JulianGerard paced impatiently the deck of the steamer on which, for eight miserable days, he had existed without sight of a newspaper. It was early dawn; the outlines of the Goddess of Liberty loomed uncertainly through a thick fog. He remembered how, when he had last seen his native shores, he had been distraught with bitter anger against the woman to whom his heart now turned with an eager longing, a passionate remorse.
For the hundredth time his mind analyzed and condemned that strange whim, the expression of a passing but very real phase of his disappointment and disillusion, which had led him to cut himself off from the world he had left behind. He had no wish to hear from home, to be reminded of home ties, or of the woman whom he had resolved to forget. Beneath his self-repressed exterior there was a strain of adventure in his blood, which made him turn, in a crisis like this, to the primitive resources of uncivilized life.
He had left home with no definite plans; but in London he met a friend, who was about to start for his farm in South Africa. Gerard at once decided to accompany him. South Africa was as good aplace as any other, when all one desired was solitude and hardship, and to get away from one's self, and the unsatisfactory tone of the world.
The farm was deep in the interior of the country, many miles distant from railroad or telegraph station. For months the two men saw no one but the natives; they had no connection with the outside world. Gerard rode and hunted and studied, and took notes on the condition of the country. It was not a bad life on the whole, with a certain charm for a man satiated with all that wealth can give. He might even have enjoyed it, if he could have forgotten what had driven him to it, or erased from his memory the one face which haunted him.
The worst of it was, that she always seemed to be unhappy; he always saw her as he had left her, white and sad, with pathetic eyes. The thought of her which he had carried away that night seemed to have entirely effaced his earlier impressions of her, as she had first flashed upon him in the vivid radiance of her fresh beauty, as he had seen her often in a ball-room, a being meant only for smiles. He had never pictured her then as suffering; but now, he could not think of her in any other way.
One evening, as he and his friend sat together smoking, he found himself impelled, as it were, in spite of himself, to tell his story. The doubts, the misgivings which tortured him had grown too strong; it was a relief to put them into words. He spoke low and bitterly, in hurried phrases that were evidently the expression of his constant thoughts; not excusing the conduct of the woman who haddeceived him, dwelling upon it rather with some harshness, for the very wish perhaps which he was conscious of to do the reverse. The other man, as he spoke, scanned his face keenly. At the end he made only one comment. "And yet she loved you?"
Gerard stared at him for a moment, the color flushing into his dark cheek. And then his face softened. Yes, it was not his money and position—he could at least do her that justice. "I believe she did," he said at last in a low voice.
"Then, for Heaven's sake," the other man flashed out, "what more do you want? Why, good Lord, if a womanlovedme!"—and here he broke off and sat in silence, staring fixedly into the fire.
Gerard paced the floor that night, and his friend in the next room smiled grimly to hear him. The same smile flickered across his impassive features when Gerard, the next morning, announced his departure. His reasons were plausible; he wished to go about the country and study for himself the political situation of which he had hitherto seen little or nothing. His host, after that first involuntary smile, heard him through unmoved and expressed his approval. He escorted him to the nearest town, wrung his hand at parting, and went back, with a grimmer look than ever, to his own solitude.
Gerard had no plans; he was conscious of only one wish—to be where he could have news of home. At Cape Town he met the detective, who had followed him, led astray by various false clues, till he had at last found the right track. An hour later thetwo men started for New York. And now at last the wretched journey was over, and Gerard paced the deck of the ship and wondered miserably what new developments might have occurred.
There was a sensation in the court-room when he appeared. There had been rumors for days that the trial was being delayed for the arrival of an important witness, but it had hardly been expected that this would prove to be Elizabeth's missing lover, who had disappeared from view, as the prosecution had asserted, to avoid testifying against her. At least that reason for his absence could not be true, since it was Mr. Fenton who was bringing him in, with an evident air of triumph. Gerard himself had a worn and haggard look, which showed even through the sun-burn which had darkened his face. He had grown very thin, and there were white threads in his hair which were not visible a year before; his features were set in lines of absolute, impassive rigidity. He glanced neither to the right nor left, but sat down at once in the ranks of witnesses.
There was a short pause of breathless expectancy, and then the prisoner was brought in. Her aunts and Mrs. Van Antwerp were with her as usual, and behind followed the police officer—a little in the background, and with the air he considerately wore of effacing himself as much as possible. Those who were near Gerard saw him wince and flush painfully. He had been prepared for this, but the reality shocked him, almost beyond his powers of self-control. How changed she was! Paler even than heremembered her, and thin and worn till, but for her eyes and hair, he might scarcely have known her. It gave him a shock, too, somehow to see her all in black; he had always pictured her, illogically, in white as she had been that last evening.... For a moment she hardly seemed the same woman he had thought of, dreamed of, all these months. A rush of remorseful tenderness swept over him, all the greater because she was so changed. He would have liked to go to her before them all, and proclaim to the whole world his love and faith. But what he actually did was to turn his eyes away, to spare her.
She knew that he was there. She had read the news in the trembling joy depicted on her aunts' faces, before Eleanor Van Antwerp had whispered: "Darling, prepare yourself! He has come—he has come to save you." It hardly seemed a surprise, now that it had happened; she had always known in her heart that he would come. But she was not glad, she did not wish to be saved—by him. She still felt as she had felt from the first, that she would rather die than sit in her place of humiliation and see the pity in his eyes.... Ah, thank Heaven, he had turned them away; for him, no doubt, as for her it was a painful moment. He felt sorry for her, of course—a woman whom he had loved once, who was being punished more than she deserved. But there was an invincible pride in her nature which rebelled against his pity, which would have preferred condemnation, contempt. Yet, after all, pity was all that she deserved; she had neverbeen worthy of his love. Let her take what poor remnant of it was left and be thankful. Yet deep down in her heart, there was, in spite of herself, a feeling of joy that the world would know that he had not forsaken her.
There was little time for these conflicting thoughts to oppose each other in Elizabeth's weary brain. Gerard was called to the stand, and then she could do nothing but listen—and listen gratefully—while in quiet, even tones, speaking very simply and to the point, he corroborated all that she herself had testified. Yes, he remembered perfectly the morning of the twenty-third of December. He had spent it with Miss Van Vorst at the Metropolitan Museum. They had been at the Museum for several hours, and he had left her at her home at half-past one. Had he known then of her marriage to Halleck? No, not then, but soon afterwards. She had told him on New Year's Eve. No, he had not suspected it, or drawn out the avowal in any way. It had been entirely voluntary. Naturally their engagement had been at an end, and he had gone abroad immediately. That was his evidence. It materially strengthened the defence on two points; first, that the prisoner had not bought either the flask or the poison; second, that she had not expected Paul Halleck's death.
The District Attorney, realizing this, tried to undermine its credibility. It was not an easy thing with a man of Gerard's character and high standing; but after all, a man in love is hardly an accountable being. The District Attorney dwelt sarcasticallyon the improbability of his having remained in ignorance all this time of the impending trial, and insinuated that he must have had serious objections to returning, which had been finally overcome by the efforts of the defense. He asked his questions in a blustering way, which fell just short of insolence. Gerard answered them quietly, apparently unmoved. Yes, he admitted, it seemed improbable that he should not have heard of the trial, but it was nevertheless absolutely true. He had spent the greater part of his absence on a farm in South Africa; he had led a rough, solitary life, read no newspapers, received no letters. He had first heard that his evidence was needed at Cape town, five weeks before. No, he had not received a letter from the defendant, urging him to come to her rescue, nor did he believe that any such letter had been sent. It would have been quite unnecessary.
"Your disinterested chivalry, in other words," sneered the District Attorney, "was sufficient, without such an appeal?"
"It is not a question of chivalry," said Gerard, coolly, "it is a question of telling the truth."
"Which of course you are anxious to do."
"Of course."
His imperturbability seemed proof, against all the offensiveness of the other's manner. The District Attorney, shifting his ground, questioned him as to the broken engagement; and here he was rejoiced to find his man more vulnerable. A tremor would cross Gerard's face, he changed color more thanonce. But still his answers were given quietly, in low, measured tones. Yes, it was true that Miss Van Vorst had kept him in ignorance of her marriage; but he did not think that her reasons for her silence need be discussed, since they were quite irrelevant.
"And you mean to assure us," said the District Attorney, incredulously, "that she told you at last of her own accord, without the slightest necessity?"
"Most certainly."
"And what she told you then was the only information you received of her marriage?"
"Yes."
"It was the only reason for breaking the engagement?"
"Yes."
"And now that that reason no longer exists," said the District Attorney, "the engagement, I suppose, is likely to be renewed?"
The question was so unexpected that Mr. Fenton was not ready with an objection, and Gerard spoke before he could interpose.
"I don't think that I am bound to answer questions as to what may or may not occur in the future."
Mr. Fenton hastily agreed with him, and he was sustained by the judge. But the District Attorney defended his line of inquiry.
"Your Honor, it is important for me to show how far this witness is biassed in favor of the defendant. He has wished to marry her once, it is possible, apparently, that he may be in the sameposition again. You won't deny," he went on, turning to Gerard, "—that thereissuch a possibility?"
Gerard hesitated for perhaps a second. Then he looked the lawyer squarely, defiantly in the face. He was very pale, but there was an angry light in his eyes; his voice rang out clearly. "I deny nothing," he said, "except that my feelings toward Miss Van Vorst have influenced the truth of anything I said."
Mr. Fenton again formally entered his objection, and after some wrangling, question and answer were stricken from the record. Still, the jury had heard them and could form their own conclusions. Mr. Fenton was not dissatisfied; there was a romantic element in the situation which must, he thought, appeal irresistibly to the popular imagination. And indeed, as Gerard left the stand, the general sympathy was on his side, even among those who secretly thought that he had stretched a point here and there, on behalf of the woman he loved. It was possible that his evidence was false; but the people who thought thus, if they were men, did not blame him; if they were women, they admired him rather the more.
The eyes of the court-room were fixed upon him as he crossed over to where Elizabeth sat and shook hands with her quietly, as if they had parted yesterday. And then he seated himself near her, in the little circle of her supporters. Eleanor Van Antwerp put out her hand to him, her dark eyes shining through a mist of tears.
"Julian, you don't know how happy I am to have you back."
He shuddered, "Don't speak of it, Eleanor. I can never forgive myself for having gone."
Elizabeth heard the words, but her eyes were resolutely bent on the ground, and she refused to take any of the comfort that his presence might have imparted. It was natural that he should feel remorseful, eager to show to the world as much as possible that he had not forsaken her, that he thoroughly believed in her innocence. But for anything more, such a possibility as the District Attorney had suggested, which he did not deny, could not, of course, very well deny under the circumstances?... Ah, no, there could be no question any more of love between them. Her own pride would not permit it, even if what she called his pity could influence his judgment to that extent. And then, with a start, she remembered that she was still on trial for her life, and that all thoughts of love and marriage were incongruous, almost grotesque. The case for the defense was closed, the District Attorney was to make his final address the next day. The thing would soon be decided, one way or the other.
The next morning, a box of flowers was brought to her; the white roses which he had always sent her. For a moment she hesitated, touched them lovingly, and then at last she took one of them and fastened it in her belt. "It may bring luck," she murmured, as if to excuse her action, and then she bent her head, and pressed her lips to its fragrant petals.
A little later, when she entered the court-room, the eyes of all were fixed on the flower. It was the first touch of color that had ever relieved her black gown.
"You see," one woman whispered, "it's the sign of innocence."
Her companion, less easily moved, replied cautiously: "Perhaps."
Thetide of popular sentiment was turning in Elizabeth's favor. It had not been with her at first, in spite of her youth and the pathetic circumstances of her position; nay, against her all the more on that very account with many people, who feared a display of mawkish sentiment, and to whom the cold-blooded character of the crime stood out the more harshly, by contrast with her soft and girlish looks. But now one thing and another—an intangible something in her manner on the witness-stand; Gerard's return and his evidence on her behalf; his apparently unchanged devotion—all this had created a strong revulsion of feeling, which was increased rather than diminished by the District Attorney's charge.
The District Attorney was in a brutal mood. He did not spare Elizabeth, he left it, he said, to the jury to determine the weight of Gerard's evidence. For himself, he would not for the world suggest that a gentleman of Mr. Gerard's high character would testify falsely; yet he might be—mistaken; he might easily make some slight error in dates, misled by his—his interest in the defendant. While he talked Gerard bit his lip, inwardly cursing that dictate of civilization which had abolished duelling,and made even horsewhipping a doubtful expedient. Mrs. Bobby was considering ways by which one could be avenged on "a horrible man, not in society, whom one couldn't snub by not asking him to dinner, or anything of that kind." Elizabeth felt, with a new thrill of pain, that she was involving Gerard in her own disgrace. But Mr. Fenton surveyed the District Attorney unmoved through half-closed eyes, and said to himself coolly that he was going too far.
His own charge was a skillful defense of Gerard's evidence, a criticism, not too violent, of the District Attorney's brutality, and an appeal, not too open, to the sympathies of the jury. Elizabeth flushed as she realized that this was the point, after all; she was to be saved on issues that would not have been effectual with a man. And then the Judge's charge began, and she forgot all sense of humiliation, forgot everything but the thought that her fate hung in the balance, to be decided one way or the other by those carefully-balanced, judicial phrases. Did she imagine it, or was there, through all the calm analysis of evidence, the impartial weighing of this or that detail, a conviction of her innocence so decided that it made itself felt almost unconsciously?
"Strong on our side!" Bobby Van Antwerp's voice, unusually animated and exultant, sounded in his wife's ear at the end. "The prosecution are furious—they say it's horribly unfair. But of course, we won't quarrel with that."
Eleanor was deathly white; her hands were tightly locked together. At Bobby's words she gavea little sob of hysterical relief. "Oh, Bobby," she murmured, under her breath, "thank God that judges are human, after all! Now, if the jury are anything short of brutes, they'll acquit her at once and make an end of this."
But the jury fell short of this test of humanity, and retired to deliberate. Mrs. Bobby scanned their faces anxiously, as she had done at the beginning of the trial. They were care-worn and gloomy—naturally, with a woman's life in their hands; but surely—surely they should look happier, since it was in their power to save her?
"I wish, Bobby," she murmured, with that sob again in her throat, but this time not one of relief, "I wish we had tried if they wouldn't take money!"
"Don't, Eleanor," said Bobby. "They're all honest men—and besides, one can't do such things!" To himself he was thinking that women really seemed on such occasions as this to be entirely without principle, and yet that somehow one liked them all the better for it.
This was at two o'clock. Three, four, five o'clock came, and still they made no sign. The long deliberation seemed ominous to the anxious group who waited in a small, dark room on the ground floor of the court-house, starting at every sound and counting the moments as they dragged wearily along. Mr. Fenton and the other counsel came restlessly in and out, with a cheerful air that covered but indifferently their intense anxiety; Bobby and Julian Gerard stood by the window, talking occasionally in low tones, more often silent and gazing at the prisonwalls that rose up grimly before their eyes. Elizabeth sat at a small table in the middle of the room, and her aunts and Mrs. Van Antwerp sat around her in a forlorn circle. It was a long while since any one had spoken; all consoling suggestions were exhausted.
Elizabeth's hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes, wide-open yet unseeing, stared steadily before her. Vaguely she was conscious that there were people in the room, that by the window stood the man whose presence might have mattered more to her at some other time than anything else on earth; that her aunts and Eleanor Van Antwerp were beside her, and would bend forward now and then, one or other of them, to press her hand. In a dull, mechanical way, she was thankful to know that they were there; yet nothing they said or did could help her, a great gulf seemed to yawn between her and the outside world.... It is thus, perhaps, that the dying feel when they see, with their failing sight, the faces of friends, and know that even love is powerless to reach them. Elizabeth suffered, during those hours of suspense, the agony of death a hundred times over. But as the afternoon wore on, hope faded and the numbness of despair crept over her tortured nerves.
"I don't like their staying out so long," Bobby Van Antwerp could not help murmuring to Gerard. "After the charge, I thought they'd let her off at once. They all want to—that's certain. But there were one or two of them who looked—infernally conscientious."
"I don't want any of them"—Gerard began, but stopped. "To go against his convictions," was what he had meant to add, but the words remained unspoken. There are limits to even a Puritan conscience. "Good God! Bobby," he whispered, hoarsely, "a man who could convict her deserves to be shot!"
"I agree with you, old man," said Bobby, tranquilly. And then they once more fell silent, and the shadows lengthened, and some one lit a feeble gas-jet, which brought out, in ghastly relief, the look of strained expectancy on each face.
At six o'clock there was a rustle, an excitement. Mr. Fenton came in and spoke to Bobby, and he spoke to his wife. She touched Elizabeth on the shoulder. "Dear, we—we go up now," she said. Elizabeth rose and mechanically put up her hand to her hair.
"Do I look all right?" she said, and then smiled vaguely at the commonplace question. A merciful stupor had descended upon her in the last hour; when she looked at her aunts, she saw that they were suffering far more than she. "I am not frightened," she said, "please don't be frightened." She was determined that she would be brave. This was the thought uppermost in her mind.
They went up to the court-room, and on the threshold Mr. Fenton said to her: "Remember, that even if the verdict is—is unfavorable, it is not final. We shall appeal." She bent her head, wondering mechanically that any one should speak of things to happenafterthe verdict. Her whole life seemedbounded by the events of the next few minutes; she could not look beyond.... The thought crossed her mind of how slight a thing would decide her fate—the difference between one word or two, guilty or not guilty. A mere trifle—a word in three letters; yet all the difference between honor and dishonor, life and death. Her mind fastened upon the irrelevant detail and dallied with it; the while she was conscious, with sickening intensity, of each movement in the court-room—the breathless atmosphere of a suspense, in which the mere rustling of a paper jarred upon the nerves; the jury filing in, the formal opening question, "Gentlemen of the jury, have you decided upon your verdict?" Her throat was parched, balls of fire danced before her eyes, there was a sound in her ears like the rushing of many waters. Guilty or not guilty? One word or two? The question beat upon her brain with a dull persistence, and she was conscious, vaguely, that the answer was of vital importance, but somehow she could not bring herself to realize it.
"Not Guilty."
The words rang clear and confident, across that gulf which separated her from the outside world. As through a mist she saw the relief on the faces of those around her, but still she herself was conscious of no feeling. She still sat white and dazed, staring before her, while her lips moved mechanically, repeating the words that seemed so meaningless: "Not Guilty."
There was a pause, and then a stir, a murmur of relief. Some women sobbed aloud. But she herselfstill sat staring before her, repeating the answer that seemed to have no meaning: "Not Guilty."
Bythe next morning, she had realized all that the verdict meant; she had had time even to grow used to it. The first joy had spent itself, the inevitable reaction was setting in.
"Life isn't everything," she thought, and stared before her with knit brows. The fire—it was a long time since she had sat beside one—gave out a cheerful glow, the little drawing-room wore a festive air and was bright with flowers that had been sent to her. A feeling of physical ease and contentment, of relief in the mere change of scene, stole over her wearied senses. But still it did not suffice; she struggled indeed against it.
She took up and re-read a letter which had been left for her a little while before, and had caused her, in her state of exhaustion, something of a nervous shock.
"They have just told me," it said, "that you are acquitted. As for me, I am very ill. They say I can't live much longer. That's why I ask if you will come and see me at once. There are some things I'd like to tell you, and if you don't come quickly it may be too late."AMANDA."
"They have just told me," it said, "that you are acquitted. As for me, I am very ill. They say I can't live much longer. That's why I ask if you will come and see me at once. There are some things I'd like to tell you, and if you don't come quickly it may be too late."
AMANDA."
The address was that of a hospital.
"I didn't know," Elizabeth said, "that Amanda was so ill."
Her aunts, who were hovering about the room, devouring their recovered treasure with tender eyes, looked surprised at her introduction of an irrelevant subject.
"I heard that she had gone to a hospital," Miss Cornelia said, dryly, "and her mother came down to be near her—but dear me, that girl always has something the matter with her! I don't know why you should trouble yourself about her, my dear. Both she and her mother have behaved in a very unfeeling way all this time, never coming to see you, or sending messages, or anything."
"Well, Amanda has sent me a message now," said Elizabeth. "She wants me to come and see her, and I think"—she hesitated a moment—"I think I shall go at once," she announced with sudden decision. The words sounded strangely to her as she uttered them. It was so long since she had said that she would do this or that. And even now, her wishes met with some faint opposition.
Her aunts looked at each other. "But won't that be painful for you, my dear?" urged Miss Cornelia, after a moment.
"I'm used to painful things, Aunt Cornelia." The girl's smile was bitter; there was a tone of petulant wilfulness in her voice. Her aunts still looked at one another unspoken words trembled on the lips of each.
"My dear," Miss Joanna began at last, "Julian"—she stopped.
"He said he hoped to see you this morning," said Miss Cornelia, taking up the sentence. "He hoped that after you had rested"—she faltered as a look crossed Elizabeth's face, which did not promise consent. And then suddenly she took courage and crossed over to Elizabeth and took her hand. "My dear," she cried, "you—you must see him. He has been so unhappy. He—he loves you, Elizabeth." Again her voice faltered. The girl sat passive for a moment, and then she flushed and dragged away her hand.
"I can't see him," she broke out, hoarsely; "it—it would be more painful than seeing Amanda. And—if he loves me, why, so much the worse!" Then softening, as she met their dismayed looks: "Oh, don't you understand," she cried, "don't you understand that the kindest thing I can do for him is—not to see him?" And then the tears sprang to her eyes and she hurriedly left the room.
When she came back a few minutes later, she was dressed for going out, in the black gown and hat that she had worn at the trial. She had tied a black veil over her face.
"I must go to see Amanda," she said, speaking very quietly and without any trace of emotion. "I should always regret it if—if anything happened before I went." She paused as if in expectation of further protest, and then as none came, she went to them and kissed them both affectionately. "You—youdon't mind, do you," she said, with a note of apology in her voice. Her aunts sighed resignedly.
"I wish you would let me go with you, Elizabeth," Miss Cornelia said, feebly.
Elizabeth smiled. "Why should you, dear?" she said, quietly. "I've got to face the world alone some time, I suppose. And it will be nice to see what it's like—I've almost forgotten." She gave a little sigh, but checked it instantly, and went out before they could say any more.
Once in the street the world seemed so strange that it was startling, and for a moment turned her faint and giddy. It was a mild midwinter day—the trial had lasted over Christmas and into the new year—almost there seemed a foretaste of spring in the air. To Elizabeth the sunlight was dazzling; she put up her hand to ward it off. She walked slowly and feebly, as if she were convalescing from a long illness. She had not realized before how weak she was. Fortunately there was but a short walk before her, through the quiet regions of Irving Place, past Gramercy Park, and on to the hospital. She met no one she knew, but several strangers glanced at her curiously, or so she imagined, as if they recognized her, even through her veil. They might know her from the pictures with which the papers had been filled; they had seen one, no doubt, only that morning, with an account of the verdict. They were wondering still, perhaps, if she were guilty or innocent.
She was very tired when she reached the hospital,and the meeting with Amanda loomed up before her like a nightmare. Her hand trembled as she rang the bell. A woman in a sister's dress opened the door—the hospital was under the charge of a Protestant order. There was something conventual about the waiting-room, into which she was shown. There was little furniture, pictures of saints hung on the walls, the wide window was filled with stained glass, through which the light streamed faintly and fell in bars of crimson and purple upon the polished floor. The sister, speaking in the subdued voice which the place seemed to demand, bade Elizabeth seat herself and took up her name.
Elizabeth sank down with a sense of physical relief, which obliterated all other feelings. A moment later she looked up with a start. The door opened and a woman entered. It was Amanda's mother.
"Well Elizabeth, so you've got off!" she said, mechanically touching with dry lips her niece's cheek. "I'm sure I'm glad enough, for the sake of the family. And then I never thought you did it."
Elizabeth flushed painfully. "That was kind of you, Aunt Rebecca," she said.
"Well, a great many people did, you know, and probably do still, for that matter. But lor'—what difference does it make, as long as you've got off? Some people might think all the more of you. There was that girl at——who committed that murder that everybody talked about—she got a hundred offers, they say, right after she was acquitted. And everybody knew that she got off, just because she was a woman."
Elizabeth shuddered. "Please don't talk about it, Aunt Rebecca," she said, faintly. "Tell me about Amanda."
A sort of contraction crossed Aunt Rebecca's face, which might in any one else, have resulted in tears. "Oh, Amanda's pretty poorly," she said, in an odd, dry voice. "I guess all those sanitariums and new-fangled inventions, haven't done her much good. Why the doctor sent her here, I don't know. It's a queer Catholic place, and I don't hold with such notions, but Amanda seems taken with the sisters"—she broke off abruptly as one of their number entered.
She was a woman of middle age, with a grave, fine face and musical voice which harmonized with the place and her own costume. In her presence Amanda's mother, for all her uneasy contempt seemed to sink at once into insignificance. The Sister took possession very gently, but completely, of Elizabeth. Her charge had been very anxious, she said, to see her; it was kind of Miss Van Vorst to come. And then she led the way up the stairs, and down the long white corridors, talking quietly as she went of Amanda's case. The girl was suffering from a complication of maladies, and the Sister thought that there was, besides, some trouble weighing on her mind, under the stress of which she grew daily weaker. No, there was, humanly speaking, little hope, though Amanda's poor mother did not realize it, but the Sister thought it would do her patient good to see Miss Van Vorst, of whom she had talked a great deal. All this time there was nota word, not a curious glance, to show that the Sister knew that she had beside her the subject of so much discussion. And yet Elizabeth felt herself enveloped in an atmosphere of sympathy, a tacit recognition of the fact that she had suffered, which held in it not a trace of blame or suspicion. Elizabeth felt grateful.
The private room which Amanda occupied as one of the few "paying patients," was near the roof of the house, at the head of several flights of stairs. Sunlight poured in through the window, the floor was covered with matting, the walls bare and hung with religious pictures. Opposite the small iron bed, and placed where the light fell full upon it, was an engraving, the copy of a famous picture, of Christ upon the Cross. It was singularly vivid, and the sorrowful dignity of the face had attracted the eyes and soothed the sufferings of many an occupant of the room.
Amanda's strange, light eyes, as they stood out unnaturally large and dilated in her thin, wasted face, were not fixed upon the picture; but turned with eager expectancy towards the door. She was sitting up in bed, her head propped with pillows. Her skin had faded to a duller, more ghastly tint than ever, but a bright spot of red burned in either cheek. As Elizabeth entered she started, and an odd look flitted across her face—it was hard to tell whether it indicated relief, or fear, or perhaps a mingling of both.
"So you've come," she said, and drew a long sobbing breath. It was all her greeting. Elizabeth,embarrassed, murmured a few words of sympathy, as she sank into the chair nearest the door. The Sister, with a keen glance from one to the other, left the two girls alone.
Amanda immediately assumed control of the situation.
"Sit there," she said, in a quick, sharp voice, and pointing to a chair by the window, "sit there so I can look at you." Elizabeth mechanically obeyed and threw back her veil. Amanda's eyes fastened eagerly upon her face.
"Why, you—you've lost your looks," she announced, abruptly. "Did you know it?" There was a note of involuntary satisfaction in her voice.
Elizabeth tried to smile. "Worse things have happened to me than that, Amanda," she said.
"I didn't think anything could be worse—to you," Amanda said, feebly.
Elizabeth was silent. She was thinking that suffering had not yet produced in Amanda any regenerating effect.
"Well, after all, I guess it don't matter," Amanda said, drearily, after a pause. "You're acquitted just the same, and Mr. Gerard is just as crazy about you as ever, they say. I guess you've got the best of me still." She sank into a gloomy silence.
Elizabeth dared not speak. She was wondering if she could not escape, since her cousin had nothing to say, beyond the old jealous complaint. But suddenly Amanda turned to her.
"I've something I want to tell you," she said,speaking feebly and with difficulty. "Sister made me promise that I—would; she said that if there was any—any way in which I'd injured you, it would ease my mind to—tell you. But first you must promise"—she looked about her suspiciously—"you must swear to me on your oath that you won't repeat—anything I tell you."
She raised herself up on her pillows, her breath came in convulsive gasps, she fixed her eyes intently upon Elizabeth. "Promise," she said, in her weak, hoarse voice, "swear to me on your oath that you won't—repeat what I tell you now."
Elizabeth trembled, her brain felt dazed. Those strained, eager eyes held her with a terrible insistence. "I—I promise," she repeated, hardly knowing what she said, conscious only of a wish to have them withdrawn.
Amanda sank back as if relieved, on the pillows, but still she questioned, with a look of doubt. "You won't break your word. You are sure?"
"Quite sure," said Elizabeth. Her brain still seemed dazed, her lips moved mechanically.
Amanda seemed satisfied. Still, she did not speak, she lay quiet, with half-closed eyes. At last, with a painful effort, she raised herself up, and fixed her eyes again intently upon Elizabeth. "I sent the poison," she said. The words came in a hoarse whisper.
Elizabeth stared at her without moving; only a slight shudder passed through her. The words echoed in her ear, beat upon her brain. The oddpart of it was that they did not surprise her. She seemed somehow to have heard, or thought them, before.
"Yes," Amanda repeated, after a moment, "I sent the poison. It was after I had left the sanitarium—no one knew that I had left it. I dressed as like you as I could, I copied your handwriting, I knew they would think it was you. But I didn't"—a slight undertone of contempt made itself felt in her voice—"I didn't know how easy it would be, for I didn't suppose you'd do all those stupid things that made them suspect you."
She was silent. Elizabeth still stared at her motionless, aghast. "But why—why," she faltered, "what object, Amanda, could you have?"
A look of intense bitterness crossed the sick girl's face. She seemed to flare up all at once into a red heat of anger, as dry, withered wood will sometimes give out the fiercest flames. "What object!" she repeated. "You ask what object!—and you know how he scorned me! Didn't you wish him to die? You admitted it in court—because he stood in your way; and do you think that is anything to being humiliated—dragged in the dust, as I was?"
She leaned back panting on the pillows; the fierce flame of anger which passed over her seemed to consume her feeble strength. When she spoke again it was much more feebly. "That time when I—I went to him at the studio," she said, "I thought maybe he'd come back to me again—seeing you didn't seem to want him. I thought—but there, Iwas a fool. Most women are, I guess, when they care about a man. He laughed at me and said that I'd deceived myself—that it was I who did the love-making. That was a lie, but it was what he said, I guess, about most girls—when he got tired of them. I got wild, it seemed as if my brain was on fire, and I—I threatened him. He only laughed. And then I taunted him—about you; that seemed to hurt him more. I said as how you had so many beaux, you didn't care any longer about him. He said then, I was mistaken, that you were just as fond of him as ever—really, that you would do anything he wanted"—
She paused, her breath seemed to fail her. Elizabeth sat listening, stupefied, incapable of speech or motion. Amanda went on presently, huddling one word upon another: "I didn't believe him, I thought it was only to make me feel worse. And then, when I went out, I met you—the thought came to me that I'd find out the truth. I came back, I'd left the door open, I saw you give him money—but there was a look on your face that made me think you didn't do it—for love."
She paused again and struggled for breath. Elizabeth spoke involuntarily. "But how did you know," she asked, "about the pearls?"
"What, that you'd sold them?" Amanda spoke quietly, with a slight smile, as at the simplicity of the question. "I knew it the moment I saw you—that evening, and you didn't have them on. Then when I spoke of them, I saw I was right—I saw how I'd frightened you. There was a secret—Ididn't know what; but it was something you were ashamed of. Then, when you got engaged to that other man, I understood—I knew you were afraid of his finding it out. I used to write to him, warning him. He never answered my letters, or paid any attention—I guess he thought I was crazy; but I had to keep on writing—I couldn't help it, somehow. I had to do everything I did. It seemed as if something urged me on. The only thing that kept me from—from having my revenge was that you might reap the benefit. And then this plan came to me, and I saw how I could—get even—with you both."
The hoarse, feeble voice grew fainter and died away, as if from sheer exhaustion. Elizabeth interposed an indignant protest. "And so," she said, "you wanted me to suffer—for your crime? You would have been glad if they had found me guilty?"
Amanda did not answer for a moment. "No," she said at last, "I didn't want you to die. I knew you'd get off—every one said so—because you were so pretty and so swell. They wouldn't"—the bitter smile again hovered about her white lips—"they wouldn't have said that about me. But—if they had found you guilty"—she paused—"I had quite made up my mind to confess. It was horrible lying here, thinking it over—I don't believe death can be worse. You couldn't have suffered—anything like it; for you were innocent."
She looked at Elizabeth with a strange horror in her eyes. Her face was ghastly, beads of perspiration stood on her forehead, and on the little ringsof dark red hair, which clung about her temples. "Oh, you don't know what it is," she said, "you don't know what it is. It's the thought of that that's killing me inch by inch; it's not the disease. And yet I'm afraid—I'm afraid to confess"—her voice broke piteously. "You don't want me to—do you?—now that you've got off. It won't do you any good—any longer, and as for me, though I don't want to live, I'm afraid—to die." The feeble voice again faltered and died away.
Elizabeth sat silent, her brain in a whirl. Before her there rose the thought of the long months of torture, the prison cell, the terrible, unnecessary suspicion that still clouded her life.... If Amanda would confess, it would be something. People would never again believe her guilty. And yet!——
Mechanically, her eyes wandered about the room, the incongruous setting for this strange scene—bright, calm and peaceful; filled with the pictures of martyred saints. Her gaze lingered fascinated on the face of Christ in the engraving. It might have been the effect of the light, or the over-wrought state of her nerves which made it appear so real, instinct with mysterious life and power. Almost it seemed as if the lips moved, the sorrowful eyes rested, with a look of infinite pity, on Amanda ... ... "You won't betray me?" the feeble voice pleaded. "I trusted you—you promised? You won't break your word?"
"No"—Elizabeth spoke slowly and thoughtfully—"I won't break my word. I did break a promiseI made you once, and repented it, ever since; but this time I shall keep it. If you confess, it must be for your own sake, not for mine. No one I care about believes me guilty. Let it go."
Amanda drew a sigh of relief. Her head fell back, her attitude of tension relaxed insensibly.
"You are very generous," she said, faintly. "I—I won't be ungrateful." And then a silence fell upon them. Amanda's eyes closed, she seemed exhausted. Elizabeth, seeing this, got up.
"I had better go. You're very tired." No answer came. But as she reached the door Amanda's eyes unclosed, she turned her face towards her.
"Good-bye," she said. "I'm sorry you've—lost your looks. Perhaps you'll—get them back." The words came out with a great effort. And then she turned her face away and said no more.
The Sister was waiting outside in the corridor. She accompanied Elizabeth to the door of the hospital.
As they parted she laid her hand for an instant on the girl's arm, her grave, clear eyes scanned the white, exhausted face.
"My dear," she said, "did your cousin tell you—what she sent for you to say?"
Elizabeth met her gaze firmly, with eyes as clear as her own. "It is a secret," she said, quietly. "I promised—not to repeat it."
A cloud passed over the Sister's face; her hand rested for a moment tenderly on Elizabeth's arm. "Poor child!" was all she said. It would havebeen hard to tell to whom she referred—Elizabeth or Amanda.
An instant later the great hospital door swung to, and Elizabeth found herself again in the outside world.
Amanda lay absolutely still. She was conscious, for the moment, of nothing but the utter vacuity of exhaustion. It was only little by little that her strength revived, her brain began to work, those thoughts weighed upon her again, which were killing her inch by inch.
It is hard to understand the processes of a mind like Amanda's, diseased perhaps from the first, made more so, as life went on, by illness and adverse circumstances. As to how far she was accountable, who can decide?...
One thing is certain, that some sort of moral struggle now took place within her. Her brow was contracted, her lips moved, now and then she stirred uneasily. Her piteous gaze fastened half unconsciously, as Elizabeth's had done, on the face of the Christ in the engraving. For her as for Elizabeth, the pictured eyes held a curious fascination. But we read into inanimate objects, above all the symbols of our faith, our own thoughts and convictions. It was not pity which Amanda saw in the sorrowful eyes which to her, too, seemed alive with a singular power.
When the Sister came in, a little later, she asked her a question.
"Isn't it enough if we confess our sins?" sheasked, feebly. "You said that would be enough to have them forgiven."
The Sister looked down at her gravely. "Repentance is not enough," she said, "unless we do what we can to make amends."
Amanda turned away with a feeble moan.
It was late in the afternoon when she nerved herself, as for a great effort. She called the Sister to her and whispered. What she said did not seem to cause surprise. The Sister's face brightened, she left the room quickly. It was evident that she was prepared for an emergency like this. An hour later the small room was filled—there was a lawyer, witnesses.... Amanda's weak voice spoke steadily, without a pause....
When it was over, she sank back exhausted, and her eyes again sought the face in the engraving. She found there what she expected. With a long sigh of relief she turned her face to the wall and slept. The Sister quietly pulled down the blind.
"She will rest now," she said softly, and it was true. Amanda never awoke.
"Don'tyou think," said Gerard, "that I have waited long enough?"
It was five months later. The mellow afternoon sunlight pierced the foliage, which, interlacing, formed an arch overhead. Wild roses grew in profusion along the roadside. Beyond, the fields were thickly strewn with buttercups and daisies. The air was fragrant with the scent of honeysuckle.
Elizabeth wore a white gown; the hands carelessly clasped before her were filled with June roses. So far, she matched the day and the season. But her head drooped languidly, like a wilting flower, the country air had brought no color to her cheeks. Lines of suffering still lingered about her mouth. The eyes which were cast down, almost hidden by their long lashes, held a latent shadow in their depths.
The man by her side, who had just come up from town, noted all this with a keen anxiety.
"Don't you think," he repeated, with an impatience the greater for what her looks conveyed, "don't you think that I have waited long enough?"
A quiver crossed her face, but she did not look up. "It's not my fault that you have—waited," she murmured.
The man made a rueful gesture. "Oh, you need not tell me that," he said. "If you had had your way, you would have sent me—back to South Africa, I believe." He broke off with a bitter laugh. As if in spite of herself, a smile flickered beneath her drooping lids.
"Not quite so far, perhaps." The words sounded with a demure accent. But in an instant the smile vanished, her lip quivered, she looked up at him with a tremulous earnestness. "Ah, can't you understand," she cried, "why I want you to go? Haven't I brought you trouble enough? Do you think that now"—she paused and caught her breath—"now that all this disgrace has come upon me," she went on with an effort, "do you think I would burden you with it?"
"Disgrace!"—He flushed hotly.—"I don't know why there should be disgrace," he said, "when every one knows now—even those idiots who doubted you—how baseless the whole miserable accusation was."
"People don't reason." She sighed wearily. "There will always be a cloud over me—I feel it even here. People at The Mills stare at me, the Neighborhood"—she smiled painfully—"the Neighborhood feels that I have brought upon it eternal discredit. Ah, you can't blame them"—as Gerard muttered under his breath an ejaculation. "It will be the same in town—everywhere. People will always remember that I was horribly talked about, that I have been in prison. For myself"—her lip trembled—"I'm hardened, but for you"—
"For me"—he put out his hand and took hersdeterminedly into his strong grasp—"for me it is inevitable that, whatever troubles you have, I must share them."
There was silence for a moment. They stood facing each other, the only actors in the peaceful country scene; the man strong, determined, his eyes aglow with the fire of mastery; the woman pale, drooping, exhausted, yet still with some power in her weakness, that opposed itself to his strength. She put out her hand at last in a gesture of entreaty. "Ah, don't let us go all over this again," she pleaded. "Don't make it so hard for me. It's hard enough"—The words seemed to escape her unawares.
"Ah!" A gleam of triumph crossed his face. "It is hard, then?"
"Most things are hard."—She spoke with recovered firmness.—"Life is hard, but one must—bear it. At least I'll try to bear it—alone. The only amends I can make to you"—she clasped her hands suddenly in a passionate gesture of renunciation—"the only atonement is to efface myself, to sink out of your life as if I had never—been in it." She paused, her breath came in convulsive gasps, but still she faced him resolute, the look in her eyes with which some penitent of the early church might have welcomed lifelong immolation. "To efface myself," she repeated, dwelling upon the words as if they held some painful satisfaction, "to sink out of your life—it is the only atonement I can make."
"You can't make it." Gerard's words rang out clearly. He took her hands again resolutely in his."You can't efface yourself," he said. "It's beyond your power." A smile flickered across his face, his eyes looked into hers with an imperious tenderness, before which they fell abashed. "Do you know," he said, "why I went off in that idiotic fashion into the wilds, tried to cut myself off from the world? I was bitter, angry—I wanted to forget you; I thought, if there were nothing to remind me of you, I might. And then day and night I thought of you, day and night your face haunted me.... Ah, Elizabeth"—his voice broke—"ask me to do anything except—forget you."
There was again silence. Elizabeth's lips parted, her breath fluttered, a warm, lovely color flooded her face. He thought she had yielded. But almost instantly the color faded, she drew her hands from his grasp and shrank away, as if under the weight of some painful memory. "And,—and that deception," she gasped out. "What has happened to change that? You said—don't you remember?—that you could never"—her voice quivered—"never trust me again." She lifted her head suddenly, she looked him firmly, steadily, in the face, with eyes that seemed the index to her soul. "I did deceive you," she said. "Nothing can change that fact. Why should you trust me now?"
"Ah, it would be hard on most of us"—the words sprung impetuously to his lips—"if there were no forgiveness, if strict justice were always meted out." He put out his hand in a passionate gesture, a rush of feeling thrilled his voice. "Elizabeth,"he cried, "don't bring up words which I said that night in anger, which I have repented—God knows!—ever since. You had done an heroic thing in telling me the truth at last, just when it was hardest—I—brute that I was—could only think of my own misery. But let the past go—it shall not ruin our lives any longer." He put his arm around her and drew her towards him. He felt her heart beat, her pulses throb; his voice took on a deeper note of tenderness. "The future is ours, and love is ours—my darling, does anything else matter?"
The argument may not have been a wise one, but it has gained more victories than all the logic in the world. Elizabeth, weary of struggling, resigned herself to her defeat....
Later she looked up, gave a little, fluttering sigh, and her eyes sought his with a wistful sweetness. "Dear, I'm not worth it," she murmured, "but I will try—oh, I will try so hard." ... Gerard, smiling, cut the sentence short.
They walked on homeward through the fragrant lanes, in which they two seemed the only wanderers. The Misses Van Vorst, sitting by the drawing-room windows, saw them come with a little thrill of anxiety. Miss Joanna dropped a stitch in her knitting, and Miss Cornelia's thin, silvery curls fluttered, as if stirred by some intangible wave of sympathy.
Elizabeth crossed the flower-studded lawn and came towards them, her white skirts swaying about her in the gentle summer wind. She held her head erect, her color was brilliant, her eyes lustrous. Thesetting sun shone on her hair and lit it up into a vivid glory. Elizabeth's aunts stole a glance at her, at the look on Gerard's face. Then their eyes met and they smiled softly at each other through a mist of tears.