"Has he—has he—ever been much to you?" asked Anne Oglesby, directly.
"In a way, yes," said Aurora Lane, quite truthfully, but flushing red. "Outside of my own son, he is the only man that's ever raised voice or hand in my defense here in this town. Beyond that—don't ask me."
Anne Oglesby did not ask her beyond that. But when she spoke, there was decision in her tones.
"It is no doubt your duty to go to Mr. Brooks at once. Will he too refuse us?"
Aurora Lane's face remained flushed in spite of herself.
"I don't think he will refuse," said she. "But only Don's danger would ever induce me to ask him for any help. I'll ask him—for Don and you."
Twilight fell, and they still sat silent. There came at last the footfalls on the office stairs, and the two arose in the dim light to face the door.
Judge Henderson entered slowly, hesitatingly. He half started as, looking within the unlightened room, he saw standing silhouetted against the window front the tall, trimly-clad figure of his ward, and at her side, equally tall, the dim, vague outline of Aurora, clad in black. The two stood hand in hand, and for the time made no speech.
"I must go," said Aurora Lane, at length.
Anne would have passed out with her, but her guardian raised a hand. "I must ask you where you are going?" said he.
"Not with me," said Aurora, quickly. "No, no, you must not." And so, quickly hurrying down the stair, she herself turned into the open street.
"Anne," said Judge Henderson, "I am deeply distressed. This all is terrible—it's an awful thing. Did you hear that funeral march? God! an awful thing, right when I am in this terrible dilemma. I've just been on the long distance 'phone trying to get Slattery—I can't find either him or Reeves; and I've got to act before court actually opens."
"What do you mean by a dilemma?" she asked coldly. "Does any dilemma last long with you, Uncle, when there is any question of your own self-interest?"
His face flushed under the cool insolence of her tone. "It's a fine courtesy you have learned in your schooling!"
"Have you heard all her history now?" he asked after an icy pause.
"Not all of it, no. Enough to admire her, yes. Enough to understand how this town feels toward her, yes. Why don't you all burn her as a witch in the public square?"
"You have a bitter tongue, Anne," said he. "You are not like your sainted mother."
"A while ago you said I was! But my sainted mother, whom I never knew, never found herself in a situation such as this," rejoined Anne Oglesby. "At least, while my father lived, she had a man to fend for her. I have none. We are women only in this case."
"So it was your plan to marry a nameless man? You've sworn he always shall be nameless." The man's face showed a curious mixture of eagerness and anxiety. He wished to argue, to expound, but dared not face this young girl with the icy smile.
"Yes, I've sworn silence. It is a great and grave responsibility," said she. "I'm sadder for that, that's true. But there are many things in the world besides just being happy, don't you think? You see, I've no dilemma at all!"
Judge Henderson passed a hand over his forehead. He had fought hard cases at the bar, but never had he fought a case like this.
"Anne," said he presently, "I'm very weary. I've had a hard day. I want you to go on up to the house now—the servants will make you comfortable until I come. Just now I was afraid you were going on over with Aurora Lane to her house."
"Not yet, Uncle," said she. "Perhaps at some later time, if you cast me out."
He only groaned at this thrust.
She passed, a cool picture of youth, self-possessed and calm. He heard her foot tapping fainter as it descended the stair, listened to hear if she might come back again. But Anne went on down the street steadily, looking straight ahead of her. Already, it seemed to her, she had grown old. To those who saw her she seemed a beautiful young woman.
"That's Don Lane's girl," said one ancient to another, back of his hand. "Lives over at Columbus. He kissed her right there on the depot platform, this very morning. Huh!"
"I don't blame him," rejoined the other, with a coarse laugh. "But he ain't apt to get many more chances now. I wonder how he fooled her about himself—and her the judge's ward, or something."
"Nerve?" said his friend. "He's got nerve enough to a-done anything. But I guess they got him dead to rights this time."
"Yeh. Thetown'sgot him dead to rights. No matter what the law——" he stopped, his head up, as though sniffing at something in the air. "Gawd!" said he. "Wasn't that music a awful thing! I can feel it in my bones right now. It makes me feel——"
"It makes a feller feel like doing something more'n being just sad! It makes a feller feel like—well——"
"Likestartin'something!"
The other nodded, grimly, his mouth caved in at the corners, tight shut now.
Anne scarcely had left the office when Judge Henderson, stepping into the inner room, pulled open a certain door of a cabinet beneath the washhand-stand. He drew forth a half-filled bottle of whisky, shook it once meditatively, and poured himself an adequate drink, refreshing himself with water at the tap. He stood for a moment, the half-emptied glass in his hand, looking at his features in the little glass which hung above the cabinet.
Not an unpleasant face it seemed to him; for so slowly had the lines come in his features, so slowly the gray in his hair, that almost he was persuaded they were not there at all. Delayed by the mirror to the extent of having consumed but half of his refreshing draft, yet purposing further imbibition, Judge Henderson paused at the sound of some person ascending the outer stair.
It was a very halting and uncertain step that came this time, one which seemed to double on each lift of the stair, with an accentuating tap-tap, as of a stick used in aid. But after a time he sensed its pause at his door. There was a rap, a faint little rap, although the door itself was ajar. Judge Henderson discreetly returned to the cabinet his half-finished glass of whisky and water, and stepped into the other room.
It was Miss Julia Delafield whom he met.
She was standing, her hand on the knob of the door, as if seeking support, or rather as though ready for flight. Her eyes were especially large and luminous now, as always they were when any supreme emotion governed her. Her cheeks were flushed in that fashion which she never yet had learned to control. Her smooth brown hair was held tightly back under her cool summer hat, and the hands resting on her smooth-topped cane were well gloved. Not ill-looking she was as she stood, stooped a trifle, bent over a bit.
She was half a-tremble now with the excitement that she felt. To any chance observer, even at this hour of this Sabbath day, it must have seemed that here was only a client come with purpose of consultation with an attorney. To the angels above who looked down on such matters as this, it must have seemed a pathetic scene, this in which Miss Julia figured now. To any human being knowing all the facts it must have been apparent that this call upon Judge Henderson was Miss Julia Delafield's great adventure.
Itwasher great adventure—the greatest ever known in all her life; and she had dared it now only because of two of the strongest emotions known to a woman's soul. These are two. They both come under a common name. That name is love.
It was love had brought Miss Julia hither. Love in the first place for Dieudonné Lane—or was it, really, in the first place, love for him? For we, who know as much as Aurora Lane knew of Miss Julia's secret—who once saw her gazing adoringly at a certain framed portrait when she fancied herself alone—would have known that there was more than one mansion in the heart of the little lame librarian.
Helpless, resigned—but yet a woman—Miss Julia loved in the first place as every woman with any touch of normality does love in spite of all. She had known all these years that her love was hopeless, that it was wrong, that it was a sin—she classed it as her sin. And her sin being her own, she hugged it to her bosom and wept over it these twenty years—became repentant over it—became defiant for it; prayed over it and clung to it—in short, comported herself as any woman would. And now Miss Julia, being what she was, stood flushed, her tiding pulses rising to her eyes, staining her fair skin deep to her very neck, as she faced her great adventure—as she stood looking into the face she had framed on her wall, framed on her desk, framed in her heart as well, in silver and gold and all the brilliants and the gems of a woman's soul.
But she was here by reason of a twofold love. Always in her heart, since she could remember, there had been the great secondary longing for something small to love, to hold in her arms—the desire for a child of her own—the one thing which, as Miss Julia knew, might never be for her.
Indeed, this great craving had always remained unformulated, unidentified, until that time, years and years ago, when she first saw the baby of Aurora Lane lifting up its hands to her. So she had become one-half a mother, at the least.
He was half her boy, at least, he who now lay in prison. A woman is a coward as to revealing her love for her chosen mate—she will conceal that, deny that, to the death. But for the child her love is different—then she becomes bold—she will defy all the world—will force herself even into situations otherwise unthinkable. Except for her love for Don Lane, the fatherless, Miss Julia would never have undertaken to find a father for him.
But that child had a father! Each must have. Ah! how must the angels have wept over that piteous spectacle of Miss Julia in her own room, looking smilingly at the face she saw pictured here in her own hand—the face of one whom she held to be a great man, a noble man, a man good, just, wise, one with love and kindness in his heart as well as brawn and brains in his physical self. Yes, there was a father.... And he was perfect, heroic, for her; her love being thus much blessed by that divine blindness love works within us all.
Now, the face which Miss Julia saw in her boudoir, the face which she saw framed upon the wall of her library room, was the same which she saw now close at hand! She started, flushed, trembled, finding difference between a picture and a man.
Judge Henderson was urbane, as always with a woman. He led her to a seat, taking pains to turn on another clip of the electric light, which Miss Julia suddenly wished he had not done, since now she was most sensible of her uncontrollable blushes.
Yes, it was a great adventure! She had never before been alone with him—not in all her life. She had never been this close to him before. It was somewhat cruel now; but the angels have their ways of being cruel with us at times.
"Miss Julia," he began with an extra unctuousness in his tones, "Miss Julia, my dear girl, I surely am delighted to see you here. You have never before been here, I am persuaded—this is the first time in all our long and pleasant acquaintance. If ever in the past I have been able to be of service to you——"
In any conversation Judge Henderson was sure to bring the talk around to himself, to his own deeds, his own ambitions. His was an egotism so extreme as to be almost beyond accountability—he was a moron not in mentality but in sense of proportion. He could not have put two square blocks together if one of these blocks had to do with the interest of another but himself. There are such men, and at times they go far.
Miss Julia flushed again prettily, but she was too much the lady to giggle or squirm or do any of those unlovable things by which the hopeless female makes herself more hopeless. She was used to hearing herself addressed as "Miss Julia" by all the world; but it seemed none the less especially sweet to hear the words in these rich, full, manly tones. (In her diary she wrote, "He addressed me in rich, full, manly tones.")
"Yes, I came as soon as my duties allowed me to get away today, Judge. It was a busy day for me, although it is the Sabbath. I was classifying some of the books. Thanks to your generosity, we have just received a good shipment.
"But you see, the town is all wrapped up in all these other things that have happened—that's why I came, Judge Henderson."
"I presume you have reference to that unfortunate young man who now lies in prison? In what capacity then can I serve you, Miss Julia?" His tone now was icy and reserved.
"I came to you, Judge Henderson, because I knew I would find in you a champion for justice. Why, all the town has come to depend on you for almosteverything! I suppose that is why I came—it seemed the natural thing to do."
Judge Henderson, regretting his half-finished glass, now impossible, coughed behind his hand.
"I am afraid, Miss Julia," said he, "that you don't quite know who he is, that boy."
"Ah, do I not! Why, he ismyboy, myownboy!"
"I beg pardon, but what do you mean, Miss Julia?"
"I say he's my boy! What I say about that is privileged—it's professional, Judge Henderson. No one else has heard me say what I am telling you now. But heismy boy—my love has gone into him, the same as if I were his mother."
He only stared as she rushed on.
"I know his mother—we have been friends here since we were girls, real friends. I'm the only friend she's got in this town—and the only fair and kind thing this town has ever done has been to allow me to be the friend of Aurora Lane. I suppose that's because I am only the little lame librarian! I don't count. She doesn't count. But—well, between us two—we've had a boy!"
He stared, pale, as she went on:
"Between us two, we've brought him up. We've educated him. Between us two, we have saved our money—it wasn't much—and we've managed to give him something of an education, something of a life more than he could have gotten in this town. We have put him through college—we have given him a profession—we were going to give him a start.
"I say 'we,' and I mean that. But, it isn't the money of mine that went into him—it's mylove—it's theloveI felt for him! Why, Judge, I've seen him grow up. I've held him in my two hands, this way, when he was so little ... oh, very little.... So you see, he's my boy, too!
"And so," she added inconsequently, as he made no answer, "I came to you." (What the angels understood in Miss Julia's unspoken words then they did not make plain to the ears of the man who heard them.)
Judge Henderson sat astounded, looking at her steadily, unable to grasp all the emotion which evidently she felt, unable wholly to understand an act of clean unselfishness on the part of any human being.
"You see," said Miss Julia tremblingly, after a time—"his father—I never knew his father. She'd never tell me—I never asked but once. But you see, I onlyfanciedthat he had a father. I fancied I was his mother. I fancied——" But now Miss Julia's voice failed her, and her blushes alone spoke.
"I see," said Judge Henderson, not unkindly, and breathing more freely, "you fancied that you held an undivided interest in this child, this young man." She did not see his face very plainly, did not catch his hesitation as he engaged on this touchy theme.
Miss Julia nodded rapidly, swallowing hard. Her face was very beautiful indeed now. (The angels must have smiled with tears in their eyes as they looked down upon her now and saw how pathetically beautiful she was!)
"And that interest is still undivided?"
"Yes, we've not seen each other very much, Aurora and I, today, because things have been traveling so fast, but we are—we are partners in this trouble, as in everything else. We've got to have a lawyer, of course. There's not much money left between us—even my next month's salary is pledged. It cost more than we thought to get him through the graduation. There were clothes, you know—many things." And now she flushed again vividly. She was thinking of Don's little clothes, which once long ago she had helped to sew; and the angels knew this, gravely.
"He's asplendidyoung man, our boy!" she broke out again at length. "Can't you see that? Good in his classes—and an athlete—a splendid one. He's such a gentleman in all his ways, Judge Henderson, a son worthy of a father, of some good father, if only he had one! His father died, you know, when Don was just a baby." She was not looking at him now, not daring, as she went on.
"But you see, we are in trouble about him. That may come to anyone. Why, even you yourself, Judge Henderson, successful as you are—some time even you may know such a thing as trouble. It is the common human lot. And I have been told enough——"
"If I were in trouble," said Judge Henderson gallantly, and with a push of a full ounce of Monongahela back of his words, "I would go to just some such woman as you for help. But women don't seem to see any of the intervening obstacles that exist, do they, Miss Julia?"
"If we did, the world would stop," said Miss Julia, simply. And spoke a great truth.
"None the less there are obstacles," said he, after a time. "I fear there are insuperable ones, my dear." ("He called me 'My dear!'" wrote Miss Julia in her diary.)
"Why, not at all! I can't believe that, Judge. We'll manage it all in some way, Aurora and I. And, naturally we come to you as our champion—who should help us if not you yourself? Do I say too much, Judge Henderson?" she inquired timidly.
"No, not too much," said he with much modesty, "not too much, I trust. I hope I have always had, at every stage of my own career, the confidence of all my friends in this community."
There was a little pause. "But also, Miss Julia," he continued, raising a hand, "wait a minute—wait a minute. In order to deserve the confidence of all my friends I have always been forced to adhere to that course which to me and my own conscience seemed just and right. I will not undertake to disguise the truth, Miss Julia, I am already retained for the prosecution of this case. I must not listen to you coming to ask me to act for the defense. That at least is the present status of affairs. I shall be guided all along by my sense of right and duty. At present I cannot take the case for the defense."
She was feeling at the head of her stick, stumblingly, half rising. Suddenly it seemed to her that the walls were closing in upon her, that she must get away, get out into the open.
"That's cruel!" she exclaimed.
"At times it is necessary for us to be cruel," said Judge Henderson, virtuously. "If I am cruel, I regret with all my heart that it must be cruelty to one whom so long I have held in such esteem as I do you. We have long known your life, how exquisitely ordered it has been. I have never known before, of course, how much it was wrapped up with this young man's life. I am astonished at what I have learned. It is only my own high standard of honor, my dear—that same standard to which I have unflinchingly adhered at whatever cost it might entail upon me—which enables me to refuse any request that you might make me. Now I am pained and grieved, I am indeed."
A tear stood in the corner of Judge Henderson's eyes. It was an argument which he always had at hand if need were—an argument which had won him perhaps more than one case before a jury. And now he felt himself, as always, the central figure, appealing to a jury, extenuating, explaining, expounding. Moreover, he felt himself misjudged, an injured man. He did not care at the time to divulge any of the plan he but now had confided to Aurora and Anne.
"I have hurt you!" said Miss Julia, impulsively. "Oh, I would never mean to do that." She held out a hand swiftly, in part forgetful of her errand.
He took her hand in both his own—small and white it was, and veined somewhat, ink-stained as to some of the fingers—a hand which rested trembling in his own. (Now, what the angels saw is not for mortals to inquire! "He took my hand in both his own!" wrote Miss Julia in her diary.)
Judge Henderson gallantly clasped the hand and drew it a trifle closer to his bosom. "You believe me, do you not, my dear?" said he. "It grieves me to give you any pain. As for me, it does not matter." He dashed the tear from his eye.
But now Miss Julia's courage failed her. Her double sacrifice for the child and the child's unknown and uncreated father had failed! She limped toward the door. Her great adventure was ended.
But, at least, she had been alone in the presence of the great man whom she had loved these many years. And she had found him in all ways worthy! He was still a hero in her eyes, a great man, a noble man—yes, she was sure of that.
How must the angels have sighed as Miss Julia stumbled down the stair with this thing in her heart! For, in all her heart, she knew that, had she been young as Aurora Lane once was young, and had such a man as this asked of her anything—anything—she would have given! She would have yielded gladly all she had to yield—she would have given her life into his keeping.... For of such is the kingdom of love, if not the kingdom of heaven. And as to that last let the angels say, who watched poor Miss Julia as she stumbled down the stair.
As for Aurora Lane, at about the time Miss Julia was leaving Judge Henderson's office, she herself was in the office of another lawyer upon the opposite side of the square—the man Henderson hated and feared more than any other human being.
Horace Brooks, after his usual fashion, was spending his Sunday afternoon in his legal chambers. He lived as a bachelor, the sole boarder of a family far out toward the edge of town—a family that had no social standing, but that never became accustomed to the ways of Mr. Brooks, who came and went, ate, slept, and acted, as one largely in a trance, so occupied was he with thoughts of his business affairs. Never was a soul less concerned with conventions or formalities than he; nor one more absorbed, more concentrated of purpose in large things.
He was sitting now, as often he might have been seen to sit, tilted back in his chair, with his feet on his table, where rested in extreme disorder many volumes of the law, some opened, face-down, others piled in untidy masses here and there. Mr. Brooks had no clerk and no partner. When he cited an authority in his library he left the book where last it was used, and searched for it pellmell if later need arose. This same system applied to every other article of use in the entire office—it was all chance medley, and the pursuit of the desired article was short or long in accordance with the luck of the searcher.
Around him on the floor lay countless burned matches, a pipe or two which scattered tobacco. The floor itself was covered layers deep with the ruins of two Sunday papers—at which form of journalism Horace Brooks openly scoffed, but none the less ruthlessly devoured after his own fashion each Sabbath afternoon.
He sat with his bearded chin sunk in his shirt bosom, his mild blue eye seeing nothing at all, his hands idle in his lap. He was concluding his Sabbath as usually he did, in the midst of the scenes surrounding his daily toil throughout the week. He started at the sound of Aurora Lane's knock on the door.
"Come in!" he called.
He supposed it was some young lawyer from one of the offices down the hall, where struggling students, or clerks from the abstract offices, sometimes brought knotty problems for him to solve. These folk still lived in the rear of their offices—as indeed Horace Brooks but recently had done himself. A disorderly couch still might have been found in the room beyond, fragments of soap, a soiled towel or so, a broken comb, a sidelong mirror—traces of his own humble and arduous beginnings in the law.
But he turned half about now, and dropped his feet to the floor as he heard the rustle of a gown. He sat half leaning forward as Aurora Lane entered. He had small training in the social usages—he did not always rise when a woman entered the room, unless some special reason for that act existed. So he sat for just a time, and looked at her, the fact of her presence seeming slowly to filter into his brain. Then quickly he stood and went forward to her, his rare smile illuminating his homely features.
"Come in," said he. "Will you be seated? Why have you come here?" He was simple and direct of habit.
Aurora Lane looked at him not only with the eyes of a client, but with the eyes of a woman. She saw plainly the quick look of eagerness, the swift hopefulness which came into his eyes.
But she must forestall all that. "Mr. Brooks," said she, "I've come to you for help—I need your professional services."
He sat looking at her gravely for some time, the light in his face slowly fading away. "Help?" said he. "As how?" He was of the plain people, and at times lapsed into the colloquial inelegancies of his early life. But he needed little divination now to know that Aurora Lane came to him for no personal reasons that offered him any hope.
"It's about my boy," said Aurora. "You know—Don."
He nodded slowly. "Yes, I know—the coroner's jury has held him over."
"But he's in jail."
"Yes, they had that right—to hold him for the investigation of the grand jury. And this is a grand jury matter, as you must know. Court opens tomorrow. The grand jury sits tomorrow morning. At least the preliminaries won't take long. But the outlook is bad, Aurora—they mean to get him if they can."
Aurora Lane for a third time that day produced from her shabby pocket book the little worn bill which represented her sole worldly fortune. A flush rose to her temples now as she held it hesitatingly between her fingers.
He saw it very plainly, and caught something of her meaning in the pause. A slow red came also into his own face.
"You'd better keep that for the present," said he slowly after a time. He pushed her fingers back with the bill. "I know this is professional, but I can't take money from you now—not that money—because I know very well you've got none you can afford to spend. Aurora, there's no use trying to have secrets from me—we know each other too well."
"But what right do you leave me then to come to you?"
"I don't know that you have any right to come to me at all," said he slowly. "I've my own right to decline to deal with you at all in business matters. And you come here on business."
Aurora sank back into her chair. "Then what could I do?" she said faintly.
"Have you tried Henderson?"
"Yes," she said, faintly, and with much reluctance, "I did."
"Why, if you wanted me?"
"I can't tell you that. But I did. He refused to have anything to do with the defense for my boy."
"Very naturally—very naturally. Didn't you know he would before you went to ask him? Couldn't you guess that?—couldn't you have figured out that much for your own self? Didn't you know that man? He's not with the under dog."
"It seems not," said Aurora Lane, wearily. "So I came to you."
"Even after last night?"
"Yes, after last night. At first it was hard to think of it."
"Aurora," said he, "I reckon I'm not a very practical sort of man. If I were—if I were a man like Judge Henderson, say, I'd clamp on the screws right now. I'd try to get you to alter what you said to me last night."
"It wouldn't be like you. You've never yet—in all our lives—done anything like that."
"No? I'm second choice—that's my fate, is it—that's as high as I get? Yes, I reckon that's about a fair estimate of me—I'm a typical second choice man. I suppose I'll have to accept that fact." And now he laughed uproariously, though none too happily.
"Well, Aurora," said he after a time, "you have broken in here, anyway—just as I broke down your gate last night in my own clumsiness. Suppose we call it quits. Let's not figure too close on the moving consideration. There's nothing you can give Horace Brooks, attorney at law, in the way of pay. And you need Horace Brooks—onlyas attorney at law. What can I do for you?'
"I don't know, but all that can be done now for him you can do. I've nowhere else to go. It wasn't easy for me to come here, but I'd make any sacrifice for my boy."
"Sacrifices are at a discount in a lawyer's office. I don't ask you to reconsider your decision, as to me—as to me as your husband. But speaking of sacrifices, I only point out to you that so far as I'm concerned as a lawyer in this town, I might as well be your husband or your lover as your lawyer of record in this case! Since the trial yesterday, and my walk home with you last night, there'll be plenty who'll think so anyway. I may be held as a man worse than I ever was—and neither of us gain by that."
"That may be so," said she, bending her face forward in her hands. "God! What a trial, what a risk, what a peril I am to myself and everyone I meet! I've brought loss, suspicion, wrong on you—you who're noble! And after twenty years——"
"Yes, Aurora. Twenty years outlaws a claim in the law—for men—but not for women. Now, I take on those twenty years of yours when I take on this case. I'm clear about that. I can see this thing straight enough. This town will go into two camps. Ours is the hopeless one, as things stand now. We are the under dog. If I took this case—maybe even if I won it—I'd be hated by the men and snubbed by the women of this town. Now, I see all that clearly. And speaking of pay——"
"Oh, if you would," she exclaimed, leaning toward him, her hands extended, "I'd do anything you asked me. Do you understand that—anything!"
She paused. In the silence the little clock on the mantel ticked so loud it seemed almost to burst the walls. He sat for a long time motionless, and she went on, leaning yet more toward him.
"I've thought it all over again," she said desperately. "I'd—I'd begin it again—I'd do anything—I'd doanythingyou asked me——Why, I've nothing—nothing—oh, so little to give! But—as to what you said last night—I've thought of that. I'm ready—what is it that you wish?"
He looked at her dumbly for a long time, and she thought it was in condemnation. For almost the first time she voiced in her life—continually on the defensive.
"I don't understand it all," said she. "I've tried very hard since then. I was so young. I didn't know much at first—I didn't feel that it was all so wrong—I didn't know much of anything at all, don't you see?"
Now he raised his great hand, his lips trembling. "Just wait a bit, my dear," said he. "We'll take what you've said as proof of your love for your own son. We'll let it stop right there, please. We'll forget what happened last night at your broken gate—we'll forget what's happened just now inside my broken gate. I told you if I ever married you I'd do it on such a basis that I could look you in the face, and you could me. That's the only way, Aurora. There's not any other way. I reckon I'll always love you—but only on the square."
"But what can we do—you refuse to help us—and the boy's innocent!"
"Wait, my dear," said he slowly. "I've not a woman's wit, so I can't leap on quite so fast as you do. A lawyer reads word by word. I'm still in the preliminaries, not even into the argument of this case yet."
"But you have refused—you have said it meant ruin to you—I know—I mean that to everyone."
"You've meant a great deal more than that to me, my dear," said Horace Brooks, "and no matter what you mean—no matter what my decision may do to my future—no matter what it may cost me in my larger ambitions, which I entertain, or once did, the same as any other man here in America—why, let it go."
"But what are you going to do? I'm costing you everything, everything—and I can give you nothing, nothing—and I'm asking still of you everything, everything."
"Tut, tut! Aurora," said Horace Brooks, "I'm going to take this case—for better or for worse! Didn't I tell you I wanted to stand between you and trouble—any trouble? A man likes to do things for a woman—for the woman he loves."
She sat for a long time, white, motionless, looking at him.
"The pay——" she began stumblingly.
"I'd rather not hear you say anything about that," he replied simply. "You did not say anything at all. This is theofficeof Horace Brooks, attorney at law. As I understand it, I'm duly retained for the defense in the case of the state against Dieudonné Lane, charged with murder."
The blood came pouring back into Aurora Lane's face as she straightened. "You are a good man," said she. "I always knew it. I——"
He raised a hand once more. "These are business hours," said he, "and believe me, no time is left for anyone to do anything but work on this case."
"He's innocent, of course. He couldn't have done this—who was it, do you think?"
"Oh, now, I don'tknowwho it was. It may have been Don himself. All men are human. A lawyer has to look all the facts in any case square in the face."
"But, my God! You can't think—you don't believe——"
"Please let me act as attorney. Now, I'm to blame in a sort of way in this case. I started a good deal of this trouble. I gave your boy the advice which threw him in jail—when I told him to thrash any man who said a word against his mother—you. He's made a certain threat or two. He's been found in very compromising circumstances indeed. The case looks bad against him. Yes, he needs a lawyer—but he's got one! We'll fight it through. You see," and he smiled again his wide and winning smile, "all my life, I've had a sort of leaning for the under dog.
"Now," said he, abruptly rising, "I'm in this case, and I'm going to take my chances. I've lost my chances on the Senatorship of the United States. I've kept my promise to Henderson and I've sent word to our central committee. I'm the under dog. But before all this is over, the people of Spring Valley are going to know there are two sides to this fight—and all these fights!
"Now, listen, Aurora," he went on in his careless paternal fashion, as he walked, his great head drooped, his hands thrust into his pockets. "Figure it over. Last night we three walked home together—before them all. Everybody saw us. Everybody saw Tarbush. It can be proved that Don left us and went over, following after Tarbush. It can be proved that he was seen running away from that place—at just the wrong time—in just the wrong way."
"But it was someone else who killed him—it wasn't my boy——"
"You can't convince a jury by assertions. If it was not this man, they will ask, Who was it? Who was the other man, and why do you think so? Now, whowasthat other man, Aurora?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I. But we've got to find him. There's no trace of him. But as for Don, the boy, it's a trail, a plain one, and it leads——" He threw out his hands widely, as though reluctant to name the truth.
"But," he went on, "if he isn't guilty someone else is guilty. Under this criminal act in all its phases there lies some cause, of course—there is some criminal, of course. There has been crime committed, a very beastly, brutal sort of crime, almost inhuman—and that was done by some man. If I could put my hand on that man, why then——"
"It would mean life and happiness to me. It would mean satisfaction to you?"
"More than that," he smiled. "It would mean the life of your boy—many years yet for you and him together—once I'd have said maybe it might mean six years in the United States Senate for me. I don't know—I can't tell. The chances now are rather that even if I clear the boy, it means I'll have to close up this office and go somewhere else to hunt a law practice. But we'll take our chances."
"You are a great man, Horace Brooks," said Aurora Lane; and there was a sort of reverence in her tone. "Even after what has been between us, I can say that. Oh, I so much like—I so much admire a man who is not afraid, and who doesn't parley and weigh and dicker with himself when it comes to any hard decision. I like a brave man, a good man. You'll understand."
He raised a hand, a large hand, nervous, full-veined, gnarled, awkward, a hand never in all his life to be freed from toil's indelible imprint.
"Please don't," said he.
"But how can I say what I want?" said she. "I've always wanted to pay all my debts—that's to make up for all my faults, don't you see? I must be scrupulous—because——"
"Yes," said he, "I see. I've seen that for more than twenty years, ever since I've known you. Because that's true of you, and is true of so few women, so very few, is why I wished last night—that you were a widow!
"Now, that's about all. When youwishthat you could pay this debt—which isn't any debt so far—you've paid it, so far as I'm concerned. It is thewishto pay your debts that amounts to moral principle—and to business success too—in this world.
"And so," he laughed again his great resounding laugh, and thrust out his hand toward her, "I reckon you can call yourself something of a business success tonight after all. Now go home, and see that you sleep."
That Sunday evening Aurora Lane sat alone in her dingy little home. The walls seemed to her close as those of any prison. She found about her nothing of comfort. For once the little white bedside, all her life her shrine, failed in its ministration. There rose in her heart a great vague hunger for gregarious worship—the sort which all these others had freely offered every week of all their lives—that same wish for gregarious worship on which are based all the churches, all the creeds, of all the world. As never in her life before Aurora felt now that she could no longer fight alone, in solitude—she needed something—she needed the sight of other faces, the touch of other hearts; needed the assemblage, the crowd—needed, in short, the worlden masse, as we all do. She had lived without association and without sympathy too long. Now her starved nature at last rebelled.
So, having prayed faithfully, Aurora Lane rose not wholly comforted; and therefore she resolved to break the habit of her life, as she had lived it more than twenty years in this little town. In all that time she had not been within the door of any church, but now she felt that she must go—must be at least in part like to all these others on this evening of the Sabbath day.
The main note of such a community as Spring Valley is that of a resigned acceptance of life. This means a drab middle course, of small heroics, which yet does not debar from a quiet sympathy and mutual understanding. This in turn essentially implies some manner of religious belief, for the most part of the passive, un-investigative sort. Without doubt the church of this or that denomination—and in any such community there will be many—is the club and the court alike to those who maintain its beliefs—aye, and it is their hope and stay as well.
Aurora chose the largest church, where there was most apt to be the largest congregation. Passing there, she had heard the organ roll in its moving appeal. It seemed to her that she must hear music or she must starve, must die. The drain on her nature now had been so great that, much as every impulse drew her to yonder other edifice, the one with iron bars where lay her own son, a prisoner, she could not go there, could not see him again, until she herself had had restoration of some of the forces of her own life. She wanted music—she wanted light—she wanted the presence, close, near to her, of other human beings. Surely they must know—surely they too must some time have suffered, have grieved, have yearned.
The slow life of the little town, which the excitement of this extraordinary Sabbath had so largely diverted from its usual channels, now began to reassemble and to trickle toward the conventional meeting grounds. Those who had been delinquent at the morning services were at least tonight devout.
There is a sort of life of affairs, a sort of business life, of any church in any community. Thus, there may be many meetings beside that of the Sabbath day, in each church in any community. There must fall the practice of the choir, weekly, usually of Wednesday, sometimes of Saturday evenings as well, if the anthem prove especially difficult of mastery.
As to the choir proper, there must of course be the soprano—not always elocutionist, as was the soprano in this church of Spring Valley—but always well-clad, most frequently with long and glossy curls of chestnut and the most modish hat of any in the church. Most tenors are bank clerks or cashiers. It is the function of the tenor in any such choir to escort the soprano to her home. The contralto is for the most part married, beginning to showembonpoint. She is brunette, with wide and pleasant mouth; is able to make excellent currant jelly, of which she gives her neighbors generously. Her attire is apt to be not quite so well-appointed as that of the soprano, which indeed should not be expected of the mother of three, the arrangement of those white starched collars in a part of each Sunday's task. The basso may sometimes be a school teacher, yet some of the best have been owners of livery barns, no more; modest folk withal, and covetous of the back seat in the choir.
To this essential personnel of the church choir there may be added others, supplements or understudies for this or that musical part, young men with large cameo pins in their cravats, young women with spectacles. All these who sing soprano or contralto, at least all who still are young, must be taken home after services—not only the regular services of the church, but those of the choir practice midway of the week or at the week's close. And thereto, one must count the weekly prayer meetings, mostly for the old, but for the young in part.
It is, therefore, easy to be seen that the vestibule of any Spring Valley church of a Wednesday evening, sometimes of a Thursday evening, quite often a Saturday evening, and always of a Sunday evening, must hold a certain lay representation of the community. It is, or once was, one of the proper functions of the village church to act as social meeting ground. Practically all of the respectable marriages in Spring Valley actually were contracted, at least as to the preliminary stages, under the eaves of this or that church.
The vestibule was crowded this Sunday evening, as was customary, when Aurora Lane, quite alone, turned in from the sidewalk and ascended the eight broad wooden steps up to the church door. Passing thence to the inner door, she felt the silence which came upon the boys and young men who loitered there, waiting for the entrance or the exit of those of the opposite sex. She felt the stares which fell upon her—felt, rather than saw, the icy disapproval which greeted her even here, even among these. But she passed by, entered the house of worship, and sank into a seat very far back in the long, bare, ghastly, rectangular room.
Before or after the entry of Aurora Lane, there failed not in coming those who sit in judgment upon the lives of their fellows—the baker, the butcher, the school teacher, the hanger of paper, the maker of candlesticks as well. All these were here, parts of the life of this community. Miss Julia was not there, as Aurora Lane discovered. She wondered dully if it had not been her duty to go around to the library and ask for Miss Julia; but the longing for personal solitude had been as strong in her heart as the longing for silent human companionship, so she had come alone. In truth Miss Julia was recreant tonight. She was alone in her own room—alone with her diary—that is to say, face to face with the picture of the same man whom Aurora Lane had met that afternoon.
In the slowly filling pews there reigned now silence, broken only by the shuffling footfalls of the arrivals, that uneasy, solemn silence which holds those seated and waiting for the services at church. A school teacher who was born in the East somewhere leaned her head forward on the back of the seat before her, and with a certain ostentation prayed, or seemed to pray. Others would have done this very fetching thing as well, but lacked the courage, so sat coldly, stiffly, unhappily, bolt upright, awaiting the arrival of the minister.
The tenor came after a time, soon following the soprano, models alike of social graces and correct attire. They passed modestly, seemingly unregardful of the glances bent upon them. The bass singer was more conscious of his ill-fitting clothes as he hurried up the aisle, his Adam's apple agitated, betokening his lack of ease. The soprano by this time was shaking out her curls, fussing among the music sheets at the top of the organ, pushing back the stool, twirling its top about—all the while still quite highly unmindful of the gazes of the audience. The contralto came last, her brow furrowed with the thought that perhaps she had not left the cold meat on the table where her husband, the doctor, would find it when he came back from the country.
Came also in due and proper time the minister of church, the pillar of it all, bearing in his hand, rolled in its leather case, the sermon which he had written last Thursday morning—and which perforce he had been obliged wholly to rewrite since Saturday at noon! For, be sure, this sermon must take up the issues of the day—must stand for the weekly platform of the town's morality. The eyes of all now were bent upon the little roll of leather in the preacher's hand. They knew what must be there. In a way they moistened their lips. This was why the attendance was so large and prompt tonight.
But Aurora Lane, unskilled in any of these things, the prey to so many conflicting emotions at this hour, a novice in the house of God, sat silent, her hands folded, well enough aware she was not welcomed by those who saw her there, yet craving of them, dumbly, anguished, all their tolerance in her time of need.
Now the organ rolled after its fashion. There were voices not too highly skilled, perhaps, yet after all productive of a certain melody. The music softened the ice of Aurora Lane's heart. She felt that after all she was a human being, as these others all about her. Was not this anthem universal in its wording? Did it not say "Come unto Me"? Did it not say something about "All ye"?—something about "Whosoever"? And Aurora Lane, all her life debarred from this manner of human classification, felt her heart tremble within her bosom as she heard these universal, all-embracing words. Those about her, righteous, virtuous, heard them not at all, because they had been sung so oft before.
The text of the evening matters little. Everyone there, excepting Aurora Lane, knew that the real text was the red-handed young criminal lying in the prison.
The preacher invoked the wrath of God upon him who had raised his hand against the life of one of the town's beloved. He read large lessons as to right living, educed all proper morals from these events, so startling, which had come upon this peaceful town. In short, he preached what manner of sermon he must have preached in this manner of church and this manner of town. At times his voice was low and tense, at times his tones grew thunderous. And every word he said he felt was true, or thought was true, or hoped to be the truth; because he himself had written it; and this was the Lord's day; and these were the services wherein the Lord is worshiped regularly.
But the music of the anthem remained in Aurora Lane's soul, so that she was practically unconscious of all this. Her mind was vague, dazed. She did not know her son had been tried and found guilty. The words clung in her heart; "All ye"; "Whosoever." And presently they sang yet another hymn, and in it again were the words, "Come unto Me!" There was great emotional uplift in all Spring Valley this day. The minister felt the emotion, here upon the souls of his audience. He prayed for what he termed an awakening.
But Aurora was not awakened. On the contrary, for a time her strained senses seemed dull, relaxed. Only she heard the music, only the Divine words still lingered in her consciousness. It seemed but a moment to her before she saw all the others rising noisily, opening hymn books, for the final hymn. She herself therefore rose and stood silently, her hands folded before her, her eyes fixed forward. They sang a dismissal hymn. Perhaps there were some who really praised God, from Whom all blessings flow. The minister raised his hands in that benediction which sent them all away full of a sense of duty done, albeit a trifle guilty as to that moral awakening regarding which the minister righteously had upbraided them.
All this was but the usual and regular experience of the congregation. To this woman, this outcast, the unconscious object of the wrath so lately uttered from the pulpit, it had been a great and gracious experience. Yes, she said to herself, she had been one of these others! She was within sight and touch of other women. There were boys and girls, young human beings, close to her, all about her. And nothing had happened to her after all!
Her precious words, assimilated rather from the hymns than from the sermon, were uppermost in her consciousness as, absorbed, almost unseeing, she stepped out once more into the vestibule. "All ye ...Allye...."
Many passed her; none addressed her; a few drew aside their gowns as she came near. All stared. A sort of commotion therefore existed in the back portion of the vestibule as she emerged. The eyes of many young men were upon her boldly, curiously, insultingly, perhaps—she did not know.
It is a part of the formula of village life in such a community as Spring Valley, for the young men thus lingering in the vestibule to accost the maidens of their choice as they emerge from the body proper of the church building. The youth steps forward—preceding any rival if he may—removes his hat, at least in part, and having gained the maiden's eye, speaks the unvarying phrase, "May I see you home tonight?" Whereupon the young lady, smiling if favorably disposed to him, is expected to take his arm in sight of all; and they thus, arm in arm, descend the eight wooden steps to the sidewalk, and so walk away undisturbed. Thus there gradually ensues a general pairing off of all. The swain or the maid left alone is not rated of the social elect. This is the selecting place of the sexes, far more than the sacred parlor with its horsehair chairs and its album midway on the table of the marble top.
But now, as the little assemblage in the vestibule dissipated, there came an added commotion, not at the rear, but at the front of the vestibule. Someone was pushing on inside of the door—someone who apparently did not belong there.
It was the half-witted son of Ephraim Adamson, John, commonly called Johnnie, the idiot! Why he had come hither, why he was allowed to come, none might say, nor why he came unattended by any of his kin as was the usual custom. But none molested him. A bold youth said "Hello, Johnnie," and Johnnie respectfully took off his hat to him with an amiable grin. They would have mocked him had they dared, but in truth none knew what to do with him.
When Aurora Lane had passed in part the gauntlet of the loitering youths, and was about to step down the stair into the street, she felt a heavy hand fall on her arm. Then a peal of laughter rose back of her—laughter on the threshold of the church itself. For what the half-wit did was what he had seen these others do. Sidling up to her, his hat off, he said, "May I see—may I see you home this—this evening?"
This was accounted the greatest jest, the most unfailingly mirthful thing in the recountal, ever known in the annals of Spring Valley.
Aurora Lane started back from him in sudden shocked loathing, swiftly resentful also of the mocking laughter that she heard from those who still stood within the sanctuary. Sanctuary? Was there such a place as sanctuary for her in all the world? Was there any place where she might be safe, where she might be unmolested?
"Go on away!" she said sharply, and would have hurried down the stair. She looked this way and that. There was not a man to whom she might appeal as her champion—not one! She must trust herself.
"Go along!" said she. But actually she saw tears in the eyes of the half-witted giant now. "No, Johnnie; but I'll walk with you with these others as far as the corner of the square."
"All right," said he. "I'll do—I'll do that." A wide gap opened in the ranks of the slow procession on the sidewalk now as these two joined in. Not too wide, however, for there were certain ones who must keep track of all details regarding this epochal event.
"Where is your father, Johnnie?" asked Aurora Lane, quietly and distinctly, so that all might hear.
"He—he—I don't—I don't know. I ain't—I ain't been home. I'm out!" said Johnnie.
"You've not been home? What do you mean?"
"Wasn't there—wasn't there a funer'l for somebody today?" he asked mysteriously. "I can whip any man in Jackson County. My pa said so. We've—we've done it—we'd done it then if he—if he hadn't pitched on to me. He done that."
A sudden terror caught Aurora Lane's soul as she realized that the addled mind of this half-wit was more than to a usual extent gone wrong. She feared him with every fiber in her body. She stepped aside quickly as he made a loutish thrust at her arm, as though to pinch her.
"I'll pinch you!" said he. "You know why?"
"No, don't! Go away!" she exclaimed, and pushed out her hand.
"'Cause—'cause I like you!" said the half-wit. "That's why!"
Then for a time those who crowded up at the rear heard little, until he resumed.
"Oh, I know a lot more I could tell you some time. I ain't—I ain't been home at all. I'm just looking round. Ain't no one can stop me. There was some sort of—of funer'l, wasn't there, in town today? Me and my father, we can lick ary two men in Jackson County."
He would have made some sort of rude approach once more. But now even the tardy chivalry of these men of Spring Valley came back to them. Two or three stepped in between him and Aurora Lane. "Here, you," said the voice of one, "that'll do! Quit it now."
Aurora Lane did not have time to thank her rescuers. The painful situation was relieved suddenly. Just as they were turning at the corner of the public square there hurried up a man, an oldish man, untidy even in his Sunday garb, half running toward the group which now he saw approaching.
"Hello, Pa," exclaimed the half-wit, and laughed long and loud. "I didn't come home," said he. "I'm—I'm out!"
The sad face of Ephraim Adamson was seen by all, as he pushed in among them and took his son by the arm. They walked away briskly now together, Johnnie looking back over his shoulder.
But now, to the surprise of all—to her own surprise as well, so sudden was her resolve—Aurora Lane hurried after these two.
"Mr. Adamson," said she, "wait, don't whip him—I'm not angry—I understand."
Adamson halted for just a moment. "He's been away all day," said he, his face showing no resentment of her presence. "I didn't know they let him out last night—he didn't come home. I began looking for him as soon as I knew he was out—I thought he might be hiding in the fields—he does sometimes. He always runs away whenever he gets a chance. I'm sorry if he's done wrong—has he been bad to you?"
"I understand everything," said Aurora Lane. Many heard her say that. "Don't mind. Tomorrow, will you both be in town?—I might talk to you."
"No, Ma'am," said Adamson briefly. "He can't come any more. I may be here. What do you want of me—after what I've said—after what I've done to you? And here you come and bring him back to me."
His own face showed whitish blue in the flicker of the great arc light.
"Ma'am," he went on again, "there's a lot about you—you're some woman after all. Where have you been—at church?"
"Yes," said Aurora Lane, "I was at church."
"I ain't been there in years," said Eph Adamson sadly.
"Neither have I," rejoined Aurora Lane, "twenty years, I think—perhaps more."
He gazed at her now out of his old, bleared, sad eyes. "I wouldn't of been here now but for what's happened," said he. "Already I was sad—and I was drunk before I was. And I was—well, I felt like I was a rebel, that was all, yesterday. That boy of yours looked so fine, I couldn't stand it. Look at mine! I done wrong, Ma'am. I said what I had no right to say. I'm sorry, clean through—with all my heart I'm sorry for what I done yesterday."
She made no answer to him, and he went on. "It seems like some folks was sort of born under a cloud, don't it? I'm one of them, I reckon. All this has been my fault. I'm sorry as I can be. Can't you forgive me, Miss Lane, can't you forgive me any?"
"You didn't hear the anthem," said Aurora Lane, "because you were not in church. It said 'Whosoever.' It said 'All ye.'"
"In some ways," said Eph Adamson slowly—they had been for some time quite apart from the others, walking on slowly—"it seems like you and me was living our lives pretty much alike, don't it, Miss Lane? It's funny, ain't it—we hadn't either of us been to church—not in twenty years!"
None the less, as of old, these others passed by upon the other side, and left unattended those whose wounds were grievous.
At the corner of her street Aurora Lane paused. "Good-by, Mr. Adamson," said she. "Good night. I don't want to be unjust to anyone. I'm going to try not to blame you—I'd like to forgive all the world if I could. I'm in great trouble now."
He broke out in a sullen rage. "Forgive? Do that if you can," said he. "I can't. Maybe a woman can—but forgiving ain't in my line. Well, I'd give anything I could in the world if I hadn't said what I did yesterday right there on the public square. All this has come out of that—this whole trouble. You're different from what I thought. You're a good woman. I take off my hat to you."
"I take off my hat to you," mowed the idiot also, imitating what he saw and heard.... "May I see you home—may I see you home tonight? I'm—I'm out—I was out all last night. They can't pitch on us. Whip any man in Jackson County. Good night—good night, Ma'am. I'm sorry—I'm sorry, too."
Neither Judge Henderson nor his ward attended church services this Sunday evening, the former because of a certain physical reaction which disposed him to slumber, the latter because she had other plans of her own. The great white house, with its wide flanking grounds, where Judge Henderson had so long lived in somewhat solitary state, was now lighted up from top to bottom; but presently a light in an upper window vanished.
Anne Oglesby tiptoed down the stair side by side with the housekeeper. She cast a glance of inquiry into the front parlor, where, prone upon a large couch, was Judge Henderson—rendering audible tribute to Morpheus.
"He's violating the town ordinance about the muffler cut-out," said Anne smilingly to the housekeeper. "Oh, don't wake him—I'll be back presently—tell him."
She hurried through the yard and down the street toward the central part of the town. The streets about the square now were well-nigh deserted, since most folk were in the churches. Her own destination was a square or two beyond the courthouse, where stood another brick building of public interest; in short, the county jail.
It was the duty of the sheriff to care for the tenants of his jail, and he made his own home in a part of the brick building which served in that capacity—a small building with iron grates on the lower windows, arranged at about the height of a man's eyes as he would stand within on the cement floor of a cell, so that he might look out just above the greensward, his face visible to any who passed by. Many a boy had thus gazed with horror on the unshaven face of some ruffian who begged him for tobacco, or some tramp who had trifled too long with the patience of the community, usually so generous with its alms. Many a school child could show you the very place where the woman who killed her children was confined before they took her away—could point out the very window where she stood looking and weeping and wringing her hands—"Just like this"—as any child would tell you.
And some day perhaps children would point out this very window where now stood looking out, motionless—"Not saying a word to nobody"—the "man who killed the city marshal." Don Lane was standing at his grated window and looking out when Anne Oglesby crossed the grass plot and came up the brick sidewalk, fenced in by chains supported on little iron posts, which led to the jail's iron-bound door.
His heart gave a great leap. He saw her. She was coming to him—the one faithful, his beloved! Not even Miss Julia—not even his mother—had come, but here was Anne!
But at the next instant he stepped back from the window, hoping that she would not gain admission. Shame, deep and unspeakable, additional shame, twofold shame, compassed him as soon as he reflected. The bitterest of all was the fact that he must yield her up forever. He must tell her why. And now she had come—to see him in a cell! It was here that he must break his heart, and hers.
Sheriff Cowles opened the door when Anne Oglesby rang the bell. He stood for a moment looking out into the twilight.
"Who is it?" he asked. Then he recognized the girl whom he had brought down town from the railway station in his car that morning. Anne Oglesby was not a person easily to be forgotten.
"You know who I am, Mr. Cowles," said she—"I am Miss Oglesby, Judge Henderson's ward. I'm—I am respectable."
"Yes," said Cowles, "I know that, but why are you here?"
"Because I'd not be respectable if I were not here," she said quietly. "You probably know."
"Does the Judge know you have come?"
"No, he wouldn't have let me come if he had known. I want to see him—that young man, you know." Her own color was high by this time.
The sheriff hesitated. "Well," said he, "I don't want to do anything that isn't right, anything that isn't fair. I reckon I know how you feel."
"We're engaged to be married," said Anne Oglesby simply, and looked him directly in the face. "That gives me some rights, doesn't it?"
"In one way, maybe, but no legal rights," replied the sheriff, who was much perplexed, but who could not escape the compelling fact of Anne Oglesby's presence, the compelling charm of Anne Oglesby herself. "He's not really committed as yet, of course, only bound over by the coroner's jury; but the grand jury meets tomorrow, and they'll indict him sure. You know that. I can't take any chances of his getting away. I have to be sure."
"Your wife may come with me," said Anne Oglesby. "It's my right to talk to him a little while, don't you think? I'm not going to try to get him out. He hasn't had anyone to help him—he hasn't had any legal counsel."
"Who'd he send for, anyway?" asked the sheriff. "He's a sort of a waif, isn't he—her boy? I suppose you've heard about him fighting here around town yesterday?"
"I don't know why he fought, but I know that if he did he had cause. I hope he fought well."
"They said it was about his mother," began Sheriff Cowles. "Some word about her was passed——"
"You needn't say any more," said Anne Oglesby.
"He hasn't told me to send for any lawyer for him," said Cowles. "It don't seem like he's thought of it. He's just sort of quiet—mighty still all the time. Ha-hum!—I don't know what to say about your seeing him. Why didn't you ask your uncle, Judge Henderson?"
"Don't call him my uncle," said Anne Oglesby. "He's only my guardian in law. I've just told you he wouldn't let me come. That's why I've got to hurry."
"Well," hesitated the sheriff, "I'll have to warn you not to talk about this case where I can hear it. I'll have to hear all you say."
"Would you like to do that?"
The sheriff flushed. "No," said he, "not special; but you see my own duty is right clear. I can't play any favorites. If you was his lawyer, now, it might be different."
"I am his lawyer, the only one he's got so far as I know."
"Yes, I reckon the judge wouldn't care to take his case." The sheriff wagged his head. "He's no ways rich—not beyond four dollars and seventy-five cents and a pocket knife and some keys on a ring. He's broke, all right."
"He's never been anything else," said Anne Oglesby, hotly. "He's never had a chance. Do you want to keep a man from his chance all his life—do you want to help railroad him to the gallows? That's for the courts, not for you. Do you want to hang a man—are you anxious to begin that?"
Cowles' face grew pale. "God knows I don't! I never done that in my life, and I don't want to have to, neither. Don't talk about that to me, Miss."
"Then don't talk to me any more about those other things. I give you my word I'll not try to get him out, but I want to see him—I must see him—he'll want to see me. Don't you know—we've—we've just begun to be engaged."
"Some things I can't understand no ways," pondered Sheriff Cowles. "He's nobody, so far as I can learn. You're the Judge's ward—why, you're rich, they say."
"I'd give every cent I have to see him walk out right now. I suppose you were young once yourself. Were you ever in love, Mr. Cowles?"
"Yes," said the sheriff, slowly. "I was—I am yet, some. I can remember back. I don't believe I ought to let you in. But I'm afraid I'll have to, because you are young—like we all was once—and because you're in love. Did anyone see you coming over here?"
"I don't know; but all the town knows about him and me. Well, let them."
"You must promise not to help him in any way to get out—not to do anything you hadn't ought to do, nor against the law."
"I give you my promise," said Anne Oglesby.
Without more speech the sheriff turned and led the way down the stone-paved hall to the short cement stairs which made down upon the half-floor below, at the level of the cells. He turned the switch of an electric light, so that they might see the better in the hall.
There was but one tenant, and from beyond his door there came no sound, not even when Cowles unlocked the iron-shod door and stood, his revolver easy at his belt.
As Anne entered she saw Don Lane sitting on the edge of the narrow pallet, looking at the door. He had not risen. He had been sitting with his head in his hands.
He groaned now. "My God!" said he. "Anne! What made you come?"