IN WHICH JUDGE HARMON ENTERS THE STORY
Judith stood waiting at the telephone; at the Club the waiter had gone
to fetch Mather. How slow he was in coming! How tired she felt! The
wires sang in her ears; she heard faint voices speaking indistinctly;
she had a dull consciousness of surrounding space, of connection with
far-off spheres, out of which those voices rose, whispered, almost
became articulate, then died away to let the humming of the spheres
begin again. Then some man said loud and briskly: "Hello!"
"I am using the line," said Judith.
The man begged her pardon and drifted across the Styx, from whose dim
territory a tinkling voice spoke complainingly for a while, then faded
away. The buzzing in the wires increased the confusion in her head, and
Judith, very, very weary, found herself clinging to the instrument lest
she should fall. With a strong effort she regained her self-control.
Then she heard in the telephone sounds as of distant heavy strokes of
metal; they grew louder, then the wire clicked. Mather spoke: "Hello!"
"Oh, George!" she gasped. His voice was calm, quiet, perfectly
modulated, as if he stood there at her side. She released her hold on
the instrument; with him talking so to her she could stand alone.
"That is you, Judith? Jim is there?"
"Jim?" She had forgotten him. "Oh, no."
"Then can I do anything for you?"
"Something has happened here," she said, "to--to father. He left a
letter addressed to you and Mr. Pease."
"_Left_ a letter?" She heard the change in his voice.
"Tell no one, please," she begged. "We telephoned for Mr. Pease and
learned that he is at Judge Harmon's; Beth has gone there for him. Can
you come? At once, George?"
"Instantly," he answered. "That is all?"
"All. Good-bye."
She heard him hang up his receiver. In her turn she left the telephone,
and stronger in the knowledge that he was coming she began to pace the
room. Pease too was coming; Beth would bring him soon.
But Pease, who had started for the Judge's, had turned aside at the foot
of the steps when he saw Ellis waiting in the vestibule. Pease, telling
himself that he could return, had gone away half an hour before, and all
who had entered the Harmon house that evening were Ellis and Jim Wayne.
Jim had come first--a wild, dishevelled Jim. He had wandered a good deal
that day, after first leaving Chebasset in the morning and next spending
much time at a ticker. He had not been home; he had not eaten, he had
given Mather the slip a couple of times, and his moods had varied from
fear to bold resolution, and then to sullen despair. But since in the
light fluids of his nature hope easily beat up its accustomed
surface-froth, he arrived at the Harmons' in a more cheerful mood,
looking for the coming of Ellis to relieve him of the consequences of
his folly. When Mrs. Harmon had drawn the portieres, and had begun to
tell him how untidy he was, he explained matters with a laugh.
"Been sitting over my accounts," he said. "Forgot to brush my hair, did
I? Here's a mirror; just look away a moment, Mrs. Harmon, please, while
I----" He began to arrange his hair with his fingers.
But she watched him. "I can't lose a chance to see a man prink," she
said. "Tell me about the accounts, Mr. Wayne."
"Upon my word," he cried, "there's one item I forgot to put down! Just
like me; and so important, too!"
"What is it?" she inquired.
"The item, or the cost?"
"Both. Tell me."
He set a condition. "One or the other, choose. Wait!" He went to his
overcoat, which he had flung upon a chair, and drew a box from the
pocket. "Now choose," he directed, holding up the box.
"Oh," she pouted, "that is one of Price's boxes. I can't know the cost
if I am to see what you've bought. You'll show it to me, won't you?"
"You would like to see it?"
"Of course."
"Then open it," he said, giving her the box. "It's for you."
"For me?" and she opened the little case. "Oh, Mr. Wayne, a locket! What
good taste you have--oh, and I didn't see the chain!" Then she regarded
him reproachfully. "Now, Jim, you know you really mustn't."
"Always call me Jim!" he directed. "Why mustn't I?"
"Because you can't afford it."
"I can!" he asserted. "At least, I could when I bought it. I was three
thousand to the good then."
"Indeed?" she thought, "and what happened later?" Deciding that
possession was worth securing, she snapped the chain around her neck.
"And so you have had a very lucky day?"
"Well," explained Jim, "there was a steady rise at first. But then there
came a couple of flurries, and the bottom dropped out of everything I
held."
"And you lost much?"
"No, no," he said quickly. "I was watching; I got out at once. I'm not
so very badly off, and Ellis said he'd help me straighten matters. He's
coming here this evening."
She was much relieved, but covered her feeling by coquetting. "So that
is all you came here for?"
"That isn't fair," cried Jim. "Didn't I bring the locket? Now Mrs.
Harmon!" He tried to take her hand. After some resistance on her part,
he succeeded.
Holding that plump and somewhat large assembly of digits, from which no
manicurist had as yet been able to remove the fresh bright pink
reminding of its earlier uses (for Mrs. Harmon had once done her sewing
and washed her own clothes)--holding that hand, Jim felt more agitation
than when he first held Beth's. And though he looked into wide-open
eyes, which met his without a tremor of their lids or a suggestion of a
downward glance, Jim was more thrilled than by the sweet confusion Beth
so oft discovered, even to her accepted lover. This was rare; it
quickened his blood; he was preparing to taste the ruby of those lips,
when into his consciousness came the clang of the door-bell, which was
of the good old-fashioned kind. Before the noise had well begun, Mrs.
Harmon had withdrawn her hand and placed a chair between herself and her
admirer, whose ardent glance had proclaimed his intention with such
distinctness that (combined with the door-bell) it had alarmed her
modesty. And although Jim, calculating that the servant could not reach
the door for half a minute, pursued and begged her not to be so cruel,
she laughed at him and maintained her distance until in the hall were
heard the rustle of the maid's skirts and then the opening of the front
door. Jim was so disgusted that even the appearance of Ellis did not at
first recall him to a willing obedience of the laws of propriety. But
when Ellis, from an abrupt entrance, as abruptly halted and fixed him
with a scowl, Jim came back to himself.
"Oh," said Ellis, "I had forgot you."
"I--I don't want to trouble you, Mr. Ellis," replied Jim.
"But you'd like some four, five, six thousand to help you out, hey?
That's what you've been waiting here for?"
"You said you'd help me, sir."
Ellis turned his unchanged scowl on Mrs. Harmon. "Better drop him,
Lydia," he said. "He's an eternal fool."
"Stephen," she cried indignantly, "have you lost money, too? More than
he has, I'm sure." He sneered, and she added, "Something's gone wrong
with you, then, to make you so rude."
His frown became blacker still; he had been walking the streets, and
came here in the hope of distraction only to be reminded of Judith.
"Hold your tongue, Lydia," he said roughly. Then he surveyed Jim once
more. "You little fool, get out of your scrape by yourself!" Grasping
his hat as if he would crush its brim, he turned to go.
"Don't come again, Stephen," she flung after him, "until you've found
your temper."
Yet the last glimpse of Ellis, as he departed, gave distress to poor
Jim. "Why," he said helplessly, as the outer door closed. "Why, Mrs.
Harmon, he--he said he'd help me!"
But such common preoccupations as money-difficulties were, at this
moment, foreign to Mrs. Harmon's mood. Jim had stirred her blood, she
was glad that Ellis had gone. Now she moved nearer to the young man, so
that the space between them was free. "Never mind," she said lightly.
"Never mind?" repeated Jim. "But Mrs. Harmon, I've----" No, he couldn't
tell her. Yet what should he do?
"Leave business for the daytime," she said. "Forget the mill; forget the
office." She came nearer still.
Jim hung his head. Mather was after him surely; and what could he say to
his mother?
"Stephen will come round," said Mrs. Harmon. "Leave him to me."
"Oh," cried Jim, "you will help me? Just a little, Mrs. Harmon?"
"Why should I?" she asked archly. She was very close now, and was
looking in his eyes.
"For our friendship," he answered.
"Friendship!" she repeated. Her tone roused him; he looked, and her
glance kindled his. "Only friendship?" she asked softly.
"Oh!" he breathed, and caught her in his arms.
Again came the cursed interruption of the jangling door-bell. "You shall
not go!" he said, holding her fast. She murmured, "I do not wish to."
They stood motionless, and heard the servant pass through the hall and
open the front door. They listened, ready to spring apart.
"The Judge?" the servant asked. "Yes, in his study. This way." Again the
footsteps and the rustling skirt passed the door. The two in the parlour
waited until the door of the Judge's study opened and shut. Then Jim
lowered his head upon the one that nestled at his shoulder.
"At last!" he whispered. And their lips met.
But Beth was in the Judge's study. Behind his table sat the old man--no,
not so very old, in years only sixty, but he carried them ill. A life of
labour among books, a disappointment in his wife, made him seem ten
years older than he was. The Judge never exercised, was sometimes short
of breath and dizzy, but was at all times scornful of the wisdom of
doctors. His face was naturally stern, yet a smile came on it when he
saw Beth. He rose, adjusted a different pair of glasses, and then saw
the distress on her countenance.
"Why, Beth!" he exclaimed. "Is anything wrong?"
"Is Mr. Pease not here?" she asked in return.
"Pease? No, he has not been here."
"His cousin said," explained Beth, "that he was coming here. And so I
came at once, since you have no telephone. Father--oh, Judge Harmon, my
father has killed himself!"
The Judge turned white. "Killed?" He put his hand to his breast. "My
dear child! My poor Beth! Killed himself? Oh, I am so sorry!"
"There is nothing to do," said Beth with admirable calmness. "But he
left a letter directed to Mr. Mather and Mr. Pease."
"Mr. Pease is not here," the Judge repeated, much distressed. "Let me
bring you home again.--But your Mr. Wayne was here earlier. Perhaps he
is still in the parlour with my wife."
"Jim here?" cried Beth, springing to the door. "Oh, I hope he is!"
Hastily she left the study, sped along the hall, and parted the parlour
curtains. There were Jim and Mrs. Harmon, in the growing fierceness of
their first embrace. Beth saw how eagerly they strained together, and
heard their panting breaths.
She stood still and made no sound, but her senses noted everything:
Jim's hand that pressed on Mrs. Harmon's shoulder, her closed eyes, her
hands linked behind his neck--and his sudden movement as he shifted his
arm, only to press her closer. And still that clinging kiss continued,
ecstatic, terrible. Beth could not move, could scarcely breathe, until
behind her rose the Judge's cracked and horror-stricken voice.
"Lydia!"
Hurriedly they disengaged and stood apart--moist lips, hot cheeks, and
burning eyes still giving evidence of their passion. Then Mrs. Harmon
dropped her face into her hands and turned away, but Jim gazed with
mounting shame into the eyes that met his--met while yet they showed
Beth's detestation of him. And the Judge stood quiet, his hand pressed
to his breast, his breath stopped, his head confused with the noises
that roared in his ears.
At last Beth moved. Slowly she put her hands together; her eyes showed
more of indignation, less of loathing. She drew her hands apart and held
out to him the right--not with fingers upward, beckoning, but palm
downward, fingers closed together. Then she opened them. The golden
circlet fell, its diamond flashing; it bounded on the rug, and rolled;
it stopped at Mrs. Harmon's feet. She, looking downward through her
fingers, wondering at the silence, saw, and started away with a cry.
Then Beth turned her back on Jim, and went away. The old Judge followed,
dazed, and the curtains fell behind them.