Early the next morning a telegram came for Julia. From its condensed
message she learned that her room-mate at college, who was likewise a
dear and intimate friend, had been taken seriously ill, and wanted her
to come on the first train. Major Dudley was present when she received
the summons, and she immediately asked his advice. It was that she
should depart on the noon train for the East, and remain as long as
circumstances required. He was feeling prime, and Aunt Frances and Peter
should look after his comfort.
Transfixed upon the horns of this new dilemma, Julia rushed upstairs and
began mechanically to get her things together for a hurried departure.
She knew that she would go, although she told herself repeatedly that
she could not. She must be at home that evening, for her future
happiness depended upon the issue of that night. Yet Bess was
sick--desperately ill--and had wired her to hasten. Yes, she would go to
her friend in distress, and send a note by Peter to Doctor Glenning,
advising him of this unforeseen emergency. Perhaps it was just as well,
she told herself at length, to prolong indefinitely the hour when he
should tell her all. This, indeed, would be a supreme and unerring test.
So it came to pass that the train for the East bore Miss Julia Dudley
away from Macon that day at noon, and that Uncle Peter, for the second
time, bore to Doctor Glenning a delicately tinted, square envelope. John
groaned when he read the note, and let his hands drop despairingly. Of
course it could not be helped. He realized that she was right in going,
and he loved her the more for it, but the missive gave no date upon
which the writer might return. There was nothing for him to do but live
the days through as best he could until he should see her again, and
keep himself strong. The waiting would be hard, but he could do it. All
hesitation, all temporizing, had vanished. He would be ready for his
part on the first evening after she came home.
Filled with a peculiar elation, a joyful exultation, he went about his
daily work with a song in his heart. He was looking far better than he
did when he first came to Macon. His step was firmer, his eyes less
sombre, his face not so haggard. So ten days passed, and fair week came,
and the place began to fill up with visitors from neighbouring towns.
Fair week in Kentucky naturally represents a good time. In this State,
if in none other, the horse is king, and all homage and honour are given
him on the days of the races. And fair week, like Christmas, comes only
once a year, and is looked forward to with equally as much zest and
impatience. On this important occasion the business houses, banks, and
offices in general close their doors at noon, and do not open them again
until the last heat of the last race is over. The three or four days
during which the festivities occur are one big holiday for young and
old, and business cares and business thoughts are thrown to the wind.
The fair in Macon this year began the second week in July, and continued
four days, commencing with Wednesday. It promised to be the largest and
best attended meeting of the kind ever held. There were entries for the
various races from all over the State, and some rare sport was promised
when the blooded champions met to decide the victor. The purses were
generous, the half mile track was conceded to be the best in the
circuit, and spirits rose high in anticipation. There was to be a brass
band from Louisville, an experienced starter from Lexington, and the
judges, for the most part, were horsemen selected from towns close at
hand.
John grew more and more restless as the days passed and Julia did not
come. He had one letter from her, but she gave no hint as to when he
might expect her home. He wrote at once and urged her to come as soon as
she could, and, receiving no reply to this, fell to calling on the
Major, hoping thus to hear something definite. She sent her father a
message every day, but it was always about the sick friend, who had
taken a slight turn for the better, but would not consent for Julia to
leave her.
It was the night before the day upon which the fair began, about eleven
o'clock, when Glenning, sitting in his office with a worried face,
received a call from the home of a wealthy merchant. He arose at once,
and went to the house. It was a deep chest cold contracted by one of the
members of the family which he had to treat, but it was close onto
midnight when he came into the front hall for his hat. The servant who
was waiting to let him out stepped forward and said that there was an
old friend in the parlor who would like to speak to him. Slightly
annoyed at this further demand upon his time, John opened the door
indicated, and entered the room.
A shiver as of the pangs of death enveloped him on the instant. He stood
rigidly erect, his face growing whiter and whiter until the pallor which
rested upon it was ghastly. The room was a sumptuous apartment; a bower
of luxury. The furnishings were rich, but chaste, and blended
harmoniously, creating an effect which soothed. A lamp burned on a table
in the center of the room; a beautiful thing, glowing like some rare,
exotic flower. The thick, ruby-tinted shade smothered the flame, and
diffused it rosily. There was the odour of perfume in the air; not
grossly rank, and offensive, but subtly elusive; a delicate hint of some
rare and sense-numbing attar. She stood a little to one side of the
table. She was rather low, but superbly shaped. Her hands were behind
her, with fingers loosely laced. The lamp-glow encompassed her as in a
subdued flame. It fell upon her burnished hair--dull gold and copper
blent, and sank trembling into the depths of her eyes. Each feature was
perfect, or so nearly perfect that the chastening light made it appear
such. She was smiling.
Thus they faced each other again.
There was stark silence in the room. The man could not speak, and the
woman was not yet ready to. He stood, scarcely breathing, arms at his
sides, motionless. One straight lock of hair had fallen, and drew a
sharp black line across his forehead. He was looking at her, steadily,
desperately. His face was a mask of marble, but the woman knew too well
that the volcano was there beneath all that icy calm; surging, seething,
leaping and wrestling for a vent.
"Aren't you glad to see me?"
The voice was low and pleading, and full of melody. It smote upon the
man's sensibilities with the force and effect of an electric current.
His muscles became convulsed; his hands turned into clenched fists; his
jaws knotted.
"No!" he said, at last, in a hollow monosyllable.
"Yes, you are! Tell the truth. How are you, John?"
She was coming towards him, still smiling, one half bare arm outheld,
the embodiment and the perfect type of female loveliness. He avoided
her, and moved to another part of the room. It was all back again,
intensified an hundred fold. He knew it was of the devil; he knew that
the one great trial of his life was upon him. He did not love her in the
least--he swore in his soul that moment that he bore no particle of
affection for her. It was something else--something unearthly and
horrible, which sought to draw him on. The other nights of dalliance
which he had known returned, limned upon his conscience in lines of
burning fire. And he had thought himself safe! He moved back a pace,
where he could not see the angel-faced devils in her eyes. Look at her
he must. She saw his fear, and laughed low in her full, white throat.
"Won't you shake hands with me, and tell me that you are glad to see
me?"
There was no resentment in her voice or attitude that he had shunned
her. She stood easily, the train to her dress sweeping over the soft
carpet to one side as she had turned. The laces on her breast were
creamy and feathery, and her girdle was a zone of gold.
Again he waited till his voice was steady, and again he answered, "No!"
"Won't you but touch my hand if I ask you to?--for the sake of Jericho!"
Her supplicating words brought madness, but the man withstood. He knew,
through all the blinding wrack of emotions which tossed in his brain,
that in distance alone was safety. Should he feel but her finger tips,
he was damned. With that six or eight feet of floor space between them
he was master of himself. For the third time he answered "No!"
She had been unprepared for this reserve, this fearful coldness. The
last time they were together--the last time!--and he had left without a
word of farewell to her, without telling her that he was going away. But
she knew why he had gone. She was older than he, and had seen more of
life. But the element of mercy in her soul was wofully deficient in
magnitude. She made no further attempt at once after his third refusal,
but stood with head slightly bent, and eyes downcast.
"You were not very just to me."
Her words came in silken soft purrs from her warm lips--and Glenning
prayed!
"You treated me badly to go, with never a word, never a written message.
I should not have done the same with you John! I have missed you sorely,
but my pride has held me back from trying to communicate with you in any
way. I have come for the first two days of the fair; I cannot stay
longer. The people in this house are distant relatives. I did not know
that I would see you, except, possibly, upon the street, and then I knew
that you would not recognize me. I was present when they sent a message
for you tonight, and I planned this meeting. I wanted to see you again,
for a little while. I think you might sit down and talk with me for a
moment. It can't be for long, for the hour is late, you know."
The quality of her voice was as of one who had been mistreated. There
were short breaks in it; suppressions of emotion, and her head had bent
towards the light, while the burnished disc of her coiled hair was as a
spider's woven mesh.
"I came away because it was better for us both that I should come, and
you know a farewell was out of the question. I do not see that I have
used you badly. You know to what we were drifting. Why bandy words? You
know that had I stayed in Jericho my soul would have been lost today,
and I would have been an outcast, or dead! It is better so. It is best
that we never meet again if we can help it."
He spoke tensely and rapidly and moved towards the door as he
concluded. But she was nearer it. The game was not played out. She
silently glided in front of him and put her back against the door,
stretching her arms out to form a barricade, and again she laughed--a
sound which made the man recoil and nervously draw his hand across his
forehead and eyes.
He had heard it before! It awoke old memories which he had believed
dead, but the tomb of the heart will open again to a remembered word,
laugh, expression, or perfume. And the attar! It was hers. He had never
smelled anything like it. It was Oriental in its mysterious sweetness
and effect. Barely discernible to the nostrils, it crept to the brain
and wrought shadow-pictures upon the tapestry of the mind which it were
better for mortal eyes not to behold. He was feeling the force of this
strange perfume, which, coupled with her fascinating, if baneful
personality, was beginning to beset him mercilessly. She knew her power,
so well! But he was fortified with a hidden strength of which she did
not know--brown eyes of trust, and a face as sweet and innocent as a
flower. She barred his way. He could not pass until she gave him leave.
He might have swept her aside with two fingers, but he was afraid to
try. He knew what it was to be near her.
"Let me pass!" he exclaimed, resting the knuckle of his forefinger upon
the corner of the table.
"You look very handsome tonight!" she told him, ignoring his demand.
"Can you not find a like compliment in your heart for me?"
He did not reply, but his face was flushed and his breath was coming
faster.
"You seem to have aged considerably," she resumed, "although it has been
only a few weeks since you went away. But it has helped you. I'm going
to give you a last chance now. Won't you come and speak to me as you
used to do? If you won't, I am coming to you!"
Her arms fell to her sides.
The man knew she meant it, and a rage which was his salvation began to
mount slowly within him.
"If I do as you ask, will you stand aside, and allow me to go?"
"Yes, if you will want to go--then!"
He came straight towards her, his whole nature set and hard as adamant.
Her head was bent as he approached. Only when he stopped within arm's
length and held out his hand did she flash the wonder of her topaz eyes
full into his, and giving him her hand, bent towards him in a last
mighty effort to conquer. He felt the blood rush to his brain so that
her face was blurred before him; he was conscious of white arms gliding
above his shoulders, then with a low, strangled curse of anger he had
pushed her from him, and was in the hall. Another moment the outer door
closed behind him, and he was creeping through the deserted streets,
shivering as with palsy, an inarticulate blending of prayer, blasphemy,
and an absent woman's name upon his lips.