THE CONFESSION
Through the single unglazed window Beth Norvell saw him coming, and
clutched at the casing, trembling violently, half inclined to turn and
fly. This was the moment she had so greatly dreaded, yet the moment
she could not avoid unless she failed to do her duty to this man. In
another instant the battle had been fought and won, the die cast. She
turned hastily toward her unconscious companion, grasping her arm.
"Mr. Winston is coming, Mercedes; I--I must see him this time alone."
The Mexican's great black eyes flashed up wonderingly into the flushed
face bending over her, marking the heightened color, the visible
embarrassment. She sprang erect, her quick glance through the window
revealing the figure of the engineer striding swiftly toward them.
"Oh, si, señorita; dat iss all right. I go see Mike; he more fun as
dose vat make lofe."
There was a flutter of skirts and sudden vanishment, even as Miss
Norvell's ears caught the sound of a low rap on the outer door. She
stood breathing heavily, her hands clasped upon her breast, until the
knock had been repeated twice. Her voice utterly failing her, she
pressed the latch, stepping backward to permit his entrance. The first
swift, inquiring glance into his face frightened her into an impulsive
explanation.
"I was afraid I arrived here too late to be of any service. It seems,
however, you did not even need me."
He grasped the hand which, half unconsciously, she had extended toward
him; he was startled by its unresponsive coldness, striving vainly to
perceive the truth hidden away beneath her lowered lids.
"I fear I do not altogether understand," he returned gravely. "They
merely said that you were here with a message of warning for me. I
knew that much only a moment ago. I cannot even guess the purport of
your message, yet I thank you for a very real sacrifice for my sake."
"Oh, no; truly it was nothing," the excitement bewildering her. "It
was no more than I would have done for any friend; no one could have
done less."
"You, at least, confess friendship?"
"Have I ever denied it?" almost indignantly, and looking directly at
him for the first time. "Whatever else I may seem, I can certainly
claim loyalty to those who trust me. I wear no mask off the stage."
Even as she spoke the hasty words she seemed to realize their full
import, to read his doubt of their truth revealed within his eyes.
"Then," he said slowly, weighing each word as though life depended on
the proper choice, "there is nothing being concealed from me? Nothing
between you and this Farnham beyond what I already know?"
She stood clinging to the door, with colorless cheeks, and parted lips,
her form quivering. This was when she had intended to speak in all
bravery, to pour forth the whole miserable story, trusting to this man
for mercy. But, O God, she could not; the words choked in her throat,
the very breath seemed to strangle her.
"That--that is something different," she managed to gasp desperately.
"It--it belongs to the past; it cannot be helped now."
"Yet you came here to warn me against him?"
"Yes."
"How did you chance to learn that my life was threatened?"
She uplifted her eyes to his for just one instant, her face like marble.
"He told me."
"What? Farnham himself? You have been with him?"
She bowed, a half-stifled sob shaking her body, which at any other time
would have caused him to pause in sympathy. Now it was merely a new
spur to his awakened suspicion. He had no thought of sparing her.
"Where? Did he call upon you at the hotel?"
She threw back her shoulders in indignation at his tone of censure.
"I met him, after the performance, in a private box at the Gayety, last
evening," she replied more calmly. "He sent for me, and I was alone
with him for half an hour."
Winston stood motionless, almost breathless, looking directly into the
girl's face. He durst not speak the words of rebuke trembling upon his
lips. He felt that the slightest mistake now would never be forgiven.
There was a mystery here unsolved; in some way he failed to understand
her, to appreciate her motives. In the brief pause Beth Norvell came
back to partial self-control, to a realization of what this man must
think of her. With a gesture almost pleading she softly touched his
sleeve.
"Mr. Winston, I truly wish you to believe me, to believe in me," she
began, her low voice vibrating with emotion. "God alone knows how
deeply I appreciate your friendship, how greatly I desire to retain it
unsullied. Perhaps I have not done right; it is not always easy,
perhaps not always possible. I may have been mistaken in my conception
of duty, yet have tried to do what seemed best. There is that in the
pages of my past life which I intended to tell you fully and frankly
before our final parting. I thought when I came here I had sufficient
courage to relate it to you to-day, but I cannot--I cannot."
"At least answer me one question without equivocation--do you love that
man?" He must ask that, know that; all else could wait.
An instant she stood before him motionless, a slight color creeping
back into her cheeks under his intense scrutiny. Then she uplifted her
eyes frankly to his own, and he looked down into their revealed depth.
"I do not," the low voice hard with decision. "I despise him."
"Have you ever loved him?"
"As God is my witness--no."
There was no possible disbelieving her; the absolute truthfulness of
that utterance was evidenced by trembling lips, by the upturned face.
Winston drew a deep breath of relief, his contracted brows
straightening. For one hesitating moment he remained speechless,
struggling for self-control. Merciful Heavens! would he ever
understand this woman? Would he ever fathom her full nature? ever rend
the false from the true? The deepening, baffling mystery served merely
to stimulate ambition, to strengthen his unwavering purpose. He
possessed the instinct that assured him she cared; it was for his sake
that she had braved the night and Farnham's displeasure. What, then,
was it that was holding them apart? What was the nature of this
barrier beyond all surmounting? The man in him rebelled at having so
spectral an adversary; he longed to fight it out in the open, to
grapple with flesh and blood. In spite of promise, his heart found
words of protest.
"Beth, please tell me what all this means," he pleaded simply, his
hands outstretched toward her. "Tell me, because I love you; tell me,
because I desire to help you. It is true we have not known each other
long; yet, surely, the time and opportunity have been sufficient for
each to learn much regarding the character of the other. You trust me,
you believe in my word; down in the secret depths of your heart you are
beginning to love me. I believe that, little girl; I believe that,
even while your lips deny its truth. It is the instinct of love which
teaches me, for I love you. I may not know your name, the story of
your life, who or what you are, but I love you, Beth Norvell, with the
life-love of a man. What is it, then, between us? What is it? God
help me! I could battle against realities, but not against ghosts. Do
you suppose I cannot forgive, cannot excuse, cannot blot out a past
mistake? Do you imagine my love so poor a thing as that? Do not wrong
me so. I am a man of the world, and comprehend fully those temptations
which come to all of us. I can let the dead past bury its dead,
satisfied with the present and the future. Only tell me the truth, the
naked truth, and let me combat in the open against whatever it is that
stands between us. Beth, Beth, this is life or death to me!"
She stood staring at him, her face gone haggard, her eyes full of
misery. Suddenly she sank upon her knees beside a chair, and, with a
moan, buried her countenance within her hands.
"Beth," he asked, daring to touch her trembling hair, "have I hurt you?
Have I done wrong to speak thus?"
A single sob shook the slender, bowed figure, the face still hidden.
"Yes," she whispered faintly, "you have hurt me; you have done wrong."
"But why?" he insisted. "Is not my love worthy?"
She lifted her head then, resting one hand against the dishevelled
hair, her eyes misty from tears.
"Worthy? O God, yes! but so useless; so utterly without power."
Winston strode to the window and back again, his hands clenched, the
veins showing across his forehead. Suddenly he dropped upon his knees
beside her, clasping her one disengaged hand within both his own.
"Beth, I refuse to believe," he exclaimed firmly. "Love is never
useless, never without power, either in this world or the next. Tell
me, then, once for all, here before God, do you love me?"
She swept the clinging tears from her lashes, the soft clasp of her
fingers upon his hand unconsciously tightening.
"You may read an answer within my face," she replied, slowly. "It must
be that my eyes tell the truth, although I cannot speak it with my
lips."
"Cannot? In God's name, why?"
She choked, yet the voice did not wholly fail her.
"Because I have no right. I--I am the wife of another."
The head drooped lower, the hair shadowing the face, and Winston, his
lips set and white, stared at her, scarcely comprehending. A moment
later he sprang to his feet, one hand pressed across his eyes, slowly
grasping the full measure of her confession.
"The wife of another!" he burst forth, his voice shaking. "Great God!
You? What other? Farnham?"
The bowed head sank yet lower, as though in mute answer, and his ears
caught the echo of a single muffled sob. Suddenly she glanced up at
him, and then rose unsteadily to her feet clinging to the back of the
chair for support.
"Mr. Winston," her voice strengthening with each word spoken, "it hurts
me to realize that you feel so deeply. I--I wish I might bear the
burden of this mistake all alone. But I cannot stand your contempt, or
have you believe me wholly heartless, altogether unworthy. We--we must
part, now and forever; there is no other honorable way. I tried so
hard to compel you to leave me before; I accepted that engagement at
the Gayety, trusting such an act would disgust you with me. I am not
to blame for this; truly, I am not--no woman could have fought against
Fate more faithfully; only--only I couldn't find sufficient courage to
confess to you the whole truth. Perhaps I might have done so at first;
but it was too late before I learned the necessity, and then my heart
failed me. There was another reason I need not mention now, why I
hesitated, why such a course became doubly hard. But I am going to
tell you it all now, for--for I wish you to go away at least respecting
my womanhood."
He made no reply, no comment, and the girl dropped her questioning eyes
to the floor.
"You asked me if I had ever loved him," she continued, speaking more
slowly, "and I told you no. That was the truth as I realize it now,
although there was a time when the man fascinated, bewildered me, as I
imagine the snake fascinates a bird. I have learned since something of
what love truly is, and can comprehend that my earlier feeling toward
him was counterfeit, a mere bit of dross. Be patient, please, while I
tell you how it all happened. It--it is a hard task, yet, perhaps, you
may think better of me from a knowledge of the whole truth. I am a
Chicago girl. There are reasons why I shall not mention my family
name, and it is unnecessary; but my parents are wealthy and of good
position. All my earlier education was acquired through private
tutors; so that beyond my little, narrow circle of a world--fashionable
and restricted--all of real life remained unknown, unexplored, until
the necessity for a wider development caused my being sent to a
well-known boarding-school for girls in the East. I think now the
choice made was unfortunate. The school being situated close to a
large city, and the discipline extremely lax, temptation which I was
not in any way fitted to resist surrounded me from the day of entrance.
In a fashionable drawing-room, in the home of my mother's friends, I
first became acquainted with Mr. Farnham."
She paused with the mention of his name, as though its utterance pained
her, yet almost immediately resumed her story, not even glancing up at
her listener.
"I was at an age to be easily flattered by the admiration of a man of
mature years. He was considerably older than I, always well dressed,
versed in social forms, liberal with money, exhibiting a certain
dashing recklessness which proved most attractive to all the girls I
knew. Indeed, I think it was largely because of their envy that I was
first led to accept his attentions. However, I was very young, utterly
inexperienced, while he was thoroughly versed in every trick by which
to interest one of my nature. He claimed to be a successful dramatist
and author, thus adding materially to my conception of his character
and capability. Little by little the man succeeded in weaving about me
the web of his fascination, until I was ready for any sacrifice he
might propose. Naturally ardent, easily impressed by outward
appearances, assured as to my own and his social position, ignorant of
the wiles of the world, I was an easy victim. Somewhere he had formed
the acquaintance of my brother, which fact merely increased my
confidence in him. I need not dwell in detail upon what followed--the
advice of romantic girls, the false counsel of a favorite teacher, the
specious lies and explanations accounting for the necessity for
secrecy, the fervent pleadings, the protestations, the continual
urging, that finally conquered my earlier resolves. I yielded before
the strain, the awakened imagination of a girl of sixteen seeing
nothing in the rose-tinted future except happiness. We were married in
Christ Church, Boston, two of my classmates witnessing the ceremony.
Three months later I awoke fully from dreaming, and faced the darkness."
She leaned against the wall, her face, half hidden, pressed against her
arm. Speaking no word of interruption, Winston clasped her hand and
waited, his gray eyes moist.
"He was a professional gambler, a brute, a cruel, cold-blooded coward,"
the words dropping from her lips as though they burned in utterance.
"Only at the very first did he make any effort to disguise his nature,
or conceal the object of his marriage. He endeavored to wring money
from my people, and--and struck me when I refused him aid. He failed
because I blocked him; tried blackmail and failed again, although I
saved him from exposure. If he had ever cared for me, by this time his
love had changed to dislike or indifference. He left me for weeks at a
time, often alone and in poverty. My father sought in vain to get me
away from him, but--but I was too proud to confess the truth. I should
have been welcome at home, without him; but I refused to go. I had
made my own choice, had committed the mistake, had done the wrong; I
could not bring myself to flee from the result. I burrowed in the
slums where he took me, hiding from all who sought me out. Yet I lived
in an earthly hell, my dream of love dispelled, the despair of life
constantly deepening. I no longer cared for the man--I despised him,
shrank from his presence; yet something more potent than pride kept me
loyal. I believed then, I believe now, in the sacredness of marriage;
it was the teaching of my church, of my home; it had become part of my
very soul. To me that formal church wedding typified the solemnity of
religion; I durst not prove untrue to vows thus taken; divorce was a
thought impossible."
"And now?" he interrupted gently.
She lifted her head, with one swift glance upward.
"You will think me wrong, quixotic, unnatural," she acknowledged
soberly. "Yet I am not absolved, not free--this man remains my
husband, wedded to me by the authority of the church. I--I must bear
the burden of my vows; not even love would long compensate for
unfaithfulness in the sight of God."
In the intense silence they could hear each other's strained breathing
and the soft notes of a bird singing gleefully without. Winston, his
lips compressed, his eyes stern with repressed feeling, neither moved
nor spoke. Beth Norvell's head sank slowly back upon her arm.
"He took me with him from city to city," she went on wearily, as though
unconsciously speaking to herself, "staying, I think, in each as long
as the police would permit. He was seldom with me, seldom gave me
money. We did not quarrel, for I refused to be drawn into any exchange
of words. He never struck me excepting twice, but there are other ways
of hurting a woman, and he knew them all. I was hungry at times and
ill clad. I was driven to provide for myself, and worked in factories
and stores. Whenever he knew I had money he took it. Money was always
the cause of controversy between us. It was his god, not to hoard up,
but to spend upon himself. My steady refusal to permit his bleeding my
father enraged him; it was at such times he lost all control, and--and
struck me. God! I could have killed him! There were times when I
could, when I wonder I did not. Yet in calm deliberation I durst not
break my vows. Three years ago he left me in Denver without a word,
without a suggestion that the desertion was final. We had just reached
there, and I had nothing. Friends of my family lived there, but I
could not seek them for help. I actually suffered, until finally I
found employment in a large department store. I expected he would
return, and kept my rooms where he left me. I wrote home twice,
cheerful letters, saying nothing to lower him in the estimation of my
people, yet concealing my address for fear they might seek me out.
Then there unexpectedly came to me an opportunity to go out with
Albrecht, and I accepted it most thankfully. It gave me a chance to
think of other things, to work hard, to forget myself in a growing
ambition. I had already thrown off the old, and was laying ever firmer
hands upon the new, when you came into my life, and then he came back
also. It is such a small world, such a little world, all shadowed and
full of heartaches!"
In the silence she glanced aside at him, her eyes clear, her hair held
back by one hand.
"Please do not look at me like that," she pleaded. "Surely, you cannot
blame me; you must forgive."
"There is nothing to blame, or forgive, Beth; apparently there is
nothing for me to say, nothing for me to do."
She swayed slowly toward him, resting one hand upon his shoulder.
"But am I right? Won't you tell me if I am right?"
He stood hesitating for a moment, looking down upon that upturned,
questioning face, his gray eyes filled with a loyalty that caused her
heart to throb wildly.
"I do not know, Beth," he said at last, "I do not know; I cannot be
your conscience. I must go out where I can be alone and think; but
never will I come between you and your God."