CHAPTER XVI

Early the next morning a telegram came for Julia. From its condensed message she learned that her room-mate at college, who was likewise a dear and intimate friend, had been taken seriously ill, and wanted her to come on the first train. Major Dudley was present when she received the summons, and she immediately asked his advice. It was that she should depart on the noon train for the East, and remain as long as circumstances required. He was feeling prime, and Aunt Frances and Peter should look after his comfort.

Transfixed upon the horns of this new dilemma, Julia rushed upstairs and began mechanically to get her things together for a hurried departure. She knew that she would go, although she told herself repeatedly that she could not. She must be at home that evening, for her future happiness depended upon the issue of that night. Yet Bess was sick--desperately ill--and had wired her to hasten. Yes, she would go to her friend in distress, and send a note by Peter to Doctor Glenning, advising him of this unforeseen emergency. Perhaps it was just as well, she told herself at length, to prolong indefinitely the hour when he should tell her all. This, indeed, would be a supreme and unerring test.

So it came to pass that the train for the East bore Miss Julia Dudley away from Macon that day at noon, and that Uncle Peter, for the second time, bore to Doctor Glenning a delicately tinted, square envelope. John groaned when he read the note, and let his hands drop despairingly. Of course it could not be helped. He realized that she was right in going, and he loved her the more for it, but the missive gave no date upon which the writer might return. There was nothing for him to do but live the days through as best he could until he should see her again, and keep himself strong. The waiting would be hard, but he could do it. All hesitation, all temporizing, had vanished. He would be ready for his part on the first evening after she came home.

Filled with a peculiar elation, a joyful exultation, he went about his daily work with a song in his heart. He was looking far better than he did when he first came to Macon. His step was firmer, his eyes less sombre, his face not so haggard. So ten days passed, and fair week came, and the place began to fill up with visitors from neighbouring towns. Fair week in Kentucky naturally represents a good time. In this State, if in none other, the horse is king, and all homage and honour are given him on the days of the races. And fair week, like Christmas, comes only once a year, and is looked forward to with equally as much zest and impatience. On this important occasion the business houses, banks, and offices in general close their doors at noon, and do not open them again until the last heat of the last race is over. The three or four days during which the festivities occur are one big holiday for young and old, and business cares and business thoughts are thrown to the wind. The fair in Macon this year began the second week in July, and continued four days, commencing with Wednesday. It promised to be the largest and best attended meeting of the kind ever held. There were entries for the various races from all over the State, and some rare sport was promised when the blooded champions met to decide the victor. The purses were generous, the half mile track was conceded to be the best in the circuit, and spirits rose high in anticipation. There was to be a brass band from Louisville, an experienced starter from Lexington, and the judges, for the most part, were horsemen selected from towns close at hand.

John grew more and more restless as the days passed and Julia did not come. He had one letter from her, but she gave no hint as to when he might expect her home. He wrote at once and urged her to come as soon as she could, and, receiving no reply to this, fell to calling on the Major, hoping thus to hear something definite. She sent her father a message every day, but it was always about the sick friend, who had taken a slight turn for the better, but would not consent for Julia to leave her.

It was the night before the day upon which the fair began, about eleven o'clock, when Glenning, sitting in his office with a worried face, received a call from the home of a wealthy merchant. He arose at once, and went to the house. It was a deep chest cold contracted by one of the members of the family which he had to treat, but it was close onto midnight when he came into the front hall for his hat. The servant who was waiting to let him out stepped forward and said that there was an old friend in the parlor who would like to speak to him. Slightly annoyed at this further demand upon his time, John opened the door indicated, and entered the room.

A shiver as of the pangs of death enveloped him on the instant. He stood rigidly erect, his face growing whiter and whiter until the pallor which rested upon it was ghastly. The room was a sumptuous apartment; a bower of luxury. The furnishings were rich, but chaste, and blended harmoniously, creating an effect which soothed. A lamp burned on a table in the center of the room; a beautiful thing, glowing like some rare, exotic flower. The thick, ruby-tinted shade smothered the flame, and diffused it rosily. There was the odour of perfume in the air; not grossly rank, and offensive, but subtly elusive; a delicate hint of some rare and sense-numbing attar. She stood a little to one side of the table. She was rather low, but superbly shaped. Her hands were behind her, with fingers loosely laced. The lamp-glow encompassed her as in a subdued flame. It fell upon her burnished hair--dull gold and copper blent, and sank trembling into the depths of her eyes. Each feature was perfect, or so nearly perfect that the chastening light made it appear such. She was smiling.

Thus they faced each other again.

There was stark silence in the room. The man could not speak, and the woman was not yet ready to. He stood, scarcely breathing, arms at his sides, motionless. One straight lock of hair had fallen, and drew a sharp black line across his forehead. He was looking at her, steadily, desperately. His face was a mask of marble, but the woman knew too well that the volcano was there beneath all that icy calm; surging, seething, leaping and wrestling for a vent.

"Aren't you glad to see me?"

The voice was low and pleading, and full of melody. It smote upon the man's sensibilities with the force and effect of an electric current. His muscles became convulsed; his hands turned into clenched fists; his jaws knotted.

"No!" he said, at last, in a hollow monosyllable.

"Yes, you are! Tell the truth. How are you, John?"

She was coming towards him, still smiling, one half bare arm outheld, the embodiment and the perfect type of female loveliness. He avoided her, and moved to another part of the room. It was all back again, intensified an hundred fold. He knew it was of the devil; he knew that the one great trial of his life was upon him. He did not love her in the least--he swore in his soul that moment that he bore no particle of affection for her. It was something else--something unearthly and horrible, which sought to draw him on. The other nights of dalliance which he had known returned, limned upon his conscience in lines of burning fire. And he had thought himself safe! He moved back a pace, where he could not see the angel-faced devils in her eyes. Look at her he must. She saw his fear, and laughed low in her full, white throat.

"Won't you shake hands with me, and tell me that you are glad to see me?"

There was no resentment in her voice or attitude that he had shunned her. She stood easily, the train to her dress sweeping over the soft carpet to one side as she had turned. The laces on her breast were creamy and feathery, and her girdle was a zone of gold.

Again he waited till his voice was steady, and again he answered, "No!"

"Won't you but touch my hand if I ask you to?--for the sake of Jericho!"

Her supplicating words brought madness, but the man withstood. He knew, through all the blinding wrack of emotions which tossed in his brain, that in distance alone was safety. Should he feel but her finger tips, he was damned. With that six or eight feet of floor space between them he was master of himself. For the third time he answered "No!"

She had been unprepared for this reserve, this fearful coldness. The last time they were together--the last time!--and he had left without a word of farewell to her, without telling her that he was going away. But she knew why he had gone. She was older than he, and had seen more of life. But the element of mercy in her soul was wofully deficient in magnitude. She made no further attempt at once after his third refusal, but stood with head slightly bent, and eyes downcast.

"You were not very just to me."

Her words came in silken soft purrs from her warm lips--and Glenning prayed!

"You treated me badly to go, with never a word, never a written message. I should not have done the same with you John! I have missed you sorely, but my pride has held me back from trying to communicate with you in any way. I have come for the first two days of the fair; I cannot stay longer. The people in this house are distant relatives. I did not know that I would see you, except, possibly, upon the street, and then I knew that you would not recognize me. I was present when they sent a message for you tonight, and I planned this meeting. I wanted to see you again, for a little while. I think you might sit down and talk with me for a moment. It can't be for long, for the hour is late, you know."

The quality of her voice was as of one who had been mistreated. There were short breaks in it; suppressions of emotion, and her head had bent towards the light, while the burnished disc of her coiled hair was as a spider's woven mesh.

"I came away because it was better for us both that I should come, and you know a farewell was out of the question. I do not see that I have used you badly. You know to what we were drifting. Why bandy words? You know that had I stayed in Jericho my soul would have been lost today, and I would have been an outcast, or dead! It is better so. It is best that we never meet again if we can help it."

He spoke tensely and rapidly and moved towards the door as he concluded. But she was nearer it. The game was not played out. She silently glided in front of him and put her back against the door, stretching her arms out to form a barricade, and again she laughed--a sound which made the man recoil and nervously draw his hand across his forehead and eyes.

He had heard it before! It awoke old memories which he had believed dead, but the tomb of the heart will open again to a remembered word, laugh, expression, or perfume. And the attar! It was hers. He had never smelled anything like it. It was Oriental in its mysterious sweetness and effect. Barely discernible to the nostrils, it crept to the brain and wrought shadow-pictures upon the tapestry of the mind which it were better for mortal eyes not to behold. He was feeling the force of this strange perfume, which, coupled with her fascinating, if baneful personality, was beginning to beset him mercilessly. She knew her power, so well! But he was fortified with a hidden strength of which she did not know--brown eyes of trust, and a face as sweet and innocent as a flower. She barred his way. He could not pass until she gave him leave. He might have swept her aside with two fingers, but he was afraid to try. He knew what it was to be near her.

"Let me pass!" he exclaimed, resting the knuckle of his forefinger upon the corner of the table.

"You look very handsome tonight!" she told him, ignoring his demand. "Can you not find a like compliment in your heart for me?"

He did not reply, but his face was flushed and his breath was coming faster.

"You seem to have aged considerably," she resumed, "although it has been only a few weeks since you went away. But it has helped you. I'm going to give you a last chance now. Won't you come and speak to me as you used to do? If you won't, I am coming to you!"

Her arms fell to her sides.

The man knew she meant it, and a rage which was his salvation began to mount slowly within him.

"If I do as you ask, will you stand aside, and allow me to go?"

"Yes, if you will want to go--then!"

He came straight towards her, his whole nature set and hard as adamant. Her head was bent as he approached. Only when he stopped within arm's length and held out his hand did she flash the wonder of her topaz eyes full into his, and giving him her hand, bent towards him in a last mighty effort to conquer. He felt the blood rush to his brain so that her face was blurred before him; he was conscious of white arms gliding above his shoulders, then with a low, strangled curse of anger he had pushed her from him, and was in the hall. Another moment the outer door closed behind him, and he was creeping through the deserted streets, shivering as with palsy, an inarticulate blending of prayer, blasphemy, and an absent woman's name upon his lips.