Law has never touched you, sir--reprisal has passed you
by. But, by God, sir, I warn you if that boy dies--if he dies--I shall
see that you meet me at thirty paces the next morning. And I shall not
miss--I shall be your law!"
They had been friends for close to forty years, yet they were worse
than strangers now. Dexter Allison could not answer; he could not
speak aloud. Caleb's finger had swung toward the door in a gesture
unmistakable. Allison turned, and, ghastly of face, met the eyes of
his daughter.
"Barbara," he appealed to her, frantically. "Baby----"
But she shrank, a huddled heap of misery, away from him.
"You--too?" she whispered. "You!" And then, dully: "And you're my
father!"
The shoulders beneath the garish plaid rose and fell, pitifully. This,
then, was the moment which he feared. He gulped aloud and hung his
head, and turned his feet toward home. Barbara rose after he had gone
and crept into a chair.
One after another they tried to persuade the girl to rest. Miriam came
and talked to her, and Caleb; and even Miss Sarah, passing through the
room, stopped to urge her again to go to bed. But she met them all
with the same wordless refusal; she was waiting for him when the
doctor, descending in the morning, tried to combine, diplomatically,
praise for what she had done with disapproval of her obstinacy.
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