Chapter 14

It was fear now--fear--staggering, appalling him. He was facing something--_something_--his brain did not seem to define it--something that was cold and stern and immutable, that was omnipotent, that embodied awe--a condemnation unalterable, unchangeable, before which he shrank back with his soul afraid. Before him seemed to unfold itself the wagon track, the road to the Patriarch's cottage; and he was there again, and whispering lips were around him, and men and women and children were there, and in front of them, leading them, slithered that twisted, misshapen, formless thing--and now they were upon the lawn, and about him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere was a sea of white faces out of which the eyes burned like living coals. What power was this that, loosed, had stricken them to palsied, moaning things!

Madison shivered a little--and a sweat bead oozed out and glistened upon his forehead. Hark--what was that! Clarionlike, clear as the chimes of a silver bell, rang now that childish voice--rang out, and rang out again--and the crutch was gone--and the lame boy ran, ran--_ran_! And who was that, that stood before him now--that golden-haired woman beside an empty wheel-chair, whose face was radiant, who cried aloud that she was _cured_! And who were these others of later days, this motley crowd of old and young, that passed before him in procession, that cried out the same words that golden-haired woman by the wheel-chair had cried--and cried out: "Faith! Faith! Faith!"

Madison swept the sweat bead from his forehead with a trembling hand. It was a lie--a lie--a lie! He had taught them to say that--but it was all bunk--and all were fools! He could laugh at them, jeer at them, mock at them, deride them--they were his playthings--and faith was his plaything--and he could laugh at them all!

And again he raised his head to laugh; and again the laugh was choked in his throat, still-born--_Helena was straight_! To his temples went his twitching hands. Anger raged upon him--and died in fear. Anger, for the instant maddening him, that he should lose her; rage in ungovernable fury that the game, his plans, the hoard accumulated, was bursting like a bubble before his eyes--died in fear. No, no; he had not meant to laugh or mock--no, no; not that, not that! What was this loosed titanic power that had done these things--that had brought this change in Helena; that had brought a change in the Flopper, transforming the miserable, pitiful, whining thief into a man reaching out for decent things; that had wrought at least a physical metamorphosis in Pale Face Harry--that had transfigured those three who, in their ugly, abandoned natures then, had hung like vultures on his words in the Roost that night! What was this power that he was trifling with, that brought him now this cold, dead fear before which he quailed! What was this _something_ that in his temerity he had dared invoke--that rose now engulfing him, a puny maggot--that snatched him up and flung him headlong, shackled, before this nebulous, terrifying tribunal, where out of nothingness, out of a void, the calm, majestic features of the Patriarch took form and changed, and changed, and kept changing, and grew implacable, set with the stamp of doom. What was it--in God's name, what was it brought these sweat beads bursting to his forehead! Was he going mad--was he mad already!

And then the cycle again--doubt, anger, fear--until his brain, exhausted, seemed to refuse its functions; and it was as though, heavy, oppressing, a dense fog shut down upon his mind and enveloped it; and now he walked as a man in great haste, hurrying, and now his pace was slow, uncertain.

And so he went on, following the little path that bordered the woods on one hand and the fields on the other; went on until he neared the village--and then he stopped suddenly, and turned about. Some one had called his name.

From the field, a man climbed over the fence and came toward him. The man's face was tanned and rugged, his form erect, and the sleeves rolled back above the elbows displayed browned and muscular forearms. Madison stared at the man apathetically. This was the farm of course where Pale Face Harry boarded, and this was Pale Face Harry--but--

"Doc," said Pale Face Harry, and he shuffled his feet and looked down, "Doc, I got something I've been wanting to say to you for a week."

Madison still gazed at him apathetically--Pale Face Harry for the moment was as some unwarrantable apparition suddenly appearing before him.

Pale Face Harry raised his eyes, lowered them, kicked at a clod of earth with the toe of his boot--and raised his eyes again.

"Say," he blurted out, "I'm through, Doc. I'm--I'm going to quit."

Into Madison's stumbling brain leaped and took form but one idea--and he jumped forward, reaching savagely for Pale Face Harry's throat.

"You'd throw me, would you! You'd throw the game--would you!" he snarled, as his fingers locked.

Pale Face Harry, twisting, wriggled free--and retreated a step.

"No; I ain't!" he gasped--and then his sentences came tumbling out upon each other jerkily, as though he were trying to compress what he had to say into as few words as possible and as quickly as he could, while he watched Madison warily. "I ain't throwing nothing. I just want to quit myself. I keeps my mouth shut--see? I don't want none of the share what's coming. Say, I've got more'n a hundred times that out of it. Look at me, Doc! Say, I'm like a horse. That's the Patriarch and living honest. Say, in all me life I never knew what it was before till we comes here. If I took the dough what's coming I'd go back to the old hell, and I'd go down and out again. Say, it ain't worth it, there's nothing in it. I ain't throwing you, Doc--I just blows out of here with me trap closed. Say, look at me, Doc--don't you get what I mean?"

And then Madison burst into a peal of wild, strange laughter; and, as though no man stood before him, started on along the path--and Pale Face Harry sidled out of his way and stared after him.

"For--for God's sake, Doc," he called out, stammering, "what's the matter?"

But Madison made no answer. He heard Pale Face Harry call out behind him; in a subconscious, mazed way, he sensed the other following him, gropingly, hesitantly, for a few yards, then hold back--and finally stop.

The path swerved. Madison went on--blindly, mechanically, as though, once set in motion, he must go on. Some ghastly, unnatural thing was clogging his brain; not only in a mental way, but clogging it until there was physical hurt and pain, an awful tightness--something--if he could only reach it with his fingers and claw it away! There was black madness here, and a pain insufferable--a damnable impotence, robbing him of even the power, the faculty to think or reason, or to make himself understand in any logical degree the meaning or the cause of this thing that sent his brain swirling sick.

He halted. His lips were working; the muscles of his face quivered. And suddenly, snatching his hat from his head, he flung himself on the ground and plunged face and head, feverishly, tigerishly, into the little brook that ran beside the path. Again and again he buried his face in the cold, clear, refreshing water--and then, still on hands and knees, he raised his head to listen. Softly, full of a great peace, full of a strange sweetness that knew no discord, no strife, the notes of the chapel bell floated across the fields. Evening had come; the day's work was done--it was benediction time. It was the call of the faithful--the Angelus of those who believed.

It came, the revulsion, to Madison in a choked sob--and he stood up. The day's work was done--here. Here they would go in quiet thankfulness each from the farm to his little cottage, each to his simple, wholesome meal, each to the twilight hours of gentle communion as they talked to one another from their doorways, each to his bed and his rest, tranquil in the love of God and of man.

Madison flung back the dripping hair from his forehead. Strange, the contrast that, unbidden, came insistently to him now: The liquid notes of the bell wafted sweetly on the evening breeze; the howling, jangling turmoil of the city slums, of his familiar haunts where, in mad chaos, reigned the hawkers' cries, the thunder of the elevated trains, the noisome traffic of the street, the raucous clang of trolley bells--the sweet perfume of the, fields, the smell of trees, of earth, of all of God's pure things untouched, unsoiled; the stench of Chatham Square, the reek of whiskey spilled with the breath of obscene, filthy lips--the little village that he could see beyond him, the tiny curls of blue smoke rising like the incense from an altar over the roofs of houses whose doors had no locks, whose windows were not barred, where plain, homely folk, unsullied, lived at peace with God and the world; the closed areaways of the Bowery, the creaking stairs, the dim hallways leading to dens of vileness and iniquity where, safe by bolts from interruption, crime bred its offsprings and vice was hatched. What did it mean!

And so he stood there for a little space; then presently he started forward again; and presently he reached the village street, walked down its length, greeted from every doorway with hearty, unaffected sincerity, and after a little while he came to the hotel, and to his room--and there he locked the door.

Helena was straight--the words were repeating themselves over and over in his brain. He began to pace up and down the room. The words seemed to take form and shape in fiery red letters, being scrawled by invisible hands upon the walls--_Helena was straight_. Straight with Thornton, straight with any man--straight with her Maker. He knew that now--he had read it as a soul-truth in those brave, deep, tear-dimmed eyes. And he had _lost_ her! It seemed as though he had become suddenly conscious that he was enduring some agony that was never to know an end, that from now on must be with him always. He had lost her--lost Helena.

From his pocket he drew out his keys and opened his trunks, and took out the trays and spread them about. There were very many trays, they nested one upon the other--and they were exceedingly ingenious trays--false-bottomed every one. And now he opened these false-bottoms, every one of them, and stood and looked at them. The surest, safest, biggest game he had ever played, the game that had known no single hitch, the game that had brought no whispering breath of suspicion flung its tribute in his face. Money that he had never tried to count, notes of all denominations, large and small, glutted the receptacles--jewels in necklaces, in rings, in pendants, in brooches, in bracelets, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, winked at him and scintillated and glowed and were afire.

And he stood and looked upon them. What was it the Flopper had said when they had brought the Patriarch back--he did not remember. What was it that Pale Face Harry had said a little while ago--he did not remember. These were jewels here and money--wealth--and he had won the greatest game that was ever played--only he had lost her--lost Helena. And he stood and looked upon them--and slowly there crept to his face a white-lipped smile.

"I'm beat!" he whispered hoarsely. "Beat--by the game--I won."

--XXI--

FACE VALUE

It was evening of the same day--and there came a knock at the outer door of the cottage porch.

The Flopper answered it, and came back to the Patriarch's room; where the Patriarch sat in his armchair; where the lamp, turned low, throwing the little room into half shadow, burned upon the table; where Helena, far away from her immediate surroundings, quite silent and still, her own chair close beside the other's, nestled with her head on the Patriarch's shoulder.

Helena looked up as the Flopper returned.

Upon the Flopper's face was a curious expression--not one that in the days gone by had been habitual--it seemed to mingle a diffidence, a kindly solicitude and a sort of anxious responsibility.

"It's Thornton askin' fer youse," announced the Flopper.

Helena rose from her chair, and started for the door--but the Flopper blocked the way. Helena halted and looked at him in astonishment.

The Flopper licked his lips.

"Say, Helena," he said earnestly, "if I was youse I wouldn't go--say, I'll tell him youse have got de pip an' gone ter bed."

"Not go?" echoed Helena. "What do you mean?"

The Flopper scratched at his chin uneasily.

"Oh, you know!" he said. "De Doc let youse down easy ter-day. Say, if youse had piped his lamps when you drives up in de buzz-wagon dis afternoon youse wouldn't be lookin' fer any more trouble. Say, I'm tellin' youse straight, Helena. When I was out dere in de kitchen an' youse was in yer room wid him me heart was in me mouth all de time. Youse can take it from me, Helena, he let youse down easy."

Helena's brown eyes, a little wistfully, a little softly, held upon the Flopper.

"Yes?" she said quietly.

"Youse had better cut it out ter-night, Helena," the Flopper went on. "Y'oughter know de Doc by dis time--de guy dat starts anything wid de Doc gets his--dat's all! Remember de night he threw Cleggy down de stairs in de Roost?--an' he was only havin' fun! Say, you go out wid Thornton again ter-night an' de Doc finds it out--an' something'll happen. Say, Helena, fer God's sake, don't youse do it--de Doc was bad enough dis afternoon when he let youse down easy, but he's worse now, an'--"

"Worse?" Helena interrupted, smiling a little apathetically. "In what way is he worse? And how do you know? You haven't seen Doc, have you?"

"No," the Flopper answered, circling his lips with his tongue again. "No; I ain't seen de Doc since--but I seen Pale Face. Say, Helena"--the Flopper's words came stumbling out now, agitated, perturbed, not altogether coherent--"wot's de answer I dunno; I dunno wot's de matter here. Say"--he pointed suddenly to the Patriarch, whose face was turned toward them as he stroked thoughtfully at his silver beard--"he's got me fer fair--dere ain't no fake here--dis way ter live is de real t'ing--he ain't like you an' me--he's _more'n_ dat--look at him now--youse'd t'ink he could see us, an' was listenin' ter wot we said. I dunno wot's de end--I dunno wot's de matter wid me. I was scared more'n ever out dere dis afternoon on de lawn, an' I thought mabbe God 'ud strike me dead--but 'tain't only dat I'm scared ter buck de game any more, 'tain't only dat--I don't _wanter_ any more, an' it don't make no difference about de dough--I wanter live straight, same as him, same as de guys around here, same--same as Mamie. Say, Helena, say, do youse believe in love--in--in de _real_ t'ing?"

Helena's apathy was gone now--a flush dyed her cheeks. She was not startled at what the Flopper had said--she had seen it coming, subconsciously, vaguely, mistily, for days now, only she had been immersed in herself--she was not startled, and yet, in a way, she was. The end! She too had been thinking about that--and she too did not know. What _was_ the end?

"You were going to say something about Pale Face," she said, prompting the Flopper. "Something about Pale Face and Doc."

"Yes," said the Flopper, and again the tip of his tongue sought his lips nervously. "Dat's why I don't want youse ter go out wid Thornton ter-night. Pale Face has got it de same as me, an' he told de Doc dis afternoon, out in de path dere, after de Doc left de cottage here. Dere was a showdown--see? De Doc 'ud kill youse an' Thornton ter-night if he caught youse ter-gether. He's like a wild man. When Pale Face tells him he was goin' ter quit, de Doc makes a grab fer him by de t'roat like a tiger, only Pale Face gets away, an' den de Doc goes off widout a word, laughin' like he'd escaped out of a dippy-house. An' Pale Face was shakin' like he had a fit when he gets here. Say, Helena, don't youse go ter-night."

Helena made no answer for a moment. Thoughts, a world of them, confused her, crowded upon her, as they had ever since Madison had left her room a few hours ago--and the future was as some dread, bewildering maze through which she had tried to stumble and grope her way--and had lost herself ever deeper. How full of utter, miserable, bitter irony it was that this thing, unscrupulous and shameful, that they had created in their guilt should have brought the beauty and the glory and the yearning of a new life to her--and yet should chain her remorselessly to the old! True, she had broken with Madison, irrevocably, forever, she supposed, it could not be other than that, for the ugly bond between them was severed--but the game still went on! In repentance, on her bended knees, sobbing as a tired and worn-out child, she could ask for forgiveness; but the double life, the duplicity, by reason of the very nature in which they had fashioned this iniquitous monster, still went on, and like some hideous octopus reached out its waving, feeling tentacles to encircle her--the Patriarch there; the world-wide publicity, those poor creatures upon whose misery and whose suffering, upon whose frantic, frenzied snatching out at hope they had preyed and fed and gorged themselves; the life itself that she had taken up, in its minutiæ, in its care of this great-souled, great-hearted man so dear to her now, the life itself because it was what it was, changed though she herself might be, though her soul cried out against it in its new-found purity--all this still held her fast! The end--she could not see the end. What would Madison do--and there was Thornton. Thornton! She caught her breath a little. Yes; she had promised Thornton she would see him to-night--she knew well enough why he wanted to see her--last night had told her that--he loved her. Her face softened. Last night--it seemed a thousand years ago, and it seemed but as an instant passed--last night--she had learned what love was, and--

The Flopper stirred uneasily.

"Wot'll I tell him?" asked the Flopper. "He's waitin' out dere by de porch."

"Why--why nothing," said Helena, and she smiled a little tremulously at the Flopper. "Nothing. I'll--I'll go and see him."

"Say, Helena," protested the Flopper, "don't youse--"

But Helena stepped by him now.

"Don't leave the Patriarch," she cautioned, turning on the threshold. "I--I won't be late."

She passed down the little hall, through the still, quiet room beyond, empty now, through the porch, and out into the night--and then from out the shadows by the row of maples, Thornton came hurriedly toward her, holding out his hands.

"It's good of you to come, Miss Vail," he said, in his grave, quiet way. "You must be nearly dead with weariness after last night, and I am afraid I am not very thoughtful--only I--" he broke off suddenly. "Shall we sit here on the bench for a little while, or would you rather walk--I--I have something to say to you."

It was very dark--the storm of the night before still lingered in a wrack of flying clouds, scurrying one after the other, veiling the stars--and the moon was hidden--and hidden too was the sudden whiteness of Helena's face. She knew what he had to say, knew it before she had come to him--and yet she was there--and she had come resolutely enough--only now she was afraid.

"I would rather walk a little, I think," she said. "Here where--where I can be within call. My absence last night seems to have made the Patriarch very uneasy, you know, and--and--let us just walk up and down here beneath the maples in front of the cottage."

How heavy upon the air lay the fragrance of the flowers; how still the night was, save for the constant muffled boom of the breaking surf!--for a moment an almost ungovernable impulse swept upon her to make some excuse, anything, no matter how wild, a sudden faintness, anything, and run from him back into the cottage. And then she tried to think, think in a desperate sort of way of some subject of conversation that she might introduce that would stave off, postpone, defer the words that she knew were even now on his lips--nothing--she could think of nothing--only that she might have let the Flopper have his way, have let him tell Thornton that she had gone to bed with--the pip. The _pip_! She could have screamed out hysterically as the word flashed all unbidden upon her--it stood for a very great deal that word--her world of the years of yesterday. Could she never get away from that world; was it too late--already! Could she, even with all the earnestness, all the yearning that filled her soul, ever live it down, ever be what Naida Thornton had called her that night--a good woman! Could she--

Thornton was speaking now--how strange that she would have done anything, given anything to prevent his speaking--and done anything, given anything to make him speak! How strange and perplexed and dismayed her brain was! Love! Yes; she wanted love! God knew she wanted love such as his was--for he had shown her what love, free from abasing passion, in its purest sense, was. Like a glimpse of glory, hallowed, full of wondrous amazement, it came to her--and then her head was lowered, and the whiteness was upon her face again.

He had halted suddenly and detained her with his hand upon her arm--with that touch, so full of reverence, of fine deference, that had thrilled her before--that thrilled her now, awakening into fuller life these new emotions whose birth was in gladder, sweeter, purer aspirations.

"Miss Vail," he said, in a low voice, "there was a letter--a letter that Naida left--did you know of it?"

They were close together, and it was very dark--but was it dark enough to hide the crimson that she felt sweeping in a flood to her face! What was in that letter? Had Mrs. Thornton written as she had talked, or only about the Patriarch and the work in Needley? She had forgotten for the moment about the letter--if there were more in it than that, if it were about Thornton and herself and what Mrs. Thornton had hoped for between them, and she admitted knowledge of it, what would he think, what _could_ he think of her! But to deny it--no, not now. Once, and this came to her in a little thrill of gladness, she would not have hesitated; but now it--it was--it was not that world of yesterday.

"Yes," she said faintly; "she told me that she had left a letter for you."

"It was about the work here," said Thornton gently. "Her whole soul seemed wrapt up in that--and she asked me as her last wish to do what she would have done if she had lived; and she spoke of you very beautifully." Thornton paused for a moment--then he laid his hands on Helena's shoulders--and she felt them tremble a little. "Miss Vail--Helena," he said, and his voice was full of passionate earnestness now, "I cannot say these things well--only simply. I came back here to take an interest in the work, for I too have it at heart--but I have more than that now--there is _you_--your dear self. I love you, Helena--you have come into my life until you are everything and all to me. Helena, look up at me--will you marry me, dear? Tell me what I long to hear. Helena, Helena--I love you!"