The wind kissed Helena's face, bringing dainty color to her cheeks, tossing truant wisps of hair this way and that, as the car swept onward. But she sat strangely silent now beside Thornton at the steering wheel.
It seemed to her that she was living, not her own life, not life as she had known and looked upon it in the years before, but living, as it were, in a strange, suspended state that was neither real nor unreal, as in a dream that led her, now through cool, deep forests, beside clear, sparkling streams where all was a great peace and the soul was at rest, serene, untroubled, now into desolate places where misery had its birth and shame was, where there was fear, and the mind stood staggered and appalled and lost and knew not how to guide her that she might flee from it all.
At moments most unexpected, as now when motoring with Thornton in the car that he had brought back with him on, his return to Needley, when laughing at the Flopper's determined pursuit of Mamie Rodgers, when engaged in the homely, practical details of housekeeping about the cottage, there came flashing suddenly upon her the picture of Mrs. Thornton lying on the brass bed in the car compartment that night, every line of the pale, gentle face as vivid, as actual as though it were once more before her in reality, and in her ears rang again, stabbing her with their unmeant condemnation, those words of sweetness, love and purity that held her up to gaze upon herself in ghastly, terrifying mockery.
It stupified her, bewildered her, frightened her. She seemed, for days and weeks now, to be drifting with a current that, eddying, swirling, swept her this way and that. How wonderful it was, this life she was now leading compared with the old life—so full of the better things, the better emotions, the better thoughts that she had never known before! How monstrous in its irony that she was leading it to steal, that she might play her part in a criminal scheme for a criminal end! And yet, somehow, it did not all seem sham, this part she played—and that very thought, too, frightened her. Why was it now that Madison's oft-attempted, and as oft-repulsed, kiss upon her lips was something from which she shrank and battled back, no longer from a sense of pique or to bring him to his knees, but because something new within her, intangible, that she did not understand, rose up against it! Why did she do this—she, who had known the depths, who had known no other guide or mentor than the turbulent, passionate love she had yielded him and in her abandonment had once found contentment! Was her love for him gone? Or, if it was not that—what was it?
What was it? A week, another, two more, a month had slipped away since Thornton had returned, and there had been so much of genuineness crowded into this sham part of hers that it seemed at times the part itself was genuine. She had come to love that little room of hers, love it for its dear simplicity, the white muslin curtains, the rag mat, the patch-quilt on the bed; those daily duties of a woman, that she had never done before, that she had at first looked at askance, brought now a sense of keen, housewifely pride; the gentle patience of the Patriarch, his love for her, his simple trust in her had found a quick and instant response in her own heart, and daily her affection for him had grown; and there was Thornton—this man beside her, whose companionship somehow she seemed to crave for, who, in his grave, quiet manliness, seemed a sort of inspiration to her, who seemed in a curious way to appease a new hunger that had come to her for association, for contact with better thoughts and better ideals.
What was it? Environment? Yes; there must be something in that. It was having its effect even on Pale Face Harry and the Flopper. What was it that Harry, a surprisingly lusty farmhand now, had said to her a week or so ago: "Say, Helena, do you ever feel that while you was trying to kid the crowd about this living on the square, you was kind of getting kidded yourself? I dunno! I ain't coughed for a month—honest. But it ain't only that. Say—I dunno! Do you ever feel that way?"
Yes; there must be something in environment. The old life had never brought her thoughts such as these, thoughts that had been with her now almost since the first day she had come to Needley—this disquiet, this self-questioning, these sudden floods of condemnatory confusion; and, mingling with them, a startled thrill, a strange, half-glad, half-premonitory awakening, a vague pronouncement that innately it might be true that she was not what she really was—but what all those around her held her to be—what Mrs. Thornton had said she was—and—
Her fingers closed with a quick, fierce pressure on the arm-rest of her seat—and she shifted her position with a sudden, involuntary movement.
Thornton, a road-map tacked on a piece of board and propped up at his feet, raised his head, and, self-occupied himself, had apparently not noticed her silence, for he spoke irrelevantly.
"I hope you won't mind if the road is a bit rougher than usual for a few miles," he said; "but you know we decided we didn't like the looks of the weather at tea-time, and according to the map, which labels it 'rough but passable,' this is a short cut that will lop off about ten miles and take us back to Needley through Barton's Mills."
"Of course, I don't mind," Helena answered. "How far are we from Needley?"
"About thirty-five miles or so," Thornton replied. "Say, an hour and a half with any kind of going at all. We ought to be back by nine."
Helena nodded brightly and leaned back in her seat. Rather than objecting to the short cut that Thornton had begun to negotiate, the road, now that she gave her attention to it, she found to be quite the prettiest bit she had seen in the whole afternoon's run, where, in the rough, sparsely settled north country, all was both pretty and a delight—miles and miles without the sign of even a farmhouse, just the great Maine forests, so majestic and grand in their solitude, bordering the road that undulated with the country, now to a rise with its magnificent sweep of scenery, now to the cool, fresh valleys full of the sweet pine-scent of the woods. They had explored much of it together in the little 'run-about,' nearly every day a short spin somewhere; to-day a little more ambitious run—the whole afternoon, and tea, a picnic tea, an hour or more back, in a charming glade beside a little brook.
"Oh, this is perfectly lovely!" she exclaimed; and then, with a breathless laugh, as a bump lifted her out of her seat: "It is rough—isn't it?"
Thornton laughed and slowed down.
"I don't fancy it's used much, except in the winter for logging. But if the map says we can get through, I guess we're all right—there's about an eight mile stretch of it."
It was growing dusk, and the shadows, fanciful and picturesque; were deepening around them. Now it showed a solid mass of green ahead, and, like a sylvan path, the road, converging in the distance, lost itself in a wall of foliage; now it swerved rapidly, this way and that, in short curves, as though, like one lost, it sought its way.
A half hour passed. Thornton stopped the car, got down and lighted his lamps, then started on again. The going had seemed to be growing steadily worse—the road, as Thornton had said, was little more indeed than a logging trail through the heart of the woods; and now, deeper in, with increasing frequency, the tires slipped and skidded on damp, moist earth that at times approached very nearly to being oozy mud.
Silence for a long while had held between them. It was taking Thornton all his time now to guide the car, that, negotiating fallen branches strewn across the way, bad holes and ruts, was crawling at a snail's pace.
"'Rough but passable'!" he laughed once, clambering back to his seat after clearing away a dead tree-trunk from in front of them. "But there's no use trying to go back, as we must be halfway through, and it can't be any worse ahead than it's been behind. I'd like to tell the fellow that made this map something!"
And then upon Helena, just why she could not tell, began to steal an uneasiness that frightened her a little. It had grown suddenly, intensely dark—quicker than the slow, creeping change of dusk blending softly into night. Sort of eerie, it seemed—and a wind springing up and rustling through the branches made strange noises all about. They seemed to be shut in by a wall of blackness on every hand, except ahead where, like great streaming eyes of fire, the powerful lamps shot out their rays making weird color effects in the forest—huge tree-trunks loomed a dead drab, like mute sentinels, grim and ominous, that barred their way; now, in the full glare, the foliage took on the softest fairy shade of green; now, tapering off, heavier in color, it merged into impenetrable black; and, with the jouncing of the car, the light rays jiggling up and down gave an unnatural semblance as of moving, animate things before them, a myriad of them, ever retreating, but ever marshalling their forces again as though threatening attack, as though to oppose the car's advance.
What was there to be afraid of? She tried to laugh at herself—it was perfectly ridiculous. A little bit of rough road—the forest that she loved around her—even if it was very dark. They would come out eventually somewhere on the trunk-road to Barton's Mills—that was all there was to it. Meanwhile, it was quite an experience, and she had every confidence in Thornton. She glanced at him now. It was too dark to get more than an indistinct outline of the clean-cut profile, but there was something inspiriting in the alert, self-possessed, competent poise of his body as he crouched well forward over the wheel, his eyes never lifting from the road ahead.
They appeared to be going a little faster now, too—undoubtedly the road was getting better. What was there to be afraid of? It didn't make it any more pleasant for Thornton, who was probably reproaching himself rather bitterly for having been tempted by the "short cut," to have her sit and mope beside him!
She began to hum an air softly to herself—and then laughingly sang a bar or two aloud.
Thornton shot a quick, appreciative glance at her and nodded, joining in the laugh.
"By Jove!" he said approvingly. "That sounds good to me. I was afraid this beastly stretch, bumping and crawling along in the dark, was making you miserable."
"Miserable!" exclaimed Helena. "Why, the idea! What is there to be miserable about? We'll get through after a while—and the road's better now than it was anyhow, isn't it?"
"Better?"
"You're running faster."
"Oh—er—yes, of course," said Thornton quickly. "I wasn't thinking of what I said. I—"
He stopped suddenly, as Helena lifted her hand to her face.
"Why, it's beginning to rain," she said.
"Yes; I'm afraid so," he admitted. "I was hoping we would get out of here before it came."
"Oh!" said Helena.
"And the worst of it is," he added hurriedly, "there's no top to the car, and you've no wraps."
"Perhaps it won't be anything more than a shower," said Helena hopefully.
"Perhaps not," he agreed. "Anyway"—he stopped the car, and took off his coat—"put this on."
"No—please," protested Helena. "You'll need it yourself."
"Not at all," said Thornton cheerily. "And that light dress of yours would be soaked through in no time."
He held the coat for her, and she slipped it on—and his hand around her shoulder and neck, as he turned the collar up and buttoned it gently about her, seemed to linger as it touched her throat, and yet linger with the most curious diffidence—a sort of reverence. Helena suddenly wanted to laugh—and, quick in her intuition, as suddenly wanted to cry. It wasn't much—only a little touch. It didn't mean love, or passion, or feeling—only that, unconsciously in his respect, he held her up to gaze upon herself again in that mocking mirror where all was sham.
They started on—Thornton silent once more, busy with the car; Helena, her mind in riot, with no wish for words.
The rain came steadily in a drizzle. She could feel her dress growing damp around her knees—and she shivered a little. How strangely wonderful the rain-beads looked on their background of green leaves where the lamps played upon them—they seemed to catch and hold and reflect back the light in a quick, passing procession of clear, sparkling crystals. But it was raining more heavily now, wasn't it? The drops were no longer clinging to the leaves, they were spattering dull and lustrelessly to the ground. And Thornton seemed suddenly to be in trouble—he was bending down working at something. How jerkily the car was moving! And now it stopped.
Thornton swung out of his seat to the ground.
"It's all right!" he called out reassuringly. "I'll have it fixed in a minute."
It was muddy enough now, and the ruts, holding the rain, were regular wheel-traps. Apart from any other trouble, Thornton did not like the prospect—and, away from Helena now, his face was serious. He cranked the engine—no result. He tried it again with equal futility—then, going to the tool-box, he took out his electric flashlight, and, lifting the engine hood, began to peer into the machinery. Everything seemed all right. He tried the crank again—the engine, like some cold, dead thing, refused to respond.
"What's the matter?" Helena asked him from the car.
"I don't know," Thornton answered lightly. "I haven't found out yet—but don't you worry, it's nothing serious. I'll have it in a jiffy."
Helena's knowledge of motor cars and engine trouble was not extensive—she was conversant only with the "fool's mate" of motoring.
"Maybe there's no gasoline," she suggested helpfully.
"Nonsense!" returned Thornton, with a laugh. "I told Babson to see that the tank was full before he brought the car around—he wouldn't forget a thing like that."
Thornton, nevertheless, tested the gasoline tank.
"Well?" inquired Helena, breaking the silence that followed.
"There is no—gasoline," said Thornton heavily.
Neither spoke for a moment. There was no sound but the steady drip from the leaves. Then Helena forced a laugh.
"Isn't it ridiculous!" she said. "That is what one is always making fun of others for. I—I don't think it's going to stop raining—do you? And we're miles and miles from anywhere. What do people do when they're caught like this?"
Thornton did not answer at once. Bitterly reproachful with himself, he stood there coatless in the rain. If it had been a breakdown, an accident that was unavoidable, a little of the sting might have gone out of the situation—but gasoline! This—from rank, blatant, glaring, inexcusable idiocy. Not on his part perhaps—but that did not lessen his responsibility. They were miles, as she had said, from anywhere—four miles at least in either direction from the main road, and as many more probably after that from any farmhouse—he remembered that for half an hour before they had turned into the "short cut" they had seen no sign of habitation—and what lay in the other direction, ahead, would in all probability be the same—they were up in the timber regions, in the heart of them—she couldn't walk miles in the rain with the roads in a vile condition, and growing viler every minute as the rain sank in and the mud grew deeper. And then another thought—a thought that came now, sharp and quick, engulfing the mere discomfort of a miserable night spent there in the woods—the clatter of busy, gossiping tongues seemed already to be dinning their abominable noises in his ears. And that he, that he—yes, it seemed to sweep upon him in a sudden, overmastering surge, the realization that the delight and joy of her companionship through the month that was gone was love that leaped now into fierce, jealous flame, maddened at a breath that would smirch her in the eyes of others—that he should be the cause of it! "What do people do when they're caught like this?"—in their innocence there seemed an unfathomed depth of irony in her words, but as he unconsciously repeated them they cleared his brain and brought him suddenly to face the immediate practical problem that confronted them. What was to be done?
"Shall—shall I get out?" she called to him, a hint of reminder in her tones that she had spoken to him before and received no answer.
Thornton moved back to the side of the car.
"Miss Vail," he said contritely, "I—I don't know what to say to you for getting you into this. I—"
"I know," she interrupted quickly, leaning over the side of the car and placing her hand on his arm. "Don't try to say anything. It's not your fault—it's not either of our faults. Now tell me what you think the best thing is to do, and, you'll see, I'll make the best of it—there's no use being miserable about it."
"You're a game little woman!" he said earnestly, quite unnecessarily clasping the hand on his arm and wringing it to endorse his verdict. "And that makes it a lot easier, you know. Well then, we might as well face the whole truth at one fell swoop. We're up against it"—he laughed cheerfully—"hard. It's miles to anywhere—we don't know where 'anywhere' is—and of course you can't walk aimlessly around in the mud and rain."
"N—no," she said thoughtfully. "I suppose there's no sense in that."
"And of course you can't sit out here in the wet all night."
"That sounds comforting—propitious even," commented Helena.
"Quite!" agreed Thornton, laughing again. "Well, you wait here a moment, and I'll see if I can't knock up some sort of shelter—I used to be pretty good at that sort of thing."
"And I'll help," announced Helena, preparing to get out.
"By keeping at least your feet dry," he amended. "No—please. Just stay where you are, Miss Vail. You'll get as much protection here from the branches overhead as you will anywhere meanwhile, and you'll be more comfortable."
She watched him as he disappeared into the wood, and after that, like a flitting will-o'-the-wisp, watched his flashlight moving about amongst the trees. Then presently the cheery blaze of a fire from where he was at work sprang up, and she heard the crackle of resinous pine knots—then a great crashing about, the snapping of branches as he broke them from larger limbs—and a rapid fire of small talk from him as he worked.
Helena answered him more or less mechanically—her mind, roving from one consideration of their plight to another, had caught at a certain viewpoint and was groping with it. They were stalled more effectively than any accident to the car could have stalled them—they were there for the night, there seemed no escape from that. But there was nothing to be afraid of. She had no fears about passing the night alone with him here in the woods—why should she? Why should she! She laughed low, suddenly, bitterly. Why should she—even if he were other than the man he was, even if he were of the lowest type! Fear—of that! A yearning, so intense as for an instant to leave her weak, swept upon her—a yearning full of pain, of shame, of remorse, of hopelessness—oh, God, if only she might have had the right to fear! Then passion seized her in wild, turbulent unrestraint—hatred for this clean-limbed, pure-minded man, who flaunted all that his life stood for in her face—hatred for everybody in this life of hers, for all were good save her—hatred, miserable, unbridled hatred for herself.
And then it passed, the mood—and she tried to think more calmly, still answering him as he called from the woods. She had seen a great deal of Thornton lately—a great deal. He had been kind and thoughtful and considerate—nothing more. More! What more could there have been? Love! There was something of mockery in that, wasn't there? Everything she thought about lately, every way her mind turned seemed to hold something of mockery now. Of course, Mrs. Thornton's words expressing the wish that she and Thornton might come together had been often enough with her—mockingly again!—but Thornton could have known nothing of that—so, after all, what did that matter? She had snatched at every opportunity to motor with Thornton despite Doc's protests, protests that had grown sullen and angry of late—snatched at the opportunities eagerly, as she would snatch at a breath of air where all else stifled her—snatched at them because they took her out of herself temporarily, away from everything, where everything at times seemed to be driving her mad. Hate Thornton! No, of course, she didn't hate him—she had thought that a moment ago because—because her brain was—was—oh, she didn't know—so tired and weary, and she was cold now and quite wet. She didn't hate him, she even—
"All ready now—house to let furnished"—he was calling out, laughing as he came thrashing through the undergrowth—"excellent situation, high altitude, luxuriant pine grove surrounds the property, and—and"—he had halted beside the car and opened the door—"what else do they say?"
Helena caught his spirit—or, rather, forced herself to do so. It wasn't quite fair that one of them should do all the pretending.
"Flies," she laughed. "They always speak of flies in Maine."
"None!" said Thornton promptly. "There hasn't been one since the house was built. Now then, Miss Vail"—he held out his arms.
"Oh, but really, I can walk."
"And I can carry you," he said—and, from the step, gathered her into his arms.
And then, as she lay there passively at first, she seemed to sense again that curious diffidence, that gentleness, like the touch upon her throat of a little while ago, though now he held her in both his arms. How strong he was—and, oh, how miserably wet—her hand around his shoulder felt the thin shirt clinging soggily to his arm. Yes; she was glad he hadn't let her walk—it wasn't far, but she would have had to force her way continually through bushes that scattered showers from their dripping leaves, and underfoot she could hear his boots squash through the mud. And then suddenly it happened—the trees, just a yard or so from the fire, were thick together, tangled—she bent her head quickly, instinctively, to avoid a low-hanging branch as he for the same reason swerved a little—and their cheeks lay close-pressed against each other's, her hair sweeping his forehead, their lips mingling one another's breaths. He seemed to stumble—then his arms closed about her in a quick, fierce pressure, clasping her, straining her to him—relaxed as suddenly—and then he had set her down inside the shelter he had built.
Quick her breath was coming now, and across the fire for a moment she met his eyes. His face was gray, and his hands at his sides were clenched.
"I'll—I'll get the seat out of the car," he said hoarsely. "It will help to make things more comfortable." And turning abruptly, he started back for the road again.
Helena did not move. Mechanically her eyes took in the little hut, crude, but rainproof at least—branches heaped across two forked limbs for a roof; the trunk of a big tree for the rear wall; branches thrust upright into the ground for the sides—the whole a little triangular shaped affair. The fire blazed in front just within shelter at the entrance; and beside it was piled quite a little heap of fuel that he had gathered.
He came back bringing the leather upholstered seat, shook the rain from it, and dried it with the help of the fire and his handkerchief—then set it down inside the hut. His face was turned from her; and as he spoke, breaking an awkward silence, his voice was conscious, hurried.
"I'm not going to be gone a minute more than I can help, Miss Vail. It's mighty rough accommodation for you, but there's one consolation at least—you'll be perfectly safe."
Helena seated herself, and held her skirt to the fire.
"Gone!" she said, a little dully. "Where are you going?"
"Why, to get help of course," he told her.
"Help!"—she shook her head. "You don't know where to find any—you only know for a certainty that there isn't any within miles."
"I know there's a house back on the main road," he said. "I noticed it as we came along."
"That's seven or eight miles from here," she returned. "And it's raining harder than ever—mud up to your ankles—it would take you hours to reach it."
"Possibly two, or two and a half," he said lightly.
"Yes; and another two at least to get back. I won't hear of you doing any such thing—you are wet through now. It's far better to wait for daylight and then probably the storm will be over."
"But don't you see, Miss Vail"—his voice was suddenly grave, masterful—"don't you see that there is no other thing to do?"
"No," said Helena. "I don't see anything of the kind. I won't have you do anything like that for me—it's not to be thought of."
Thornton stooped, placed a knot upon the fire, straightened up—and faced her.
"It's awfully good of you to think of me," he said in a low tone; "but, really, it won't be half as bad as you are picturing it in your mind. And really"—he hesitated, fumbling for his words—"you see—that is—what other people might say—your—reputation—"
With a sudden cry, white-faced, Helena was on her feet, staring at him, her hands clutched at her bosom—a wild, demoniacal, mocking orgy in her soul. Her reputation! It seemed she wanted to scream out the words—her reputation!
Thornton's face flushed with a quick-sweeping flood of crimson.
"I'm a brute—a brute with a blundering tongue!" he cried miserably. "You had not thought of that—and I made you. I could have found another excuse for going if I had only had wit enough. I was a brute once before to-night, and—" He stopped, and for a moment stood there looking at her, stood in the firelight, his face white again even in the ruddy glow—and then he was gone.
Time passed without meaning to Helena. The steady patter of the rain was on the leaves, the sullen, constant drip of water to the ground, and now, occasionally, a rush of wind, a heavier downpour. She sat before the fire, staring into it, her elbows on her knees, her face held tightly in her hands, the brown hair, wet and wayward now, about her temples. Once she moved, once her eyes changed their direction—to fix upon her sleeve in a strange, questioning surprise.
"I let him go without his coat," she said.
—XVIII—
THE BOOMERANG
It was early afternoon, as Madison, emerging from the wagon track, and walking slowly, started across the lawn toward the Patriarch's cottage. He was in a mood that he made no attempt to define—except that it wasn't a very pleasant mood. Before Thornton had returned to Needley it had been bad enough, after that, with his infernal car, it had been—hell.
Madison's fists clenched, and his gray eyes glinted angrily. His hands had been tied like a baby's—like a damned infant's! Helena was getting away from him further every day, and he couldn't stop it—without stopping the game! He couldn't tell Thornton that Helena belonged to him—had belonged to him! He couldn't even evidence an interest in what was going on. He had to put on a front, a suave, cordial, dignified front before Thornton—while he itched to smash the other's face to pulp! Hell—that's what it was—pure, unadulterated hell! He couldn't get near Helena alone with a ten-foot pole, morning, noon or night—she had taken good care of that. And he wanted Helena—he wanted her! It was an obsession with him now—at times driving him half crazy,—and it didn't help any that he saw her grow more glorious, more beautiful every day! Of course she knew she had him—had him where she knew he couldn't do a thing—where she could laugh at him—go the limit with Thornton if she liked. But, curse it, it wasn't only Thornton—that was what he could not understand—she had begun to keep away from him before ever Thornton had come back.
Madison was near the porch now, and, raising his eyes, noted a supplicant going into the shrine-room—a woman, richly dressed but in widow's weeds, who walked feebly. The game went on by itself, once started—there were half a hundred more about the lawn! Like a snowball rolling down hill, as he had put it at the Roost. The Roost! If he only had Helena back there for about a minute there'd be an end of this! She'd go a little too far one of these days—a little too far—it was pretty near far enough now—and then there'd be a showdown, game or no game, and somebody would get hurt in the smash, and—
He lifted his eyes again, as some one came hurrying through the cottage door. It was the Flopper. And then to his surprise, he found himself being pushed unceremoniously from the porch and pulled excitedly behind the trellis.
"What's the matter with you!" he demanded angrily. "Are you crazy!"
"T'ank de Lord youse have showed up!" gasped the Flopper. "Say, honest, I can't do nothin' wid him—he's got me near bughouse."
"Who?"—Madison scowled irritably.
"De Patriarch, of course. He's noivous, an' gettin' worse all de time. He won't eat an' he won't keep still. He wants Helena, an' he keeps writin' her name on de slate—he's got me going fer fair."
"Well, I'm not Helena!" growled Madison. "Why doesn't she go to him?"
"Now wouldn't dat sting youse!" ejaculated the Flopper. "How's she goin' to him when she ain't here?"
"Not here?" repeated Madison sharply. "Where is she?"
The Flopper looked down his nose.
"I dunno," said he.
Madison stared at him for a moment—then he reached out and caught the Flopper's arm in a sudden and far from gentle grip.
"Out with it!" he snapped.
"I dunno where she is," said the Flopper, with some reluctance. "She ain't back yet, dat's all."
"Back from where?"—Madison's grip tightened.
The Flopper blinked.
"Aw, wot's de use!" he blurted out, as though his mind, suddenly made up, brought him unbounded relief. "Youse'll find it out anyhow. Say, she went off wid Thornton in de buzz-wagon yesterday, an' I put de Patriarch to bed last night 'cause she wasn't back, an' dat's wot's de matter wid him, she ain't showed up since an' he's near off his chump, an'—fer God's sake let go my arm, Doc, youse're breakin' it!"
A sort of cold frenzy seemed to seize Madison. He was perfectly calm, he felt himself perfectly calm and composed. Off all night with Thornton—eh? Funny, wasn't it? She'd gone pretty far at last—gone the limit.
"Why didn't you send me word this morning?"—was that his own voice speaking? Well, he wouldn't have recognized it—but he was perfectly calm nevertheless.
"Fer God's sake let go my arm," whimpered the Flopper. "I—I ain't no squealer, dat's why."
Madison's arm fell away—to his side. He felt a whiteness creeping to his face and lips, felt his lips twitch, felt the fingers of his hands curl in and the nails begin to press into the palms.
"Mabbe," suggested the Flopper timidly, "mabbe dere was an accident."
Madison made no answer.
The Flopper shifted from foot to foot and licked his lips, stealing frightened glances at Madison's face.
"Wot—wot'll I do wid de Patriarch?" he stammered out miserably.
And then Madison smiled at him—not happily, but eloquently.
"Swipe me!" mumbled the Flopper, as he backed out from the trellis. "Dis love game's fierce—an' mabbe I don't know! 'Sposin' she'd been Mamie an' me the Doc—'sposin' it had!" He gulped hastily. "Swipe me!" said the Flopper with emotion.
Madison, motionless, watched the Flopper disappear. He wasn't quite so calm now, not so cool and collected and composed. He must go somewhere and think this out—somewhere where it would be quiet and he wouldn't be disturbed.
A step sounded on the path—Madison looked through the trellis. A man, with yellow, unhealthy skin and sunken cheeks, his head bowed, was passing in through the porch. It caught Madison with fierce, exquisite irony. Why not go there himself if he wanted quiet—the shrine-room—the place of meditation! Well, he wanted to meditate! He laughed jarringly. The shrine-room—for him! Great! Immense! Magnificent! Why not? That's what he had created it for, wasn't it—to meditate in!
He stepped inside. The woman, whom he had seen enter a short while before, was sitting in a sort of rigid, strained attitude in the far corner; the man, who had just preceded him, had taken the chair by the fireplace—they were the only occupants of the room. There was no sound save his own footsteps—neither of the others looked at him. There was quiet, a profound stillness—and the softened light from the shuttered window fell mellow all about, fell like a benediction upon the simplicity of the few plain articles that the room contained—the round rag mats upon the white-scrubbed floor; the hickory chairs, severe, uncushioned; the table, with its little japanned box and book.
Madison's eyes fixed upon the japanned box, as he leaned now, arms folded, against the wall—a jewel, even in the subdued light, glowed crimson-warm where it nested on a crumpled bed of bank-notes—a ruby ring—the last contribution—it must have been the woman who had placed it there. Madison glanced at her involuntarily—but his thoughts were far away again in a moment.
Anger and a blind rage of jealousy were gripping him now. Accident! The thought only fanned his fury. Accident! Yes; it was likely—as an excuse! There would have been an accident all right—leave that to them! Thornton perhaps wasn't the stamp of man to seek an adventure of that kind deliberately—perhaps he wasn't—and perhaps he was—you never could tell—but what difference did that make! Helena was that kind of a woman—though he'd always thought her true to him since he'd known her—and Thornton, whatever kind of a man he was, wouldn't run away from her arms, would he?
The red glow from the ruby ring had vanished—the man had risen from his seat and was placing something in the box on top of the ring—Madison's mind subconsciously absorbed the fact that it was a little sheaf of yellow-backed bills. And now the man bent to the table and was writing in the book.
Yellow-backs and rubies! Rubies and yellowbacks! Madison's lips thinned and curled downward at the corners. Oh, it was coming all right, money, jewels, pelf, rolling in merrily every day, there wasn't any stopping it, but he was paying for it, and paying for it at a price he didn't like—Helena. Helena! She wanted Thornton, did she—with his money! Wanted to dangle a millionaire on her string—eh? She'd throw him over—would she! And she thought she had him where he couldn't lift a finger to stop it—just sit back and grin like a poor, sick fool!
The red crept up the knotted cords of Madison's neck, suffused the set jaws, and, as though suddenly liberated to run its course where it would, swept in a tide over cheeks and temples.
He couldn't do a thing—couldn't he! Well, he'd see the game in Gehenna before Thornton or any other man got her away from him. She belonged to him—to him! And he'd have her, hold her, own her—she was his—his! And he'd settle with Thornton too, by Heaven!
A laugh, low, unpleasant, purled to his lips—and he checked it with a sort of strange mechanical realization that he must not laugh aloud. His eyes swept the room—the man had returned to his seat, the woman had not moved, both were silent, motionless—that ghastly, hallowed, sanctimonious hush—that subdued, damnable light—meditation!
"For God's sake let me get out of here," he muttered, "or I'll go mad."
He turned—and stopped. Came a cry spontaneously from the man and the woman—they were on their feet—no, on their knees. The doorway at the further end of the room was framing a majestic figure, tall and stately—and a sun-gleam struggling suddenly through the lattice seemed to leap in a golden ray to caress in homage the snow-white hair, the silver beard that fell upon the breast, the saintly face of the Patriarch.
Then into the room advanced the Patriarch, and his hands were outstretched before him, and he moved them a little to and fro—and the gesture, the poise, the mien, as, touching nothing he seemed to feel his way through space itself, was as one invoking a blessing of peace ineffable.
Spellbound, Madison watched. Upon the face was a yearning that saddened it, and, saddening, glorified it; the head was slightly turned as though to listen—while slowly, with measured, certain tread, as though indeed he had no need for eyes, the Patriarch circled the table and passed on down the room. The man and the woman reached out and touched him reverently, and drew back reverently to let him pass, and, rising from their knees, followed him through the door and out onto the porch.
The room was empty. Madison stared at the doorway. Upon him fell a sudden awe—it was as though a vision, an ethereal presence, some strange embodiment of power, had been and gone—and yet still remained.
And now from without there came a sound like a distant murmur. It rose and swelled, and began to roll in its volume, and then, like the clarion sound of trumpets, voices burst into glad acclaim.
"The Patriarch! The Patriarch! The Patriarch!"
From the little hallway came the Flopper, running—and he stopped and gaped at Madison.
"I left him in his room fer a minute," he gasped. "He's—he's lookin' fer Helena."
And then Madison shook himself together—and smiled ironically. And at the smile the Flopper hurried on.
Madison stepped out onto the porch. Helena! Helena! Within him seemed to burn a rage of hell; but it seemed, too, most strangely that for the moment this rage was held in abeyance, that something temporarily supplanted it—this scene before him.
Onward across the lawn moved the Patriarch, and the Flopper had joined him now; but the Patriarch, unheeding, turning neither to the right nor to the left, his arms still extended before him, kept on. And the people cried aloud:
"He is coming—he is coming! The Patriarch! The Patriarch!"
Madison moved on—out upon the lawn himself.
From everywhere, from every scattered spot where they had been, men and women ran and limped and dragged themselves along, all converging on one point—the Patriarch.
Madison, in the midst of them now, hurried—for it was plainly evident that the Flopper's control over the Patriarch was gone. He reached the Patriarch and touched the other's arm—and at the touch the Patriarch halted instantly, his hand went out and lay upon Madison's sleeve in recognition, and he turned his face, and it was smiling and there was relief upon it—and confidence and trust, as, suffering himself to be guided, they started back toward the cottage.
And then upon Madison came again that sense of awe, but now intensified. From every hand tear-stained faces greeted him, white faces, faces full of sorrow and suffering through which struggled hope—hope—hope. They flung themselves before the Patriarch—yet never blocked the way. They cried, they wept, they prayed—and some were silent. It seemed that souls, naked, stripped, bare, held themselves up to his gaze. Men, prostrate on stretchers, tried to rise and stagger nearer—and fell. Friends, where there were friends to help, tugged and dragged desperately at cots—and from the cots in piteous, agonized appeal the helpless cried out to the Patriarch to come to them. All of human agony and fear and hope and despair and terror seemed loosed in a mad and swirling vortex. And ever the cries arose, and ever around them, giving way, closing in again, pressed the soul-rent throng.
And presently to Madison it seemed as though he had awakened from some terrifying dream, as, in the Patriarch's room again, he swept away a bead of sweat from his forehead, and stood and looked at the Patriarch and the Flopper.
The Flopper licked his lips, and pulled the Patriarch's chair forward—but his hands trembled violently.
"It's been gettin' me, Doc," he whispered, "an' I can't help it. It's been gettin' into me all de time. Say, I wisht it was over. Honest to God I do! Dis—dis makes me queer. Say, de Patriarch's got me, Doc—an'—an'—say—dere's been somethin' goin' on inside me dat's got me hard."
Madison did not answer—but he started suddenly—and as suddenly stepped to the window and looked out. Over the cries, the wailings, the confused medley of voices, growing lower now, subsiding, there had come the throb of a motor car.
Madison's eyes narrowed—that was supreme again. A car was coming to a stop before the porch—Thornton was helping Helena to alight.
Madison turned and caught the Flopper's arm in a fierce, imperative grasp.
"You keep your mouth shut—do you hear?" he flung out, clipping off his words. "You haven't seen me to-day—understand!" And, dropping the Flopper's arm, he stepped quickly across the little hall to Helena's door, opened it, went in—and closed the door behind him.
And the Flopper, staring, licked his lips again.
"Swipe me!" he croaked hoarsely. "Pipe de eyes on de Doc! Dere'll be somethin' doin' now!"
—XIX—
THE SANCTUARY OF DARKNESS
There was a grim, merciless smile on Madison's lips; and a whiteness in his face windowed the passion that seethed within him. He stood motionless, listening, in Helena's room. He heard the automobile going away again; then he heard Helena's light step in the hallway without—and the smile died as his lips thinned.
But she did not come in—instead, he heard her go into the Patriarch's room, heard her talking to the Patriarch, and bid the Flopper go to the kitchen and make her some tea. Then the Flopper's step sounded, passing down to the rear, of the cottage.
The minutes passed—then that light footfall again. The door of the room swung suddenly wide—and closed—there was a cry—and Helena, wide-eyed, the red of her cheeks fading away, leaned heavily back against the door.
Neither spoke. Madison, in the center of the room, did not move. The smile came back to his lips.
Helena's great brown eyes met the gray ones, read the ugly glint, dropped, raised again—and held the gray ones steadily.
Madison gave a short laugh—that was like a curse. His hands at his sides knotted into lumps.
Then Madison spoke.
"Why don't you say, 'you!—you!'—and scream it out and clutch at your bosom the way they do in story books!" he flung out raucously. "Why don't you do your little stunt—go on, you're on for the turn—you can put anything over me, I'm only a complacent, blind-eyed fool! Anything goes! Why don't you start your act?"
"You don't know what you are saying," she said in a low voice. "If there's anything you want to talk about, we'd better wait until you're cooler."
"Oh, hell!" he roared, his passion full to the surface now. "Cut out the bunk—cut it out! Anything! No, it isn't much of anything—for you—out all night with Thornton. Do you think I'm going to stand for it! Do you think I'm going to sit and suck my thumb and share you, and—"
"You lie!" She was away from the door now, close before him, her breath coming fast, white to the lips, and in a frenzy her little fists pummelled upon him. "It's a lie—a lie—a lie! It's a lie—and you know it!"
He pushed her roughly from him.
"It is, eh?"—his words came in a sort of wild laugh. "And I know it—do I? Why should I know it? What do you think you are? Say, you'd think you were trying to kid yourself into believing you're the real thing—the real, sweet, shy, modest Miss Vail. Cut it out! You're name's Smith—maybe! And it's my money that's keeping you, and you belong to me—do you understand?"
She stood swaying a little, her hands still tightly clenched, breathing through half parted lips in short, quick, jerky inhalations like dry sobs.
"It's true," she faltered suddenly—and suddenly buried her face in her hands. And then she looked up again, and the brown eyes in their depths held an anger and a shame. "It's true—I was—was—what you say. But now"—her voice hurried on, an eagerness, a strange earnestness in it—"you must believe me—you must. I'll make you—I must make you."
"Oh, don't hurt yourself trying to do it!" jeered Madison. "We're talking plain now. I'm not taking into account how you feel about it —don't you fool yourself for a minute. The sanctity of my home hasn't been ruined—because it couldn't be! Get that? Thornton don't get you—not for keeps! But you and he don't make a monkey of me again. Do you understand—say, do you get that? You're mine—whether you like it or not—whether you'd rather have Thornton or not. But I'll fix you both for this—I'm no angel with a cherub's smile! I'll take it out of Thornton till the laugh he's got now fades to a fare-thee-well; and I'll put you where there aren't any strings tying me up the way there are here. Do you understand!" His voice rose suddenly, and for a moment he seemed to lose all control of himself as he reached for her and caught her shoulder. "I love you," he flashed out between his teeth. "I love you—that's what's the matter with me! And you know that—you know you've got me there—and you'd play the fool with me, would you!" He dropped his hands—and laughed a short, savage bark—and stepped back and stared at her.
"Will you listen?"—she was twisting her hands, her head was drooped, the long lashes veiled her eyes, her lips were quivering. "Will you listen?" she said again, fighting to steady her voice. "It was an accident."
"I saw the machine when you drove up—it was a wreck!" snapped Madison sarcastically.
"We ran out of gasoline," she said quietly.
And then Madison laughed—fiercely—in his derision.
"Oh, keep on!" he rasped. "I told you I was only a blind fool that you could put anything over on! That accounts for it, of course—a breakdown isn't so easy to get away with. Gasoline!"
"We were miles from anywhere," she went on. "We had taken what we thought was a short cut. Mr. Thornton built a shelter for me in the woods, and went to—to—"
He caught up her hesitation like a flash.
"Fake the lines, Helena, if you haven't had enough rehearsals," he suggested ironically. "Anything goes—with me."
And now a tinge of color came to Helena's cheeks, and the brown eyes raised, and flashed, and dropped.
"He went to try and find help," she said. "He was out all night in the storm. I do not know how far he must have walked. I know the nearest house was five or six miles away—and there was no horse there—the man had driven to some town that morning. It was almost daylight before Mr. Thornton at last came back with a team. We were forty miles from here—we sent the team to the nearest town for gasoline and then motored back." She stopped—and then, with a catch in her voice: "He—he was very good to me."
"Good to me"—the words seemed to stab at Madison, seemed to ring in his ears and goad him with a fiercer jealousy—and her story of the night, what she had been saying, save those words, was as nothing, meant nothing, was swept from his consciousness—and only she, standing there before him, glorious, maddening in her beauty, remained. Soul, mind and body leaped into fiery passion—she was his, and his she always would be—those eyes, those lips, the white throat, those perfect arms to cling about his neck—and all of heaven and hell and earth were naught beside her.
"I love you!"—his face was white, his words fierce-breathed, almost incoherent—and he leaned toward her with a sudden, uncontrollable movement, his arms sweeping out to clasp her. "I love you, Helena—I love you. Do you understand—it's you! You—I love you!"
"You love me!"—she retreated from him, but her head was raised now, and her voice rang with a bitterness cold as the touch of death. "Love! What do you know of love! We talk plain, you say. Love—love for me! Passion, vice, lust, sin—and, oh, my God, degradation and misery and shame—love! Love! That is your love!"
He stood for a moment and stared at her again—and her face was as pallid ivory. And something seemed to daze him, and he brushed his hand across his eyes—the logic was faulty, torn and pitiful, and he groped after the flaw.
"It's—it's your love as well as mine," he said in a stumbling way—then his brain flashed quick into action. "My love—what other love have you known but that?" he cried. "It's our love—the love we have known together—and we're going back to it—see? I've had enough of this. You pack your trunks—and pack them quick! We're going to beat it out of here! We're going back to our—love. We're going back where I don't have to sit around like a puling fool and watch Thornton chuck you under the chin—we're going where he'll want a tombstone if he ever shows his face there. You thought the game would hold me to the last jackpot—did you? Well, I've got enough—and there's no game big enough to make me stand for this. That looks like love—doesn't it?" He burst again into a sudden, mirthless laugh—and once again swept his hand across his eyes. "We're going to beat it out of here now—to-night—to-morrow morning."
But now she had drawn further away from him—and there was a frightened look in her eyes, and her lips quivered pitifully.
"No—I can't—I can't," she cried out. "No, no—I can't—I can't go back to that."
"That! That—is love," he said wildly. "The only love you know. What more do you want? There's loot enough now, and—ha, ha!—that little contribution of Thornton's, to give you all the money you want. Love, Helena—you and I—the old love—you and I together again, Helena. I tell you I love you—do you hear? I love you—and I'll have you—I love you! What do you know, what do you care about any other kind of love!"
She looked at him, misery and fear still in her eyes, and her slight figure seemed to droop, and her hands hung heavy, listless, at her sides.
"I care"—the words came in a strange mechanical way from her lips. "Oh, I care. I can't—I won't go back to that. And I know—I know now. I have learned what love is."
Quick over Madison's face surged the red in an unstemmed tide—volcanic within him his love that he knew now possessed his very soul, jealousy that, blinding, robbed him of his senses, roused him to frenzy.
"Oh, you've learned what love is, have you—with him!" he cried—and sprang for her and snatched her into his arms. "And you won't come, eh? Well, I've learned what love is too in the last month—and if I can't get it one way, I'll get it another"—he was raining mad kisses upon her face, her hair, her eyes—"I love you, I tell you—I love you!"
With a cry she tried to struggle from him—and then fought and struck at him, beating upon his face with her fists. Fiercer, closer he held her—around the little room, staggering this way and that, they circled. He kissed her, laughing hoarsely like a madman, laughing at the blows, beside himself, not knowing what he did—mad—mad—mad. He kissed her, kissed the white throat where the dress was torn now at the neck; imprisoned a little fist that struck at him and kissed the quivering knuckles; kissed the wealth of glorious, burnished-copper hair that, unloosened, fell about her, kissed it and buried his face in its rare fragrance. And then—and then his arms were empty—and he was staring at the calm, majestic figure of the Patriarch—and Helena was crouched upon the floor, and, sobbing, was clinging with arms entwined around the old man's knees.
And so for a little while Madison stood and stared—what had brought the Patriarch there—the Patriarch who could neither see nor hear nor speak—what had brought him from his own room across the hall! And Madison stared, and his hands crept to his temples and pressed upon them—weak he seemed as from some paroxysm of madness that had passed over him. The sunlight streaming through the window sheened the luxuriant mass of hair that falling over shoulders and to the waist seemed alone to cloak the little figure in its crouched position—the little figure that shook so convulsively with sobs—the little figure that clung so desperately at the feet of this god-like, regal man, whose beard was silver, whose hair was hoary white, upon whose face, marring none its strength or self-possession, was a troubled, anxious, questioning look.
Strange! Strange! Madison's hands fell to his sides. The Patriarch's eyes were turned full upon him, wavering not so much as by the fraction of an inch—full upon him. And then, as into some holy sanctuary, fending her from harm and danger, the Patriarch turned a little to interpose himself before Madison, and, raising Helena, held her in his arms, her head against his bosom—and one hand lay upon her head and stroked it tenderly. But upon Madison was still turned those sightless eyes, that noble face, serene, commanding even in its perturbation, even in its alert and searching look.
Madison stirred now—stirred uneasily—while the silence held. There was a solemnity in the silence that seemed to creep upon and pervade the room—a sense of a vast something that was the antithesis of turmoil, passion, strife, that seemed to radiate from the saintly figure whose lips were mute, whose ears heard no sound, whose eyes saw no sight. And upon Madison it fell potent, masterful, and passion fled, and in its place came a strange, groping response within him, a revulsion, a penitence—and he bowed his head.
And then Helena spoke—but her head was turned away from him, hidden on the Patriarch's breast.
"Once," she said, and her words were like broken whispers, for she was sobbing still, "once, long, long ago, when I was a little girl, I read the story of Mary Magdalen. I had almost forgotten it, it was so long ago, but it has come back to me, and—and it is a glad story—at the end."
She stopped—and Madison raised his head, and his face was strained as with some sudden wonder as he looked at her.
"It is a glad story," she said presently. "It—it is my story."
"You mean"—Madison's voice was hoarse—"you mean that you've turned—straight!"
"They love me here," she said. "They trust me and they think me good—as they are. All think me that—the little children and this dear man here—and for a little while, since I have been here, I have lived like that. They made me believe that it was true—true. And there was shame and agony—and hope. It seemed they could not all be wrong, and I have asked and prayed that I might make it true always—and—and forgiveness for what I was."
"You mean," he said again hoarsely, and he stepped toward her now, "you mean that you are—straight!"
She did not answer—only now she turned her face toward him and lifted up her head.
And for a long minute Madison gazed into the tear-splashed eyes, deep, brave in chastened wistfulness, gazed—and like a man stunned walked from the room, the cottage, and out across the lawn.