ANNE OGLESBY
Judge William Henderson was sitting alone in the front room of his cool
and spacious office, before him his long table with its clean glass top,
so different from the work-bench of the average country lawyer.
Everything about him was modern and perfect in his office equipment, for
the judge had reached the period in his development in which he brought
in most of his own personal ideas from an outer and a wider world--that
same world which now occupied him as a field proper for one of his
ambitions.
As he sat he was a not unpleasing figure of middle-aged success. His
gray hair was swept back smoothly from his temples; his red cheeks,
fresh reaped, bore the tinge of health. The large white hand before him
on the glass-topped table betokened prosperity and success in every
faint and fat-hid line.
Judge Henderson now was absorbed in the contemplation of a bit of paper
which lay in his hand. It was a message from the telephone company, and
it came from Slattery, county prosecutor. Something in it was of
disturbing nature. Judge Henderson's brow was furrowed, his face was
troubled. He seemed, thus alone and not stimulated by an audience, years
older than he had been but now.
He had been looking at this bit of paper for some time so intently that
now he did not hear his hall door open--did not see one who paused there
and then came, lightfooted, swiftly, across the space, to catch him and
blindfold him as he sat. He heard the rustle of her skirts, and knew at
once the deep counterfeit of her voice.
"Who is it?" she demanded, her hand over his eyes.
"Anne!" he exclaimed, catching at her hand. "You are here--when did you
come?"
She went round and kissed him. "Just now," said she, "on the train from
the city. You were not expecting me?"
"No, not at all."
"Well, here I am, Nunkie,"--she sometimes called her guardian by this
pet name, although really they were not akin--"I'm finished and turned
out complete--I'm done my college work now and ready for what we
graduates call the Battle of Life. Do you think I'll do?"
She drew back and made him a pretty curtsey, spreading out her skirts.
Indeed, she was very fair to look upon and he smiled at her admiringly.
"You are beautiful, Anne," said he. "You are very beautiful--you are
fine."
"Do I please you in every way?" said she.
"Perfectly, my dear. You cannot do otherwise."
She looked at him demurely. "I'm not so sure," said she. "Wait until you
have heard all I have to tell you."
"What's wrong? Are you in debt?"
"Worse than that, Nunkie dear--I'm engaged!"
Now indeed he looked at her with sudden consternation in his face.
"What's that? You haven't told me anything of the sort."
"I never knew it until just now--at the station." She came now and sat
down upon the arm of his chair. "It just happened yesterday--and today."
She put up a finger to her lips and rubbed them, fearing that he might
see there the flame of the kiss they but now had borne.
"Who is the young man--if you are really in earnest about all this?
Where did you meet him? Whoever he is, you've hardly done your duty by
me. I'm your guardian--I stand _in loco parentis_ for you. When did all
this happen?"
"Yesterday, on the train. I didn't expect it myself. But I promised.
He's promised me. We were going to tell you about it at once."
She was the very picture of happy and contented young womanhood as she
spoke. Not so happy was the man whom she addressed.
"I can't guess at all whom you mean," said he. "Is he anybody--is he a
man of station--has he any business--has he any means? How old is
he--who is he?"
"I can't answer so many questions all at once, Nunkie," said she. "But
I'm going to be very happy, I know that. Perhaps you can answer some of
the questions for yourself--perhaps you know him. Well, it's Dieudonne
Lane!--he's in town right now--a schoolmate of mine for four years.
Surely, I know all about him."
Judge Henderson swiftly turned and looked at her steadily, cold
consternation on his face. "Anne!" he exclaimed. "That can't be! It's
absurd."
"Oh, I expected that," said she easily. "That's because he hasn't any
money. I knew that. As for his family--he told me long ago that he was
an orphan, that his father died when he was very young, and left only
enough for his education, and that he would have to make his own way.
Very well, some men have had to do that--you have had to yourself,
Nunkie, isn't it true? And Don was born here in this very town----"
He put out his hand over hers as it lay upon the table-top. "Anne!" said
he. "My child! You're but a child--an impulsive, foolish child. What
have you done? You have not pledged your word--to _him_?"
"Oh, yes, I have. I'm promised--my promise is given. More----"
"It's folly and worse than folly. It can't be--I won't have it--you hear
me?" He broke out savagely now.
"I heard you--yes, but I'll jolly well not pay too much attention to
you, even when you roar at me that way. As I understand it, I'm of age.
I've been studying for four years to get ready to be able to know my own
mind--and I do! My own heart also. And I know what's due me."
Her voice was low and very sweet, but the man who heard her winced at
its cutting calm.
"You would marry a man like that, of no family, of no place, of no
name?"
"Yes, I've just said that. I know all about it. We'll have to start at
the bottom; and I ask you, didn't you start that way?"
"That's an entirely different proposition, my dear girl," said her
guardian. "Times were different then. You are an heiress--you are a
woman of family and place--and you don't have to go back to the old
days--you don't need to ruin your own life through such terrible
beginnings.
"But now, do you know who this young man's people are?" He asked this
last after a considerable pause, during which his ward sat silent,
looking at him steadily.
"Oh, yes. He told me he is an orphan--his father's dead long ago. And
his mother----"
"You know his mother?"
"Yes, a milliner--I believe. But a good woman."
"Ah!"
She still looked at him, smiling. "I am 'advanced,' you see, Nunkie! In
college we studied things. I don't care for the social rank--I want to
marry a _man_. I love Don. I love--well, that kind of man. I'm so
happy!"
She squeezed him tight in a sudden warm embrace. "I love all the world,
I believe, Nunkie--even you, and you are an old bear, as everybody
knows! And I thank you for all those papers in the long envelopes--with
the lines and the crosses on them, and the pencil mark 'Sign
here'--powers of attorney and receipts, and bonds and shares and
mortgages and certificates--all that sort of thing. Am I very rich,
Nunkie?"
"Not very, as heiresses go these days," said he. "You're worth maybe four
or five hundred thousand dollars, not very much. But that's not the
question. That's not really everything there is at stake in
this--although I'm well enough satisfied that's all this young man cares
for."
"Thank you!" said she proudly. "I had not known that."
"A good many things you have not known, my dear. Now listen here. Do you
know what this marriage would mean to me? I want to be United States
Senator from this state--and everything bids fair to see my ambition
gratified. But politics is a ticklish game."
"Well, what on earth has that to do with me and Don?"
"It has everything to do! I'm _not_ 'advanced,' I'm old fashioned enough
to know that social rank does count in my business at least. In politics
every little thing counts; so I tell you, for every reason in the world
you must dismiss this young man from your thoughts. You are quixotic, I
know--you are stubborn, like your mother--a good woman, but stubborn."
He was arguing with her, but Anne could not read his face, although she
sought to do so--there seemed some veil hiding his real thoughts. And
his face was troubled. She thought he had aged very much.
"In one particular matter," said she slowly, at last. "It seems to me a
woman should be stubborn. She should have her own say about the man she
is to marry."
"How much time have you had to decide on this?"
"Plenty. Twenty-four hours, or a little less--no, I'll say twenty
minutes. Plenty. Uncle--he kissed me--before the world. I can't take it
back--we have given--I have promised. Uncle, I have promised--well, all
through me."
"Stop where you are!" said he. "Have you disgraced us all so soon? Has
it gone so far? However that is, you shall go no further."
He rose, his fingers on the table-top, rapping in emphasis.
"My dear," he said, "I am older than you, and I have seen the world more
than you have. I recognize fully enough the dynamic quality of what you
call love--what I call merely sex in younger human beings. It is a thing
of extreme seriousness, that's true. But the surest thing about all that
sort of thing is that it changes, it passes. You will forget all this."
"You do me much honor!" said Anne Oglesby, coloring. "You speak with
much delicacy. But love me, love my lover."
The swift resistance of a strong nature seemed suddenly to flash out at
Judge Henderson from her gray eyes. Suddenly he turned and took her arm.
He escorted her to the inner room, which served as his own study and
consultation chambers.
"Come here," said he. "Well have to talk this thing over quietly. This
is a terrible matter--you don't know how terrible. There's a lot under
this that you don't know at all. Anne, my dear girl, what can I say to
you to alter you in this foolish resolve?"
"Nothing! I'm going to see his mother this very afternoon. He told me to
come, so I could meet his mother----"
"You're going to do nothing of the kind!" said Judge Henderson in sudden
anger. "You're going to stay here and listen to reason, that's what
you're going to do! You undertake to go into a situation which reaches
wider than this town, wider than this state, do you? It is your duty,
then, to prevent me from _my_ duty? Are you so selfish, so egotistic as
all that?"
She smiled at him amusedly, cynically, a wide and frank smile, which
irritated him unspeakably. He frowned.
"It is time now for you to reflect. First--as you say--this young man
has no father. His mother----"
He paused suddenly, his pallid face working strangely now. The shrill
summons of the telephone close at his hand as he sat had caused him to
start, but it was with relief. He took down the receiver and placed his
hand for the moment over the mouthpiece.
"Aurora Lane--you don't know about her?" he began.
Then she saw a sudden change of expression which passed over his face.
"Yes--yes," he said, into the telephone. "The jury has brought in its
verdict? _What's that?_----"
The phone dropped clattering from his hand on the desk, so shaking and
uncertain was his grasp. He turned to his ward slowly.
"You don't know!" said he. "You don't know what that was I have just
heard this moment! Well, I'll tell you. Dieudonne Lane has been held to
the grand jury--while we've been sitting here. They've charged him with
the murder of Tarbush, the city marshal. My God! Anne----"
It seemed an hour to both before she spoke. Her face, first flushed,
then pale, became set and cold as she looked toward the man who brought
this news. Once she flinched; then pulled together. But yesterday a
girl, this hour a young woman, now she was all at once mature, resolved.
"You heard me, did you not?" he went on, his voice rising.
"Charged--with murder! No one in the world knew he was alive--no one but
you, and you never told me of him--no one ever dreamed of him till the
last twenty-four hours, when he came blundering in here--out of his
grave, I say! And in twenty-four hours he has made his record here--and
_this_ is his record. Do you know what this means? He may not come
through--I want to say the chances look bad for him, very bad indeed."
Judge Henderson's smooth face showed more agitation than ever it had in
all his life before.
"Uncle," she said, after a long time, reaching out a hand to him, "now
is your opportunity!"
"What do you mean? _My_ opportunity? It's--it's a terrible thing--you
don't know."
"Yes, yes. But you say you have been in the place of a parent to me.
That's true--I owe you much--you have been good--you have been kind. Be
good, be kind now! Oh, don't you see what is your duty? Now you can use
your learning, your wisdom, your oratory. You can save Don--for me.
You're my parent--can't you be his, too? We're both orphans--can't you
be a father for us both? Of _course_ you will defend him. He hasn't
much. He couldn't pay you now. But I have money--you've just told me
that I have.
"Oh, no, I don't mean that, about the money--but listen," she went on,
since he made no reply. "Do you think _I'd_ desert him now that he's in
trouble? Do you think any woman of my family would do that? We're not so
low, I trust, either of us, either side. You are not so low as that, I
trust, yourself. Why, you'd not desert anyone, surely not an orphan boy,
just starting out--you'd never in the world do that, I know."
In answer he smoothed out before her on the desk top the crumpled paper
he had held in his hand.
"This," said he, "was brought to me just before you came in yourself.
Before you told me of this affair, I was retained by the state's
attorney to assist in the prosecution of the perpetrator of this crime,
_whoever he might be_. I must say it is one of the most terrible crimes
ever known in this community. The man who did it must pass from among
his fellow men forever. It is my duty to accept this retainer for the
prosecution, as I have done----"
"What--as you _have_ done?--You'd help prosecute him--you'd help send
him to the gallows, if you could--as innocent as he is? You--you--and he
has no one to counsel with--only a poor woman, a widow, who's never had
a chance--he an orphan, without a friend! You'd do _that_?"
His large white hand was raised restrainingly. "We must both be calm,"
said he. "I've got to think."
"Why, where will Don go--where will they put him?"
"He will go to jail, and be there until the grand jury meets--longer
than that, perhaps--and yet longer, if the trial judge and jury bring a
verdict against him!"
"But that's taking him away from me--right now--that's not right!--Can't
he get out?"
"He might perhaps be released on bail if the bail were large enough, but
the crime is the maximum crime, and the suspicion is most severe. I
don't know what means he can command, but he needs counsel now.
"But one thing, Anne," he added, "I forbid you. You must have nothing to
do with him. Keep away from him. Go home, and don't meddle in this case.
It must take its course."
"I would follow him to the foot of the gallows, if need be, Judge
Henderson!" broke out Anne Oglesby in a sudden flare of passionate
anger. "Ah, fine!--to give your word, your promise--to give your love,
and then within an hour forget it all--to leave the one you love when
the trouble comes! Is that all one gains--is that all one may
expect--is that all a woman ought to do for the man she loves? Is that
all she ought to expect from a man? Suppose it were I in trouble--would
_he_ forget me? Would _he_ forsake me? Then shall I? You don't know me
if you think that of me!
"You don't know me at all," she blazed on at him, as he turned away.
"I've tried to reason. Whatever my success at that, the answer's in my
own heart now." (Her heart, now beating so fast under the heaving bosom
on which both her hands were clasped.)
"And you forget me? I--I'm in trouble now--it's awful--it's a terrible
trouble that I'm in now." Judge Henderson's voice was trembling, his
face was pale.
"You--in what way am I bound to you? Trouble--what do you mean? Why,
listen!--All your life you have lived with just one aim and purpose and
ambition in your heart--and that was yourself! Your own ambition--your
own pleasure, your own comfort--those were the things that have
controlled you always--don't I know, haven't I heard? You've been a very
leech in this town--you have taken _all_ the success in it--_all_ the
success of everybody, from _all_ its people--and used it for yourself!
It has been so common to you--you are so used to it--that you can't
think of anything else--you can't visualize anything else. You think of
yourself as the source and center of all good--you can't help
that--that's your nature. So I suppose you think you are altogether
within your rights when you tell me that I must wreck and ruin my own
life to save you and your ambition! Why, you are--you're a
_sponge_--that's what you are--you are just soaking in _all_ the
happiness of others--_all_ the success of others, I tell you--taking it
_all_ for yourself. 'Our most prominent citizen!' Great God! But what
has it cost this community to produce you--what are you asking it to
cost me and those I love? Drops in the same bucket? Food for you and
your ambition? Do you think I am going to stand that, when it comes to
me--me and him--the man I have promised--the man I love? You don't know
me! You don't know him! We'll fight!"
He sat, so astounded at this sudden outburst--the first thing of the
kind he had ever heard from any human being in all his life--that for
the time he could make no reply at all. She went on bitterly now:
"Men like you, sponges like yourself, have made what they call success
in all the ages of the world--yes, that's true. Great kings, great
cardinals, great politicians, great business men, great thieves have
made that kind of a success, that's true enough--I've read about them,
yes. Men of that sort--Judge Henderson--sometimes they stop at nothing.
They'd betray their very own. I'm not your blood, but if I were, I'd not
trust you! Men like you are so absorbed with their own vanity, their own
selfishness--they're so used to having everything given to them without
exertion, without cost, they grow regardless of what that cost may be to
the ones that do the giving. In time they begin to think themselves
apart from the rest of the world--don't you think that about yourself
now? Oh, are you better than the world? Or are you just a man, like the
rest of them? Didn't you ever know--didn't you ever kiss a woman in all
your life and know what that meant?"
He had sat, his shocked face turned toward her, too stunned for answer.
But she saw him start as though under the blow of a dagger at her last
words.
"Don't think this hasn't hurt," said she, more composedly now. "It's the
truth as far as I know it. With your power, your influence, you could
get him free--soon--very soon--perhaps. You could make us both happy.
But, so you say, that would make _you_ unhappy! I know you well enough
to know what the decision will be in a case like that, Judge Henderson!
"As for me--" she was closer to him now, utterly fearless, as a woman is
who loves and sees the object of her love threatened--"our paths part
here, now! I'm of age and my own mistress. I know my own mind, as I've
told you. I'm going to stay--I'm going to stick--do you hear? I'm going
to love him long as he lives. I'm going to _marry_ him, if it's in a
jail!"
Judge Henderson only began to wag his head now from side to side. His
face had gone ghastly.
"Why, Uncle dear"--she came over to him now--"forgive me if I've been
too outspoken--it's only because I'm so strained."
"Myself also," he groaned. "Strain? Why, yes. You don't know--you don't
know!"
Suddenly she changed once more, still the woman, still the young girl,
as yet half ignorant of life, her hands still on her heaving bosom now,
the faint flush back in her cheeks.
"He _kissed_ me, Uncle!" said she. "I don't know much, but it seems to
me if a man kisses a woman--in that way--it's _life_ for her and him!
They can't help it after that. After that, a woman's got to do just all
she can in the game of life--and he's got to do the best he knows. They
can't help it. He _kissed_ me.... And I told you I'll not desert him. It
wouldn't be right. And, right or wrong, I can't--I _can't_!"
Panting, the tears now almost ready to drop from her moist eyes, she
stood, a beautiful picture of young womanhood, so soft, so fully fitted
for love and love's caresses; and now so wronged out of her love by
sudden fate. But in her there was no sign of weakness or of yielding.
The man who faced her felt the truth of that. His own face now was far
the more irresolute of the two--far the more agitated.
Suddenly, haggard, frowning, he rose, at a sound which he heard in the
outer room. Someone had entered.
As he stepped to the door between the two rooms, Judge Henderson turned,
his finger on his lips, and made signs that Anne should remain where she
was, undiscovered. The door hung just a trifle, wedged open by the
corner of a fallen rug. Judge Henderson had not time, or did not think,
to close it wholly. He stood face to face with the newcomer.
It was Aurora Lane!