Part 24

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 "I--I promise," she repeated, hardly knowing what she said, conscious only of a wish to have them withdrawn.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 odd part 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, I was 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--I didn'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 rings of 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 promise I 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 have been 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?" she asked, 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.

_Chapter XL_

"Don't you 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 hers determinedly 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. The setting 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.

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End of Project Gutenberg's The Ordeal of Elizabeth, by Elizabeth Von Arnim