THE RULING PASSION
Beyond that first involuntary little cry of terror Frances Durkin
uttered no sound, as she found herself in the hooded tonneau, wedged in
between MacNutt and Keenan. That first outcry, indeed, had been
unwilled and automatic, the last reactionary movement of an overtried
and exhausted body.
A wave of care-free passivity now seemed to inundate her. She made no
attempt to struggle; she nursed no sense of open resentment against her
captors. The battery of her vital forces was depleted and depolarized.
She experienced only a faintly poignant sense of disappointment, of
indeterminate pique, as she realized that she was no longer a free
agent. Leaning back in the cushioned gloom, inert, impassive, with her
eyes half-closed, she seemed to be drifting through an eddying veil of
gray. The voices so close beside her sounded thin and far off. An
impression of unreality clung to her, an impression that she was
floating through an empty and rain-swept world from which all life and
warmth had withered.
"It's not _her_ I want--it's Durkin!" MacNutt was saying, with an oath,
as they swung around the corner into the blinking and serried lights of
Eighth avenue. "It's that damned groundhog I'm goin' to dig out yet!"
"Well, you can't go back _there_ after him!" protested Keenan.
"Can't I? Well, I'm goin' back, and I'm goin' to get that man, and I'm
goin' to fry him in his own juices!"
He pushed the woman's inert weight away from him, and leaned out from
under the cape, with a sharp word or two to Penfield's chauffeur. Then
he suddenly whistled and waved his arm.
"What are you doing that for?" Keenan demanded of him.
Keenan had caught the drooping figure, and was making an effort to
support it. His face, for some unknown reason, was almost as colorless
as the face that lay so passively against his rain-soaked shoulder.
"I'm goin' back!" declared MacNutt.
"Is it worth while--now?" demurred the other.
"I'm goin' to get my hooks on Durkin, even if I have to wade through
every raidin' gang in the precinct!"
"And then what?" deprecated Keenan.
"Then I'll meet you at Penfield's house, uptown, and the show will come
to a finish!"
"And what am I expected to do?" demanded Keenan, impatiently. For the
approaching four-wheeler had come to a standstill beside them, and
MacNutt was already out in the rain.
"You take care o' _that_!" he pointed a contemptuous finger toward the
motionless woman, "and mighty good care!"
"But how's all this going to help us out?"
"I'll show you, when the time comes. Here's the key for Penfield's
house. You'll find it nice and quiet and secluded there, and if I _do_
bring Durkin back with me, by heaven, you'll have the privilege o'
seein' a lurid end to this uncommonly lurid game!"
He tossed the key into the tonneau. Keenan picked it up in silence.
They heard the clatter of the horses' hoofs on the wet asphalt, the
sharp closing of the cab door, the rattle of the wheel-tires across the
steel car-tracks, and he was gone. A moment later they were dipping up
the avenue between two long rows of undulating lights, with the rain
drifting in on their faces.
Then Keenan turned and looked down at the woman beside him. During
several minutes of unbroken silence Frank nursed the dim consciousness
of his keen and scrutinizing glance. But her mind seemed encaged in a
body that was already dead; she had neither the will nor the power to
look up at him.
Then, with no warning word or gesture, he stooped down and kissed her
on her heavy red mouth.
At any other time, she knew, she would have fought against that
tainting touch; every drop of red blood in her body would have risen to
combat it. But now she neither repulsed it nor responded to it. She
seemed submerged and smothered in a tide of terrible indifference. She
even found herself weighing the meaning of that affront to all that was
not ignoble in her.
She even caught at it, with an inward gasp of enlightenment. It meant
more than she had at first seen. It brought a new scene to the
shifting drama; it meant a new turn to the hurrying game. It meant
that if she only waited, and could be wise and wary and calculating,
she still might hug to her breast some tattered hope for the impending
end.
She knew that Keenan was still watching her; she knew that he was, in
some manner, being torn between contending feelings, that some
obliterating impulse was falling between him and that grim concert of
forces of which he was a member. It was the shadow of passion falling
across the paths of duty--it was the play and the problem as old as the
world.
And what was she, then? That was the question she asked herself, with
a little sobbing gasp--what was she, trading thus, even in thought, on
her bruised and wearied body? What had she fallen to, what was it that
had deadened all that was softer and better and purer within her, that
she could thus see slip away from her the last solace and dignity of
her womanhood?
There, she told herself bitterly, lay the degradation and the ultimate
danger of the life she had led. It was there that the grimmer tragedy
came into her career. The surrender of ever greater and greater
hostages to expediency, the retreat to ever meaner and meaner
instruments of activity, the gradual induration of heart and soul, the
desperate and ever more desperate search for self-deceiving
extenuations, for self-blinding condonement, for pitiful and distorting
self-propitiation--in these lay the inward corruption, more implacably
and more terribly tragic than any outward blow! She had once deluded
herself with the thought that a life of crime might lose at least half
of its evil by losing all of its grossness. She had even consoled
herself with the thought that it was the offender against life who saw
deepest into life. It was but natural, she had always argued with
herself, that the thwarted consciousness, that the erring and suffering
heart, should yield deeper insight into the dark and complicated ranges
of spiritual truth than could the soul forever untried and unshaken.
The tempted and troubled heart, from its lonely towers of unhappiness,
must ever see further into the meaning of things than could those
comfortably normal and healthy souls who suffered little because they
ventured little. She had ventured much, and she had lost much. She
had thought to hold some inmost self aloof and immune. She had dreamed
that some inward irreproachability of thought, some light-hearted tact
of open conduct, might leave still untainted that deeper core of
thought and feeling which she had long thought of as conscience, while
some deceiving and sophistical transmutation of values whispered to her
adroitly that in some way all good might be bad, and that all bad might
in some way be good.
But that, she now knew, was a mockery. She was the sum of all that she
had thought and acted. She was a disillusioned and degraded and
unscrupulous woman, steeped in enormities so dark that it appalled and
sickened her even to recall them. She was only the empty and corroded
shell of a woman, all that once aspired and lived and hoped in her
eaten away by the acid currents of that underground world into which
she had fallen.
Yet rather than it should end in that slow and mean and sordid inner
tragedy of the spirit, she told herself fiercely, she would fling open
her last arsenal of passion and come to her end in some ironic blaze of
glory that would at least lend sinister radiance to a timelessly base
and sorry eclipse. So she lay back in Keenan's clasp quiescently,
unresistingly, but watchfully. For she knew that the end, whatever it
might be, was not far away.