Jasper County Democrat, Volume 16, Number 102, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 March 1914 — The Hollow of Her Hand [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Hollow of Her Hand

by George Barr M c Cutcheon

Author of “Graustarkr “Truxton Kin^”etc. ILLUSTRATIONS ELLSWOBIHYOUNG COPYRIGHT-1912 - BV \ GEORGE BARR M c CUTCHEBt* COPYR.ICSHT.I9I2 -BY DODP. MEAD COMPAITY

CHAPTER 11. The Passing of a Night. The sheriff was right. Sara Wrandall was an extraordinary woman, if I may be permitted to modify his rather crude estimate of her. It is difficult to understand, much less describe a nature like hers. Fine-minded, gently bred women who can go through an ordeal such as she experienced without breaking under the strain are rare indeed. They must be wonderful. It is hard to imagine a more heart-break-ing crisis in life than the one which confronted her on this dreadful night, and yet she faced it with a fortitude that seems almost unholy. She had loved her handsome, wayward husband. He had hurt her deeply more times than she chose to remember daring the six years of their married life, but she had loved him in spite of the wounds up to the instant when she stood beside his dead body in the cold little room at Burton’s inn. She went there loving him as he had lived, yet prepared, almost foresworn, to loathe him as he had died, and she left him lying there alone in that dreary room without a spark of the old affection in her soul. Her love for him died in giving birth to the hatred that now possessed her. While he lived it was not in her power to control the unreasoning, resistless thing that stands for love in woman; he was her lover, the master of her impulses. Dead, he was an unwholesome, unlovely clod, a pallid thing to be scorned, a hulk of worthless clay. His blood was cold. He could no longer warm her with it; it could no longer kill the chill that his misdeeds cast about her tender sensitiveness; his lips and eyes never more could smile and conquer. He was a dead thing. Her love was a dead thing. They lay separate and apart. The tie was broken. W T ith love died the final spark of respect she had left for him in her tired, loyal, betrayed heart. He was at last a thing to be despised, even by her. She despised him. '

She sent the car down the slope and across the moonless valley with small regard for her own or her companion’s safety. It swerved from side to side, skidded and leaped with terrifying suddenness, but held its way as straight as the bird that flies, driven by a steady hand and a mind that had po thought for peril. A sober man at her side would have been afraid; this man swayed mildly to and ffo and chuckled with drunken glee. Her bitter thoughts were not of the dead man back there, but of the live years that she was to bury with him; years that would never pass beyond her ken, that would never die. He had loved her in his wild, ruthless way. He had left her times without number in the years gone by, but he had always come back, gaily unchastened, to remold the love that waited with dog-like fidelity for the touch of his cunning hand. But he had taken his last flight. He would not come back again. It was all over. Once too often he had tried his reckless wings. She would not have to forgive him again. Uppermost in her mind was the curiously restful thought that his troubles were over, and with them her own. A hand less forgiving than hers had struck him dead. Somehow, she envied the woman to whom that hand belonged. It had been her divine right to kill, and yet another took it from her. Back there at the inn she had said to the astonished sheriff; “Poor thing, if she can escape punishment for this, let it be so. I shall not help the law to kill her simply because she took it in her own hands to pay that man what she owed- him. I shall not be the one to say that he did not deserve deaith at her hands, whoever she may be. No, I shall offer no reward. If you catch her, I shall be sorry for her, Mr. Sheriff. Believe me, I bear her no grudge.” “But she robbed him,” the sheriff had cried. “From my point of view, Mr. Sheriff, that hasn’t anything to do with the case,” was her significant reply. “Of course, I am not defending him.” “Nor am I defending herl” she had retorted. “It would appear that she is able to defend herself.” Now, on the cold, trackless road, she was saying to herself that she did have a grudge against the woman who had destroyed the life- that belonged to her, who had killed the thing that Was hers to kill. She could not mourn for him. She could only wonder what the pqor, hunted, terrified creature would do when taken and made to pay for the thing she had done. Once, in the course of her bitter reflections, she spoke aloud in a shrill, tense voice, forgetful of the presence of the man beside her: Thank God they will see him now

as T have~~seen _ "Him JtTl these years. They will know him as they have never known him. Thank God for that!” The man looked at her stupidly and muttered something under his breath. She heard him, and recalling her wits, asked which turn she was to take for the station. The fellow lopped back in the seat, too drunk to reply. For a moment Bhe was dismayed, frightened. Then she resolutely reached out and shook him by the shoulder. She had brought the car to a full stop. “Arouse yourself, man!” she cried. “Do you want to freeze to death? Where is the station?” He straightened up with an effort, and, after vainly seeking light in the darkness, fell back again with a grunt, but managed to wave his hand toward the left. She took the chance. _ln five minutes she brought the car to a standstill beside the station. Through the window she saw a man with his feet cocked high, reading. He leaped to his feet in amazement as she entered the waiting-room. “Are you the agent?” she demanded. “No, ma’am. I’m ,simply staying here for the sheriff. We’re looking for a woman—say!” He stopped short and stared at the veiled face with wide, excited eyes. “Gee whiz! Maybe you—” “No, I am not the woman you want. Do you know anything about the trains?” “I guess I’ll telephone to the sheriff before I —” < “If you will step outside you will find one of the sheriff's deputies in my automobile, helplessly intoxicated. I am Mrs. Wrandall.” “Oh,” he gasped. "1 heard ’em say you wqre coming up tonight. Well, say! What do you think of —” “In there a train in before morning?” “No, ma’am. Seven-forty is the first” She -waited a moment. “Then I shall have to ask you to come out and get your fellow-deputy. He is useless to me. I mean to go on in the machine. The sheriff understands.”

The fellow hesitated. “I cannot take him with me, and he will freeze to death if I leave him in the road. Will you come?” The man stared at her. “Say, is it your husband?” he asked agape. She nodded her head. “Well, I’ll go out and have a look at the fellow you’ve got with you,” he said, still doubtful. She stood in the door while he, crossed over to the car and peered at the face of the sleeper. “Steve Morley,” he said. “Fuller’n a goat" “Please remove him from the car,” she directed. Later on, as he stood looking down at the inert figure in the big rocking chair, and panting from his labors, he heard her say patiently: “And now- will you be so good as to direct me to the Post-road.” He scratched his head. “This is mighty queer, the whole business,” he declared, assailed by doubts. “Suppose you are not Mrs. Wrandall, but —tho other one. What then?” Ab if in answer to his question, the man Morley opened his blear-eyes and tried to get to his feet. “What —what are we doin’ here, Mis’ Wran’all? Wha’s up?” “'Stay where you are, Steve,” said the other. “It’s all right.” Then he went forth and pointed the way to her. “It’s a long ways to Columbus Circle,” he said. “I don’t envy you the trip. Keep straight ahead after you hit the Post-road.” He stood there i listening until the whir of the motor was lost in the distappe. "She’ll never make it,” he said to himself “It’s more than a strong man could do on roads like these. She must be crazy.” Coming to the Post-road, she increased the speed of the car, with the sharp wind behind her, her eyes intent on the white stretch that leaped up in front of the lamps like a blank wall beyond which there was nothing hut dense oblivion. But for the fact that she knew that this road ran straight and unobstructed into the outskirts of New York, she might have lost courage and decision. The natural confidence of an experienced driver was hers. She had the daring of one who has never met with an accident, and who trusts to the instincts rather than to an actual understanding of conditions. With her, it ,was not a question of her own capacity and strength, but a belief in the fidelity of the engine that carried her forward. It had not occurred to her that the task of guiding that heavy, swerving thing through the unbroken road was something beyond her powers of endurance. Sbe often had driven it a hundred miles and more without resting, or without losing zest in the enterprise; then why should she fear the small matter of 30 miles, even under! the most trying of conditions?

“Sharply There camentcTher mind the question: was she the only one abroad in this black little world? What of the other woman? The one who was being hunted? Where was she? And what of the ghost at her heelri? The car bounded over a railroad crossing. She recalled the directions given by the man at the station and hastily applied the brake. There was another and Ihore dangerous crossing a hundred yards ahead. She had been warned particularly to take it carefully, as there was a sharp curve in the road beyond. Suddenly she jammed down the emergency brake, a startled exclamation falling from her lips. Not 20 feet ahead, in the middle of the road and directly in line with the light of the lamps, stood a black, motionless figure—the figure of a woman whose head was lowered and whose arms hung limply at her sides. The woman in the ear bent forward over the wheel, staring hard. Many seconds passed. At last the forlorn object in the roadway lifted her face and looked vacantly into the glare of the lamps. Her eyes were wide-open, her face a ghastly white. “God in heaven!’’ struggled from the stiffening lips of Sara Wrandall. Her fingers tightened on the wheel. She knew. This was the woman I The iQng brown ulster; the limp, fluttering veil? “A woman about your size and figure,” the sheriff had said. The figure swayed and then moved a few steps forward. Blinded by the lights, she bent her head and shielded her eyes with her hand the better to glimpse the occupant of the car. "Are you looking for me?” she cried out shrilly, at the same time spreading her arms as if in surrender. It was almost a wail. Mrs. Wrandall caught her breath. Her heart began to beat once more. “Who are you? What do you want?” she cried out, without knowing what she said. The girl started. She had not expected to hear the voice of a woman. She staggered to the side of the road, out of the line of light. “I —I beg your pardon,” she cried — it was like a wail of disappointment—“l am sorry to have stopped you.” “Gome here,” commanded the other, still staring. The unsteady figure advanced. Halting beside the car, she leaned across the spare tires and gazed into the eyes of the driver. Their faces were not more than a foot apart, their eyes were narrowed in tense scrutiny. “What do you want?” repeated Mrs.

Wrandall, her voice hoarse and tremulous. “I am looking for an inn. It must be near by. I do—” “An inn?” with a start. “I do not recall the name. It is not far from a village, in the hills.” “Do you mean Rurton’s?” “Yes. That’s it. Can you direct me?” The voice of the girl was faint; she seemed about to fall, “It is six or eight miles from here,” said Mrs. Wrandall, still looking in wonder at the miserable night-farer. The girl’s head sank; a moan of despair came through her lips, ending in a sob. “So far as that?” she murmured. Then she drew herself up with a fine show of resolution. “But I must not stop here. Thank you.” “Wait!” cried’ the other. The girl turned to her once more. “Is —is it a matter of life or death?” There was a long silence. “Yes. I must find my way there. It is—death.** Sara Wrandall laid her heavily gloved hand on the slim fingers that touched the tire. “Listen to me,” she said, a shrill note of resolve ringing in her voice. “I am going to New York. Won’t you let me take you with me?” The girl drew back, wonder and apprehension struggling; for the mastery of her eyes. “But I am bound the other way. To the inn. I must go on.” “Come with me,” said Sara Wrandall firmly. “You must not go back there. I know what has happened there. Come! I will take care of you. You must not go to the inn.” “You know?” faltered the girl. “Yeß. You poor thing!” There was infinite pity in her voice. The girl laid her head on her arms. Mrs. Wrandall sat above her, looking down, held mute’by warring emotions. The impossible had come to pass. The girl for whom the whole world would be searching in a day or two, had stepped out of the unknown and, by the most whimsical jest of fate, into the custody of the one person most interested of all in that selfsame world. It was unbelievable. She wondered if It were not a dream, or the hallucination of an overwrought mind. Spurred by the sudden doubt m to_the reality of the object baton

her, she stretched out her hand and touched the girl’s shoulder. Instantly she looked up. Her fingers sought the friendly hand and clasped its.tightly. “Oh, If you will only take me to the city with you! If you only give me the chance,” she cried hoarsely. “I don’t know what Impulse was driving me back there. I only know I could not help myself. You really mean It? You will take me with you?” “Yes. Don’t be afraid. Come! Get in,” said the woman in the car rapidly. “You —you are real?” The girl did not hear the strange question. She was hurrying around to the opposite side of the car. As she crossed before the lamps, Mrs. Wrandall noticed with dulled Interest that her garments- were covered with mud; her small, comely hat was in sad disorder; loose wisps of hair fluttered with the unsightly veil. Her hands, she recalled, were clad In thin suede gloves. She would be halffrozen. She had been out In all this terrible weather —perhaps since the hour of her flight from the inn. The odd feeling of pity grew stronger within her. She made no effort to analyze it, nor to account for it. Why should she pity the slayer of her husband? It was a question unasked, unconsldered. Afterwards she was to recall this hour and its strange impulses, and to realize that it was not pity, but mercy that moved her to do the extraordinary thing that followed. Trembling all over, her teeth chattering, her breath coming in short little moans, the girl struggled up beside her and fell back in the seat. Without a word, Sara Wrandall drew the great buffalo robe over her and tucked it In about her feet and legs far up about her body, which had slumped down in the seat. “You are very, very good,” chattered the girl, almost inaudibly. “I shall never forget—” She did not complete the sentence, but sat upright and fixed her gaze on her companion’s face. "You—you are not doing this just to turn me over to —to the police? They must be searching for me. You are not going to give me up to them, are you? There will be a reward I —” “There is no reward,” said Sara Wrandall sharply. “I do not mean to give you up. I am simply giving you a chance to get away. I have always felt sorry for the fox when the time for the kill drew near. That’s the way I feel.” “Oh, thank you! Thank you! But what am I saying? Why should I permit you to do this for me? I meant to go back there and have it over with. I know I can’t escape. It will have to come, It Is bound to come. Why put It off? Let them take me, let them do what they will with me. I —” “Hush! We’ll see. First of all, understand me: I shall not turn you over to the police. I will give you the chance. I will help you. I can do no more than that.” “But why should you help me? I I —oh, I can’t let you do It! You do not understand. I —have —committed —a —terrible —” she broke off with a groan. “I understand,” said the other, something like grimness in her level tones. “I have been tempted more than once myself.” The ehlgmatic remark made no Impression on the listener. “I wonder how long ago it was that it all happened,” muttered the girl, as If to herself. “It seems ages—oh, such ages.” “Where have you been hiding, since last night?” asked Mrs. Wrandall, throwing in the clutch. The car started forward with a jerk, kicking up the snow behind it “Was it only last night? Oh, I’ve been —” The thought of her sufferings from exposure and dread was too much for the wretched creature. She broke out in a soft wail, “You’ve been out in all this weather?” demanded the other. “I 1 lost my way. In the hills back there. I don’t know where I was.” “Had you no place of shelter?” “Where could I seek shelter? I spent the day in the cellar of a farmer’s house. He didn’t know I was there. I have had nq food.” . “Why did you kill that man?” “There was nothing left for me to do but that.” “And why did you rob him?” “Ah, I had ample time to think of all that. You may tell the officers they will find everything hidden in that farmhouse cellar. God knows Ido not want them. lam not a thief. I’m not so bad as that” (TO BE CONTINUED.) An armload of old papers for a nickel at The Democrat office.

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She Knew—This Was the Woman.