_Chapter XXXVIII_
The tide of popular sentiment was turning in Elizabeth's favor. It had
not been with her at first, in spite of her youth and the pathetic
circumstances of her position; nay, against her all the more on that
very account with many people, who feared a display of mawkish
sentiment, and to whom the cold-blooded character of the crime stood
out the more harshly, by contrast with her soft and girlish looks. But
now one thing and another--an intangible something in her manner on
the witness-stand; Gerard's return and his evidence on her behalf; his
apparently unchanged devotion--all this had created a strong revulsion
of feeling, which was increased rather than diminished by the District
Attorney's charge.
The District Attorney was in a brutal mood. He did not spare
Elizabeth, he left it, he said, to the jury to determine the weight of
Gerard's evidence. For himself, he would not for the world suggest
that a gentleman of Mr. Gerard's high character would testify falsely;
yet he might be--mistaken; he might easily make some slight error in
dates, misled by his--his interest in the defendant. While he talked
Gerard bit his lip, inwardly cursing that dictate of civilization
which had abolished duelling, and made even horsewhipping a doubtful
expedient. Mrs. Bobby was considering ways by which one could be
avenged on "a horrible man, not in society, whom one couldn't snub by
not asking him to dinner, or anything of that kind." Elizabeth felt,
with a new thrill of pain, that she was involving Gerard in her own
disgrace. But Mr. Fenton surveyed the District Attorney unmoved
through half-closed eyes, and said to himself coolly that he was going
too far.
His own charge was a skillful defense of Gerard's evidence, a
criticism, not too violent, of the District Attorney's brutality, and
an appeal, not too open, to the sympathies of the jury. Elizabeth
flushed as she realized that this was the point, after all; she was to
be saved on issues that would not have been effectual with a man. And
then the Judge's charge began, and she forgot all sense of
humiliation, forgot everything but the thought that her fate hung in
the balance, to be decided one way or the other by those
carefully-balanced, judicial phrases. Did she imagine it, or was
there, through all the calm analysis of evidence, the impartial
weighing of this or that detail, a conviction of her innocence so
decided that it made itself felt almost unconsciously?
"Strong on our side!" Bobby Van Antwerp's voice, unusually animated
and exultant, sounded in his wife's ear at the end. "The prosecution
are furious--they say it's horribly unfair. But of course, we won't
quarrel with that."
Eleanor was deathly white; her hands were tightly locked together. At
Bobby's words she gave a little sob of hysterical relief. "Oh,
Bobby," she murmured, under her breath, "thank God that judges are
human, after all! Now, if the jury are anything short of brutes,
they'll acquit her at once and make an end of this."
But the jury fell short of this test of humanity, and retired to
deliberate. Mrs. Bobby scanned their faces anxiously, as she had done
at the beginning of the trial. They were care-worn and gloomy--naturally,
with a woman's life in their hands; but surely--surely they should
look happier, since it was in their power to save her?
"I wish, Bobby," she murmured, with that sob again in her throat, but
this time not one of relief, "I wish we had tried if they wouldn't
take money!"
"Don't, Eleanor," said Bobby. "They're all honest men--and besides,
one can't do such things!" To himself he was thinking that women
really seemed on such occasions as this to be entirely without
principle, and yet that somehow one liked them all the better for it.
This was at two o'clock. Three, four, five o'clock came, and still
they made no sign. The long deliberation seemed ominous to the anxious
group who waited in a small, dark room on the ground floor of the
court-house, starting at every sound and counting the moments as they
dragged wearily along. Mr. Fenton and the other counsel came
restlessly in and out, with a cheerful air that covered but
indifferently their intense anxiety; Bobby and Julian Gerard stood by
the window, talking occasionally in low tones, more often silent and
gazing at the prison walls that rose up grimly before their eyes.
Elizabeth sat at a small table in the middle of the room, and her
aunts and Mrs. Van Antwerp sat around her in a forlorn circle. It was
a long while since any one had spoken; all consoling suggestions were
exhausted.
Elizabeth's hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes, wide-open
yet unseeing, stared steadily before her. Vaguely she was conscious
that there were people in the room, that by the window stood the man
whose presence might have mattered more to her at some other time than
anything else on earth; that her aunts and Eleanor Van Antwerp were
beside her, and would bend forward now and then, one or other of them,
to press her hand. In a dull, mechanical way, she was thankful to know
that they were there; yet nothing they said or did could help her, a
great gulf seemed to yawn between her and the outside world.... It is
thus, perhaps, that the dying feel when they see, with their failing
sight, the faces of friends, and know that even love is powerless to
reach them. Elizabeth suffered, during those hours of suspense, the
agony of death a hundred times over. But as the afternoon wore on,
hope faded and the numbness of despair crept over her tortured nerves.
"I don't like their staying out so long," Bobby Van Antwerp could not
help murmuring to Gerard. "After the charge, I thought they'd let her
off at once. They all want to--that's certain. But there were one or
two of them who looked--infernally conscientious."
"I don't want any of them"--Gerard began, but stopped. "To go against
his convictions," was what he had meant to add, but the words remained
unspoken. There are limits to even a Puritan conscience. "Good God!
Bobby," he whispered, hoarsely, "a man who could convict her deserves
to be shot!"
"I agree with you, old man," said Bobby, tranquilly. And then they
once more fell silent, and the shadows lengthened, and some one lit a
feeble gas-jet, which brought out, in ghastly relief, the look of
strained expectancy on each face.
At six o'clock there was a rustle, an excitement. Mr. Fenton came in
and spoke to Bobby, and he spoke to his wife. She touched Elizabeth on
the shoulder. "Dear, we--we go up now," she said. Elizabeth rose and
mechanically put up her hand to her hair.
"Do I look all right?" she said, and then smiled vaguely at the
commonplace question. A merciful stupor had descended upon her in the
last hour; when she looked at her aunts, she saw that they were
suffering far more than she. "I am not frightened," she said, "please
don't be frightened." She was determined that she would be brave. This
was the thought uppermost in her mind.
They went up to the court-room, and on the threshold Mr. Fenton said
to her: "Remember, that even if the verdict is--is unfavorable, it is
not final. We shall appeal." She bent her head, wondering mechanically
that any one should speak of things to happen _after_ the verdict. Her
whole life seemed bounded by the events of the next few minutes; she
could not look beyond.... The thought crossed her mind of how slight a
thing would decide her fate--the difference between one word or two,
guilty or not guilty. A mere trifle--a word in three letters; yet all
the difference between honor and dishonor, life and death. Her mind
fastened upon the irrelevant detail and dallied with it; the while she
was conscious, with sickening intensity, of each movement in the
court-room--the breathless atmosphere of a suspense, in which the mere
rustling of a paper jarred upon the nerves; the jury filing in, the
formal opening question, "Gentlemen of the jury, have you decided upon
your verdict?" Her throat was parched, balls of fire danced before her
eyes, there was a sound in her ears like the rushing of many waters.
Guilty or not guilty? One word or two? The question beat upon her
brain with a dull persistence, and she was conscious, vaguely, that
the answer was of vital importance, but somehow she could not bring
herself to realize it.
"_Not Guilty._"
The words rang clear and confident, across that gulf which separated
her from the outside world. As through a mist she saw the relief on
the faces of those around her, but still she herself was conscious of
no feeling. She still sat white and dazed, staring before her, while
her lips moved mechanically, repeating the words that seemed so
meaningless: "_Not Guilty._"
There was a pause, and then a stir, a murmur of relief. Some women
sobbed aloud. But she herself still sat staring before her, repeating
the answer that seemed to have no meaning: "_Not Guilty._"
_Chapter XXXIX_
By the next morning, she had realized all that the verdict meant; she
had had time even to grow used to it. The first joy had spent itself,
the inevitable reaction was setting in.
"Life isn't everything," she thought, and stared before her with knit
brows. The fire--it was a long time since she had sat beside one--gave
out a cheerful glow, the little drawing-room wore a festive air and
was bright with flowers that had been sent to her. A feeling of
physical ease and contentment, of relief in the mere change of scene,
stole over her wearied senses. But still it did not suffice; she
struggled indeed against it.
She took up and re-read a letter which had been left for her a little
while before, and had caused her, in her state of exhaustion,
something of a nervous shock.
_"They have just told me," it said, "that you are acquitted.
As for me, I am very ill. They say I can't live much longer.
That's why I ask if you will come and see me at once. There
are some things I'd like to tell you, and if you don't come
quickly it may be too late."_
_AMANDA._"
The address was that of a hospital.
"I didn't know," Elizabeth said, "that Amanda was so ill."
Her aunts, who were hovering about the room, devouring their recovered
treasure with tender eyes, looked surprised at her introduction of an
irrelevant subject.
"I heard that she had gone to a hospital," Miss Cornelia said, dryly,
"and her mother came down to be near her--but dear me, that girl
always has something the matter with her! I don't know why you should
trouble yourself about her, my dear. Both she and her mother have
behaved in a very unfeeling way all this time, never coming to see
you, or sending messages, or anything."
"Well, Amanda has sent me a message now," said Elizabeth. "She wants
me to come and see her, and I think"--she hesitated a moment--"I think
I shall go at once," she announced with sudden decision. The words
sounded strangely to her as she uttered them. It was so long since she
had said that she would do this or that. And even now, her wishes met
with some faint opposition.
Her aunts looked at each other. "But won't that be painful for you, my
dear?" urged Miss Cornelia, after a moment.
"I'm used to painful things, Aunt Cornelia." The girl's smile was
bitter; there was a tone of petulant wilfulness in her voice. Her
aunts still looked at one another unspoken words trembled on the lips
of each.
"My dear," Miss Joanna began at last, "Julian"--she stopped.
"He said he hoped to see you this morning," said Miss Cornelia, taking
up the sentence. "He hoped that after you had rested"--she faltered as
a look crossed Elizabeth's face, which did not promise consent. And
then suddenly she took courage and crossed over to Elizabeth and took
her hand. "My dear," she cried, "you--you must see him. He has been so
unhappy. He--he loves you, Elizabeth." Again her voice faltered. The
girl sat passive for a moment, and then she flushed and dragged away
her hand.
"I can't see him," she broke out, hoarsely; "it--it would be more
painful than seeing Amanda. And--if he loves me, why, so much the
worse!" Then softening, as she met their dismayed looks: "Oh, don't
you understand," she cried, "don't you understand that the kindest
thing I can do for him is--not to see him?" And then the tears sprang
to her eyes and she hurriedly left the room.
When she came back a few minutes later, she was dressed for going out,
in the black gown and hat that she had worn at the trial. She had tied
a black veil over her face.
"I must go to see Amanda," she said, speaking very quietly and without
any trace of emotion. "I should always regret it if--if anything
happened before I went." She paused as if in expectation of further
protest, and then as none came, she went to them and kissed them both
affectionately. "You--you don't mind, do you," she said, with a note
of apology in her voice. Her aunts sighed resignedly.
"I wish you would let me go with you, Elizabeth," Miss Cornelia said,
feebly.
Elizabeth smiled. "Why should you, dear?" she said, quietly. "I've got
to face the world alone some time, I suppose. And it will be nice to
see what it's like--I've almost forgotten." She gave a little sigh,
but checked it instantly, and went out before they could say any more.
Once in the street the world seemed so strange that it was startling,
and for a moment turned her faint and giddy. It was a mild midwinter
day--the trial had lasted over Christmas and into the new year--almost
there seemed a foretaste of spring in the air. To Elizabeth the
sunlight was dazzling; she put up her hand to ward it off. She walked
slowly and feebly, as if she were convalescing from a long illness.
She had not realized before how weak she was. Fortunately there was
but a short walk before her, through the quiet regions of Irving
Place, past Gramercy Park, and on to the hospital. She met no one she
knew, but several strangers glanced at her curiously, or so she
imagined, as if they recognized her, even through her veil. They might
know her from the pictures with which the papers had been filled; they
had seen one, no doubt, only that morning, with an account of the
verdict. They were wondering still, perhaps, if she were guilty or
innocent.
She was very tired when she reached the hospital, and the meeting
with Amanda loomed up before her like a nightmare. Her hand trembled
as she rang the bell. A woman in a sister's dress opened the door--the
hospital was under the charge of a Protestant order. There was
something conventual about the waiting-room, into which she was shown.
There was little furniture, pictures of saints hung on the walls, the
wide window was filled with stained glass, through which the light
streamed faintly and fell in bars of crimson and purple upon the
polished floor. The sister, speaking in the subdued voice which the
place seemed to demand, bade Elizabeth seat herself and took up her
name.
Elizabeth sank down with a sense of physical relief, which obliterated
all other feelings. A moment later she looked up with a start. The
door opened and a woman entered. It was Amanda's mother.
"Well Elizabeth, so you've got off!" she said, mechanically touching
with dry lips her niece's cheek. "I'm sure I'm glad enough, for the
sake of the family. And then I never thought you did it."
Elizabeth flushed painfully. "That was kind of you, Aunt Rebecca," she
said.
"Well, a great many people did, you know, and probably do still, for
that matter. But lor'--what difference does it make, as long as you've
got off? Some people might think all the more of you. There was that
girl at----who committed that murder that everybody talked about--she
got a hundred offers, they say, right after she was acquitted. And
everybody knew that she got off, just because she was a woman."
Elizabeth shuddered. "Please don't talk about it, Aunt Rebecca," she
said, faintly. "Tell me about Amanda."
A sort of contraction crossed Aunt Rebecca's face, which might in any
one else, have resulted in tears. "Oh, Amanda's pretty poorly," she
said, in an odd, dry voice. "I guess all those sanitariums and
new-fangled inventions, haven't done her much good. Why the doctor
sent her here, I don't know. It's a queer Catholic place, and I don't
hold with such notions, but Amanda seems taken with the sisters"--she
broke off abruptly as one of their number entered.
She was a woman of middle age, with a grave, fine face and musical
voice which harmonized with the place and her own costume. In her
presence Amanda's mother, for all her uneasy contempt seemed to sink
at once into insignificance. The Sister took possession very gently,
but completely, of Elizabeth. Her charge had been very anxious, she
said, to see her; it was kind of Miss Van Vorst to come. And then she
led the way up the stairs, and down the long white corridors, talking
quietly as she went of Amanda's case. The girl was suffering from a
complication of maladies, and the Sister thought that there was,
besides, some trouble weighing on her mind, under the stress of which
she grew daily weaker. No, there was, humanly speaking, little hope,
though Amanda's poor mother did not realize it, but the Sister thought
it would do her patient good to see Miss Van Vorst, of whom she had
talked a great deal. All this time there was not a word, not a
curious glance, to show that the Sister knew that she had beside her
the subject of so much discussion. And yet Elizabeth felt herself
enveloped in an atmosphere of sympathy, a tacit recognition of the
fact that she had suffered, which held in it not a trace of blame or
suspicion. Elizabeth felt grateful.
The private room which Amanda occupied as one of the few "paying
patients," was near the roof of the house, at the head of several
flights of stairs. Sunlight poured in through the window, the floor
was covered with matting, the walls bare and hung with religious
pictures. Opposite the small iron bed, and placed where the light fell
full upon it, was an engraving, the copy of a famous picture, of
Christ upon the Cross. It was singularly vivid, and the sorrowful
dignity of the face had attracted the eyes and soothed the sufferings
of many an occupant of the room.
Amanda's strange, light eyes, as they stood out unnaturally large and
dilated in her thin, wasted face, were not fixed upon the picture; but
turned with eager expectancy towards the door. She was sitting up in
bed, her head propped with pillows. Her skin had faded to a duller,
more ghastly tint than ever, but a bright spot of red burned in either
cheek. As Elizabeth entered she started, and an odd look flitted
across her face--it was hard to tell whether it indicated relief, or
fear, or perhaps a mingling of both.
"So you've come," she said, and drew a long sobbing breath. It was all
her greeting. Elizabeth, embarrassed, murmured a few words of
sympathy, as she sank into the chair nearest the door. The Sister,
with a keen glance from one to the other, left the two girls alone.
Amanda immediately assumed control of the situation.
"Sit there," she said, in a quick, sharp voice, and pointing to a
chair by the window, "sit there so I can look at you." Elizabeth
mechanically obeyed and threw back her veil. Amanda's eyes fastened
eagerly upon her face.
"Why, you--you've lost your looks," she announced, abruptly. "Did you
know it?" There was a note of involuntary satisfaction in her voice.
Elizabeth tried to smile. "Worse things have happened to me than that,
Amanda," she said.
"I didn't think anything could be worse--to you," Amanda said, feebly.
Elizabeth was silent. She was thinking that suffering had not yet
produced in Amanda any regenerating effect.
"Well, after all, I guess it don't matter," Amanda said, drearily,
after a pause. "You're acquitted just the same, and Mr. Gerard is just
as crazy about you as ever, they say. I guess you've got the best of
me still." She sank into a gloomy silence.
Elizabeth dared not speak. She was wondering if she could not escape,
since her cousin had nothing to say, beyond the old jealous complaint.
But suddenly Amanda turned to her.
"I've something I want to tell you," she said, speaking feebly and
with difficulty. "Sister made me promise that I--would; she said that
if there was any--any way in which I'd injured you, it would ease my
mind to--tell you. But first you must promise"--she looked about her
suspiciously--"you must swear to me on your oath that you won't
repeat--anything I tell you."
She raised herself up on her pillows, her breath came in convulsive
gasps, she fixed her eyes intently upon Elizabeth. "Promise," she
said, in her weak, hoarse voice, "swear to me on your oath that you
won't--repeat what I tell you now."
Elizabeth trembled, her brain felt dazed. Those strained, eager eyes
held her with a terrible insistence. "I--I promise," she repeated,
hardly knowing what she said, conscious only of a wish to have them
withdrawn.
Amanda sank back as if relieved, on the pillows, but still she
questioned, with a look of doubt. "You won't break your word. You are
sure?"
"Quite sure," said Elizabeth. Her brain still seemed dazed, her lips
moved mechanically.
Amanda seemed satisfied. Still, she did not speak, she lay quiet, with
half-closed eyes. At last, with a painful effort, she raised herself
up, and fixed her eyes again intently upon Elizabeth. "I sent the
poison," she said. The words came in a hoarse whisper.
Elizabeth stared at her without moving; only a slight shudder passed
through her. The words echoed in her ear, beat upon her brain. The
odd part of it was that they did not surprise her. She seemed somehow
to have heard, or thought them, before.
"Yes," Amanda repeated, after a moment, "I sent the poison. It was
after I had left the sanitarium--no one knew that I had left it. I
dressed as like you as I could, I copied your handwriting, I knew they
would think it was you. But I didn't"--a slight undertone of contempt
made itself felt in her voice--"I didn't know how easy it would be,
for I didn't suppose you'd do all those stupid things that made them
suspect you."
She was silent. Elizabeth still stared at her motionless, aghast. "But
why--why," she faltered, "what object, Amanda, could you have?"
A look of intense bitterness crossed the sick girl's face. She seemed
to flare up all at once into a red heat of anger, as dry, withered
wood will sometimes give out the fiercest flames. "What object!" she
repeated. "You ask what object!--and you know how he scorned me!
Didn't you wish him to die? You admitted it in court--because he stood
in your way; and do you think that is anything to being
humiliated--dragged in the dust, as I was?"
She leaned back panting on the pillows; the fierce flame of anger
which passed over her seemed to consume her feeble strength. When she
spoke again it was much more feebly. "That time when I--I went to him
at the studio," she said, "I thought maybe he'd come back to me
again--seeing you didn't seem to want him. I thought--but there, I
was a fool. Most women are, I guess, when they care about a man. He
laughed at me and said that I'd deceived myself--that it was I who did
the love-making. That was a lie, but it was what he said, I guess,
about most girls--when he got tired of them. I got wild, it seemed as
if my brain was on fire, and I--I threatened him. He only laughed. And
then I taunted him--about you; that seemed to hurt him more. I said as
how you had so many beaux, you didn't care any longer about him. He
said then, I was mistaken, that you were just as fond of him as
ever--really, that you would do anything he wanted"--
She paused, her breath seemed to fail her. Elizabeth sat listening,
stupefied, incapable of speech or motion. Amanda went on presently,
huddling one word upon another: "I didn't believe him, I thought it
was only to make me feel worse. And then, when I went out, I met
you--the thought came to me that I'd find out the truth. I came back,
I'd left the door open, I saw you give him money--but there was a look
on your face that made me think you didn't do it--for love."
She paused again and struggled for breath. Elizabeth spoke
involuntarily. "But how did you know," she asked, "about the pearls?"
"What, that you'd sold them?" Amanda spoke quietly, with a slight
smile, as at the simplicity of the question. "I knew it the moment I
saw you--that evening, and you didn't have them on. Then when I spoke
of them, I saw I was right--I saw how I'd frightened you. There was a
secret--I didn't know what; but it was something you were ashamed of.
Then, when you got engaged to that other man, I understood--I knew you
were afraid of his finding it out. I used to write to him, warning
him. He never answered my letters, or paid any attention--I guess he
thought I was crazy; but I had to keep on writing--I couldn't help it,
somehow. I had to do everything I did. It seemed as if something urged
me on. The only thing that kept me from--from having my revenge was
that you might reap the benefit. And then this plan came to me, and I
saw how I could--get even--with you both."
The hoarse, feeble voice grew fainter and died away, as if from sheer
exhaustion. Elizabeth interposed an indignant protest. "And so," she
said, "you wanted me to suffer--for your crime? You would have been
glad if they had found me guilty?"
Amanda did not answer for a moment. "No," she said at last, "I didn't
want you to die. I knew you'd get off--every one said so--because you
were so pretty and so swell. They wouldn't"--the bitter smile again
hovered about her white lips--"they wouldn't have said that about me.
But--if they had found you guilty"--she paused--"I had quite made up
my mind to confess. It was horrible lying here, thinking it over--I
don't believe death can be worse. You couldn't have suffered--anything
like it; for you were innocent."
She looked at Elizabeth with a strange horror in her eyes. Her face
was ghastly, beads of perspiration stood on her forehead, and on the
little rings of dark red hair, which clung about her temples. "Oh,
you don't know what it is," she said, "you don't know what it is. It's
the thought of that that's killing me inch by inch; it's not the
disease. And yet I'm afraid--I'm afraid to confess"--her voice broke
piteously. "You don't want me to--do you?--now that you've got off. It
won't do you any good--any longer, and as for me, though I don't want
to live, I'm afraid--to die." The feeble voice again faltered and died
away.
Elizabeth sat silent, her brain in a whirl. Before her there rose the
thought of the long months of torture, the prison cell, the terrible,
unnecessary suspicion that still clouded her life.... If Amanda would
confess, it would be something. People would never again believe her
guilty. And yet!----
Mechanically, her eyes wandered about the room, the incongruous
setting for this strange scene--bright, calm and peaceful; filled with
the pictures of martyred saints. Her gaze lingered fascinated on the
face of Christ in the engraving. It might have been the effect of the
light, or the over-wrought state of her nerves which made it appear so
real, instinct with mysterious life and power. Almost it seemed as if
the lips moved, the sorrowful eyes rested, with a look of infinite
pity, on Amanda ... ... "You won't betray me?" the feeble voice
pleaded. "I trusted you--you promised? You won't break your word?"
"No"--Elizabeth spoke slowly and thoughtfully--"I won't break my word.
I did break a promise I made you once, and repented it, ever since;
but this time I shall keep it. If you confess, it must be for your own
sake, not for mine. No one I care about believes me guilty. Let it
go."
Amanda drew a sigh of relief. Her head fell back, her attitude of
tension relaxed insensibly.
"You are very generous," she said, faintly. "I--I won't be
ungrateful." And then a silence fell upon them. Amanda's eyes closed,
she seemed exhausted. Elizabeth, seeing this, got up.
"I had better go. You're very tired." No answer came. But as she
reached the door Amanda's eyes unclosed, she turned her face towards
her.
"Good-bye," she said. "I'm sorry you've--lost your looks. Perhaps
you'll--get them back." The words came out with a great effort. And
then she turned her face away and said no more.
The Sister was waiting outside in the corridor. She accompanied
Elizabeth to the door of the hospital.
As they parted she laid her hand for an instant on the girl's arm, her
grave, clear eyes scanned the white, exhausted face.
"My dear," she said, "did your cousin tell you--what she sent for you
to say?"
Elizabeth met her gaze firmly, with eyes as clear as her own. "It is a
secret," she said, quietly. "I promised--not to repeat it."
A cloud passed over the Sister's face; her hand rested for a moment
tenderly on Elizabeth's arm. "Poor child!" was all she said. It would
have been hard to tell to whom she referred--Elizabeth or Amanda.
An instant later the great hospital door swung to, and Elizabeth found
herself again in the outside world.
Amanda lay absolutely still. She was conscious, for the moment, of
nothing but the utter vacuity of exhaustion. It was only little by
little that her strength revived, her brain began to work, those
thoughts weighed upon her again, which were killing her inch by inch.
It is hard to understand the processes of a mind like Amanda's,
diseased perhaps from the first, made more so, as life went on, by
illness and adverse circumstances. As to how far she was accountable,
who can decide?...
One thing is certain, that some sort of moral struggle now took place
within her. Her brow was contracted, her lips moved, now and then she
stirred uneasily. Her piteous gaze fastened half unconsciously, as
Elizabeth's had done, on the face of the Christ in the engraving. For
her as for Elizabeth, the pictured eyes held a curious fascination.
But we read into inanimate objects, above all the symbols of our
faith, our own thoughts and convictions. It was not pity which Amanda
saw in the sorrowful eyes which to her, too, seemed alive with a
singular power.
When the Sister came in, a little later, she asked her a question.
"Isn't it enough if we confess our sins?" she asked, feebly. "You
said that would be enough to have them forgiven."
The Sister looked down at her gravely. "Repentance is not enough," she
said, "unless we do what we can to make amends."
Amanda turned away with a feeble moan.
It was late in the afternoon when she nerved herself, as for a great
effort. She called the Sister to her and whispered. What she said did
not seem to cause surprise. The Sister's face brightened, she left the
room quickly. It was evident that she was prepared for an emergency
like this. An hour later the small room was filled--there was a
lawyer, witnesses.... Amanda's weak voice spoke steadily, without a
pause....
When it was over, she sank back exhausted, and her eyes again sought
the face in the engraving. She found there what she expected. With a
long sigh of relief she turned her face to the wall and slept. The
Sister quietly pulled down the blind.
"She will rest now," she said softly, and it was true. Amanda never
awoke.
_Chapter XL_
"Don't you think," said Gerard, "that I have waited long enough?"
It was five months later. The mellow afternoon sunlight pierced the
foliage, which, interlacing, formed an arch overhead. Wild roses grew
in profusion along the roadside. Beyond, the fields were thickly
strewn with buttercups and daisies. The air was fragrant with the
scent of honeysuckle.
Elizabeth wore a white gown; the hands carelessly clasped before her
were filled with June roses. So far, she matched the day and the
season. But her head drooped languidly, like a wilting flower, the
country air had brought no color to her cheeks. Lines of suffering
still lingered about her mouth. The eyes which were cast down, almost
hidden by their long lashes, held a latent shadow in their depths.
The man by her side, who had just come up from town, noted all this
with a keen anxiety.
"Don't you think," he repeated, with an impatience the greater for
what her looks conveyed, "don't you think that I have waited long
enough?"
A quiver crossed her face, but she did not look up. "It's not my fault
that you have--waited," she murmured.
The man made a rueful gesture. "Oh, you need not tell me that," he
said. "If you had had your way, you would have sent me--back to South
Africa, I believe." He broke off with a bitter laugh. As if in spite
of herself, a smile flickered beneath her drooping lids.
"Not quite so far, perhaps." The words sounded with a demure accent.
But in an instant the smile vanished, her lip quivered, she looked up
at him with a tremulous earnestness. "Ah, can't you understand," she
cried, "why I want you to go? Haven't I brought you trouble enough? Do
you think that now"--she paused and caught her breath--"now that all
this disgrace has come upon me," she went on with an effort, "do you
think I would burden you with it?"
"Disgrace!"--He flushed hotly.--"I don't know why there should be
disgrace," he said, "when every one knows now--even those idiots who
doubted you--how baseless the whole miserable accusation was."
"People don't reason." She sighed wearily. "There will always be a
cloud over me--I feel it even here. People at The Mills stare at me,
the Neighborhood"--she smiled painfully--"the Neighborhood feels that
I have brought upon it eternal discredit. Ah, you can't blame
them"--as Gerard muttered under his breath an ejaculation. "It will be
the same in town--everywhere. People will always remember that I was
horribly talked about, that I have been in prison. For myself"--her
lip trembled--"I'm hardened, but for you"--
"For me"--he put out his hand and took hers determinedly into his
strong grasp--"for me it is inevitable that, whatever troubles you
have, I must share them."
There was silence for a moment. They stood facing each other, the only
actors in the peaceful country scene; the man strong, determined, his
eyes aglow with the fire of mastery; the woman pale, drooping,
exhausted, yet still with some power in her weakness, that opposed
itself to his strength. She put out her hand at last in a gesture of
entreaty. "Ah, don't let us go all over this again," she pleaded.
"Don't make it so hard for me. It's hard enough"--The words seemed to
escape her unawares.
"Ah!" A gleam of triumph crossed his face. "It is hard, then?"
"Most things are hard."--She spoke with recovered firmness.--"Life is
hard, but one must--bear it. At least I'll try to bear it--alone. The
only amends I can make to you"--she clasped her hands suddenly in a
passionate gesture of renunciation--"the only atonement is to efface
myself, to sink out of your life as if I had never--been in it." She
paused, her breath came in convulsive gasps, but still she faced him
resolute, the look in her eyes with which some penitent of the early
church might have welcomed lifelong immolation. "To efface myself,"
she repeated, dwelling upon the words as if they held some painful
satisfaction, "to sink out of your life--it is the only atonement I
can make."
"You can't make it." Gerard's words rang out clearly. He took her
hands again resolutely in his. "You can't efface yourself," he said.
"It's beyond your power." A smile flickered across his face, his eyes
looked into hers with an imperious tenderness, before which they fell
abashed. "Do you know," he said, "why I went off in that idiotic
fashion into the wilds, tried to cut myself off from the world? I was
bitter, angry--I wanted to forget you; I thought, if there were
nothing to remind me of you, I might. And then day and night I thought
of you, day and night your face haunted me.... Ah, Elizabeth"--his
voice broke--"ask me to do anything except--forget you."
There was again silence. Elizabeth's lips parted, her breath
fluttered, a warm, lovely color flooded her face. He thought she had
yielded. But almost instantly the color faded, she drew her hands from
his grasp and shrank away, as if under the weight of some painful
memory. "And,--and that deception," she gasped out. "What has happened
to change that? You said--don't you remember?--that you could
never"--her voice quivered--"never trust me again." She lifted her
head suddenly, she looked him firmly, steadily, in the face, with eyes
that seemed the index to her soul. "I did deceive you," she said.
"Nothing can change that fact. Why should you trust me now?"
"Ah, it would be hard on most of us"--the words sprung impetuously to
his lips--"if there were no forgiveness, if strict justice were always
meted out." He put out his hand in a passionate gesture, a rush of
feeling thrilled his voice. "Elizabeth," he cried, "don't bring up
words which I said that night in anger, which I have repented--God
knows!--ever since. You had done an heroic thing in telling me the
truth at last, just when it was hardest--I--brute that I was--could
only think of my own misery. But let the past go--it shall not ruin
our lives any longer." He put his arm around her and drew her towards
him. He felt her heart beat, her pulses throb; his voice took on a
deeper note of tenderness. "The future is ours, and love is ours--my
darling, does anything else matter?"
The argument may not have been a wise one, but it has gained more
victories than all the logic in the world. Elizabeth, weary of
struggling, resigned herself to her defeat....
Later she looked up, gave a little, fluttering sigh, and her eyes
sought his with a wistful sweetness. "Dear, I'm not worth it," she
murmured, "but I will try--oh, I will try so hard." ... Gerard,
smiling, cut the sentence short.
They walked on homeward through the fragrant lanes, in which they two
seemed the only wanderers. The Misses Van Vorst, sitting by the
drawing-room windows, saw them come with a little thrill of anxiety.
Miss Joanna dropped a stitch in her knitting, and Miss Cornelia's
thin, silvery curls fluttered, as if stirred by some intangible wave
of sympathy.
Elizabeth crossed the flower-studded lawn and came towards them, her
white skirts swaying about her in the gentle summer wind. She held her
head erect, her color was brilliant, her eyes lustrous. The setting
sun shone on her hair and lit it up into a vivid glory. Elizabeth's
aunts stole a glance at her, at the look on Gerard's face. Then their
eyes met and they smiled softly at each other through a mist of tears.
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