placing her hand on his arm. "Don't try to say anything. It's not your
fault--it's not either of our faults. Now tell me what you think the
best thing is to do, and, you'll see, I'll make the best of it--there's
no use being miserable about it."
"You're a game little woman!" he said earnestly, quite unnecessarily
clasping the hand on his arm and wringing it to endorse his verdict.
"And that makes it a lot easier, you know. Well then, we might as well
face the whole truth at one fell swoop. We're up against it"--he laughed
cheerfully--"hard. It's miles to anywhere--we don't know where
'anywhere' is--and of course you can't walk aimlessly around in the mud
and rain."
"N--no," she said thoughtfully. "I suppose there's no sense in that."
"And of course you can't sit out here in the wet all night."
"That sounds comforting--propitious even," commented Helena.
"Quite!" agreed Thornton, laughing again. "Well, you wait here a moment,
and I'll see if I can't knock up some sort of shelter--I used to be
pretty good at that sort of thing."
"And I'll help," announced Helena, preparing to get out.
"By keeping at least your feet dry," he amended. "No--please. Just stay
where you are, Miss Vail. You'll get as much protection here from the
branches overhead as you will anywhere meanwhile, and you'll be more
comfortable."
She watched him as he disappeared into the wood, and after that, like a
flitting will-o'-the-wisp, watched his flashlight moving about amongst
the trees. Then presently the cheery blaze of a fire from where he was
at work sprang up, and she heard the crackle of resinous pine
knots--then a great crashing about, the snapping of branches as he broke
them from larger limbs--and a rapid fire of small talk from him as he
worked.
Helena answered him more or less mechanically--her mind, roving from one
consideration of their plight to another, had caught at a certain
viewpoint and was groping with it. They were stalled more effectively
than any accident to the car could have stalled them--they were there
for the night, there seemed no escape from that. But there was nothing
to be afraid of. She had no fears about passing the night alone with him
here in the woods--why should she? _Why should she!_ She laughed low,
suddenly, bitterly. Why should she--even if he were other than the man
he was, even if he were of the lowest type! Fear--of _that_! A yearning,
so intense as for an instant to leave her weak, swept upon her--a
yearning full of pain, of shame, of remorse, of hopelessness--oh, God,
if only she might have had the _right_ to fear! Then passion seized her
in wild, turbulent unrestraint--hatred for this clean-limbed,
pure-minded man, who flaunted all that his life stood for in her
face--hatred for everybody in this life of hers, for all were good save
her--hatred, miserable, unbridled hatred for herself.
And then it passed, the mood--and she tried to think more calmly, still
answering him as he called from the woods. She had seen a great deal of
Thornton lately--a great deal. He had been kind and thoughtful and
considerate--nothing more. More! What more could there have been? Love!
There was something of mockery in that, wasn't there? Everything she
thought about lately, every way her mind turned seemed to hold something
of mockery now. Of course, Mrs. Thornton's words expressing the wish
that she and Thornton might come together had been often enough with
her--mockingly again!--but Thornton could have known nothing of
that--so, after all, what did that matter? She had snatched at every
opportunity to motor with Thornton despite Doc's protests, protests that
had grown sullen and angry of late--snatched at the opportunities
eagerly, as she would snatch at a breath of air where all else stifled
her--snatched at them because they took her out of herself temporarily,
away from everything, where everything at times seemed to be driving her
mad. Hate Thornton! No, of course, she didn't hate him--she had thought
that a moment ago because--because her brain was--was--oh, she didn't
know--so tired and weary, and she was cold now and quite wet. She didn't
hate him, she even--
"All ready now--house to let furnished"--he was calling out, laughing as
he came thrashing through the undergrowth--"excellent situation, high
altitude, luxuriant pine grove surrounds the property, and--and"--he
had halted beside the car and opened the door--"what else do they say?"
Helena caught his spirit--or, rather, forced herself to do so. It wasn't
quite fair that one of them should do all the pretending.
"Flies," she laughed. "They always speak of flies in Maine."
"None!" said Thornton promptly. "There hasn't been one since the house
was built. Now then, Miss Vail"--he held out his arms.
"Oh, but really, I can walk."
"And I can carry you," he said--and, from the step, gathered her into
his arms.
And then, as she lay there passively at first, she seemed to sense again
that curious diffidence, that gentleness, like the touch upon her throat
of a little while ago, though now he held her in both his arms. How
strong he was--and, oh, how miserably wet--her hand around his shoulder
felt the thin shirt clinging soggily to his arm. Yes; she was glad he
hadn't let her walk--it wasn't far, but she would have had to force her
way continually through bushes that scattered showers from their
dripping leaves, and underfoot she could hear his boots squash through
the mud. And then suddenly it happened--the trees, just a yard or so
from the fire, were thick together, tangled--she bent her head quickly,
instinctively, to avoid a low-hanging branch as he for the same reason
swerved a little--and their cheeks lay close-pressed against each
other's, her hair sweeping his forehead, their lips mingling one
another's breaths. He seemed to stumble--then his arms closed about her
in a quick, fierce pressure, clasping her, straining her to him--relaxed
as suddenly--and then he had set her down inside the shelter he had
built.
Quick her breath was coming now, and across the fire for a moment she
met his eyes. His face was gray, and his hands at his sides were
clenched.
"I'll--I'll get the seat out of the car," he said hoarsely. "It will
help to make things more comfortable." And turning abruptly, he started
back for the road again.
Helena did not move. Mechanically her eyes took in the little hut,
crude, but rainproof at least--branches heaped across two forked limbs
for a roof; the trunk of a big tree for the rear wall; branches thrust
upright into the ground for the sides--the whole a little triangular
shaped affair. The fire blazed in front just within shelter at the
entrance; and beside it was piled quite a little heap of fuel that he
had gathered.
He came back bringing the leather upholstered seat, shook the rain from
it, and dried it with the help of the fire and his handkerchief--then
set it down inside the hut. His face was turned from her; and as he
spoke, breaking an awkward silence, his voice was conscious, hurried.
"I'm not going to be gone a minute more than I can help, Miss Vail. It's
mighty rough accommodation for you, but there's one consolation at
least--you'll be perfectly safe."
Helena seated herself, and held her skirt to the fire.
"Gone!" she said, a little dully. "Where are you going?"
"Why, to get help of course," he told her.
"Help!"--she shook her head. "You don't know where to find any--you only
know for a certainty that there isn't any within miles."
"I know there's a house back on the main road," he said. "I noticed it
as we came along."
"That's seven or eight miles from here," she returned. "And it's raining
harder than ever--mud up to your ankles--it would take you hours to
reach it."
"Possibly two, or two and a half," he said lightly.
"Yes; and another two at least to get back. I won't hear of you doing
any such thing--you are wet through now. It's far better to wait for
daylight and then probably the storm will be over."
"But don't you see, Miss Vail"--his voice was suddenly grave,
masterful--"don't you see that there is no other thing to do?"
"No," said Helena. "I don't see anything of the kind. I won't have you
do anything like that for me--it's not to be thought of."
Thornton stooped, placed a knot upon the fire, straightened up--and
faced her.
"It's awfully good of you to think of me," he said in a low tone; "but,
really, it won't be half as bad as you are picturing it in your mind.
And really"--he hesitated, fumbling for his words--"you see--that
is--what other people might say--your--reputation--"
With a sudden cry, white-faced, Helena was on her feet, staring at him,
her hands clutched at her bosom--a wild, demoniacal, mocking orgy in her
soul. Her reputation! It seemed she wanted to scream out the words--_her
reputation_!
Thornton's face flushed with a quick-sweeping flood of crimson.
"I'm a brute--a brute with a blundering tongue!" he cried miserably.
"You had not thought of that--and I made you. I could have found another
excuse for going if I had only had wit enough. I was a brute once before
to-night, and--" He stopped, and for a moment stood there looking at
her, stood in the firelight, his face white again even in the ruddy
glow--and then he was gone.
Time passed without meaning to Helena. The steady patter of the rain was
on the leaves, the sullen, constant drip of water to the ground, and
now, occasionally, a rush of wind, a heavier downpour. She sat before
the fire, staring into it, her elbows on her knees, her face held
tightly in her hands, the brown hair, wet and wayward now, about her
temples. Once she moved, once her eyes changed their direction--to fix
upon her sleeve in a strange, questioning surprise.
"I let him go without his coat," she said.
--XVIII--
THE BOOMERANG
It was early afternoon, as Madison, emerging from the wagon track, and
walking slowly, started across the lawn toward the Patriarch's cottage.
He was in a mood that he made no attempt to define--except that it
wasn't a very pleasant mood. Before Thornton had returned to Needley it
had been bad enough, after that, with his infernal car, it had
been--hell.
Madison's fists clenched, and his gray eyes glinted angrily. His hands
had been tied like a baby's--like a damned infant's! Helena was getting
away from him further every day, and he couldn't stop it--without
stopping the game! He couldn't tell Thornton that Helena belonged to
him--had belonged to him! He couldn't even evidence an interest in what
was going on. He had to put on a front, a suave, cordial, dignified
front before Thornton--while he itched to smash the other's face to
pulp! Hell--that's what it was--pure, unadulterated hell! He couldn't
get near Helena alone with a ten-foot pole, morning, noon or night--she
had taken good care of that. And he wanted Helena--he _wanted_ her! It
was an obsession with him now--at times driving him half crazy,--and it
didn't help any that he saw her grow more glorious, more beautiful
every day! Of course she knew she had him--had him where she knew he
couldn't do a thing--where she could laugh at him--go the limit with
Thornton if she liked. But, curse it, it wasn't only Thornton--that was
what he could not understand--she had begun to keep away from him before
ever Thornton had come back.
Madison was near the porch now, and, raising his eyes, noted a
supplicant going into the shrine-room--a woman, richly dressed but in
widow's weeds, who walked feebly. The game went on by itself, once
started--there were half a hundred more about the lawn! Like a snowball
rolling down hill, as he had put it at the Roost. The Roost! If he only
had Helena back there for about a minute there'd be an end of this!
She'd go a little too far one of these days--a little too far--it was
pretty near far enough now--and then there'd be a showdown, game or no
game, and somebody would get hurt in the smash, and--
He lifted his eyes again, as some one came hurrying through the cottage
door. It was the Flopper. And then to his surprise, he found himself
being pushed unceremoniously from the porch and pulled excitedly behind
the trellis.
"What's the matter with you!" he demanded angrily. "Are you crazy!"
"T'ank de Lord youse have showed up!" gasped the Flopper. "Say, honest,
I can't do nothin' wid him--he's got me near bughouse."
"Who?"--Madison scowled irritably.
"De Patriarch, of course. He's noivous, an' gettin' worse all de time.
He won't eat an' he won't keep still. He wants Helena, an' he keeps
writin' her name on de slate--he's got me going fer fair."
"Well, I'm not Helena!" growled Madison. "Why doesn't she go to him?"
"Now wouldn't dat sting youse!" ejaculated the Flopper. "How's she goin'
to him when she ain't here?"
"Not here?" repeated Madison sharply. "Where is she?"
The Flopper looked down his nose.
"I dunno," said he.
Madison stared at him for a moment--then he reached out and caught the
Flopper's arm in a sudden and far from gentle grip.
"Out with it!" he snapped.
"I dunno where she is," said the Flopper, with some reluctance. "She
ain't back yet, dat's all."
"Back from where?"--Madison's grip tightened.
The Flopper blinked.
"Aw, wot's de use!" he blurted out, as though his mind, suddenly made
up, brought him unbounded relief. "Youse'll find it out anyhow. Say, she
went off wid Thornton in de buzz-wagon yesterday, an' I put de Patriarch
to bed last night 'cause she wasn't back, an' dat's wot's de matter wid
him, she ain't showed up since an' he's near off his chump, an'--fer
God's sake let go my arm, Doc, youse're breakin' it!"
A sort of cold frenzy seemed to seize Madison. He was perfectly calm, he
felt himself perfectly calm and composed. Off all night with
Thornton--eh? Funny, wasn't it? She'd gone pretty far at last--gone the
limit.
"Why didn't you send me word this morning?"--was that his own voice
speaking? Well, he wouldn't have recognized it--but he was perfectly
calm nevertheless.
"Fer God's sake let go my arm," whimpered the Flopper. "I--I ain't no
squealer, dat's why."
Madison's arm fell away--to his side. He felt a whiteness creeping to
his face and lips, felt his lips twitch, felt the fingers of his hands
curl in and the nails begin to press into the palms.
"Mabbe," suggested the Flopper timidly, "mabbe dere was an accident."
Madison made no answer.
The Flopper shifted from foot to foot and licked his lips, stealing
frightened glances at Madison's face.
"Wot--wot'll I do wid de Patriarch?" he stammered out miserably.
And then Madison smiled at him--not happily, but eloquently.
"Swipe me!" mumbled the Flopper, as he backed out from the trellis. "Dis
love game's fierce--an' mabbe _I_ don't know! 'Sposin' she'd been
Mamie an' me the Doc--'sposin' it had!" He gulped hastily. "Swipe me!"
said the Flopper with emotion.
Madison, motionless, watched the Flopper disappear. He wasn't quite so
calm now, not so cool and collected and composed. He must go somewhere
and think this out--somewhere where it would be quiet and he wouldn't be
disturbed.
A step sounded on the path--Madison looked through the trellis. A man,
with yellow, unhealthy skin and sunken cheeks, his head bowed, was
passing in through the porch. It caught Madison with fierce, exquisite
irony. Why not go there himself if he wanted quiet--the shrine-room--the
place of meditation! Well, he wanted to _meditate_! He laughed
jarringly. The shrine-room--for him! Great! Immense! Magnificent! Why
not? That's what he had created it for, wasn't it--to meditate in!
He stepped inside. The woman, whom he had seen enter a short while
before, was sitting in a sort of rigid, strained attitude in the far
corner; the man, who had just preceded him, had taken the chair by the
fireplace--they were the only occupants of the room. There was no sound
save his own footsteps--neither of the others looked at him. There was
quiet, a profound stillness--and the softened light from the shuttered
window fell mellow all about, fell like a benediction upon the
simplicity of the few plain articles that the room contained--the round
rag mats upon the white-scrubbed floor; the hickory chairs, severe,
uncushioned; the table, with its little japanned box and book.
Madison's eyes fixed upon the japanned box, as he leaned now, arms
folded, against the wall--a jewel, even in the subdued light, glowed
crimson-warm where it nested on a crumpled bed of bank-notes--a ruby
ring--the last contribution--it must have been the woman who had placed
it there. Madison glanced at her involuntarily--but his thoughts were
far away again in a moment.
Anger and a blind rage of jealousy were gripping him now. _Accident!_
The thought only fanned his fury. Accident! Yes; it was likely--as an
excuse! There would have been an accident all right--leave that to them!
Thornton perhaps wasn't the stamp of man to seek an adventure of that
kind deliberately--perhaps he wasn't--and perhaps he was--you never
could tell--but what difference did that make! _Helena was that kind of
a woman_--though he'd always thought her true to him since he'd known
her--and Thornton, whatever kind of a man he was, wouldn't run away from
her arms, would he?
The red glow from the ruby ring had vanished--the man had risen from his
seat and was placing something in the box on top of the ring--Madison's
mind subconsciously absorbed the fact that it was a little sheaf of
yellow-backed bills. And now the man bent to the table and was writing
in the book.
Yellow-backs and rubies! Rubies and yellowbacks! Madison's lips thinned
and curled downward at the corners. Oh, it was coming all right, money,
jewels, pelf, rolling in merrily every day, there wasn't any stopping
it, but he was paying for it, and paying for it at a price he didn't
like--Helena. Helena! She wanted Thornton, did she--with his money!
Wanted to dangle a millionaire on her string--eh? She'd throw him
over--would she! And she thought she had him where he couldn't lift a
finger to stop it--just sit back and grin like a poor, sick fool!
The red crept up the knotted cords of Madison's neck, suffused the set
jaws, and, as though suddenly liberated to run its course where it
would, swept in a tide over cheeks and temples.
He couldn't do a thing--_couldn't he!_ Well, he'd see the game in
Gehenna before Thornton or any other man got her away from him. She
belonged to him--to _him!_ And he'd have her, hold her, own her--she was
his--_his!_ And he'd settle with Thornton too, by Heaven!
A laugh, low, unpleasant, purled to his lips--and he checked it with a
sort of strange mechanical realization that he must not laugh aloud. His
eyes swept the room--the man had returned to his seat, the woman had not
moved, both were silent, motionless--that ghastly, hallowed,
sanctimonious hush--that subdued, damnable light--meditation!
"For God's sake let me get out of here," he muttered, "or I'll go mad."
He turned--and stopped. Came a cry spontaneously from the man and the
woman--they were on their feet--no, on their knees. The doorway at the
further end of the room was framing a majestic figure, tall and
stately--and a sun-gleam struggling suddenly through the lattice seemed
to leap in a golden ray to caress in homage the snow-white hair, the
silver beard that fell upon the breast, the saintly face of the
Patriarch.
Then into the room advanced the Patriarch, and his hands were
outstretched before him, and he moved them a little to and fro--and the
gesture, the poise, the mien, as, touching nothing he seemed to feel his
way through space itself, was as one invoking a blessing of peace
ineffable.
Spellbound, Madison watched. Upon the face was a yearning that saddened
it, and, saddening, glorified it; the head was slightly turned as though
to listen--while slowly, with measured, certain tread, as though indeed
he had no need for eyes, the Patriarch circled the table and passed on
down the room. The man and the woman reached out and touched him
reverently, and drew back reverently to let him pass, and, rising from
their knees, followed him through the door and out onto the porch.
The room was empty. Madison stared at the doorway. Upon him fell a
sudden awe--it was as though a vision, an ethereal presence, some
strange embodiment of power, had been and gone--and yet still remained.
And now from without there came a sound like a distant murmur. It rose
and swelled, and began to roll in its volume, and then, like the clarion
sound of trumpets, voices burst into glad acclaim.
"The Patriarch! The Patriarch! The Patriarch!"
From the little hallway came the Flopper, running--and he stopped and
gaped at Madison.
"I left him in his room fer a minute," he gasped. "He's--he's lookin'
fer Helena."
And then Madison shook himself together--and smiled ironically. And at
the smile the Flopper hurried on.
Madison stepped out onto the porch. Helena! Helena! Within him seemed to
burn a rage of hell; but it seemed, too, most strangely that for the
moment this rage was held in abeyance, that something temporarily
supplanted it--this scene before him.
Onward across the lawn moved the Patriarch, and the Flopper had joined
him now; but the Patriarch, unheeding, turning neither to the right nor
to the left, his arms still extended before him, kept on. And the people
cried aloud:
"He is coming--he is coming! The Patriarch! The Patriarch!"
Madison moved on--out upon the lawn himself.
From everywhere, from every scattered spot where they had been, men and
women ran and limped and dragged themselves along, all converging on
one point--the Patriarch.
Madison, in the midst of them now, hurried--for it was plainly evident
that the Flopper's control over the Patriarch was gone. He reached the
Patriarch and touched the other's arm--and at the touch the Patriarch
halted instantly, his hand went out and lay upon Madison's sleeve in
recognition, and he turned his face, and it was smiling and there was
relief upon it--and confidence and trust, as, suffering himself to be
guided, they started back toward the cottage.
And then upon Madison came again that sense of awe, but now intensified.
From every hand tear-stained faces greeted him, white faces, faces full
of sorrow and suffering through which struggled hope--hope--hope. They
flung themselves before the Patriarch--yet never blocked the way. They
cried, they wept, they prayed--and some were silent. It seemed that
souls, naked, stripped, bare, held themselves up to his gaze. Men,
prostrate on stretchers, tried to rise and stagger nearer--and fell.
Friends, where there were friends to help, tugged and dragged
desperately at cots--and from the cots in piteous, agonized appeal the
helpless cried out to the Patriarch to come to them. All of human agony
and fear and hope and despair and terror seemed loosed in a mad and
swirling vortex. And ever the cries arose, and ever around them, giving
way, closing in again, pressed the soul-rent throng.
And presently to Madison it seemed as though he had awakened from some
terrifying dream, as, in the Patriarch's room again, he swept away a
bead of sweat from his forehead, and stood and looked at the Patriarch
and the Flopper.
The Flopper licked his lips, and pulled the Patriarch's chair
forward--but his hands trembled violently.
"It's been gettin' me, Doc," he whispered, "an' I can't help it. It's
been gettin' into me all de time. Say, I wisht it was over. Honest to
God I do! Dis--dis makes me queer. Say, de Patriarch's got me,
Doc--an'--an'--say--dere's been somethin' goin' on inside me dat's got
me hard."
Madison did not answer--but he started suddenly--and as suddenly
stepped to the window and looked out. Over the cries, the wailings, the
confused medley of voices, growing lower now, subsiding, there had come
the throb of a motor car.
Madison's eyes narrowed--_that_ was supreme again. A car was coming to a
stop before the porch--Thornton was helping Helena to alight.
Madison turned and caught the Flopper's arm in a fierce, imperative
grasp.
"You keep your mouth shut--do you hear?" he flung out, clipping off his
words. "You haven't seen me to-day--understand!" And, dropping the
Flopper's arm, he stepped quickly across the little hall to Helena's
door, opened it, went in--and closed the door behind him.
And the Flopper, staring, licked his lips again.