Читать книгу: «The Barrier: A Novel», страница 15

CHAPTER XXVII

In Which Judge Harmon Leaves the Story

The Judge opened the street-door for Beth, and seemed to be preparing to follow her out. In spite of all she had gone through, perhaps because of it, her mind was alive to little things, and she saw that he was dazed. "You're not coming with me, sir? And without your coat?"

"I was going with you, was I not?" he asked. "But I – I've forgotten. Can you find your way alone?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "You must not come. Go in, sir." As if mechanically, he obeyed her, and shut the door. Beth went down the steps.

But the Judge seemed still confused. Slowly, very slowly he entered the hall. He went to the great chair that stood opposite the parlour door, and sat in it. His breath still came with difficulty, his head was buzzing; he could not remember what had happened. Then, raising his head, he looked through the portieres, which he and Beth had parted slightly, into the parlour. He saw, he remembered, and his heart gave a great leap in his breast.

So long as they heard voices at the door, Mrs. Harmon and Jim had stood listening. But when the indistinct tones ceased, and the door shut, they looked at each other.

"They've both gone!" Jim said. But they listened a moment longer. The slow footsteps of the Judge, as he made his way over the heavy rugs, were inaudible. Jim held his hands out to her again, but she pointed to the ring upon the floor.

"Trouble for you!"

He picked up the ring. "Trouble for both of us," he responded gloomily.

"Worst for you," she replied. "What shall you do?"

"I don't know."

"Oh!" and she stamped her foot. "How stupid of us! It was all, at last, just as we wished it. It could have gone on, nobody knowing. Now – oh, I am furious!"

"You mean," he asked, "that you would have let it go on as we were?"

"Yes."

"Meeting only once in a while?"

"Of course!"

"And that would have satisfied you?"

"Satisfied? No, Jim. But that would be all we could have."

"Then I am glad we were seen!" he cried. "I couldn't have gone on that way. Now we shall have to act."

"Act? What do you mean?"

"This," answered Jim. "Everything has got to stop for me, anyway. I'm – I'm in trouble. Ellis – " and he stopped to curse.

"Don't, don't!" she begged him. "Explain; I don't understand."

"He led me into it," said Jim. "He suggested it all: how I could take the money they send to the mill every Saturday for the men's pay, how I could get my mother's power of attorney, and use her securities. I never should have thought of it but for him – never!"

"You mean," asked Mrs. Harmon, "that you have done those things?"

"Yes," he replied. "I wanted to please you, to give you things, and have money."

She turned partly away from him, and stood looking down. Jim came to her side. "But we don't care, do we, Lydia?" He put his hands on her shoulders.

She moved away quickly. "What do you mean?"

"Ellis won't help me. Mather is after me. I've got to go away – go away this very night. Lydia, come with me!"

"Mr. Wayne," she began slowly.

"No; call me Jim!"

"You poor Jim, then. I can't do this."

"Why?" he stammered. "I thought you loved me?"

"So I do. So I will, if you'll stay here and let things go on as they were."

"Haven't I shown you I can't?"

"It can be hushed up."

"No, no!" he cried in despair. "And I can't face people; everybody will know. Lydia, come with me!" He neared her again, stretching out his arms; as she sought to avoid him, he strode to her side and caught her. "Come, come! I can't give you up." He crushed her to him and began kissing her eagerly.

But she resisted with sudden energy. "Let me go! Shall I call the servants?" He released her in astonishment; angrily she moved away from him, smoothing her dress. "I believe you're a fool after all, as Mr. Ellis said."

"Lydia!"

"I am Mrs. Harmon," she returned. "If you won't make a fight for yourself, you're not the man I thought you. Go away, then, but not with me."

"Then you don't love me?"

"Boy!" she said, growing scornful. "Love? What is love but convenience?"

"Oh," he cried, "come! You must come with me. See, I have money. Seven, eight hundred, I think. That will last a long time. We can go somewhere; I can get work; no one will find us."

"And that," she asked, "is all you offer? Eight hundred dollars, and a life in hiding!"

He began to understand, this poor Jim, but it was too much to grasp all at once. "You're fooling me, aren't you? Don't; I can't bear it. Say you'll come with me!" Beseeching her with open arms, he went toward her so eagerly that to avoid him she slipped around the table and went to the door. Then as she looked back at him, awkwardly pursuing, she saw him as she had never seen him before. He had rumpled his hair again: none but a manly head looks well when mussed. His eyes were bloodshot, his mouth open; she turned away in disgust, and looked into the hallway to measure her retreat.

There she saw her husband sitting, upright in his chair. With a sudden movement she threw the curtains wide apart and revealed him to Jim. "See," she said. "I have a protector. Now will you leave me?"

A protector! Jim, at first startled, saw the open mouth, the glazing eyes. He pointed, gasping; she saw and was frightened. In three steps she was at her husband's side; she grasped his arm. He was dead! Then she recovered herself. The doctor had said this might happen.

"He is – is – " hesitated Jim. "Oh, come back here; shut it out!"

"I shall call the servants," she answered. "You had better go."

"Go? And you are free! Lydia," he cried in despair, "for the last time, come with me!"

Cold and steady, she returned the proper response. "And you ask me that in his dead presence! Free, when his death claims my duty to him? Go with you, when I should stay and mourn him?"

Had she opened her breast and shown him a heart of stone, she could not better have revealed her nature. It was to Jim as if the earth had yawned before his feet, showing rottenness beneath its flowers. That eye of ice, that hard mouth, those blasphemous words! Jim did not know, he never could remember, how he got himself from the house.

He fled by night from the pursuit that never was to be. Taking the New York train, he lay in his berth, thinking, dozing, thinking again, while the train sped through the darkness. He slept and dreamed of burning kisses; he woke to feel the swaying of the car, to hear the whistle scream, or, shutting out all other sounds, to strain his ears for noises close at hand – the rustling of the curtains or the soft footfall of the porter. He slept again, and from a nightmare in which a serpent coiled about him, he came to himself in a quiet station, where steam hissed steadily, where hurrying steps resounded, where trucks rumbled by, and voices were heard giving orders. He looked from his berth along the curtained aisle – what misery besides his own was hiding behind those hangings? Then he dozed again with the motion of the train, and saw Beth, far removed and wonderfully pure, looking down on him with horror; his dream changed and Mrs. Harmon stood at his side, leading a walking corpse. And then he started from sleep with a smothered shriek, and with his thoughts urged the train to go faster, faster away from Beth, from that temptress, from the friends he had betrayed and the mother whom he had robbed.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Judith Binds Herself

Judith was alone, waiting for Mather, and wrestling with the question which at the discovery of her father's body had rushed upon her. Was his death her fault?

Had she accepted Ellis, or had she recalled her refusal when her father begged her, the Colonel would now be living. She might have guessed the desperate resolve that he had taken. What would have been her duty, had she understood? Or what should she have done, had he appealed to her? And not understanding, not having foreseen, how much was her fault?

There was here a chance for speculation to drive a weaker woman wild. But Judith had not the nature to yield to such a danger. Essentially combative, naturally active, her habit was to put the past behind, accept the present, and look the future in the face. This instinct stood by her now, and even though her shuddering mind still dwelt upon the catastrophe, something within her called her to stand up, control herself, look forward. And one more mental trait, which was in some respects the great defect in her character – namely her almost masculine fashion of judging herself and others – here stood her in good stead, and served her by showing her father's action in the proper light.

Though she perceived that she had led him into this entanglement, she saw more. The Colonel had had not only his own but also his wife's fortune: where had the money gone? Strong as were Judith's grief and pity for him, abundantly as she acknowledged her part in his error, she could not fail to see how selfish had been his actions, how cowardly this desertion!

But remembering her own great error, she could not blame. How deeply they had both been at fault! She began to sympathise with the Colonel's mistakes, to understand him better, to wish that in their relations they had not been so aloof. He must have been many times in doubt, pain, the deepest of trouble, and she had never suspected. Judith began to be stirred by more daughterly feelings than since childhood; her grief and pity grew stronger, unavailing regret seized her, and when George Mather arrived he found her in tears.

He had never imagined such a sight, nor had he met such sweet dignity as that with which, controlling herself, she rose and welcomed him. She told him of her father's death. Mather had not admired the Colonel; he was not surprised at such a weak end; and while she spoke all his senses dwelt on her – on the wonderful fresh charm, which, springing from the new humility, made more of a woman of her. Stoically but stupidly he paced the room, remembering that he was not there to consider himself, but to do what he could for her. There were things which must be done; as gently as he could he reminded her of them, and going to the telephone called up the doctor and asked him to bring the medical examiner. And while Mather did this, cursing himself that he could not console her, all the time a new sensation was occupying her – the comfort of having, for the first time in her life, a man to depend on.

Then Beth arrived, with Pease who had met her in the street – Beth, wild of eye, the very foundations of her nature shocked, in one evening twice betrayed. The poor little thing still maintained a false composure, checked from time to time the tears that would spring, and fought with all her force against the thoughts which were ready to engulf her. She went straight to Judith and rested at her side, feeling that there was strength, and that with George in the house, and with Pease there, silent and steady, no more harm could come to her.

Judith sent the two men to her father's study, where they saw the evidence of his one resolute deed. They took the letter, the result of his only wise one. Again in the parlour, they opened and read the letter together; their brows clouded as they read, and at the end their eyes met in a look of inquiry.

"Read it aloud," demanded Judith.

"I think we had better," said Pease, and Mather assented. And so the girls learned the full extent of their calamity, for with unusual brevity the Colonel had written:

"I have nothing left, not a stock nor a bond. The furniture is mortgaged, so is the house; Ellis, through brokers I suppose, has bought me up completely and threatens to turn me out on Monday. He can do it; besides, I owe him fifteen thousand dollars. The girls don't own anything but their clothes and knick-knacks, and Judith's typewriter.

"I don't see any way out of this, and I'm tired of thinking. You two are young and clever; I turn the problem over to you.

"Take care of my girls."

And with these words the Colonel had handed his burden over to others. Tears sprang to Beth's eyes as she understood. It was natural that even so soon his selfishness should force itself to notice. Ah, if men could but guide themselves by the consideration of what will be thought of them after they are gone, how different would be their lives! Not the religion man professes, nor even the love he actually bears, can teach him to overcome caprice or to sink himself in others. Yet since it may be that the punishment after death is to see ourselves as others see us, let us not belabour the poor Colonel with words, but leave him in that purgatory where the mirror of souls will teach self-understanding.

Judith was stunned. The real meaning of her father's statements came upon her like a blow, the room vanished from before her eyes, and she clutched the arm of the sofa where she sat, to keep from falling. The house mortgaged! The furniture pledged! And the great debt besides! The calamity overpowered her.

"Judith!" cried Mather in alarm.

She groped with her hands before her face and cleared the mist away. "It is nothing," she said. "I am – strong."

"I hope," said Pease, "that you will let Mr. Mather and me assume your father's trust."

"Tell me this," Judith requested, trying to command her voice. "We have no property at all – none at all. But there is that debt to Mr. Ellis. What is my liability to him?"

"Nothing whatever," Pease replied.

"I do not understand," she said. "I – I am responsible. If the debt were small, I should wish to earn the money to pay it. And though it is large, I think I ought to try to do the same."

"Impossible!" cried Pease. Judith listened while he protested and explained, but the matter became no clearer. Her own great fault had brought all this about: the debt was hers. She tried to make him comprehend.

"I – " she said, and faltered. "There are things you do not know."

"Judith," began Mather, "first let me understand, Mr. Ellis broke with your father?"

"And with me," she added simply.

"Then let me ask what object he had in lending money to your father?"

"Oh, don't you see," she cried, "that only makes it worse? If I – led him on, if on my account father supposed – It all comes back to me. It's my fault, my fault!" She was almost wild.

"But you did not know," he pointed out. "This debt cannot bind you."

"It is all my fault," she repeated.

"What does your sister think?" asked Pease. "What would Mr. Wayne say?" He spoke with the hope of new influence; but Beth dissolved in sudden tears, and holding out her hand, showed her finger bare of its ring and red with the rubbing which all this time she had been giving it, to remove even the mark of Jim's pledge.

"Do not speak of him!" she sobbed.

Judith gathered her in her arms; the men walked into the next room. As Judith sought to comfort unhappy Beth she felt mounting in herself an unknown tenderness. In this crisis all selfishness was impossible, all worldliness was far from her thoughts. Her heart spoke naturally in murmurings, softened the hand which gave the sweet caress, yet lent the strength that held her sister to her breast. It was a blessed minute for them both, for Judith learned new kindness, and Beth found, in place of a reserved sister, one who seemed to have a mother's gentleness. And yet their communion was brief, for the outer door – earlier left unlatched for Beth's return – opened and then shut, steps were heard in the hall, and a voice said inquiringly, "Colonel Blanchard?" It was Ellis!

Judith rose quickly to her feet, dashing the tears from her eyes; Beth also rose, astonished and alarmed. Scarcely had they made an attempt to compose themselves before Ellis appeared in the doorway. He slowly entered.

"Excuse me," he said; "I did not ring because I was afraid you would not receive me. I came to beg your pardon."

"It is granted," Judith answered coldly.

"I did not know what I was doing," he went on. "I – I hope we can go back to where we were. No," as she made a gesture of denial, "hear me out. I didn't mean what I said about the debt and mortgages – you know I did not. Let the mortgages run. And two of your father's notes are overdue. Look, I have written another to supersede them all, giving time for payment. Let him sign this, and I destroy the others. Will you tell him this?" He held out the note.

Her eyes glowed as she took it. "Have you a pen?" He drew out a fountain pen and gave it to her.

"What are you doing?" asked Beth, alarmed.

"I will sign it," Judith answered.

"You?" Ellis cried.

"My father is dead," she replied. Quickly she went to the table and cleared a space at its corner.

"Judith!" protested Beth. But Judith's eyes were bright with excitement, and she did not hear. Beth turned and sped into the adjoining room. Astonished, yet holding himself quiet, Ellis listened to the scratching of the pen, and watched Judith's eager face as she signed the note. She gave it to him, with the pen.

"There!" she said, in the tone of one who has fulfilled a duty.

Then Mather entered, too late. Ellis had torn the Colonel's notes and handed them to Judith. "What have you done?" Mather cried.

She faced him proudly. "I have assumed my father's debt."

To Pease, who had followed him, Mather cast one look of impotence; then he strode to the promoter's side.

"Mr. Ellis, give me the note!"

But Ellis put it in his pocket. "It is mine."

"I will pledge myself for it," offered Mather, "at what terms you please."

"It is not for sale," said Ellis doggedly.

"I will bring cash for it on Monday."

"Thank you," sneered Ellis, "but I mean to keep it."

"Mr. Ellis," Mather cried, "on what terms will you part with the note?"

"I will part with it," he replied, "only to Miss Blanchard herself, as you must admit is proper, and the terms I will arrange with her alone."

He looked his defiance into Mather's face. The tense and shaking figure of his rival towered above him, and Pease started forward to prevent a blow. But Mather controlled himself and pointed to the door. "Go!"

Ellis bowed to the sisters. "Good-night." No one made answer as he went away.

Beth, exhausted, was asleep at last; Judith sat by her side. The medical examiner had come and gone, her father lay in peace, and the house was quiet. Downstairs Mather was watching: he had offered to stay; Beth had begged that he might. Judith would not allow her thoughts to dwell on him, or on the comfort of his neighbourhood. She would not think of Ellis, nor of those obligations, the extent of which she did not understand. Of her father she did not dare to think except to promise to take his place toward Beth, and to pay his debt even if the struggle should bring her to face the world's worst. Yet no fear troubled her, for a new self, an awakening soul, was stirring within her, calling for contrition, self-examination, and for new resolves. Musing and confessing her faults, Judith went to the window and looked up at the stars; through them she looked into the unalterable and true. She had been wrong; she understood the falseness of her standards. Then she saw more, and awe began to come over her as she perceived so much where once had appeared so little. Life held love: her sister was left to her. Life held duty, and work to be accomplished. That work called her.

Yet how different it was from what she had expected! She had desired to mix with affairs; now in truth she would become part of them, but only as a wheel in the great machine. She was not disappointed nor dismayed. Seen thus near at hand, life had rewards, giving vigour, not ennui; and giving reality, not that artificiality of the past. She did not regret, for she saw greater heights to the new life which she faced than to the one dead level of the old conception.

It was also new to Judith that without reasoning she felt all this, and knew, as never before. She would give herself to this wonderful life, would follow it to whatever end was waiting for her, confident that, having acted right, that end could not be evil. And so feeling, her heart moved within her, again to her eyes came the tears, and another of those barriers melted away which stood between Judith and her true womanhood.