Eugene threw back his head haughtily. “She
wants to see Burr Gordon,” he thought, and would
have died rather than let her think he would stand
in the way of it. He jerked the roan aside, and
seemed as if he would have been flung into the way-side
bushes with her curving plunge.
“Pass, if you wish,” he said, with a graceful
bend in his saddle, and was past them, riding the
other way towards the village.
When they reached the county buildings, the court-house
and the jail, in New Salem, the old race-horse was
still not nearly spent, although he breathed somewhat
hard. When Madelon sprang out to blanket and tie
him he seemed to vibrate to her touch like electric
steel, and showed that the old fire had not yet died
out of his nerves and muscles.
Poor Dorothy Fair’s knees were weak under her
as she got out of the sleigh. Her pretty face
was pitiful, her sweet mouth drooping at the corners
like a troubled child’s.
Madelon looked at her sharply when they stood before
the jail door waiting for admittance. “I
have seen you wear a curl each side of your face outside
your hood,” said she.
“I didn’t think of it to-day,” Dorothy
replied, with forlorn surprise.
Madelon went close to the other girl peremptorily,
as if she had been her mother, pulled forward two
soft curls from under her hood, and arranged them
becomingly against the pale cheeks; and Dorothy submitted.
Alvin Mead opened the jail door, and his great face
took on a forbidding scowl when he saw Madelon Hautville.
“Can’t let ye in,” he said, gruffly.
“Ain’t a visitin’ day.”
He would have shut the door in their faces had not
Madelon made a quick spring against it.
“I don’t want to come in!” she cried.
“I don’t want to see him to-day.
It’s this lady who wants to see him.”
“Can’t see nobody,” said Alvin Mead,
filling up the door like a surly living wedge.
“You must let us see him,” persisted Madelon.
“She’s Parson Fair’s daughter.
She is going to marry Burr Gordon—she must
see him.”
Alvin Mead shook his head stubbornly. Then Dorothy
spoke, thrusting her fair face forward, and looking
up at him with terrified, innocent pleading, like
a child, and yet speaking with a gentle lady’s
authority. “I beg you to let me come in,
only for a few moments,” said she. “I
will not make you any trouble. I will come out
directly when you bid me to.”
Alvin Mead looked at her a second, then at Madelon
with rough inquiry. “Who did ye say she
was?” he growled.
“Parson Fair’s daughter, the lady that’s
going to marry Burr Gordon.”
“I can’t let but one of ye see him, and
she can’t stay more’n ten minutes,”
said Alvin Mead, and moved aside, and Madelon and Dorothy
entered.
