THE TERRIBLE CONFESSION
Bertha and Durgan were standing in the broad central doorway of the
barn. Hay, full of meadow flowers, was piled high to right and left. The
air was full of dried pollen, and golden with the level sunlight.
"Do you know who it was that killed your parents?" Durgan asked.
She put up trembling hands in the brave pretense of shielding her eyes
from the sun. Her whole body shook; her head sank on her breast.
At last she said in faint tones: "You think _this_ because I warned you
of danger--because of all I have said; but I was distracted, and at that
time I did not foresee that you must be told who we are."
"All that is true. I am more sorry for you than words can say; but it
must be better for you to share a secret you seem to be nursing alone,
and you cannot think I would ask if I did not need to know."
She did not answer. He suspected that she was using all her attention to
regain self-control and the strength that she had lost so suddenly.
"You told me that you thought you knew who committed this second crime,"
he said, "and I am convinced that you connect it with that other."
A low moan escaped her. Her head sank lower.
"I believe that the nigger is guilty, but I can't go to court and swear
away his life, knowing only what you have told me and no more."
She whispered eagerly: "Will it do if I swear now that I believe I was
mistaken--that I knew nothing, or, at least, no proof to the contrary?"
"Have you ever had the least reason to suppose that another person
capable of these crimes lurked upon Deer?"
"If I swear to you that I never thought anyone else was near us, or on
the mountain, will that satisfy you?" She was leaning her brow heavily
on the hand that shaded her face.
"No one else--else than----?"
She did not help him out. She sat down, or rather crouched, on the steps
of the loft.
He said very gently but resolutely: "You think, then, that your sister
committed these crimes."
She put up her hands. "Do not, do not say it. Oh, I have never thought
it possible that you could be so cruel as to say such a thing to me.
Leave me in peace; for God's sake, leave me!"
"Child! even if I could leave you, it is not right that you should go on
nursing this terrible suspicion alone. In the back of your mind you
believe this thing, and think that some time--any time, she may repeat
the crime; and the terror of it is killing you."
She was trembling violently, her face buried in her hands.
"Have you allowed anyone else to know of this suspicion of yours? Tell
me, have you talked it over with a single soul?"
"No, no; oh, no," she moaned. "For pity's sake, stop speaking! I never
thought anyone would dare to say this to me."
"That is just what I supposed. You have nursed the idea in absolute
secret. You have not even allowed your sister herself to know what you
think."
"I beg that you will say no more."
"You are guarding this idea in heroic silence. You imprison it in
darkness, and think it would be more terrible if you brought it out to
the light. You are wrong. It will vanish away in the light. It is not
true."
She started, looking up at him with wide eyes in which the tears were
arrested by surprise. The flush on her face faded. She grew pale to the
lips with excitement.
"How do you know?" she whispered hoarsely. "Tell me--do you know? How?"
"I know just as I know that I did not do it--or you. You did not see her
do this terrible thing."
"Oh, you know nothing." She sank down again and rocked herself, moaning:
"You know nothing, nothing. Why did you deceive me?"
"Tell me, then--on what grounds have you formed this belief?"
She grew more quiet, drooping before him as if in despair.
"I must go to Hilyard to-morrow. I must know first what I can say. You
must tell me why you, even for one hour, believed 'Dolphus to be
innocent, before I go. I must judge for myself of what you tell me, but
you must tell me all you know--or else you must tell Alden."
At that she uncovered her face and sought to speak calmly. "I cannot
tell Mr. Alden; I beseech you, spare me that. I thought I could tell
him. Then, when he came--ah, I saw then what I never knew before--that
he loves Hermie--that she loves him. There is a far deeper friendship
between them than I knew. I was but a girl when they used to be
together, and now---- It is so sad to see the feeling he has for her.
She has grown so old, and so has he--so prematurely old. This sorrow has
been so deep to them both. The night that he came here he reproached her
for not letting him protect her more openly. He asked her to marry him
now--even now; it seems he has asked her before. Surely it must be left
to her to tell him if he must ever know, if she must ever endure the
anguish of his knowing."
Durgan could hardly believe his own sense of hearing, so calmly certain
did she seem of the verity of her secret.
"Your sister could not tell Mr. Alden what is not true. She is wholly
innocent. She can never, thank God, have any misery that accrues to one
who has committed an evil deed."
"You know nothing," she repeated gently, "and, oh, I am in a terrible
perplexity; I do not know what to do. I am in far greater straits than
you know of, Mr. Durgan. You urge me to tell you--will you accept my
confession in confidence? Otherwise--ah, if you tell Mr. Alden what I
have already said, it seems to me that I shall die of grief and shame.
I could never look my dear sister in the face again."
"You have no choice now but to tell me. The life of an innocent man must
be saved; your sister's name must be kept out of the trial. For their
sakes I am bound to consult Mr. Alden about what you have already told
me, unless, upon knowing your whole story, I think I am justified in
keeping your secret. I am your friend. I can have no possible desire but
to serve your sister and yourself."
"But truth--justice? Would you sacrifice us to a fetish you call
'justice,' pretending it is God? I have always felt that you would not.
Mr. Alden would, even if it cost him his own life."
Durgan meditated on this aspect of Alden's character. He could perceive
that from her point of view this characteristic made him terrible. In
her trouble she had blindly put her finger on perhaps the main
difference between the virtue of the South and that of the North.
"Hermie has always told me that about him, but till this time I never
entirely believed her. Now I do. The more he loved Hermie, the
more---- Oh, Mr. Durgan, it is terrible to think of!"
He looked down pityingly. "The thoughts that you are enduring, child,
are too terrible for you to bear alone. You must trust me. We
Southerners were never taught to think, as the Puritans did, that the
whole heart of God could be translated into a human code. I am not as
good a man as Alden, but if I were----"
"Oh, I can trust you," she cried. "I know I can. And you are right--I
must, I ought, to speak; but do not know how, or how much. Question me,
and I will answer."
"On what possible ground can you believe this of your sister?"
"On the ground of her own confession. It is written and sealed up; I
know where it is."
She had again crouched down on the lower step, and her face was hidden;
but her shaken voice was quite clear and resolute.
Durgan was amazed into silence. The sun, in a dry, empty sky, had slowly
descended to the dark rim of the Cherokee ridge. Now it seemed to set
suddenly, and a cold shadow rose over Deer. Bertha saw nothing, but to
Durgan the change in the atmosphere lent emphasis to her statement, and
all the combative part of his nature rose up against it. He was
convinced that there was no such confession.