THE CRUCIBLE
Echo stood at the gate of Midfields, her gloved hand delaying to close
it, her eyes gazing down the featureless street along which yellow
window-squares were beginning to spring out, and vague figures moved,
now standing out sharply under the newly lighted arc-lamps at the
crossing, now vanishing beyond into the chill windless dusk. Behind
her lay the purpling lawn, with its tumult of leaves under the acacias,
the oaks with their red-lipped foliage and the tall chrysanthemums at
the edge of the frost-touched grass that stretched like the skins of
young fawns about the great house with its fluted columns, dim and grey
now in the deepening twilight. About her were only the quiet of the
cold evening, the bewildered shadows huddling beneath the shrubs, and
the faint snap of frosty tree-branches in the tightening of the first
bonds of winter, above only the windless silence and a wild white moon
flowing through dusky wreaths of cloud.
But she felt no soothing influence in the hush.
Her mind was far away, in another city and state; her thought had
entered again the gloomy prison which she had visited with Nancy
Langham and Malcolm--on a day when a prisoner had intervened to save
the Warden's life. The peace of autumn evenings brought no comfort to
that place, save it were the mere rest of wearied bodies. A city of
itself, it was as alien to that city so near it, of comfortable homes
and pleasant people which she had visited, as the deep life of the
coal-miner is alien to that of the free hunter who breathes the sweeter
air a thousand feet above the other's sunless toil. Outside of those
walls folk were eager and merry; inside lights were dim, life itself
sluggish and inept; there were sore hearts, sterile hopes, smouldering
hatreds, an oligarchy of despotism ruling with slow cruelties, a
community of apathy and despair.
Since her return from the Langhams she had moved, so it seemed to her,
in a kind of sombre dream in which her daily duties were mechanical and
involuntary and her only real life that inner consciousness which had
writhed and struggled unceasingly. A sense of actual, personal guilt
bound her, by a bond stronger than steel, to that unknown prisoner in
the Penitentiary, weighing upon her spirit as heavy as a promise to the
dead.
What should she--what was she bound to do? Which way should she turn?
There was Mason's opinion, based upon a long and sensitive intercourse,
that the man was no criminal; that, had he been absolved of attempted
murder, he could have cleared himself of the baleful association. But
that, after all, was only Mason's opinion. He might be wrong. And if
so, though the man had not fired the shot, he was a partner in his
comrade's iniquity, a party to the greater guilt. An enemy to society,
his penalty was just and right. Was she called upon, on such an empty
hypothesis, to take upon herself a horrible mantle of notoriety? So
she had reasoned, but the self-accusation had remained, not to be
argued back by casuistry, a stern visitant that stood insistently
before her, pointing the stern finger of denunciation.
As she stood by the gate in the dusk, she shivered as though the still
cold penetrated beneath her furs. She must tell the truth! Whatever
the result, she must disclose the part she had played. She had no
thought that this might be accomplished without publicity, or that
testimony which might be basis for executive action could be secret.
In imagination she pictured herself standing before the same tribunal
by which an innocent man had been condemned, telling her story to the
impartial and impersonal Law--telling it openly, before all the world!
The world? It was not this thought which in this moment of harrowing
decision seemed to scratch her soul like an etcher's needle. She was
thinking now only of Harry Sevier. He stood out alone, sharply,
clearly defined against the meaningless multitude. She could no longer
take refuge in her pride; that had vanished long ago in the misery of
his absence. She wanted him, and him only, desired him with all the
strength of her woman's love, which had been sharpened and deepened by
the experiences through which she had been passing. When he returned,
it would be to find her the centre of an open scandal, sprung to new
and sensational life--the "mysterious woman" who had been blazoned in a
hundred headlines, her name no longer spotless, but cheapened by tawdry
mystery and smirched by innuendo! Would it not kill any vestige of
love his heart might still hold for her?
And yet beneath her dread and apprehension there had come to her in her
struggle the awakening of something as deep and imperative as her
love--the insistent "Thou shalt!"--the nascent must of truth and
honour, fruit of generations of clean ancestry, which brought clearer
vision and resolve.
She turned from the gate at length, her step dragging as if from
weariness. She had a strange feeling that in that final hour of
decision she had grown physically and mentally old.
As she neared the house, there came from the placid street the raucous
_honk_ of a motor and the sound of masculine voices lifted in a song
whose refrain solicitously inquired as to the whereabouts of a certain
dog named Rover. The chording was somewhat uncertain, but any lack was
more than made up by laughter and noise. She recognised the baritone
as that of her brother, Chisholm.
Chilly jumped down at the gate, and as the automobile turned and sped
back, its occupants calling jovial good-byes, he ran after her up the
drive. Overtaking her, he leaned to kiss her cheek, as she caught a
familiar odour upon his breath. She turned her face aside.
He noted this with a little laugh. "Come, prunes and prisms," he said,
"out with it! Yes, I've had a drink--numerous ones, in fact. Now on
with the lecture; let joy be unconfined!"
"When did I ever lecture you, Chilly?" Echo answered, dully.
"You _have_ been pretty decent, that's a fact, Echo," he responded,
with humorous lugubriousness. "I wish father took after you more!"
They had reached the porch now and he stole a quick glance through the
window. "I discern the shadow of my doting parent aforesaid," he
remarked flippantly, "and having a due regard for the proprieties--and
peace--I think I'll slip in the side-door and give the prodigal a
wash-up and a clove before he enters the lion's den."
He nodded laughingly and left her to enter the front door alone.
A few minutes later, divested of coat and furs, she came into the
drawing-room where her father and mother sat, the former with his
magazine and the latter perusing the evening paper. Mrs. Allen
withdrew her lorgnette and looked up.
"By the way, Echo," she said. "Here's the closing chapter of the
adventure you and Nancy had at the jail." She turned the page and read
aloud:
"It became known to-day that a dangerous criminal escaped day before
yesterday and got clean away from the Penitentiary of our sister state.
The prisoner, who was serving a term of twenty years for burglary, a
few months since shot down Mr. Cameron Craig, the well known financier,
in his library at midnight. It is to be hoped that there will be a
close examination into what appears to be a glaring exhibition of lax
methods and unpardonable carelessness on the part of the prison
authorities."
Echo could not have had a deeper sensation of amazement and relief. A
wave of excitement had passed over her, leaving her cool and
self-possessed, and able to take a natural part in the conversation
that followed. But in her heart she was saying over and over:
"I am safe--safe! There is no question now of my telling! The secret
is mine--mine--mine!"