Glenning's engagement was for eight o'clock the following evening, but
he did not come till nine. Julia met him at the door, garbed in some
dainty white stuff with lace about it, and wearing one rose in her hair,
which waved from her forehead and was dressed low upon her neck.
"I must apologize for my tardiness," he said, gravely, as they walked
into the library, which was softly lighted by a shaded lamp. "But as I
was starting out I had an urgent call from a very poor family on the
edge of town. A little child had fallen and broken its leg. It was a
"charity call," but I hope you will pardon me. I could not let it
suffer."
She felt a warm glow steal to her cheeks as she listened.
"You did right," she told him; "I was sure you had a good reason for
being late."
He tried to speak of the race, but could not. She was also mute. The
hour was too tense for conventionalities. A silence fell between them.
Then suddenly the man gathered together all his moral strength and arose
to his feet. She looked up quickly. He did not meet her eyes till he had
walked to the mantel. Then, facing about, he leaned his elbow upon it,
and returned her gaze.
"The time is ripe for an understanding between us," he said, the awful
strain under which he was labouring making his voice unnatural.
The girl could see that the old haunting gloom had come to his eyes. He
was very white, and the crescent scar upon his forehead was outlined
sharply, even in the dim light.
"It is a tale I had rather suffer death than tell, but I owe it to you
before I can speak of other things which are in my heart."
She caught her breath at this, a quick, sibilant intaking, and because
her hands had at that moment begun to tremble, she clasped them in her
lap. Her large, sympathetic eyes were watching him closely.
"It is hard to begin," he resumed, "but I must do it alone; you cannot
help me. The fault has been mine; let the shame and anguish be mine,
too. Would you object if I told you of something else first?--it seems I
am doomed to ask you to forgive much tonight!"
The pathos and sorrow in his words were almost more than she could bear,
but she signed her permission dumbly, and waited.
"I think it all began that first night I saw you, in such distress. At
any rate, my interest in you and your life was deep and genuine from
that hour. I learned of your reverses--of your father's investment in
the bank stock. Then the time came when Marston withheld the dividend,
and I knew that you were without resources. Tom Dillard and I got
together to see what we could do. We seemed pretty helpless, for Marston
had everything his own way. Then something happened to me which gave me
an idea. I had an uncle, too, whom I had not seen for years. He died a
short time ago, and part of his estate came to me. It was in the shape
of a life insurance policy which he had taken out in my favour without
ever letting me know. When the check from the company came to me,
through my uncle's attorneys, the temptation was more than I could
resist." He left the mantel and took one step towards her, then stood
firm-footed as he resumed, desperately. "I did it. I did it all. I
fabricated the story of your uncle's death, and the lawyer who sent
Major Dudley that check from St. Louis was my good friend, to whom I
wrote. He simply had to buy eastern exchange in place of the insurance
company's check. It was simple enough. Forgive me. I place my trust in
your feeling heart and seeing soul, for without a clear vision and
complete understanding in an affair like this there can be no
forgiveness. Soon I will tell you why I did it all."
Her head had gently sunk as he was speaking. She did not look up when he
stopped. She did understand. She knew in a flash the reason for his
course. But his revelation numbed her. She tingled from head to foot,
and knew that should he command her eyes at this moment, swift surrender
would follow. She waited for his voice, but it did not come.
"Go on!" she said, so low that he guessed, rather than heard the words.
He cast a glance around the room such as a drowning man might give when
he felt the water closing over him. She had not encouraged him by so
much as a flash from her eyes, and heaven knew he needed courage, if
ever man did. She was so white and still! So dainty and spotless! Her
folded hands were waxen, and her forehead and the one cheek which he
could see were like some statue's. Her breathing was so soft that it did
not stir the bosom of her dress.
"I have given you a suggestion of what befell me in Jericho; since then
you have heard distorted truths, or more probably vicious falsehoods,
from another source. Now listen to what I say. It shall be the whole
truth, with nothing added, and nothing taken from.
"Jericho was my home. I was born and reared there, and I came back there
after I had graduated in medicine, and began to practice. A number of
families had moved into the place during the years I was away, and among
them were a Mr. and Mrs. Lamberton. He was a traveling man, and was at
home very little. The trouble began when I was called in one day, the
occasion being some slight difficulty in hearing. When I entered the
room I was stricken still with amazement. I had never seen such a
perfectly beautiful creature in all my life. She was young, not tall,
and possessed of a wonderful wealth of colouring. The apartment was
permeated by some essence entirely new to me, some rare and delightful
perfume. She was reclining upon a couch, alone. She, of course, knew who
I was, and she did not rise, but bade me come to her. I did as she
asked, and took a vacant chair near her. At that day I knew practically
nothing of women, good or bad. My path had been a pretty rough one, and
I had all I could do to go forward, although there was always the wish
within me to know and associate with women, the natural complement of
man. She stated her trouble briefly and clearly, in a most pleasing
tone, and when I endeavoured to put some necessary questions I found to
my dismay that my mind was muddled, and wouldn't work well. She smiled
when she noticed my embarrassment. Whenever she turned her eyes upon me
I felt dizzy. They were wine brown, and in them dwelt twin devils which
beguiled. I had to touch her with my hands; to put back the hair from
the affected ear. I was young--I was far more innocent than she--so help
me God! I maintained my professional reserve with difficulty, and
escaped from the room with my brain whizzing and my breast on fire. But
the mischief was done. I could not forget her. I thought of her
constantly during my waking hours. I did not stop to analyze the trend
or character of my thoughts. At the time I do not think they had any
definite shape. I simply could not withdraw my mind from that
incident--that half hour in her presence. Nothing was said and nothing
was done which a third person might not have heard and seen, but it was
the awful _suggestion_ back and beneath it all. Her attitude towards me,
while not in the least familiar, was charged with an undefinable under
current of what our future relations might become. I knew that I wished
to see her again, but when the summons came on the second day from the
one when I first called, I hung back. I was afraid, who had never known
fear before. I had no excuse for refusing to go. I was a servant of the
public, and my presence was demanded. To trump up a subterfuge would be
to acknowledge to myself that I was a coward. I went.
"She received me in the same room. This time she was snugly settled in a
large, easy chair, and the unbound glory of her hair swept down over the
rich-hued house dress which she wore. This visit was considerably longer
than the first. You know that a family physician very often shares the
most intimate confidences of his patients. This day she told me
something of her life; enough to lead me to believe that she was
unhappily married, and that she and her husband were not congenial. A
ready resentment sprang up in me towards the man who could call this
superb being his, and then neglect her. So the wiles of Delilah were
employed again, though at the time I did not suspect her.
"Then there grew in my heart a strange passion for this woman. Love
strove to mount, but it quickly discovered that that which it was called
upon to meet was not love. Then the devils of the flesh tore at me and
strove to drive me on--to utter and complete damnation! They had arisen
insiduously, arming themselves as they advanced, and I soon found myself
in the throes of a struggle as old as the world of creation, and more
difficult to overcome than any foe which might appear from without.
These devils haunted, harassed, goaded and tortured me. They drove me to
her again and again, and again and again I withstood them, holding fast
to the sense of right within me, and striking back with all the moral
strength of my nature. Then one day it was borne in upon me that I must
yield--or retreat. No mere mortal could continue to face this most
powerful of all earthly temptations, and keep himself unspotted. The
last night we were together in Jericho she confessed her love for me,
and offered me the bitter-sweet joy of her arms. Then a living God of
mercy gave me the victory. Long ago I knew I did not love her. I knew
that my feeling for her was born in hell--in the blackest and foulest
corner thereof! She stood before me arrayed in voluptuous robes, the
splendour of her perfect physical beauty dazzling me cruelly, and told
me unabashed that she was mine, body and soul! I swear to you that I had
never said one word of love to her. I looked upon her, and the devils
surged to the attack with thong and goad. But I did not raise my hands
from my sides. I fought them back and after a while found my voice and
told her this could not be. With the spoken words my strength returned,
and I left her thus, without farewell. The next night I came to Macon."
The deep, resonant tones ceased. The silence in the room was acute. Not
even the sound of breathing was audible.
"I found you, whom God sent to be my salvation. The battle was not
ended, though I had put the visible cause of it away. But memory will
not die, and the eyes of the mind constantly behold the visions of
yesterday. Now came the fight to stay away, and I found it just as hard
to win as the other. Had it not been for you, and the hope which I
allowed to find root in my soul, I would surely have succumbed. But this
hope grew, a pure, white flower, and it banished the noisome weeds of
grosser birth. Then a day came when I knew the old influence and the
wild longing no more, for love had found me and had reclaimed me from
the morass into which I had strayed. I need not tell you that I have
gone through perditions of living fire! You, sweet girl, know nothing of
this. But what I said to you upon the lawn not many days ago I say to
you again tonight--_I have come through clean_! It is not a debauched
body and a rotten soul I am bringing as my offering to you tonight. High
heaven bear me witness that all I say is true! I do not claim any
especial worthiness, but I do disclaim and declare false the libelous
stories which Devil Marston brought from Jericho! You have heard the
truth, and I am glad that at last you know."
An inflection almost of despair quivered through his last words. The
girl before him was motionless, but now a rigour shook her from head to
foot, then passed, and she was still looking down, apparently unmoved,
and lifeless.
"There is yet another incident."
He spoke in a dead voice, without ring or timbre. He was hopeless, yet
nerved to go to the last bitter dreg of confession.
"I saw her once while you were in the East with your sick friend--a few
days before the fair. It was quite accidental. I had a call from the
Maddoxes one evening. She was there--had come as a visitor for the
races--some sort of relative. As I was leaving the house a servant told
me a friend wished to see me in the parlour. I did not remain long. The
old charm was there, and I should have been lost without the protection
of your spirit, which armed me as I had never been armed before. When I
started to leave the room she attempted to detain me, but I thrust her
aside, and went out. That is the whole story, and horrible enough it
seems to me! I dare not think what it must seem to you--you sweet,
sheltered flower! Now that this miserable tale is told, I come tonight
and offer you my love. It is a most tender feeling I harbour for you,
Julia; a possessive, protective, jealous love, which would forever hold
you safe and blameless; which would forever cradle you in the house of
my heart, deep-walled and warm. Nothing that would hurt, or harm, or
blight, or frighten, or pain you should reach you in that sheltered fold
within my breast. Won't you say that you will come--you poor, little
storm-beaten lamb, and give me the deep, dear joy of loving you and
ministering unto you always?"
He did not approach her. He had no right. His confession stood like a
wall between them until she should speak. Her face was burning now. He
could see her flushed cheeks and tinted temples. That she still
refrained from meeting his eyes kindled a faint flame of hope.
"This is a strange story for a girl to hear," she said, speaking each
word low, but distinctly. "I forgive you for the deception about the
money. Uncle Arthur has returned wealthy, and we can refund that to you
soon. But--" she raised her head and looked at him--"can I forgive the
rest?"
"Can you forgive it?" he repeated, pillowing his elbow on his palm, and
resting his chin on his finger and thumb. "Can you forgive it? Your
heart must answer. If you love me--if you love me--"
She could not endure the appeal in his eyes, and her own dropped, with a
sigh.
The moments raced past.
"Julia, have you no word for me?"
Silence unbroken. He waited for a while longer, then moved slowly
towards the door. She heard his footsteps pass and recede, and it seemed
that the hope of her life was going too. He reached the door leading
into the hall.
"John!"
The low call was weighted with despair and love.
In a moment he was standing before her, with both her hands in his.
"You called me!" he whispered, reading the message in her swimming eyes.
"You called me!"
"Back to happiness, John, if I can give it to you! You have borne so
much, poor boy!"
End of Project Gutenberg's The Man from Jericho, by Edwin Carlile Litsey