Judy stopped instantly, and stood still. Then, in a low tone, she said: "Tou-all ain't got no call ter 321 THE RE-CREATION" OF BRIAN KENT be afeared, Miss Betty Jo. You hain't never goin' ter have no call ter be scared of me agaia, never." "I am BO glad for you to say that, Judy," returned Betty Jo, smiling. "I don't v?ant to be afraid of you, and I am not really; but — " "Ain't you-all plumb a-hatin' me for what I done ?" asked Judy, wonderingly. "No, no ; Judy, dear, I don't hate you at all, and you must know that Auntie Sue loves you." "Yes," Judy nodded her head, thoughtfully. "Auntie Sue just naturally loves everybody. Hit wouldn't be no more'n nature, though, for you-all ter hate me. I sure have been poison-mean." "But that is all past now, Judy," said Betty Jo, heartily. "Come and sit down?" She started to- ward the chairs. But the mountain girl did not move, except to shake her head in refusal of the hospitable invita- tion. "I ain't a-goin.' ter put my foot inside this house, nor set with you-all, nor nothin' 'til I've said what I done come ter say." Betty Jo turned back to her again? "What is it, Judy?" 322 THE KE-OEEATIOE" OF BBIAN KEN"T "Auntie Sue done told me not ter let you-all er Mr, Burns see me 'til she come back. But I can't help hit, an' if I don't talk 'bout that none, I reckon she ain't a-goin' ter mind so much. You-aU don't know that I seed Auntie Sue that night 'fore she went away, an' that hit was me took her ter the sta- tion with 'Old Prince,' an' brung him back, did you?" "'Ro," said Betty Jo, "I did not know; and if Auntie Sue told you not to tell us about it, I would rather you did not, Judy." "I ain't aimin' ter," Judy returned; "but Auntie Sue don't know nothin' 'bout what's happened since she went away, an' hit's that what's a-makin' me come ter you-all." Betty Jo, seeing that the poor girl was laboring under some intense emotional stress, said, gently: "What is it that you wish to tell me, Judy ? I am sure Auntie Sue will not mind, if you feel so about it" The mountain girl's eyes filled and the tears streamed down her sallow cheeks, while her twisted shoulders shook with the grief she could not sup- press, as she faltered: "My God-A'mighty ! Miss 323 THE EE-CEEATION OF BEIAN KEN"! Betty Jo, I — I — -didn't aim ter do hit ! I sure didn't 1 'Fore God, I'd er let ^em kill me first, if I'd only had time ter think. But hit — hit — was me what told that there woman how Mr. Bums was Brian Kent. Hit's — hit's — me what's ter blame for gittin' her killed in the river an' him so nigh drowned. O God 1 O God ! If he'll only git well ! "An' I ain't a-feelin' toward you-all like I did, Miss Betty Jo. I can't no more. I done left them clubhouse folks, after I knowed what has happened, an' all day I been hangin' 'round here in the bresh. An' Lucy Warden she done told me, this afternoon, 'bout how you-all was takin' care of Mr. Bums, an' how you just naturally wouldn't let him die. An' — an' — I kin see, now, what hit is that makes Auntie Sue and him an' you-all so different from that there clubhouse gang an' pap an' me. An' I ain't a-wantia' ter be like I been, no more, ever. I'd a heap rather jump inter the river an' drown myself. 'Fore God, I would ! An' I want ter come back an' help you-all take care of him ; an' live with Auntie Sue ; an' — an' — be a little might like youuns, if I kin. Will you let me. Miss Betty Jo? Will you? I most know Auntie Sue would, if she was here." 324 THE EE-CKEATION OF BRIAN" KEifT Before the mountain girl had finished speaking, Betty Jo'3 arm was around the poor twisted shoul- ders, and Betty Jo's eyes were answering Judy's pleadiug. And so, when Auntie Sue came home, it was Judy who met her at the station, with "Old Prince" and the buggy ; and as they drove down the winding road to the little log house by the river, the mountain girl told the old gentlewoman all that had happened in her absence. 326 CHAPTER XXV. THE RIVER. KIAN KENT recovered quickly from the ef- fects of his experience in the Elbow Eock rapids, and was soon abie again to take up his work on the little farm. Every day he labored in the garden, or in the clearing, or at some task which did not rightly fall to those who rented the major part of Auntie Sue's tillable acreage. Auntie Sue had told him about her visit to the President of the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, and of the arrangement made by the banker — as she understood it — for Brian's protection. But while the dear old lady explained that Homer T. "Ward was one of her pupils, she did not reveal the relation be- tween Brian's former chief and Betty Jo. Neither Auntie Sue nor Betty Jo, for several very good rea- sons, was ready for Brian to know the whole truth about his stenographer. It was quite enough, they reasoned, for him to love his stenographer, and for 326 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIA^- KENT his stenographer to love him, without raising any more ohstacles in the pathway of their happiness. As the busy weeks passed, several letters came from the publishers of Brian's book, — letters which made the three in the little log house by the river very happy. Already, in the first reception of this new writer's work, those who had undertaken to pre- sent it to the public saw many promises of the ful- fillment of their prophecies as to its success. When the third letter came, a statement of the sales to date was enclosed, and, that afternoon, Betty Jo went to Brian where he was at work in the clearing. When they were comfortably, not to say cozily, seated on a log in the shade at the edge of the forest, she announced that she had come for a very serious talk. "Yes?" he returned; but he really looked alto- gether too happy to be exceedingly serious. "Yes," she continued, "I have. As your accredited business agent and — " she favored him with a Betty Jo smUe — "shall I say manager?" "Why not managing owner ?" he retorted. "I am glad you confirm my promotion so readily," 327 THE EE-CKEATION" OF BKIAN KEN^T she returned, with a charming touch of color in her cheeks, "because that, you see, helps me to present what I have to say for the good of the firm." "I am listening, Betty Jo." "Very well ; tell me, first, Brian, just exactly how much do you owe that bank, reward-money and all, and Auntie Sue, interest and everything ?" Brian went to his coat, which lay on a near-by stump, and returned with a small pocket account- book. "I have it all here," he said, as he seated himself close beside her again. And, opening the book, he showed her how he had kept a careful record of the various sums he had taken from the bank, with the dates. "Oh, Brian, Brian !" she said with a little cry of delight, "I am so glad, — so glad you have this! It is exactly what I want for my wedding present. It was so thoughtful of you to fijx it for me." Thus by a characteristic, Betty Jo turn she made the little book of painful memories a book of joyous promise. When they again returned to the consideration of 328 ■^W^fefc:, * * * She made the h'ttle book of painful memories a book of joyous promise. THE EE-CREATION" OF BRIAN KENT business matters, Brian gave her the figures which answered her questions as to his total indebtedness. Again Betty Jo exclaimed with delight: "Brian, do you see ? Take your pencil and figure quick your royalties on the number of books sold as given in the publishers' statement." Brian laughed. "I have figured it." "And your book has already earned more than enough to pay everything," said Betty Jo. "Isn't that simply grand, Brian ?" "It is pretty 'grand,' all right," he agreed. "The only trouble is, I must wait so long before the money is due me from the publishers." "That is exactly what I came to talk about," she returned quickly. "I tried to have it different when I made the arrangements with them, but the terms of payment in the contract are the very best I could get; and so I have planned a little plan whereby you — ^that is, we — won't need to wait for your freedom until the date of settlement with the publishers." "You have a plan which will do that?" Brian questioned, doubtfully. She nodded vigorously, with another Betty Jo 329 THE EE-CEEATIO¥ OF BEIAIT KENT smile. "This is the plan, and you are not to inter- rupt until I have finished everything: I happen to have some money of my very, very own, which is doing nothing but earning interest — " At the look on Brian's face, she stopped suddenly ; but, when he started to speak, she put her hand quickly over his mouth, saying: "You were not to say a single word until I have finished. Play fair, Brian, dear; please!" When he signified that he would not speak, she continued in her most matter-of-fact and businesslike tone: "There is every reason in the world, Brian, why you should pay oS your debt to the bank and to Auntie Sue at the earliest possible moment. You can think of several reasons yourself. There is me, for instance. "Very well. You have the money to your credit with the publishers ; but you can't use it yet. I have money that you can just as well use. You wiU make an assignment of your royalties to me, all in proper form, to cover the amount you need. You will pay me the same interest my money is now earning where it is. "I will arrange for the money to be sent to you in 330 THE KE-CKEATION OF BRIAN KENT the form of a cashier's cheque, payahle to the banker, Homer T. Ward, so the name Brian Kent does not appear before we are ready, you see. Ton will make believe to Auntie Sue that the money is from the publishers. You will send the cheque to Mr. Bank President personally, with a statement of your in- debtedness to him properly itemized, interest figured on everything. You will instruct him to open an account for you with the balance. And then — then, Brian, you will give dear Auntie Sue a cheque for what you owe her, with interest of course. And we will all be so happy! And — and — don't you think I am a very good managing owner ? You do, don't you?" When he hesitated, she added : "And the final and biggest reason of all is, that I want you to do as I have planned more than I ever wanted anything in the world, except you, and I want this so because I want you. You can't really refuse, now, can you ?" How, indeed, could he refuse? So they worked it out together as Betty Jo had planned; and when the time came for the last and best part of the plan, and Brian confessed to Auntie Sue how he had robbed her, and had known for so 331 THE EE-CEEATION" OF BRIAIT KENT long that she was aware of his crime against her, and finished his confession by giving her the cheque, it is safe to say that there was nowhere in all the world more happiness than in the little log house by the river. "God-A'mighty sure helped me to do one good turn, anyway, when I jumped inter the river after that there book when Mr. Burns done throw'd hit away," commented the delighted Judy. And while they laughed together, Betty Jo hugged the deformed moimtain girl, and answered: "God Almighty was sure good to us all that day, Judy, dear!" It was only a day later when Auntie Sue received a letter from Homer T. Ward which sent the dear old lady in great excitement to Betty Jo. The banker was coming for his long-deferred vacation to the log house by the river. There was in his letter a kindly word for his for- mer clerk, Brian Kent, should Auntie Sue chance to see him; much love for his old teacher and for the dearest girl in the world, his Betty Jo. But that part of Homer T. Ward's letter which most excited Auntie Sue and caused Betty Jo to 332 THE RE-CKEATIOE" OF BEIAN KENT laugh until she cried was this : The great financier, who, even in his busy life of large responsibilities, found time for some good reading, had discovered a great book, by a new and heretofore unknown writer. The book was great because every page of it, Homer T. Ward declared, reminded him of Auntie Sue. If the writer had known her for years, he could not have drawn a truer picture of her character, nor presented her philosophy of life more clearly. It was a remarkable piece of work. It was most emphat- ically the sort of writing that the world needed. This new author was a genius of the rarest and best sort. Mr. Ward predicted boldly that this new star in the literary firmament was destined to rank among those of the first magnitude. Already, among the banker's closest book friends, the new book was be- ing discussed, and praised. He would bring a copy for Auntie Sue and Betty Jo to read. It was not only the book of the year; — it was, in Homer T. Ward's opinion, one of the really big books of the century. "Well," commented Betty Jo, when they had read and reread that part of the letter, "dear old Uncle Homer may be a very conservative banker, but he 333 THE RE-CEEATION OE BEIAE" KENT certainly is more than liberal when he touches on the question of this new author. Won't we have fun, Auntie Sue! Oh, won't we !" Then they planned the whole thing, and proceeded to carry out their plan. Brian was told only that Mr. Ward was coming to visit Auntie Sue, and that he must be busy some- where away from the house when the banker arrived, and not come imtil he was sent for, because Auntie Sue must make a full confession to her old pupil of the part she had played in the Ee-Creation of Brian Kent before Homer T. Ward should meet his former clerk. Brian, never dreaming that there were other con- fessions to be made, smilingly agreed to do exactly as he was told. When the momentous day arrived, Betty Jo met her uncle in Thompsonville, and all the way home she talked so continuously of her school, and asked so many questions about his conduct and life and their many Chicago friends, that the helpless bank president had no chance whatever of asking her a single embarrassing question. But, when dinner was 334 .THE EE-CKEATION OF BEIAN KENT over (Brian had taken his lunch with him to the clearing), Homer T. "Ward wanted to know things. "Was Brian Kent still working in the neighbor- hood ?" Auntie Sue informed him that Brian was still working in the neighborhood. "Betty Jo had seen the bank clerk ?". Betty Jo's uncle supposed. "What did she think of the fellow ?" Betty Jo thought Brian Kent was a rather nice fellow. "And how had Betty Jo been amusing herself while her old uncle was slaving in the city ?" Betty Jo had been doing a number of things: Helping Auntie Sue with her housework; learning to cook ; keeping up her stenographic work ; reading. "Reading?" That reminded him, and forthwith Mr. Ward went to his room, and returned with the book. And then those two blessed women listened and admired while he introduced them to the new genius, and read certain favorite passages from the great book, and grew enthusiastic on the new author, say- ing all that he had written in his letter and many 335 THE EE-CKEATION OF BBIAN KENT tilings more, until Betty Jo could restrain herself no longer, but ran to him, and took the book from his hands, and, with her arms around his neck, told him that he was the dearest uncle in the world, because she was going to marry the man who wrote the book he so admired. There were long explanations after that : How the book so highly valued by Banker Ward had actually been written in that very log house by the river; how Auntie Sue had sent for Betty Jo to assist the author with her typewriting; how the author, not knowing who Betty Jo was, had fallen in love with his stenog- rapher, and, finally, how Betty Jo's author-lover was even then waiting to meet her guardian, still not knowing that her guardian was the banker Homer T. Ward. "You see, uncle, dear," explained Betty Jo, "Auntie Sue and I were obliged to conspire this little conspiracy against my man, because, you know, authors are funny folk, and you never can tell exactly what they are going to do. After giving your heart to a genius as wonderful as you yourself know this one to be, it would be terrible to have him refuse you just 336 THE KE-CEEATION OF BEIAJST KENT because you were the only living relative of a rich old banker ; — it would, wouldn't it, uncle, dear ?" And, really, Homer T. Ward could find reason in Betty Jo's argument, which ended with that fatal trick question. Taking his agreement for granted, Betty Jo con- tinued : "And, you see. Auntie Sue and I were simply forced to conspire a little against you, uncle, dear, because you know perfectly well that, much as I needed the advantage of associating with such an author-man in the actual writing of his book, you would never, never have permitted me to fall in love with him before you had discovered for yourself what ' a great man he really is, and I simply had to fall in love with him because God made me to take care of a genius of some sort. And if you don't believe that, you can ask Judy. Judy has found out a lot about God lately. "You won't think I am talking nonsense, or am belittling the occasion will you, uncle, dear?" she added anxiously. "I am not, — truly, I am not, — I am very serious. But I cain't help being a little excited, can I ? Because it is terrible to love a 337 THE EE-CEEATION OF BEIAN EIENT banker-uncle, as I love you, and at the same time to love a genius-man, as I love my man, and — and — not know what you two dearest men in the world are going to do to each other." And, at this, the girl's arms were about his neck again, and the girl's head went down on his shoulder ; and he felt her cheek hot with blushes against his and a very suspicious drop of moisture slipped down in- side his collar. When he had held Betty Jo very close for a whUe, and had whispered comforting things in her ear, and had smiled over her shoulder at his old teacher, the banker sent the girl to find her lover while he should have a serious talk with Auntie Sue. The long shadows of the late afternoon were on the mountain-side when Brian Kent and Betty Jo came down the hill to the little log house by the river. The girl had said to him simply, "You are to come, now, Brian; — ^Auntie Sue and Mr. Ward sent me to tell you." She was very serious, and as they walked together clung closely to his arm. And the man, too, seeming to feel the useleesness of words for euch an occa- 338 THE KE-CKEATION OF BRIAN KENT sion, was silent. When he helped her over the rail- fence at the lower edge of the clearing, he held her in his arms for a little ; then they went on. They saw the beautiful, tree-dad hills lying softly outlined in the shadows like folds of green and time- worn velvet, extending ridge on ridge into the blue. They saw the river, their river, making its gleaming way with many a curve and bend to the mighty sea, that was hidden somewhere far beyond the distant sky-line of their vision; and between them and the river, at the foot of the hiU, they saw the little log house with Auntie Sue and Homer T. Ward waiting in the doorway. When the banker saw the man at Betty Jo's side, his mind was far from the clerk whom he had known more than a year before in the city. His thoughts were on the author, the scholar, the genius, whose book had so compelled his respect and admiration. This taU fellow, with the athletic shoulders and deeply tanned face, who was dressed in the rude garb of the backwoodsman, with his coat over his arm, his ax on his shoulder, and his dinner-pail in his hand, — who was he? And why was Betty Jo so familiar with 339 THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT this stranger, — Betty Jo, who was usually so reserved, with her air of competent self-possession? Homer T. Ward turned to look inquiringly at Auntie Sue. His old teacher smiled back at him without speaking. Then, Betty Jo and Brian Kent were standing before him. "Here he ia. Uncle Homer," said the girl. Brian, hearing her speak those two revealing words, and seeing her go to the bank president, who put his arm around her with the loving intimacy of a father, stood speechless with, amazement, looking from Homer T. Ward and Betty Jo to Auntie Sue and back to the banker and the girl. Mr. Ward, still not remembering the bank clerk in this re-created Brian Kent, was holding out his hand with a genial smile. As the bewildered Brian mechanically took the hand so cordially extended, the older man said : "It is an honor, sir, to meet a man who can do the work you have done in writing that book. It is impossible to estimate the value of such a service as you have rendered the race. You have a rare and wonderful 340 THE EE-CEEATION OF BRIAN KENT gift, Mr. Bums, and I predict for you a life of remarkable usefulness." Erian, still confused, but realizing that Mr. Ward had not recognized him, looked appealingly at Betty Jo and then to Auntie Sue. Auntie Sue spoke: "Mr. Ward ia the uncle and guardian of Betty Jo, Brian." " 'Brian' !" ejaculated the banker. Auntie Sue continued: "Homer, dear, Betty Jo has presented her author, Mr. Bums; — ^permit me to introduce my Brian Kent !" And Judy remarked that evening, when, after sup- per, they were all on the porch watching the sunset: "Hit sure is dad burned funny how all tangled an' snarled up everythin' kin git 'fore a body kin think most, an', then, if a body'll just keep a-goin' right along, all ter onct hit's all straightened out as purty as anythin'." They laughed happily at the mountain girl's words, and the dear old teacher's sweet voice answered: "Yes, Judy; it is all just like the river, don't you see?" "Meanin' as how the water gits all tangled an' 341 THE KE-CEEATION OF BEIAN EIINT mixed up when hit's a-boilia' an' a-roarin' like mad down there at Elbow Rock, an' then all ter onct gits all smooth an' calm like again," returned Judy. "Meaning just that, Judy," returned Auntie Sue. "IsTo matter how tangled and confused life seems to be, it will all come straight at the last, if, like the river, we only keep going on." And when the dreamy Indian-summer days were come and the blue haze of autumn lay softly over the brown and gold of the beautiful Ozark hills, the mountain folk of the Elbow Rock neighborhood gath- ered one day at the little log house by the river. It was a simple ceremony that made the man and the woman, who were so dear to Auntie Sue, husband and wife. But the backwoods minister was not wanting in dignity, though hip dress was rude and his words plain; and the service lacked nothing of beauty and meaning, though the guests were but humble mountaineers; for love was there, and sin- cerity, and strength, and rugged kindliness. And when the simple wedding feast was over, they all went down to the river-bank, at the lower comer of the garden, where, at the eddy landing, a staunch John-boat waited, equipped and ready. 342 THE EE-CREATIOlsr OF BRIAN KENT When the last good-byes were spoken, and Brian and Betty Jo put out from the little harbor into the stream, Auntie Sue, with Judy and Homer T. Ward, went back to the porch of the little log house, there to watch the beginning of the voyage. With Brian at the oars, the boat crossed tbd stream to the safer waters close to the other shore, and then, with Betty Jo waving her handkerchief, and the neighbor men and boys running shouting along the bank, swept down the river, past the roaring turmoil of the Elbow Eock rapids into the quiet reaches below, and away on its winding course between the tree-clad hills. "I am so glad," said Auntie Sue, her dear old face glowing with love, and her sweet voice tremulous with feeling, "I am so glad they chose the river for their wedding journey." THE END. 343 Note.— This biographical sketch of Harold Bell Wright will give the reader a knowledge and understanding of the life-work, aims and purposes of the author as expressed through his books. It is reprinted on these pages in response to popular demand. — The Publishers. HAROLD BELL WRIGHT A Biography By Elsbery W. Reynolds The biography of a man is of importance and interest to other men just to the degree that his life and work touches and influ- ences the life of his time and the lives of individuals. Only in a feeble way, at best, can the life story of any man be told on the printed page. The story is better as it is written on the hearts of men and women and the man himself does the writing. He lives longest who lives best. He who carves deepest against corroding time is he who touches with surest hand the greatest number of human hearts. He may or may not be a prodigy of physical strength. He may or may not be a tower of mental energy. But so long as this old world stands the man with an overpowering desire for al! that is best for the race to be in the race, whose life is in tune with the divine and with the good that is within us all, whether he be orator, writer, artist or artisan, is a giant among men. That which we read makes a deeper and more lasting impression on our lives than that which we see or hear. An author with mil- lions of readers must be a great central power of thought and influence, at least, in his own day and generation. We can under- stand the truth of this through a study of the aims and life purposes of Harold Bell Wright as expressed through his books and the circumstances under which they were written. The wonderful popularity of this author is well estimated by the millions of copies of his books that have been sold. This is also the greatest testimonial that can be given to the merit of his work. The great heart of the reading public is an unprejudiced critic. "Is not the greatest voice the one to which the greatest number of hearts listen with pleasure?" When a man has attained to great eminence under adverse cir- cumstances we sometimes wonder to what heights he might have climbed under conditions more favorable. Who can tell? It is just as easy to say what the young man of tweaty will be when a matured man of forty. The boy of poverty makes a man of power while the boy nursed in the lap of luxury makes a man of uneventful life, and, again, a life started with a handicap remains so through its possible three score years and ten and the life begun with advantages multiplies its talents ten and a hundred fold. So, after all, is not the heart of man the real man and is it not the guiding star of his ambition, his will, his determination, his conscience? 345 Harold Bell Wright, the second of four sons, was bo<-n May 4, 1872, in Rome, Oneida County, New York. From an earlier biog- rapher we quote the following: "Some essential facts must be dug from out the past where they lie embedded in the detrital chronicles of the race. Say, then, that away back in 1640 a ship load of Anglo-Saxon freedom landed in New England. After a brief period some of the more venturesome spirits emigrated to the far west and settled amid the undulations of the Mohawk valley in central New York. Protestant France also sent westward some Gallic chivalry hungering for freedom. The fringe of this garment of civilization spread out and reached also into the same valley. English determination and Huguenot aspiration touched elbows in the war for political and religious freedom, and touched hearts and hands in the struggle for economic freedom. Their generations were a genuine aristocracy. Mutual struggles after mutual aims cemented casual acquaintance into enduring friendship. William Wright met, loved and married Alma T. Watson. To them four sons were born. A carpenter contractor, a man who builds, contrives and constructs, is joined to a woman into whose soul of wholesome refinement come images of dainty beauty, where they glow and grow radiant. With lavish unrestraint the life of this French woman pours itself into her sons. The third child died in infancy. The eldest survived his mother by some thirteen years. The youngest is a constructive meclianical engineer. The second son is Harold Bell Wright. _ "During ten years this mother and this son live in rare in- timacy. The boy's first enduring impression of this life is the vision of the mother bending affectionately over him while criticis- ing the water color sketch his unpracticed fingers had just made. Crude blendings and faulty lines were pointed out, then touched into harmony and more accurate perspective by her quick skill. Together their eyes watched shades dance on sunny slopes, cloud shadows race among the hills or lie lazily in the valley below. "Exuberant Nature and ebullient boy loved each other from the first. Alone, enravished, he often wandered far in sheer joy of living. He brings, one day, from his rambles a bunch of immor- telles which mother graciously receives. Twenty years later the boy, man-grown, bows reverently over a box of withered flowers — the same bouquet the mother took that day and laid away as a precious memento of his boyish love. Such was the first decade. "A ten-year-old boy, motherless, steals from harsh labor and yet harsher surroundings, runs to the home of sacred memories, clambers to the attic, and spends the night in anguished solitude. This was his first Gethsemane. For ten years buflfeted and beaten, battling with adversity, sometimes losing but never lost, snatching learning here and there, hating sham, loving passionately, mis- understood, misapprehended, too stubbornly proud to ask apologies or make useless explanations, fighting poverty in the depths of privation, wrestling existence from toil he loathed, befriending many and also befriended much, but always face to face with the grim tragedy which has held part of the stage since Eden. "Such was the second decade. The first was spent on hill sides where shadows only made the light more buoyant as they fled 346 away. The second was passed in the valley where the shadow hung lazily till the cloud grew very black and drenched the soil. "Lured to college, he undertook to acquire academic culture. As is well known, college life with its professorial anecdotes and jokes, its student pranks and grind, is routine drudgery and cob- webbery prose. Bookish professors and conventional students rarely have just such an animate problem of French artistry and Bohemian experience to solve. They did nobly, to be sure, but here was a mind which threw over them all the glamour of romance." Mr. Wright entered the Preparatory Department of Hiram Col- lege at the age of twenty, having previously accepted the faith and identified himself with the Christian Church in the little quarry town of Grafton, Ohio. He continued active in the different de- partments of work in his church all during his school years with the ultimate result of his entering the ministry. Haying no financial means, while in school he made his way by doing odd jobs about town, house painting and decorating, sketching, etc. After two years of school life, while laboring to gain funds in order that he might continue his schooling, he con- tracted from overwork and out-door exposure a severe case of pneumonia that left his eyesight badly impaired and his constitu- tion in such condition that, to the present day, he has never fully recovered. Air castles were tumbled and hopes blasted when his physician advised him that it would be fatal to re-enter school for, at least, another year. Whereupon, seeking health and a means of exist- ence, starting from a point on the Mahoning river, he canoed with sketch and note book, but alone, down stream a distance of more than five hundred miles. From this point, by train, he embarked for the Ozark mountains in southwest Missouri. Here, for some months, while gradually regaining his strength, he secured em- ployment at farm work, sketching and painting at intervals. Once more, he found himself on bed-rock, taking his last cent to pay express charges back to Ohio on some finished pictures, but, this time, fortune smiled promptly with a good check by return mail. It was while in the Ozarks that Harold Bell Wright preached his first sermon. Being a regular attendant at the services, held in the little mountain log school house, he was asked to talk to the people, one Sunday, when the regular preacher had failed to appear. From this Sunday morning talk, that could hardly be called a sermon, and sthers that followed, he came to feel that he could do more good in the ministry than he could in any other field of labor, and soon thereafter accepted a regular pastorate at Pierce City, Missouri, at a yearly salary of four hundred dollars. True to a resolve, that his work should be that through which he could help the most people, he had now chosen the ministry. A further resolve that he would give up this ministry, chosen with such earnest conviction, should another field of labor offer more ex- tensive measures for reaching mankind, took him, in later years, into the field of literature. He left the ministry with many regrets but with the same earnest conviction with which he had earlier chosen it. 347 Following the publication of "The Shepherd of the Hills" his publishers assured him that he could secure greater results from his pen rather than his pulpit and prevailed upon him to hence- forth make literature his life work. This was in every way con- sistent with his teaching that every man's ministry is that work through which he can accomplish the greatest good. In the battle of life there is always the higher ground that the many covet but few attain. In reaching this height Mr. Wright has given to a multitude, his time, strength and substance, that they, too, might further advance. He is companionable, loving and loyal to his friends. He hates sham and hypocrisy and any attempt to glorify one's self by means other than the fruits of one's own labor. This boy, who, from the death of his mother, was driven into a hand to hand struggle with life for a bare existence, was neces- sarily forced into contact with much that was vicious and corrupt. But he in no way became a part of it. That same inherent love for mental cleanliness and spiritual truths that has so distin- guished the works of the man kept the boy unstained in his unfor- tunate environment. Mr. Wright resigned his charge at Pierce City for the larger work at Pittsburg, Kansas. In the second year of his pastorate— 1899 — he married Frances E. Long in Buffalo, New York. This union of love had its beginning back in the school days at Hiram. Unto them have been born three sons, Gilbert Munger, 1901, Paul Williams, 1902, and Norman Hall, 1910. In Pittsburg, Mr. Wright received enthusiastic support from his church people. Finances were soon in a satisfactory condi- tion, and church attendance reached the capacity of the building, but still the young pastor was not satisfied. Pittsburg was a mining town, a young men's town. A little city with saloons and brothels doing business on every hand. His soul was on fire for his church to do a larger work and, with the hope of arousing his people, he conceived the idea of writing "That Printer of Udell's," planning to read the story, by installments, on special evenings of successive weeks, to his congregation. Pittsburg was made the principal scene and the church of the story was the kind of church he wanted his Pittsburg charge to be. The teachings set forth, through the preacher of the story, in the latter half of the book, are the identical things the author was preaching. The first chapters of the story are very largely colored by Mr. Wright's early life, but they are by no means auto- biographical. "That Printer of Udell's" was written without thought or inten- tion of offering it for publication. During the author's ministry he made some of the warmest and most abiding friendships of his life, and it was through certain of these friends that he was per- suaded from reading the story, as intended, but to offer it for publication, giving it, thus, a wider usefulness. Having a leave of absence of several weeks from his church during the winter of 1901-2 he accepted an invitation from the pastor of a Chicago church to hold a special meeting, and it was during this meeting that the author and his publisher met for the 348 ^"t time. Mr. Wright delivered a sermon entitled "Sculptors ot Life that was so impressive that I sought him out with entreaties to repeat his sermon as a lecture to a certain company of young people. The acquaintance thus begun very quickly became one of friend- ship, without any knowledge or thought that it would in time lead to a co-operative life work, and when the author later offered his book for publication it was without request or thought of financial remuneration. Mr. Wright, however, was given a contract paying him the highest royalty that was being paid for any author's first book. "That Printer of Udell's" was written almost entirely in the late hours of the night and the very early hours of the morning. Great demands were being made on the author's time in the way of requests for officiating and speaking at public and civic functions in addition to the now heavy requirements of his church. His ag- gressive activities, backed by his splendid spirit, fearlessness and courage in combating the evils of his little city made for him a host of admirers, alike, among his enemies and friends. When he left to accept a pastorate in Kansas City, Missouri, his resignation was not accepted. After one year in Kansas City he found that he was not physically able to carry out the great city work as he had dreamed It and planned it, on a scale that would satisfy his longings for service, and it made him seriously consider whether there was not some other way that would more equally measure with his strength. He went again to the Ozarks, this time for rest and meditation, and while there began writing "The Shepherd of the Hills." This story has a peculiar significance for the author. He feels toward ■it as he can not feel for any of his other books. "The Shepherd of the Hills" was written as a test. The strength of the message he was able to put into the story and the response it should find in the hearts of men and women was to decide for him his ministry henceforth, whether he would teach the precepts of the Man of Galilee by voice or pen. It was a testing time that bore fruit not only in this simple, sweet story, that to quote an eminent divine, "is one of the greatest sermons of our day," but resulted as well in the splendid volumes that have followed. "The Shepherd of the Hills" was finished during the year of his pastorate at Lebanon, Missouri, and but for the sympathy, encour- agement and helpful understanding of his church officers and membership, it is doubtful if the story could ever have been com- pleted. When Mr. Wright delivered the manuscript to his pub- lishers the first of the year, 1907, for publication the next fall, he had accepted the pastorate of the Christian Church in Redlands, California, hoping this land of sunshine would give him a larger measure of health. Some months later, resigning his Redlands pastorate, he went to the Imperial Valley and there, the following year, wrote "The Calling of Dan Matthews." The church and its problems were weighing on the author and affecting his life no less than when he was in the ministry and it was only natural that he should give ■to the world "a picture that is true to the four corners of the earth." Every incident in the story has its counterpart in real life and, 349 with Dut few exceptions, came under the author's personal observa- tion. He did not get the real pleasure out of writing "The Calling of Dan Matthews" that he did the story which preceded it. But he could not, try as he would, escape it. The publication of "The Calling of Dan Matthews" in the fall of 1909 was just two years after the publication of "The Shepherd of the Hills." "The Winning of Barbara Worth" required more time and eflFort in the collecting of material than any book the author had written," but probably gave him, at least, as much pleasure. He is very careful with regard to descriptive detail, and even while writing "The Calling of Dan Matthews" he was making a study of the desert and this great reclamation project. Before sending his manuscript for publication he had it checked over by the best engi- neers on the Pacific coast for inaccuracies in any of his descrip- tions that involved engineering or reclamation problems. "The Winning of Barbara Worth" bears the distinction, with- out doubt, of being the only book ever published that called its publisher and illustrator from a distance of two and three thousand miles, into the heart of a great desert, for a consultation with its author. This story of the Imperial Valley and its reclamation was written in the same study as was "The Calling of Dan Matthews." A study of rude construction, about eighteen by thirty-five feet, with thatched roof and outside covering of native arrow-weed and built entirely by the author himself. When Mr. Wright finished "The Winning of Barbara Worth" — so named in honor of Ruth Barbara Reynolds — he was a sick man. He often worked the night through, overtaxing his nerve and strength. For several months he virtually dwelt within the four walls of his study and for a time it was feared he would not live to finish the book. He wrote the last chapters while confined to his bed, after which he was taken by easy stages, thtough the kind- ness of friends, to that part of Northern Arizona that is so delight- ful to all lovers of the out-of-doors. In this bracing mile-high atmosphere he soon grew well and strong, almost to ruggedness, and on the day his book was published he was riding in a wild- horse chase over a country wild and rough where the writer of this sketch would only care to go, carefully picking his way, on foot. So it was weeks after publication before the author saw the first bound copy of his book. During these summer and fall months, while regaining his strength, he was busy with sketch and note book collecting material, for this part of Arizona is the scene of his novel "When a Man's a Man." "Their Yesterdays" was written in Tucson, Arizona, and was published in the fall of 1912, just one year after the publication of "The Winning of Barbara Worth." In order to write this story, with the least possible strain on his nerves and vitality, Mr. Wright secluded himself in a little cottage purchased especially for this work. His material was collected from the observations of his thoughtful years and his intimate knowledge of human hearts. This book is, perhaps, more representative of the real Harold Bell Wright than anything he has done. It is the true presentation of his views on life, love and religion. I OKce asked Mr. Wright, in behalf of the faculty, to deliver an address to a graduating 350 class of some twenty-odd young men of the Morgan Park Academy (Chicago). He was very busy and I suggested that without special effort he make the commonplace remarks that one so often hears on like occasions. For the first time that I remember he some- what inipatiehtly resented a suggestion from me, saying, "These young men are on the threshold of life and the very best that is within me is due to them. I can give to them only such a message as I would, were I to stand before judgment on the morrow." It was with just this spirit that the author wrote "Their Yes- terdays." Following "Their Yesterdays" the next book Ir. order of pub- lication was "The Eyes of the World," published in the fall of 1914. It was written in the same arrow-weed study on Tecolote Rancho in the Imperial Valley where he wrote "The Calling of Dan Matthews" and "The Winning of Barbara Worth." Being fully in sympathy with the author's purpose in writing this story, the campaign of advertising was of such educational character and so eventful in many ways, that it will long be remembered by authors, publishers and reading public, and, we trust, make for cleaner books and pictures. As it was in the writing of "The Calling of Dan Matthews" so it was in the writing of "The Eyes of the World," the sense of duty stood highest. The modern trend in books and music and art and drama had so incensed the author that "The Eyes of the World'' was the result of his all impelling desire for cleaner living and thinking. As is true of all writers, there are sometimes those who fail to catch the message in Mr. Wright's books. He is occasionally misunderstood, and that was especially true with "The Eyes of the World." To the great majority of people, clean living and think- ing, the message was not to be misinterpreted and to them the book is blessed. To that small minority it was convicting and, from a few such, it brought forth condemnation which, in a fellow author here and there, was pronounced and emphasized by envy and jealousy. To critics of this class Mr. Wright makes no reply and is not in the least disturbed. "The Uncrowned King," a small volume — an allegory — ^published in 1910, to me, is one of the most delightful of Mr. Wright's books. Possibly, it has an added charm because of certain peculiar condi- tions. It was written in Redlands, California, during the winter of 1909-10, although the notion for the little volume occurred to the author while living in Kansas City. It was one of those times when the longing and will to do a work greater than the physical would permit seemed almost overpowering when, unconsciously coming to his aid, a young woman talking to a company of Chris- tian Endeavorers chanced to remark, "After all, the real kings of earth are seldom crowned." All through the evening service thoughts that this inspired kept running through the author's mind and late that same night he wrote the outline which was only completed some years later and given to his publishers to enrich the world. His first four novels in order of publication have been drama- tized and enjoyed by thousands from before the footlights and it has been a delight to renew acquaintances with old friends in this way. It remained for "The Eyes of the World" to be the first 351 of his books to be presented in a feature production of motion pictures. The likes and dislikes of Harold Bell Wright are quite pro* nounced. He is unpretending, cares not for the lime-light and avoids interviews for the public press. Loud, boisterous conver' sation is but little less offensive to hjm than vulgarity in speech or action. His friends are strong, clean-minded men who are doing things in the world and are as necessary to his being as the air to his existence, and his generosity to them is no less marked than his caring and providing for his family, which is almost a passion. He is extremely fond of most forms of out-door life. The desert with its vast expanse, fierce solitude and varied colors is no less attractive to him than the peaceful quiet of wooded dells, the beauty of flowering meadows or the rugged mountains with their roaring trout streams that furnish hira hours of sport with rod and line. He enjoys hunting, horse-back riding or long tramps afoot. But when there is work to be done it is the one thing that bulks largest and all else must wait. After finishing "The Eyes of the World," Mr. Wright em- barked on the building of a home in the Santa Monica mountains near Hollywood, California. So in the summer of 1915 the little family of five began making their residence in the new canyon home, one of nature's delightful spots. Then again, the author went into camp in the Arizona desert while writing "When a Man's a Man." For he finds it very helpful to live in the atmosphere of his story while doing the actual writing and he also avoids frequent interruption. I think he got more real enjoyment out of this story than any he has previously done. It is a story of the out-of-doors in this great unfenced land where a man must be a man. I suppose, too, he enjoyed writing this work so much, partly, because it comes so easy for him to just tell a story without the intervention of some nerve racking prob- lem. The only book he has heretofore written that, is purely a story is "The Shepherd of the Hills," and I sometimes wonder to what proportion of his readers does this Ozark story hold first place. For all such, I am sure, "When a. Man's a Man" will find a reception of special heartiness because it is just a fine, big, whole- some novel of simple sweetness and virile strength. I have written this sketch of Harold Bell Wright that you may know him as intimately, if possible, as if you had met him in person. But should you have the opportunity of making his acquaintance do not deny yourself the pleasure. If you are a lover of his books I am sure you are just the kind of person that the author himself delights to meet. "Relay Heights," February IS, 1916. 552 ;iiii Hi . 11 il .liilliill lliii !! K'!ll!!!ii!iii!iii!ii!!:iiiiii mm mmMM wm MMM'' lili llllli!tllliliiilii{|jli iiii!!l!ili! Illii I! !l lliiliiiill lii'lilBlillii^ „„„„„„ , ,„„,,„, Ili'!l!f!i!li!nli!lliil|i