BEYOND ENDURANCE.
The Judge looked at Clara aghast. He had only been upholding the dignity
of his family; he had not meant to wound her more than was necessary to
impress the social fact upon her that in comparison with his race she
was very common dust indeed. That she should turn upon him in this
haughty way was incomprehensible assurance.
“You have strangely misunderstood—” he began, but she interrupted him
with burning impatience.
“Not in the least, sir. I have understood every word, felt every word;
pray go on.”
“I want to leave the matter to your judgment and good sense and
delicacy,” he said, considering his remark very adroit and flattering.
For the Judge prided himself upon his managing powers and thought
himself as capable of carrying on a delicate intrigue as any diplomat of
the French Court.
“Leave what to my judgment and good sense?” was the question she
returned, instead of the reply he had fully expected his lumbering
flattery to bring forth. “What is the matter that you place in that
light, sir?”
The Judge was all adrift again! His passion rose once more. The purple
grew deeper in his face. He loosened his neckcloth, feeling nearer an
apoplectic fit than was agreeable.
“You know. Surely, you know,” he said.
“I have not the slightest idea,” replied Clara, her fingers still going
on with her work, her face averted as before.
The haughty girl had a strange delight in forcing that man to insult
her; she was working herself up to a mood in which she would sooner have
torn her heart out and trampled it underfoot than have made a movement
toward reconciliation with the family of Edward Lane.
“No idea?” he repeated, quite bewildered, “no idea?”
“You have not made yourself clear, Judge Lane. Pray explain what it is
that you believe or imagine, that you wish or demand; then I shall know
how to frame my answer.”
The Judge gave another tug at his necktie, took hold of the arm of his
chair for support and made a vigorous effort to assume the manner which
had overwhelmed contestants, when seated upon his court bench.
“I will explain,” he said; “you shall have no reason to say that you
misunderstood or that I did not make my meaning perfectly clear.”
“I am waiting, sir.”
She spoke like a Russian Empress kept in suspense by a serf, if one
could suppose the thing possible, and increased the proud man’s
irritation and unhealthy bloom to the highest degree either was capable
of assuming without positive physical danger to himself.
“When my son came home a year ago,” he continued, still striving to
believe himself on his judicial bench, expounding some knotty question
of law or equity to a group of legal admirers, “the young man made your
acquaintance—people whisper that you put yourself in his way, I don’t
pretend to know how that was, but you became acquainted.”
Clara’s eyes flashed fire beneath their drooping lashes. The needle
shook in her hand, but she did not care to speak until the insult was
complete. So the Judge went on.
“The boy chose to think himself in love. He came here constantly. I
could not believe the thing possible, but he confessed it with his own
lips. Of course, I rebuked him—forbade him ever to enter this house
again, but he was lured on to disobey me, and I found it my duty to be
more severe. He went back to college. In that lay some hope of safety
for him, I thought, but since then his conduct has been that of a crazy
man. He has been driven to drink and gambling. He has been reprimanded
and at last suspended.”
“And how am I to blame for this?” questioned Clara.
“How! Why you have led him on to ruin, fascinated, bewitched him with
your beauty—for you are beautiful, no one can deny that. Still you are
no match for my son. He has a right to look higher for a wife, if you
presume to expect that. I want you to save my son, instead of being his
ruin—I want you to break this affair off. I am ready to make any
sacrifice—if you will name the amount that could help to spare your
feelings I will furnish it with pleasure; only speak and let me know
that you have decided never to see the young man again; on that
condition I will send for him home and give him another chance.”
“Have you anything more to say?” questioned the girl, now white and
still with intense passion.
“Yes, one thing. I want you to make all sure by quitting the
neighborhood. Of course your grandmother would be glad to sell this
shaky old building for anything she can get, but I will give her a fancy
price for it.”
“She was born here. She has lived here all her life,” said Clara, in a
low, cold voice.
“That is nothing. It will fall down over her head if she insists on
living here much longer. I am offering her a chance to save herself.
There now, I am ready to close in with any condition you may make.”