day's work was done--here. Here they would go in quiet thankfulness each
from the farm to his little cottage, each to his simple, wholesome meal,
each to the twilight hours of gentle communion as they talked to one
another from their doorways, each to his bed and his rest, tranquil in
the love of God and of man.
Madison flung back the dripping hair from his forehead. Strange, the
contrast that, unbidden, came insistently to him now: The liquid notes
of the bell wafted sweetly on the evening breeze; the howling, jangling
turmoil of the city slums, of his familiar haunts where, in mad chaos,
reigned the hawkers' cries, the thunder of the elevated trains, the
noisome traffic of the street, the raucous clang of trolley bells--the
sweet perfume of the, fields, the smell of trees, of earth, of all of
God's pure things untouched, unsoiled; the stench of Chatham Square,
the reek of whiskey spilled with the breath of obscene, filthy lips--the
little village that he could see beyond him, the tiny curls of blue
smoke rising like the incense from an altar over the roofs of houses
whose doors had no locks, whose windows were not barred, where plain,
homely folk, unsullied, lived at peace with God and the world; the
closed areaways of the Bowery, the creaking stairs, the dim hallways
leading to dens of vileness and iniquity where, safe by bolts from
interruption, crime bred its offsprings and vice was hatched. What did
it mean!
And so he stood there for a little space; then presently he started
forward again; and presently he reached the village street, walked down
its length, greeted from every doorway with hearty, unaffected
sincerity, and after a little while he came to the hotel, and to his
room--and there he locked the door.
Helena was straight--the words were repeating themselves over and over
in his brain. He began to pace up and down the room. The words seemed to
take form and shape in fiery red letters, being scrawled by invisible
hands upon the walls--_Helena was straight_. Straight with Thornton,
straight with any man--straight with her Maker. He knew that now--he had
read it as a soul-truth in those brave, deep, tear-dimmed eyes. And he
had _lost_ her! It seemed as though he had become suddenly conscious
that he was enduring some agony that was never to know an end, that
from now on must be with him always. He had lost her--lost Helena.
From his pocket he drew out his keys and opened his trunks, and took out
the trays and spread them about. There were very many trays, they nested
one upon the other--and they were exceedingly ingenious
trays--false-bottomed every one. And now he opened these false-bottoms,
every one of them, and stood and looked at them. The surest, safest,
biggest game he had ever played, the game that had known no single
hitch, the game that had brought no whispering breath of suspicion flung
its tribute in his face. Money that he had never tried to count, notes
of all denominations, large and small, glutted the receptacles--jewels
in necklaces, in rings, in pendants, in brooches, in bracelets,
diamonds, rubies, emeralds, winked at him and scintillated and glowed
and were afire.
And he stood and looked upon them. What was it the Flopper had said when
they had brought the Patriarch back--he did not remember. What was it
that Pale Face Harry had said a little while ago--he did not remember.
These were jewels here and money--wealth--and he had won the greatest
game that was ever played--only he had lost her--lost Helena. And he
stood and looked upon them--and slowly there crept to his face a
white-lipped smile.
"I'm beat!" he whispered hoarsely. "Beat--by the game--I won."
--XXI--
FACE VALUE
It was evening of the same day--and there came a knock at the outer door
of the cottage porch.
The Flopper answered it, and came back to the Patriarch's room; where
the Patriarch sat in his armchair; where the lamp, turned low, throwing
the little room into half shadow, burned upon the table; where Helena,
far away from her immediate surroundings, quite silent and still, her
own chair close beside the other's, nestled with her head on the
Patriarch's shoulder.
Helena looked up as the Flopper returned.
Upon the Flopper's face was a curious expression--not one that in the
days gone by had been habitual--it seemed to mingle a diffidence, a
kindly solicitude and a sort of anxious responsibility.
"It's Thornton askin' fer youse," announced the Flopper.
Helena rose from her chair, and started for the door--but the Flopper
blocked the way. Helena halted and looked at him in astonishment.
The Flopper licked his lips.
"Say, Helena," he said earnestly, "if I was youse I wouldn't go--say,
I'll tell him youse have got de pip an' gone ter bed."
"Not go?" echoed Helena. "What do you mean?"
The Flopper scratched at his chin uneasily.
"Oh, you know!" he said. "De Doc let youse down easy ter-day. Say, if
youse had piped his lamps when you drives up in de buzz-wagon dis
afternoon youse wouldn't be lookin' fer any more trouble. Say, I'm
tellin' youse straight, Helena. When I was out dere in de kitchen an'
youse was in yer room wid him me heart was in me mouth all de time.
Youse can take it from me, Helena, he let youse down easy."
Helena's brown eyes, a little wistfully, a little softly, held upon the
Flopper.
"Yes?" she said quietly.
"Youse had better cut it out ter-night, Helena," the Flopper went on.
"Y'oughter know de Doc by dis time--de guy dat starts anything wid de
Doc gets his--dat's all! Remember de night he threw Cleggy down de
stairs in de Roost?--an' he was only havin' fun! Say, you go out wid
Thornton again ter-night an' de Doc finds it out--an' something'll
happen. Say, Helena, fer God's sake, don't youse do it--de Doc was bad
enough dis afternoon when he let youse down easy, but he's worse now,
an'--"
"Worse?" Helena interrupted, smiling a little apathetically. "In what
way is he worse? And how do you know? You haven't seen Doc, have you?"
"No," the Flopper answered, circling his lips with his tongue again.
"No; I ain't seen de Doc since--but I seen Pale Face. Say, Helena"--the
Flopper's words came stumbling out now, agitated, perturbed, not
altogether coherent--"wot's de answer I dunno; I dunno wot's de matter
here. Say"--he pointed suddenly to the Patriarch, whose face was turned
toward them as he stroked thoughtfully at his silver beard--"he's got me
fer fair--dere ain't no fake here--dis way ter live is de real t'ing--he
ain't like you an' me--he's _more'n_ dat--look at him now--youse'd t'ink
he could see us, an' was listenin' ter wot we said. I dunno wot's de
end--I dunno wot's de matter wid me. I was scared more'n ever out dere
dis afternoon on de lawn, an' I thought mabbe God 'ud strike me
dead--but 'tain't only dat I'm scared ter buck de game any more, 'tain't
only dat--I don't _wanter_ any more, an' it don't make no difference
about de dough--I wanter live straight, same as him, same as de guys
around here, same--same as Mamie. Say, Helena, say, do youse believe in
love--in--in de _real_ t'ing?"
Helena's apathy was gone now--a flush dyed her cheeks. She was not
startled at what the Flopper had said--she had seen it coming,
subconsciously, vaguely, mistily, for days now, only she had been
immersed in herself--she was not startled, and yet, in a way, she was.
The end! She too had been thinking about that--and she too did not know.
What _was_ the end?
"You were going to say something about Pale Face," she said, prompting
the Flopper. "Something about Pale Face and Doc."
"Yes," said the Flopper, and again the tip of his tongue sought his lips
nervously. "Dat's why I don't want youse ter go out wid Thornton
ter-night. Pale Face has got it de same as me, an' he told de Doc dis
afternoon, out in de path dere, after de Doc left de cottage here. Dere
was a showdown--see? De Doc 'ud kill youse an' Thornton ter-night if he
caught youse ter-gether. He's like a wild man. When Pale Face tells him
he was goin' ter quit, de Doc makes a grab fer him by de t'roat like a
tiger, only Pale Face gets away, an' den de Doc goes off widout a word,
laughin' like he'd escaped out of a dippy-house. An' Pale Face was
shakin' like he had a fit when he gets here. Say, Helena, don't youse go
ter-night."
Helena made no answer for a moment. Thoughts, a world of them, confused
her, crowded upon her, as they had ever since Madison had left her room
a few hours ago--and the future was as some dread, bewildering maze
through which she had tried to stumble and grope her way--and had lost
herself ever deeper. How full of utter, miserable, bitter irony it was
that this thing, unscrupulous and shameful, that they had created in
their guilt should have brought the beauty and the glory and the
yearning of a new life to her--and yet should chain her remorselessly
to the old! True, she had broken with Madison, irrevocably, forever, she
supposed, it could not be other than that, for the ugly bond between
them was severed--but the game still went on! In repentance, on her
bended knees, sobbing as a tired and worn-out child, she could ask for
forgiveness; but the double life, the duplicity, by reason of the very
nature in which they had fashioned this iniquitous monster, still went
on, and like some hideous octopus reached out its waving, feeling
tentacles to encircle her--the Patriarch there; the world-wide
publicity, those poor creatures upon whose misery and whose suffering,
upon whose frantic, frenzied snatching out at hope they had preyed and
fed and gorged themselves; the life itself that she had taken up, in its
minutiæ, in its care of this great-souled, great-hearted man so dear to
her now, the life itself because it was what it was, changed though she
herself might be, though her soul cried out against it in its new-found
purity--all this still held her fast! The end--she could not see the
end. What would Madison do--and there was Thornton. Thornton! She caught
her breath a little. Yes; she had promised Thornton she would see him
to-night--she knew well enough why he wanted to see her--last night had
told her that--he loved her. Her face softened. Last night--it seemed a
thousand years ago, and it seemed but as an instant passed--last
night--she had learned what love was, and--
The Flopper stirred uneasily.
"Wot'll I tell him?" asked the Flopper. "He's waitin' out dere by de
porch."
"Why--why nothing," said Helena, and she smiled a little tremulously at
the Flopper. "Nothing. I'll--I'll go and see him."
"Say, Helena," protested the Flopper, "don't youse--"
But Helena stepped by him now.
"Don't leave the Patriarch," she cautioned, turning on the threshold.
"I--I won't be late."
She passed down the little hall, through the still, quiet room beyond,
empty now, through the porch, and out into the night--and then from out
the shadows by the row of maples, Thornton came hurriedly toward her,
holding out his hands.
"It's good of you to come, Miss Vail," he said, in his grave, quiet way.
"You must be nearly dead with weariness after last night, and I am
afraid I am not very thoughtful--only I--" he broke off suddenly. "Shall
we sit here on the bench for a little while, or would you rather
walk--I--I have something to say to you."
It was very dark--the storm of the night before still lingered in a
wrack of flying clouds, scurrying one after the other, veiling the
stars--and the moon was hidden--and hidden too was the sudden whiteness
of Helena's face. She knew what he had to say, knew it before she had
come to him--and yet she was there--and she had come resolutely
enough--only now she was afraid.
"I would rather walk a little, I think," she said. "Here where--where I
can be within call. My absence last night seems to have made the
Patriarch very uneasy, you know, and--and--let us just walk up and down
here beneath the maples in front of the cottage."
How heavy upon the air lay the fragrance of the flowers; how still the
night was, save for the constant muffled boom of the breaking surf!--for
a moment an almost ungovernable impulse swept upon her to make some
excuse, anything, no matter how wild, a sudden faintness, anything, and
run from him back into the cottage. And then she tried to think, think
in a desperate sort of way of some subject of conversation that she
might introduce that would stave off, postpone, defer the words that she
knew were even now on his lips--nothing--she could think of
nothing--only that she might have let the Flopper have his way, have let
him tell Thornton that she had gone to bed with--the pip. The _pip_! She
could have screamed out hysterically as the word flashed all unbidden
upon her--it stood for a very great deal that word--her world of the
years of yesterday. Could she never get away from that world; was it too
late--already! Could she, even with all the earnestness, all the
yearning that filled her soul, ever live it down, ever be what Naida
Thornton had called her that night--a good woman! Could she--
Thornton was speaking now--how strange that she would have done
anything, given anything to prevent his speaking--and done anything,
given anything to make him speak! How strange and perplexed and dismayed
her brain was! Love! Yes; she wanted love! God knew she wanted love such
as his was--for he had shown her what love, free from abasing passion,
in its purest sense, was. Like a glimpse of glory, hallowed, full of
wondrous amazement, it came to her--and then her head was lowered, and
the whiteness was upon her face again.
He had halted suddenly and detained her with his hand upon her arm--with
that touch, so full of reverence, of fine deference, that had thrilled
her before--that thrilled her now, awakening into fuller life these new
emotions whose birth was in gladder, sweeter, purer aspirations.
"Miss Vail," he said, in a low voice, "there was a letter--a letter that
Naida left--did you know of it?"
They were close together, and it was very dark--but was it dark enough
to hide the crimson that she felt sweeping in a flood to her face! What
was in that letter? Had Mrs. Thornton written as she had talked, or only
about the Patriarch and the work in Needley? She had forgotten for the
moment about the letter--if there were more in it than that, if it were
about Thornton and herself and what Mrs. Thornton had hoped for between
them, and she admitted knowledge of it, what would he think, what
_could_ he think of her! But to deny it--no, not now. Once, and this
came to her in a little thrill of gladness, she would not have
hesitated; but now it--it was--it was not that world of yesterday.
"Yes," she said faintly; "she told me that she had left a letter for
you."
"It was about the work here," said Thornton gently. "Her whole soul
seemed wrapt up in that--and she asked me as her last wish to do what
she would have done if she had lived; and she spoke of you very
beautifully." Thornton paused for a moment--then he laid his hands on
Helena's shoulders--and she felt them tremble a little. "Miss
Vail--Helena," he said, and his voice was full of passionate earnestness
now, "I cannot say these things well--only simply. I came back here to
take an interest in the work, for I too have it at heart--but I have
more than that now--there is _you_--your dear self. I love you,
Helena--you have come into my life until you are everything and all to
me. Helena, look up at me--will you marry me, dear? Tell me what I long
to hear. Helena, Helena--I love you!"
But Helena did not answer--only very slowly she raised her head. And his
hands on her shoulders tightened, and he was drawing her gently toward
him. Then he bent his head until it was close to hers, and his breath
was upon her cheek as it had been that other night--and the longing to
know that it was hers, a caress, pure in its motive, hers, snatched out
of all that had gone before that sought to rob her of the right to ever
know it, fascinated her, held her spellbound, possessed her. Closer his
lips came to hers, closer, until they touched her--and then, with a cry,
she sprang back, and her hands were fiercely pressed against her cheeks,
her throbbing temples. Was she mad! Mad! Was it for this that she had
forced herself to give him the opportunity to speak to-night, when her
motive was so different, when it had seemed the only _right_ thing left
for her to do!
And now, still holding her temples, she raised her eyes to Thornton--he
had stepped back like a man stricken, his hands dropped to his sides.
"I--we are mad!" she whispered.
"Helena!" he said in a numbed way; and again; "Helena!" Then, with an
effort to control his voice: "You--you do not care--you do not love me?"
"No," she said--and thereafter for a long time a silence held between
them.
Then Thornton spoke.
"Some day perhaps, Helena," he said, "you could learn to love me--for I
would teach you. Perhaps now you feel that your whole duty lies here in
this work to which you have so unselfishly given your life; but I would
not hinder that, only try to help as best I could. Perhaps I have been
abrupt, have spoken too soon--it is only a few weeks since I saw you
first, but it seems as though in those few weeks I had come to know you
as if I had known you all my life and--"
But now she interrupted him, shaking her head in a sad little fashion.
"You do not know me," she said. "Sometimes I think I do not know myself.
Think! You do not know where I came from to join the Patriarch here; you
have no single shred of knowledge about me; you do not know a single
particular of my life before you knew me."
"I do not need to know," he answered gravely. "You are as genuine as
pure gold is genuine--it is in your voice, your smile, your eyes. It is
a crude simile perhaps, but one never asks where the pure gold was
dug--it stands for itself, for what it is, because it is what it
is--pure gold--at its face value."
The words seemed to stab at Helena, condemning, accusing; and yet, too,
in a strange, vague way, they seemed to bring her a hope, a promise for
the days to come--at face value! If she could live hereafter--at face
value!
"Listen," she said, and her voice was very low. "I do not know how to
say what I must say to you. Last night I knew that--that you loved me. I
had not thought of you like that, in that way, until then, or--or I
should have tried never to have let this hurt come to you. But last
night I knew, and since then I have known that sooner or later you
would--would tell me of it." She stopped for an instant--her eyes full
of tears now. "And so," she went on presently, "I have let you speak
to-night because it was better, it was even necessary that I should do
so at once--because this could not go on--because you must go away
and--"
"Necessary?" he repeated. "I--I do not understand."
"No," she said helplessly; "you do not understand--and I--I cannot
explain. Oh, I do not know what to say to you, only that you must take
what I say, as you have taken me--at face value."
"I do not understand," he said again. "Helena, I do not understand. Are
you in trouble--tell me?"
"No," she said.
"But I cannot go away like this!" he cried out suddenly. "I cannot go
and leave you, Helena. You have come into my life and filled it; and I
cannot let you pass out of it--like this--without an effort to hold what
has come to mean everything to me now. You may not love me now, but some
day--"
She shook her head, interrupting him once more.
"There can never be a 'some day,'" she said. "Oh, I do not want to hurt
you--you, to whom I owe more than you will ever know--but--but there can
never be anything between us, and--and we are only making it harder for
ourselves now--aren't we?"
And then he leaned abruptly toward her.
"Is there--some one else?" he asked in a strained voice.
And to Helena the question came as though it had been an inspiration
given him--for after that he would ask no more, seek no more to
understand, for he was too big and strong and fine for that; and even if
it was hopeless now this love that she had known for Madison, even if it
could never be again, still that love was hers, and she could answer
truthfully.
"Yes," she said beneath her breath.
For a moment Thornton neither moved nor spoke. Then he held out his
hand.
"Miss Vail," he said simply, "will you tell this 'some one else' that
another man beside himself is the better for having known you.
Good-night. And may God bring you happiness through all your life."
But she did not speak--they were standing by the rustic bench and she
sank down upon it, and, with her head hidden in one arm outflung across
the back of the seat, was sobbing softly.
And he stood and watched her for a little space, his face grave and
white; then taking the hand that lay listlessly in her lap, he raised it
to his lips--and turned away.
And so he left her--and so, because of this, he knocked upon another
door that night, and all unwittingly gave to that "some one else"
himself the message that he had asked Helena to deliver.
Madison, pacing his room like a caged beast, his teeth working upon the
cigar that he had never thought to light, paid no attention to the
summons until it had been repeated twice; then, with a glance around the
room, his eyes lingering for a critical instant upon the trunks, closed
now, the trays restored to their hiding places, he stepped to the door,
unlocked it, and flung it open. And at sight of Thornton, mechanically,
as second nature to him, outwardly, like a mask, there came a smile upon
his working lips, a suave, unconcerned composure to his face; while
inwardly, in his dazed, fogged brain where chaos raged, surged an
impulse to fling himself upon the other, wreck a mad vengeance upon the
man--and then swift upon the heels of this an impulse to refrain, for if
Helena was straight why should he harm Thornton--and then the shuttle
again--why should he not--hadn't Helena said that she had learned what
love was last night--and last night she had been with Thornton. How his
brain whirled! What had brought Thornton here, anyhow? If he stayed very
long perhaps he would batter Thornton to jelly after all! Quick, almost
instantaneous in their sequence came this wild jumble singing dizzily
its crazy refrain through his mind--and then to his amazement he heard
some one speaking pleasantly--and to his amazement it was himself.
"Come in, Thornton. Come in--and take a chair."
"Thanks," Thornton answered; and, entering the room, closed the door
behind him. "No; I won't sit down--I shall only remain a moment."
The lamp was on the washstand, and, intuitively again, Madison shifted
his position to bring his face into shadow--and leaned against the foot
of the bed. He stared at Thornton, nodding--Thornton's face was white
and exceedingly haggard--rather curious for Thornton to look that way!
"Madison," said Thornton abruptly, "I believe you to be a gentleman in
the best sense of the word, and because of that, and because of the
unusual circumstances that first brought us together and the mutual
interests that have since been ours, I have come to you to-night to tell
you, first, that I am going away from Needley and that I shall not
return--and then to ask a service and repose a trust in you. You have
said several times that you intended to remain here and take a personal
and active part in the work?"
Madison removed the chewed cigar end from one corner of his mouth--and
placed it in the other.
"Yes," said Madison.
"Then this is what I want to say," said Thornton seriously. "For my own
sake, because it was my wife's wish, and for other reasons as well, my
interest here, though I am going away, will be just as great as it has
ever been; and so I want you to keep me thoroughly posted, and when the
time comes that I can be of further material assistance to let me know.
I impose only one condition--you are to say nothing to Miss Vail about
it--you can make anything that I may do appear to come from yourself."
"Say nothing to Miss Vail!" repeated Madison vaguely--then a sort of
ironic jest seemed to take possession of him: "But Miss Vail keeps all
the funds."
"That is why I am asking you to represent me," said Thornton quietly. "I
am afraid that she might have a natural diffidence about accepting
anything more from me--I asked Miss Vail to marry me to-night, and she
refused."
The cigar kind of slid down unnoticed from the corner of Madison's
mouth--and he leaned forward, hanging with a hand behind him to the
bedpost--and stared at Thornton.
"You--_what_!" he gasped.