Many were still about the lawn as he left the cottage—they were all about him, those sick, half frantic creatures—and still they made noises; still some of them cried and sobbed; still in their waning paroxysms they moved hither and thither. They appealed to some numbed, dormant sense in Madison, in a subconscious way, as things to be avoided. And so, almost mechanically, he took the little path that, striking off at right angles to the wagon track where it joined the Patriarch's lawn, came out again upon the main road at the further end of the village.
And, as he walked, like tidal waves on-rushing, emotions, utterly at variance one with another, hurled themselves upon him, and he was swept from his mental balance, tossed here and there, rolled gasping, strangling in the chaos and turmoil of the waters, as it were, and, rising, was hurled back again.
White as death itself was Madison's face; and at times his fingers with a twitching movement curled into clenched fists, at times his open palms sought his temples in a queer wriggling way and pressed upon them. Doubt, anger, fear, a rage unhallowed—in cycles—buffeted him until his brain reeled, and he was as a man distraught.
It began at the beginning, that cycle, and dragged him along—and left him like one swooning, tottering, upon the edge of a precipice. And then it began over again.
And it began always with a picture of the Roost that night—the vicious, unkempt, ragged figure of the Flopper—the sickly, thin, greedy face of Pale Face Harry, the drug fiend, winching a little as he plunged the needle into his flesh—the easy, unprincipled gaiety and eagerness of Helena for the new path of crime—crime—crime—the Roost exuded crime—filth—immorality—typified them, framed them well as they had sat there, the four of them, while that bruised-nosed bouncer had brought them drink on his rattling tin tray. And then his own self-satisfied, smug, complacent egotism at his own cleverness, his unbounded confidence in his own ability to pull off the game, and—
Well, he had pulled it off—he'd won it—won it—won it—everybody had fallen for it—the boobs had been plentiful—the harvest rich. What was the matter with him! He'd won—was winning every time the clock ticked. Somebody back there was probably throwing good hard coin at him this minute—the damned fool! Madison threw back his head to laugh in derision, for there was mocking, contemptuous laughter in his soul—but the laugh died still-born upon his lips.
It was fear now—fear—staggering, appalling him. He was facing something—something—his brain did not seem to define it—something that was cold and stern and immutable, that was omnipotent, that embodied awe—a condemnation unalterable, unchangeable, before which he shrank back with his soul afraid. Before him seemed to unfold itself the wagon track, the road to the Patriarch's cottage; and he was there again, and whispering lips were around him, and men and women and children were there, and in front of them, leading them, slithered that twisted, misshapen, formless thing—and now they were upon the lawn, and about him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere was a sea of white faces out of which the eyes burned like living coals. What power was this that, loosed, had stricken them to palsied, moaning things!
Madison shivered a little—and a sweat bead oozed out and glistened upon his forehead. Hark—what was that! Clarionlike, clear as the chimes of a silver bell, rang now that childish voice—rang out, and rang out again—and the crutch was gone—and the lame boy ran, ran—ran! And who was that, that stood before him now—that golden-haired woman beside an empty wheel-chair, whose face was radiant, who cried aloud that she was cured! And who were these others of later days, this motley crowd of old and young, that passed before him in procession, that cried out the same words that golden-haired woman by the wheel-chair had cried—and cried out: "Faith! Faith! Faith!"
Madison swept the sweat bead from his forehead with a trembling hand. It was a lie—a lie—a lie! He had taught them to say that—but it was all bunk—and all were fools! He could laugh at them, jeer at them, mock at them, deride them—they were his playthings—and faith was his plaything—and he could laugh at them all!
And again he raised his head to laugh; and again the laugh was choked in his throat, still-born—Helena was straight! To his temples went his twitching hands. Anger raged upon him—and died in fear. Anger, for the instant maddening him, that he should lose her; rage in ungovernable fury that the game, his plans, the hoard accumulated, was bursting like a bubble before his eyes—died in fear. No, no; he had not meant to laugh or mock—no, no; not that, not that! What was this loosed titanic power that had done these things—that had brought this change in Helena; that had brought a change in the Flopper, transforming the miserable, pitiful, whining thief into a man reaching out for decent things; that had wrought at least a physical metamorphosis in Pale Face Harry—that had transfigured those three who, in their ugly, abandoned natures then, had hung like vultures on his words in the Roost that night! What was this power that he was trifling with, that brought him now this cold, dead fear before which he quailed! What was this something that in his temerity he had dared invoke—that rose now engulfing him, a puny maggot—that snatched him up and flung him headlong, shackled, before this nebulous, terrifying tribunal, where out of nothingness, out of a void, the calm, majestic features of the Patriarch took form and changed, and changed, and kept changing, and grew implacable, set with the stamp of doom. What was it—in God's name, what was it brought these sweat beads bursting to his forehead! Was he going mad—was he mad already!
And then the cycle again—doubt, anger, fear—until his brain, exhausted, seemed to refuse its functions; and it was as though, heavy, oppressing, a dense fog shut down upon his mind and enveloped it; and now he walked as a man in great haste, hurrying, and now his pace was slow, uncertain.
And so he went on, following the little path that bordered the woods on one hand and the fields on the other; went on until he neared the village—and then he stopped suddenly, and turned about. Some one had called his name.
From the field, a man climbed over the fence and came toward him. The man's face was tanned and rugged, his form erect, and the sleeves rolled back above the elbows displayed browned and muscular forearms. Madison stared at the man apathetically. This was the farm of course where Pale Face Harry boarded, and this was Pale Face Harry—but—
"Doc," said Pale Face Harry, and he shuffled his feet and looked down, "Doc, I got something I've been wanting to say to you for a week."
Madison still gazed at him apathetically—Pale Face Harry for the moment was as some unwarrantable apparition suddenly appearing before him.
Pale Face Harry raised his eyes, lowered them, kicked at a clod of earth with the toe of his boot—and raised his eyes again.
"Say," he blurted out, "I'm through, Doc. I'm—I'm going to quit."
Into Madison's stumbling brain leaped and took form but one idea—and he jumped forward, reaching savagely for Pale Face Harry's throat.
"You'd throw me, would you! You'd throw the game—would you!" he snarled, as his fingers locked.
Pale Face Harry, twisting, wriggled free—and retreated a step.
"No; I ain't!" he gasped—and then his sentences came tumbling out upon each other jerkily, as though he were trying to compress what he had to say into as few words as possible and as quickly as he could, while he watched Madison warily. "I ain't throwing nothing. I just want to quit myself. I keeps my mouth shut—see? I don't want none of the share what's coming. Say, I've got more'n a hundred times that out of it. Look at me, Doc! Say, I'm like a horse. That's the Patriarch and living honest. Say, in all me life I never knew what it was before till we comes here. If I took the dough what's coming I'd go back to the old hell, and I'd go down and out again. Say, it ain't worth it, there's nothing in it. I ain't throwing you, Doc—I just blows out of here with me trap closed. Say, look at me, Doc—don't you get what I mean?"
And then Madison burst into a peal of wild, strange laughter; and, as though no man stood before him, started on along the path—and Pale Face Harry sidled out of his way and stared after him.
"For—for God's sake, Doc," he called out, stammering, "what's the matter?"
But Madison made no answer. He heard Pale Face Harry call out behind him; in a subconscious, mazed way, he sensed the other following him, gropingly, hesitantly, for a few yards, then hold back—and finally stop.
The path swerved. Madison went on—blindly, mechanically, as though, once set in motion, he must go on. Some ghastly, unnatural thing was clogging his brain; not only in a mental way, but clogging it until there was physical hurt and pain, an awful tightness—something—if he could only reach it with his fingers and claw it away! There was black madness here, and a pain insufferable—a damnable impotence, robbing him of even the power, the faculty to think or reason, or to make himself understand in any logical degree the meaning or the cause of this thing that sent his brain swirling sick.
He halted. His lips were working; the muscles of his face quivered. And suddenly, snatching his hat from his head, he flung himself on the ground and plunged face and head, feverishly, tigerishly, into the little brook that ran beside the path. Again and again he buried his face in the cold, clear, refreshing water—and then, still on hands and knees, he raised his head to listen. Softly, full of a great peace, full of a strange sweetness that knew no discord, no strife, the notes of the chapel bell floated across the fields. Evening had come; the day's work was done—it was benediction time. It was the call of the faithful—the Angelus of those who believed.
It came, the revulsion, to Madison in a choked sob—and he stood up. The day's work was done—here. Here they would go in quiet thankfulness each from the farm to his little cottage, each to his simple, wholesome meal, each to the twilight hours of gentle communion as they talked to one another from their doorways, each to his bed and his rest, tranquil in the love of God and of man.
Madison flung back the dripping hair from his forehead. Strange, the contrast that, unbidden, came insistently to him now: The liquid notes of the bell wafted sweetly on the evening breeze; the howling, jangling turmoil of the city slums, of his familiar haunts where, in mad chaos, reigned the hawkers' cries, the thunder of the elevated trains, the noisome traffic of the street, the raucous clang of trolley bells—the sweet perfume of the, fields, the smell of trees, of earth, of all of God's pure things untouched, unsoiled; the stench of Chatham Square, the reek of whiskey spilled with the breath of obscene, filthy lips—the little village that he could see beyond him, the tiny curls of blue smoke rising like the incense from an altar over the roofs of houses whose doors had no locks, whose windows were not barred, where plain, homely folk, unsullied, lived at peace with God and the world; the closed areaways of the Bowery, the creaking stairs, the dim hallways leading to dens of vileness and iniquity where, safe by bolts from interruption, crime bred its offsprings and vice was hatched. What did it mean!
And so he stood there for a little space; then presently he started forward again; and presently he reached the village street, walked down its length, greeted from every doorway with hearty, unaffected sincerity, and after a little while he came to the hotel, and to his room—and there he locked the door.
Helena was straight—the words were repeating themselves over and over in his brain. He began to pace up and down the room. The words seemed to take form and shape in fiery red letters, being scrawled by invisible hands upon the walls—Helena was straight. Straight with Thornton, straight with any man—straight with her Maker. He knew that now—he had read it as a soul-truth in those brave, deep, tear-dimmed eyes. And he had lost her! It seemed as though he had become suddenly conscious that he was enduring some agony that was never to know an end, that from now on must be with him always. He had lost her—lost Helena.
From his pocket he drew out his keys and opened his trunks, and took out the trays and spread them about. There were very many trays, they nested one upon the other—and they were exceedingly ingenious trays—false-bottomed every one. And now he opened these false-bottoms, every one of them, and stood and looked at them. The surest, safest, biggest game he had ever played, the game that had known no single hitch, the game that had brought no whispering breath of suspicion flung its tribute in his face. Money that he had never tried to count, notes of all denominations, large and small, glutted the receptacles—jewels in necklaces, in rings, in pendants, in brooches, in bracelets, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, winked at him and scintillated and glowed and were afire.
And he stood and looked upon them. What was it the Flopper had said when they had brought the Patriarch back—he did not remember. What was it that Pale Face Harry had said a little while ago—he did not remember. These were jewels here and money—wealth—and he had won the greatest game that was ever played—only he had lost her—lost Helena. And he stood and looked upon them—and slowly there crept to his face a white-lipped smile.
"I'm beat!" he whispered hoarsely. "Beat—by the game—I won."
—XXI—
FACE VALUE
It was evening of the same day—and there came a knock at the outer door of the cottage porch.
The Flopper answered it, and came back to the Patriarch's room; where the Patriarch sat in his armchair; where the lamp, turned low, throwing the little room into half shadow, burned upon the table; where Helena, far away from her immediate surroundings, quite silent and still, her own chair close beside the other's, nestled with her head on the Patriarch's shoulder.
Helena looked up as the Flopper returned.
Upon the Flopper's face was a curious expression—not one that in the days gone by had been habitual—it seemed to mingle a diffidence, a kindly solicitude and a sort of anxious responsibility.
"It's Thornton askin' fer youse," announced the Flopper.
Helena rose from her chair, and started for the door—but the Flopper blocked the way. Helena halted and looked at him in astonishment.
The Flopper licked his lips.
"Say, Helena," he said earnestly, "if I was youse I wouldn't go—say, I'll tell him youse have got de pip an' gone ter bed."
"Not go?" echoed Helena. "What do you mean?"
The Flopper scratched at his chin uneasily.
"Oh, you know!" he said. "De Doc let youse down easy ter-day. Say, if youse had piped his lamps when you drives up in de buzz-wagon dis afternoon youse wouldn't be lookin' fer any more trouble. Say, I'm tellin' youse straight, Helena. When I was out dere in de kitchen an' youse was in yer room wid him me heart was in me mouth all de time. Youse can take it from me, Helena, he let youse down easy."
Helena's brown eyes, a little wistfully, a little softly, held upon the Flopper.
"Yes?" she said quietly.
"Youse had better cut it out ter-night, Helena," the Flopper went on. "Y'oughter know de Doc by dis time—de guy dat starts anything wid de Doc gets his—dat's all! Remember de night he threw Cleggy down de stairs in de Roost?—an' he was only havin' fun! Say, you go out wid Thornton again ter-night an' de Doc finds it out—an' something'll happen. Say, Helena, fer God's sake, don't youse do it—de Doc was bad enough dis afternoon when he let youse down easy, but he's worse now, an'—"
"Worse?" Helena interrupted, smiling a little apathetically. "In what way is he worse? And how do you know? You haven't seen Doc, have you?"
"No," the Flopper answered, circling his lips with his tongue again. "No; I ain't seen de Doc since—but I seen Pale Face. Say, Helena"—the Flopper's words came stumbling out now, agitated, perturbed, not altogether coherent—"wot's de answer I dunno; I dunno wot's de matter here. Say"—he pointed suddenly to the Patriarch, whose face was turned toward them as he stroked thoughtfully at his silver beard—"he's got me fer fair—dere ain't no fake here—dis way ter live is de real t'ing—he ain't like you an' me—he's more'n dat—look at him now—youse'd t'ink he could see us, an' was listenin' ter wot we said. I dunno wot's de end—I dunno wot's de matter wid me. I was scared more'n ever out dere dis afternoon on de lawn, an' I thought mabbe God 'ud strike me dead—but 'tain't only dat I'm scared ter buck de game any more, 'tain't only dat—I don't wanter any more, an' it don't make no difference about de dough—I wanter live straight, same as him, same as de guys around here, same—same as Mamie. Say, Helena, say, do youse believe in love—in—in de real t'ing?"
Helena's apathy was gone now—a flush dyed her cheeks. She was not startled at what the Flopper had said—she had seen it coming, subconsciously, vaguely, mistily, for days now, only she had been immersed in herself—she was not startled, and yet, in a way, she was. The end! She too had been thinking about that—and she too did not know. What was the end?
"You were going to say something about Pale Face," she said, prompting the Flopper. "Something about Pale Face and Doc."
"Yes," said the Flopper, and again the tip of his tongue sought his lips nervously. "Dat's why I don't want youse ter go out wid Thornton ter-night. Pale Face has got it de same as me, an' he told de Doc dis afternoon, out in de path dere, after de Doc left de cottage here. Dere was a showdown—see? De Doc 'ud kill youse an' Thornton ter-night if he caught youse ter-gether. He's like a wild man. When Pale Face tells him he was goin' ter quit, de Doc makes a grab fer him by de t'roat like a tiger, only Pale Face gets away, an' den de Doc goes off widout a word, laughin' like he'd escaped out of a dippy-house. An' Pale Face was shakin' like he had a fit when he gets here. Say, Helena, don't youse go ter-night."
Helena made no answer for a moment. Thoughts, a world of them, confused her, crowded upon her, as they had ever since Madison had left her room a few hours ago—and the future was as some dread, bewildering maze through which she had tried to stumble and grope her way—and had lost herself ever deeper. How full of utter, miserable, bitter irony it was that this thing, unscrupulous and shameful, that they had created in their guilt should have brought the beauty and the glory and the yearning of a new life to her—and yet should chain her remorselessly to the old! True, she had broken with Madison, irrevocably, forever, she supposed, it could not be other than that, for the ugly bond between them was severed—but the game still went on! In repentance, on her bended knees, sobbing as a tired and worn-out child, she could ask for forgiveness; but the double life, the duplicity, by reason of the very nature in which they had fashioned this iniquitous monster, still went on, and like some hideous octopus reached out its waving, feeling tentacles to encircle her—the Patriarch there; the world-wide publicity, those poor creatures upon whose misery and whose suffering, upon whose frantic, frenzied snatching out at hope they had preyed and fed and gorged themselves; the life itself that she had taken up, in its minutiæ, in its care of this great-souled, great-hearted man so dear to her now, the life itself because it was what it was, changed though she herself might be, though her soul cried out against it in its new-found purity—all this still held her fast! The end—she could not see the end. What would Madison do—and there was Thornton. Thornton! She caught her breath a little. Yes; she had promised Thornton she would see him to-night—she knew well enough why he wanted to see her—last night had told her that—he loved her. Her face softened. Last night—it seemed a thousand years ago, and it seemed but as an instant passed—last night—she had learned what love was, and—
The Flopper stirred uneasily.
"Wot'll I tell him?" asked the Flopper. "He's waitin' out dere by de porch."
"Why—why nothing," said Helena, and she smiled a little tremulously at the Flopper. "Nothing. I'll—I'll go and see him."
"Say, Helena," protested the Flopper, "don't youse—"
But Helena stepped by him now.
"Don't leave the Patriarch," she cautioned, turning on the threshold. "I—I won't be late."
She passed down the little hall, through the still, quiet room beyond, empty now, through the porch, and out into the night—and then from out the shadows by the row of maples, Thornton came hurriedly toward her, holding out his hands.
"It's good of you to come, Miss Vail," he said, in his grave, quiet way. "You must be nearly dead with weariness after last night, and I am afraid I am not very thoughtful—only I—" he broke off suddenly. "Shall we sit here on the bench for a little while, or would you rather walk—I—I have something to say to you."
It was very dark—the storm of the night before still lingered in a wrack of flying clouds, scurrying one after the other, veiling the stars—and the moon was hidden—and hidden too was the sudden whiteness of Helena's face. She knew what he had to say, knew it before she had come to him—and yet she was there—and she had come resolutely enough—only now she was afraid.
"I would rather walk a little, I think," she said. "Here where—where I can be within call. My absence last night seems to have made the Patriarch very uneasy, you know, and—and—let us just walk up and down here beneath the maples in front of the cottage."
How heavy upon the air lay the fragrance of the flowers; how still the night was, save for the constant muffled boom of the breaking surf!—for a moment an almost ungovernable impulse swept upon her to make some excuse, anything, no matter how wild, a sudden faintness, anything, and run from him back into the cottage. And then she tried to think, think in a desperate sort of way of some subject of conversation that she might introduce that would stave off, postpone, defer the words that she knew were even now on his lips—nothing—she could think of nothing—only that she might have let the Flopper have his way, have let him tell Thornton that she had gone to bed with—the pip. The pip! She could have screamed out hysterically as the word flashed all unbidden upon her—it stood for a very great deal that word—her world of the years of yesterday. Could she never get away from that world; was it too late—already! Could she, even with all the earnestness, all the yearning that filled her soul, ever live it down, ever be what Naida Thornton had called her that night—a good woman! Could she—
Thornton was speaking now—how strange that she would have done anything, given anything to prevent his speaking—and done anything, given anything to make him speak! How strange and perplexed and dismayed her brain was! Love! Yes; she wanted love! God knew she wanted love such as his was—for he had shown her what love, free from abasing passion, in its purest sense, was. Like a glimpse of glory, hallowed, full of wondrous amazement, it came to her—and then her head was lowered, and the whiteness was upon her face again.
He had halted suddenly and detained her with his hand upon her arm—with that touch, so full of reverence, of fine deference, that had thrilled her before—that thrilled her now, awakening into fuller life these new emotions whose birth was in gladder, sweeter, purer aspirations.
"Miss Vail," he said, in a low voice, "there was a letter—a letter that Naida left—did you know of it?"
They were close together, and it was very dark—but was it dark enough to hide the crimson that she felt sweeping in a flood to her face! What was in that letter? Had Mrs. Thornton written as she had talked, or only about the Patriarch and the work in Needley? She had forgotten for the moment about the letter—if there were more in it than that, if it were about Thornton and herself and what Mrs. Thornton had hoped for between them, and she admitted knowledge of it, what would he think, what could he think of her! But to deny it—no, not now. Once, and this came to her in a little thrill of gladness, she would not have hesitated; but now it—it was—it was not that world of yesterday.
"Yes," she said faintly; "she told me that she had left a letter for you."
"It was about the work here," said Thornton gently. "Her whole soul seemed wrapt up in that—and she asked me as her last wish to do what she would have done if she had lived; and she spoke of you very beautifully." Thornton paused for a moment—then he laid his hands on Helena's shoulders—and she felt them tremble a little. "Miss Vail—Helena," he said, and his voice was full of passionate earnestness now, "I cannot say these things well—only simply. I came back here to take an interest in the work, for I too have it at heart—but I have more than that now—there is you—your dear self. I love you, Helena—you have come into my life until you are everything and all to me. Helena, look up at me—will you marry me, dear? Tell me what I long to hear. Helena, Helena—I love you!"
But Helena did not answer—only very slowly she raised her head. And his hands on her shoulders tightened, and he was drawing her gently toward him. Then he bent his head until it was close to hers, and his breath was upon her cheek as it had been that other night—and the longing to know that it was hers, a caress, pure in its motive, hers, snatched out of all that had gone before that sought to rob her of the right to ever know it, fascinated her, held her spellbound, possessed her. Closer his lips came to hers, closer, until they touched her—and then, with a cry, she sprang back, and her hands were fiercely pressed against her cheeks, her throbbing temples. Was she mad! Mad! Was it for this that she had forced herself to give him the opportunity to speak to-night, when her motive was so different, when it had seemed the only right thing left for her to do!
And now, still holding her temples, she raised her eyes to Thornton—he had stepped back like a man stricken, his hands dropped to his sides.
"I—we are mad!" she whispered.
"Helena!" he said in a numbed way; and again; "Helena!" Then, with an effort to control his voice: "You—you do not care—you do not love me?"
"No," she said—and thereafter for a long time a silence held between them.
Then Thornton spoke.
"Some day perhaps, Helena," he said, "you could learn to love me—for I would teach you. Perhaps now you feel that your whole duty lies here in this work to which you have so unselfishly given your life; but I would not hinder that, only try to help as best I could. Perhaps I have been abrupt, have spoken too soon—it is only a few weeks since I saw you first, but it seems as though in those few weeks I had come to know you as if I had known you all my life and—"
But now she interrupted him, shaking her head in a sad little fashion.
"You do not know me," she said. "Sometimes I think I do not know myself. Think! You do not know where I came from to join the Patriarch here; you have no single shred of knowledge about me; you do not know a single particular of my life before you knew me."
"I do not need to know," he answered gravely. "You are as genuine as pure gold is genuine—it is in your voice, your smile, your eyes. It is a crude simile perhaps, but one never asks where the pure gold was dug—it stands for itself, for what it is, because it is what it is—pure gold—at its face value."
The words seemed to stab at Helena, condemning, accusing; and yet, too, in a strange, vague way, they seemed to bring her a hope, a promise for the days to come—at face value! If she could live hereafter—at face value!
"Listen," she said, and her voice was very low. "I do not know how to say what I must say to you. Last night I knew that—that you loved me. I had not thought of you like that, in that way, until then, or—or I should have tried never to have let this hurt come to you. But last night I knew, and since then I have known that sooner or later you would—would tell me of it." She stopped for an instant—her eyes full of tears now. "And so," she went on presently, "I have let you speak to-night because it was better, it was even necessary that I should do so at once—because this could not go on—because you must go away and—"
"Necessary?" he repeated. "I—I do not understand."
"No," she said helplessly; "you do not understand—and I—I cannot explain. Oh, I do not know what to say to you, only that you must take what I say, as you have taken me—at face value."
"I do not understand," he said again. "Helena, I do not understand. Are you in trouble—tell me?"
"No," she said.
"But I cannot go away like this!" he cried out suddenly. "I cannot go and leave you, Helena. You have come into my life and filled it; and I cannot let you pass out of it—like this—without an effort to hold what has come to mean everything to me now. You may not love me now, but some day—"
She shook her head, interrupting him once more.
"There can never be a 'some day,'" she said. "Oh, I do not want to hurt you—you, to whom I owe more than you will ever know—but—but there can never be anything between us, and—and we are only making it harder for ourselves now—aren't we?"
And then he leaned abruptly toward her.
"Is there—some one else?" he asked in a strained voice.
And to Helena the question came as though it had been an inspiration given him—for after that he would ask no more, seek no more to understand, for he was too big and strong and fine for that; and even if it was hopeless now this love that she had known for Madison, even if it could never be again, still that love was hers, and she could answer truthfully.
"Yes," she said beneath her breath.
For a moment Thornton neither moved nor spoke. Then he held out his hand.
"Miss Vail," he said simply, "will you tell this 'some one else' that another man beside himself is the better for having known you. Good-night. And may God bring you happiness through all your life."
But she did not speak—they were standing by the rustic bench and she sank down upon it, and, with her head hidden in one arm outflung across the back of the seat, was sobbing softly.
And he stood and watched her for a little space, his face grave and white; then taking the hand that lay listlessly in her lap, he raised it to his lips—and turned away.
And so he left her—and so, because of this, he knocked upon another door that night, and all unwittingly gave to that "some one else" himself the message that he had asked Helena to deliver.
Madison, pacing his room like a caged beast, his teeth working upon the cigar that he had never thought to light, paid no attention to the summons until it had been repeated twice; then, with a glance around the room, his eyes lingering for a critical instant upon the trunks, closed now, the trays restored to their hiding places, he stepped to the door, unlocked it, and flung it open. And at sight of Thornton, mechanically, as second nature to him, outwardly, like a mask, there came a smile upon his working lips, a suave, unconcerned composure to his face; while inwardly, in his dazed, fogged brain where chaos raged, surged an impulse to fling himself upon the other, wreck a mad vengeance upon the man—and then swift upon the heels of this an impulse to refrain, for if Helena was straight why should he harm Thornton—and then the shuttle again—why should he not—hadn't Helena said that she had learned what love was last night—and last night she had been with Thornton. How his brain whirled! What had brought Thornton here, anyhow? If he stayed very long perhaps he would batter Thornton to jelly after all! Quick, almost instantaneous in their sequence came this wild jumble singing dizzily its crazy refrain through his mind—and then to his amazement he heard some one speaking pleasantly—and to his amazement it was himself.
"Come in, Thornton. Come in—and take a chair."
"Thanks," Thornton answered; and, entering the room, closed the door behind him. "No; I won't sit down—I shall only remain a moment."
The lamp was on the washstand, and, intuitively again, Madison shifted his position to bring his face into shadow—and leaned against the foot of the bed. He stared at Thornton, nodding—Thornton's face was white and exceedingly haggard—rather curious for Thornton to look that way!
"Madison," said Thornton abruptly, "I believe you to be a gentleman in the best sense of the word, and because of that, and because of the unusual circumstances that first brought us together and the mutual interests that have since been ours, I have come to you to-night to tell you, first, that I am going away from Needley and that I shall not return—and then to ask a service and repose a trust in you. You have said several times that you intended to remain here and take a personal and active part in the work?"
Madison removed the chewed cigar end from one corner of his mouth—and placed it in the other.
"Yes," said Madison.
"Then this is what I want to say," said Thornton seriously. "For my own sake, because it was my wife's wish, and for other reasons as well, my interest here, though I am going away, will be just as great as it has ever been; and so I want you to keep me thoroughly posted, and when the time comes that I can be of further material assistance to let me know. I impose only one condition—you are to say nothing to Miss Vail about it—you can make anything that I may do appear to come from yourself."
"Say nothing to Miss Vail!" repeated Madison vaguely—then a sort of ironic jest seemed to take possession of him: "But Miss Vail keeps all the funds."
"That is why I am asking you to represent me," said Thornton quietly. "I am afraid that she might have a natural diffidence about accepting anything more from me—I asked Miss Vail to marry me to-night, and she refused."
The cigar kind of slid down unnoticed from the corner of Madison's mouth—and he leaned forward, hanging with a hand behind him to the bedpost—and stared at Thornton.
"You—what!" he gasped.
"Yes; I know," Thornton answered—and moved abruptly toward the door. "Love makes one's temerity very great—doesn't it? I asked her to marry me—because I loved her." He came back from the door and held out his hand, "I've told you what I would tell no other man, Madison. You understand now why—and you'll do this for me?"
What answer Madison made he never knew himself—he only knew that he was staring at the door after Thornton had gone out, and that he wanted to laugh crazily. Marry Helena! Thornton had asked Helena to marry him because he loved her. God, there was humor here! His brain itself seemed to cackle at it—marry Helena!
And then suddenly there seemed no humor at all—only black, infamous shame and condemnation—and he straightened up from where he leaned against the bedpost, his face set and strained.
"Thornton had asked Helena to marry him because he loved her"—the words came slowly, haltingly, aloud—and then he covered his face with his hands. But he, he who loved her too—what had he done!
—XXII—
THE SHRINE
For a little time Madison stood there in his room, motionless, staring unseeingly before him—and then, as one awakening from a dream that had brought dismay and a torment too realistic to be thrown from him on the instant, his brain still a little blunted, he took up his hat mechanically, went out from the room, descended by the back stairs to the rear door of the hotel, and took the road to the Patriarch's cottage.
And as he walked in the freshness of the night, the restless turmoil of his soul that since early afternoon had brought him near to the verge of madness itself, that had robbed him of sane virility, that a moment since in his room had suddenly begun to lift from him even as the leaden clouds in the vault above him now were scattering, breaking, and through the rifts a moon-glint and the starlight came, passed from him utterly—and a strange calm, a strange joy, a strange sadness was upon him—and his brain for the first time in many hours was rational, keen—and he was master of himself again—and yet master of himself no more!
He smiled a little at the seeming paradox—smiled a little wistfully. He was beaten—by the game—he had won. How strange it was that sense of more than resignation now—a sense that seemed like one of thankfulness—a sense that bade him fling wide his arms as though suddenly they had been loosed from bondage and he was free, free as the God-given air around him.
He could understand Helena, and the Flopper, and Pale Face Harry now. With them it had come slowly, in a gradual concatenation, a progression, as it were, that had worked upon them, molding them, changing them day by day—and he had been too blind to see, or, seeing, had measured the changes only by a standard as false as all his life had been false. With him it had come in a crash, unheralded, that had left him a naked, quivering, stricken thing to know madness, terror and despair, to taste of emotions that had sickened the soul itself.
On Madison walked—along the road, across the little bridge, into the wagon track where, under the arched branches, it was utter dark. There was no one upon the road—he passed no one—saw no one—he was alone.
He had lost Helena—but he understood her now—understood the depth of remorse that she was living through, the terror and the dread as she sought escape, the fear of him—yes, it would be fear now where once it had been love! He had lost Helena—that was the price he had paid—but he understood her now, and he was going to her to help her if he could, going to tell her that he, too, was changed—as she was changed.
His hands clenched suddenly. God, the misery, the hopelessness, the wreck and ruin that lay at his door! And amends—what amends could he make—it was too late for that! How clearly he saw now—when it was too late! Her life was a broken thing, robbed, stripped and despoiled for all the years to come. Their love had not been love—she had given it its name—"passion, vice, lust, sin, degradation and misery and shame." And then love had come to her, into her life, love as God had meant love to be, and she had learned what love was she had said—only that she might never know its fulness, only that it might bring her added bitterness and added sorrow! Thornton had asked her to marry him that night—and she had refused him—because the past, it must have been as a shuddering, hideous phantom that the past had risen before her, had left her no other thing to do but turn away. It seemed he could see her—see her bury her face in her hands and—
He stopped short in his walk. Was he changed so much as this! Did he care so much that it was her happiness—even with another—that counted most! Yes; it was true—he was changed indeed. And the change had brought him too, it seemed, to learn what love was—too late.
He went forward again—a little more slowly; now; a sadness upon him, but, through the sadness, an uplift from that new sense of freedom that was as a balm, soothing him in the most curious way. His had been a rude awakening—mind and body and soul had been torn asunder; but he knew now, as he recalled the hours just past when he had looked on fear, when the gamut of human passion had raged over him, when he had stood staggered and appalled before, yes, before his God, that he had come forth a new man. And how strange had been the ending, how strange and simple, and yet how significant, typifying the broad, clean outlook on life, bringing coherency to his tottering mind, had been those words of Thornton's—"because he loved her."
He had reached the end of the wagon track now, and he walked across the lawn, his steps noiseless on the velvet sward, and passed between the maples; and the moon gleam—for the flying clouds, rear-guard of the routed storm, were flung wide apart, dispersed—fell upon a coiled and huddled little figure all in white, that was quite still and motionless upon the rustic seat beside the porch.
She did not see him, did not hear him, until he stood before her and called her name.
"Helena!" he said unsteadily. "Helena!"
She raised her head and looked at him; and then she rose from the bench, and, still holding to it by one hand, drew back a little. There was no outcry, no startled action. Her dark eyes played questioningly upon him—and he could see that they were wet with tears, and that the face from out of which they looked was very white.
"Why have you come back here to-night?" she asked in a low tone; and then, suddenly, a fear, a terror in her voice, as the Flopper's warning flashed upon her: "Thornton—you have seen Thornton?"
"Yes," he said, surprised a little that she should know; "I saw Thornton a few minutes ago."
She came toward him now and clutched his arm.
"What have you done?" she cried tensely. "Answer me! You—you met him on your way here?"
It was a moment before Madison replied. He had schooled himself of course for more than this, yet the words hurt—that was why she had asked for Thornton—she was afraid that he had harmed the man.
"No," he said; "I did not meet him. I think you must have been longer here on that bench than you imagined—haven't you? He came to my room."
"Your room! What for? Tell me!"
Madison smiled with grave whimsicality.
"To call me a gentleman and repose a trust."
She stepped back again, uncertainly.
"I do not know what you are talking about," she said in a strained way. "And you are talking very strangely."
"Yes," he said. "Everything is strange to-night. It is like a new world, and—and I have not found my way—yet."
She drew back still further.
"Are you mad?" she whispered.
"No," he answered. "Not now—that Is past."
She looked at him for a little time; and, her hands joined before her, her fingers locked and interlocked nervously.
"And—and Thornton?" she asked, at last.
"It was a trust," said Madison slowly; "but it was betrayed before it was given. He did not know—the game. He did not know what was between—you and me."
"No," she said—and the word came almost inaudibly.
"And so," he said, "I will tell you, for it cannot matter now in any case. He told me that he had asked you to marry him to-night—and that you had refused."
Madison paused, and swept his hand across his forehead—his voice somehow had suddenly grown hoarse, beyond control.
"Yes," she said—and reached again for the back of the bench, supporting herself against it.
"He is going away," Madison continued; "and he is to send more money here for the 'cause'—when I ask for it—only you are not to know, because you might be diffident about taking it after refusing him."
She stared at him numbly—there was no sarcasm in his words; in his tones only a sort of dreary monotony. She shivered a little—how cold it seemed! She did not quite grasp his words—and yet she shrank from them. And then her very soul seemed to cry out against them, to pit itself against their meaning, as their meaning surged upon her. And unconsciously she drew herself up, and the whiteness of her face fled before a rush of color.
"Oh, the shame of it!" she burst out. "The bitter shame of it! You shall not touch the money—do you hear! You shall not touch it! I—I thought that you had understood this afternoon. I am glad then that you have come to-night—if I must say more to make you understand. This is the end! I do not care what happens—the little I can do now to atone for what I have done, I am going to do. The game is at an end—you shall not touch another cent—and everything that we have taken goes back to those whom we have worse than robbed it from! You hear—you understand! I will cry it out in the town street if there is no other way—but it shall stop—it shall stop to-night"—she was panting, breathless, the little figure erect, outraged, quivering—and then suddenly the shoulders seemed to droop, the lips to tremble, and she was on her knees upon the grass beside the bench, and sobbing as a child.
"Helena!" Madison said hoarsely. "Helena! Listen! That is what I came for to-night—to find a way out for you, for us all, if I can."
The passionate outburst passed—and she was on her feet again, facing him.
"You are clever—clever!" she cried fiercely. "But you shall not play with me—you shall not trick me—I meant every word I said!"
But now Madison made no answer. The moonlight bathed them both in its clear, white radiance; and touched the sward, shading it to softest green; and the trees limned out like fairy things against the night; and the calm light flooded the little cottage with its hidden walls where the ivy and the creepers grew, and lingered over the trellises to drink the fragrance of the flowers that peeped out from their leafy beds. And upon Madison's face crept slowly the anguish that was in his soul—until it was mirrored there—until unconsciously it answered her where words would have been useless things. Like some white-robed, sorrowing angel, she seemed, as she stood there before him—the brown eyes full of shadow, troubled; the sweet face tear-splashed; the little figure in its simple muslin frock, pitiful in its brave defiance. And pure—just God, how pure she looked!—the brow stainless white under the mass of dark, coiled hair; the perfect throat of ivory. And—and the misery that was in every feature of her face, in every line of her poise—and he had brought her that—he had brought her to that—and now when he loved her as he might have loved her once and known her love in return, when his heart cried out for her, when she was all in life he cared for, she was gone from him, out of his life, and between them was a barrier he could never pass—a barrier of his own raising.
And so he made no answer, for indeed he had not heard her; but she was coming toward him now, her hands outstretched in a wondering way, wistfully, pleadingly, as though to hold back a refutation that would change the dawning light upon her face to dismay and grief again.
"It—it is true," she faltered. "It has come to you too—this change, this new life that has come to me. It is true—I can see it in your face."
"Yes; it is true," he answered, in a low voice.
"Thank God!" she whispered—and hid her face in her hands—and presently he heard her sob again.
A tiny cloud edged the moon, and the light faded, and it grew dark, and the darkness hid her; then softly, timidly almost it seemed, the radiance came creeping through the branches overhead again—and then he spoke.
"Helena," he said, steadying his voice with an effort, "you spoke of atonement a little while ago; but there is no atonement that I can make to you—nothing that I can do to change what I would give my soul to change. I know what it meant to you to send Thornton away to-night, for I love you now as you love him—I know why you did it, and—"
She was staring at him a little wildly—her hands pressed against her cheeks.
"Love—Thornton," she repeated in a sort of wondering way, a long pause between the words.
"Yes," he said gently; "I know. Have you forgotten what you told me this afternoon?—that you had learned—last night—what love was."
She shook her head.
"I do not love Thornton," she said in a monotone. "And yet it is true that through him I learned what love was, what it could be—don't you understand?"
Understand! No; it seemed that he could never understand! She did not love Thornton! And then, as some fiery cordial, the words seemed to whip through his veins, quickening the beat of his heart into wild, tumultuous throbbing. Yes, yes, he could understand—it was true—true—she did not love Thornton.
"Helena!" he cried—and stretched out his arms to her. "I thought, oh, God, I thought that I had lost you—Helena!"
But she did not move.
"What does it matter to you whether I love Thornton or not?" she said dully. "Does it change anything where you and I are concerned—does it change what I told you this afternoon—that I would not go back to that."
"To that! Ah, no!"—his voice rang dominant, vibrant, triumphant now. "Helena, don't you understand? We are to begin life again—in a new way, the true way, the only way. Don't you see—I love you!"
Still she did not move—but there was a great whiteness in her face, and in the whiteness a great light.
"You mean?"—her lips scarcely seemed to form the words.
"Yes!" he cried. "Yes; to make a home for you, to marry you if only you love me still, to live in God's own sight and hold you as a sacred gift—Helena! Helena!"—his arms went out to her again, and the yearning in his soul was in his voice—to crush her to him, to hold her in his arms, and hold her there where none should take her from him, to shield and guard her through the years to come, to live with her a life that seemed to break now in a vista of gladness, of glory, as the day-dawn breaks with its golden rays of God-given promise—the new life, perfect and pure and innocent—because he loved her. "Helena! Speak to me. Tell me that it is not too late—tell me that you love me too."
And then her eyes were raised to his, and they were wet—but there was love-light and a wondrous happiness shining through the tears.
"Helena!" he murmured brokenly—and swept her into his arms—and kissed the eyelids, lowered now, the hair, the white brow, the lips—kissed her, and held her there, her clinging arms about his neck, her face half hidden on his shoulder.
And so for a space they stood there—and there were no words to say, only the song in their hearts in deathless melody—but after a little time he held her from him, and lifted up her face that he might look his fill upon it.
"Helena," he said, "I cannot understand it all yet—it is as though it were born out of the sin and the darkness and the blackness of what is gone—as though here at this Shrine that we created in mockery and crime it was meant that you and I should save each other for each other. And yet this Shrine as we have made it is a thing of guilt, and it has brought us all, you and I, and Harry, and the Flopper to a new life."
She lay still for a moment in his arms—then her hand crept up and touched his forehead and smoothed back his hair.
"I do not quite know how to say it," she said a little timidly. "When you went away this afternoon, the Patriarch took me back into his room, and—and I knelt at his knees—and after a little while my mind seemed very calm and quiet—do you know what I mean? And I tried to think things out—and understand. And it seemed to come to me that there was a shrine everywhere if we would only look for it—that God has put a shrine in every heart, only we are so blind—that every one can make their own surroundings beautiful and good and true, no matter where they are, or how poor, or how rich—and if they live like that they must be good and true themselves."
"Yes," he said slowly; then, after a moment: "And faith too is very much like that."
"Only some need a sign," she said.
There was silence again, while her hand crept over his face and back to his forehead to smooth his hair once more—and then very gently she slipped out of his arms.
"What are we to do about—about everything here?" she asked soberly. "We are forgetting that in our own happiness. How are we going to return the money that we have taken?"
"I don't know yet," he answered. "I haven't thought much about it—but we'll manage somehow."
She shook her head.
"I've thought a great deal about it since yesterday—and I'm not so sure it is to be 'managed somehow'—and the more I've thought the more tangled and complicated it has become."
"Well, we'll untangle it to-morrow," said Madison, with a smile, "and—"
"No"—she touched his sleeve. "To-night. Let us do it now—to-night. I should be so happy then."
He smiled at her again, and drew her to him.
"But we ought to have Pale Face and the Flopper too, don't you think so?" he said.
"Of course," she said; "and so we will. The Flopper is here, and we can send him for Harry. It's early yet—not ten o'clock."
"All right," said Madison; "if you wish it. We'll go in then and get the Flopper."
And so they walked to the cottage door, and into the porch—but in the porch Madison held her for a moment, and lifted up her face again and looked into her eyes.
"My—wife," he whispered—and took her in his arms.