Beth Norvell Part 33

Even as he regained his feet, his mind bewildered by the shock, his ears distinguished clearly the cry of a woman, the sound of heavy feet crushing through underbrush. It was to his right, and he hurled himself directly into the thick chaparral in the direction from whence the sound came.

He knew not what new terror awaited him, what peril lurked in the path.

At that moment he cared nothing. Bareheaded, pushing desperately aside the obstructing branches, his heart throbbing, his clothing torn, his face white with determination, he struggled madly forward, stumbling, creeping, fighting a pa.s.sage, until he finally emerged, breathless but resolute, into a little cove extending back into the rock wall. From exertion and excitement he trembled from head to foot, the perspiration dripping from his face.

He stopped. The sight which met him for the moment paralyzed both speech and motion. Halfway across the open s.p.a.ce, only dimly revealed in the star-light, her long hair dislodged and flying wildly about her shoulders, the gleam of the weapon in her hand, apparently stopped in the very act of flight, her eyes filled with terror staring back toward him, stood Beth Norvell. In that first instant he saw nothing else, thought only of her; of the intense peril that had so changed the girl.

With hands outstretched he took a quick step toward her, marvelling why she crouched and shrank back before him as if in speechless fright.

Then he saw. There between them, at his very feet, the face upturned and ghastly, the hands yet clinched as if in struggle, lay the lifeless body of Biff Farnham. As though fascinated by the sight, Winston stared at it, involuntarily drawing away as the full measure of this awful horror dawned upon him: she had killed him. Driven to the deed by desperation, goaded to it by insult and injury, tried beyond all power of human endurance, she had taken the man's life. This fact was all he could grasp, all he could comprehend. It shut down about him like a great blackness. In the keen agony of that moment of comprehension Winston recalled how she had once confessed temptation to commit the deed; how she had even openly threatened it in a tempest of sudden pa.s.sion, if this man should ever seek her again. He had done so, and she had redeemed her pledge. He had dared, and she had struck.

Under G.o.d, no one could justly blame her; yet the man's heart sank, leaving him faint and weak, reeling like a drunken man, as he realized what this must mean--to her, to him, to all the world. Right or wrong, justified or unjustified, the verdict of law spelled murder; the verdict of society, ostracism. It seemed to him that he must stifle; his brain was whirling dizzily. He saw it all as in a flash of lightning--the arrest, the pointing fingers, the bitterness of exposure, the cruel torture of the court, the broken-hearted woman cowering before her judges. Oh, G.o.d! it was too much! Yet what could he do? How might he protect, shield her from the consequences of this awful act? The law! What cared he for the law, knowing the story of her life, knowing still that he loved her? For a moment the man utterly forgot himself in the intensity of his agony for her. This must inevitably separate them more widely than ever before; yet he would not think of that--only of what he could do now to aid her. He tore open his shirt, that he might have air, his dull gaze uplifting piteously from the face of the dead to the place where she stood, her hands pressed against her head, her great eyes staring at him as though she confronted a ghost. Her very posture shocked him, it was so filled with speechless horror, so wild with undisguised terror. Suddenly she gave utterance to a sharp cry, that was half a sob, breaking in her throat.

"Oh, my G.o.d! my G.o.d!--you!"

The very sound of her voice, unnatural, unhuman as it was, served to bring him to himself.

"Yes, Beth, yes," he exclaimed hoa.r.s.ely through dry lips, stepping across the body toward her. "You need not fear me."

She drew hastily back from before him, holding forth her hands as though pressing him away, upon her face that same look of unutterable horror.

"You! You! Oh, my G.o.d!" she kept repeating. "See! see there!--he is dead, dead, dead! I--I found him there; I--I found him there. Oh, my G.o.d!--that face so white in the starlight! I--I heard the words, and--and the shot." She pressed both hands across her eyes as though seeking to blot it out. "I swear I heard it! I--I do not know why I came here, but I--I found him there dead, dead! I--I was all alone in the dark. I--I had to touch him to make sure, and--and then it was you."

"Yes, yes," he said, realizing she was blindly endeavoring to clear herself, yet thinking only how he might soothe her, inexpressibly shocked by both words and manner. "I know, I understand--you found him there in the dark, and it has terrified you."

He approached closer, holding forth his own hands, believing she would come to him. But instead she shrank away as a child might, expecting punishment, her arms uplifted, shielding her face.

"No, no; do not touch me; do not touch me," she moaned. "I am not afraid of you, only I could not bear it."

"Beth!" He compelled his voice to sternness, confident now that this hysteria could be controlled only through the exercise of his own will.

"You must listen to me, and be guided by my judgment. You must, you shall, do as I say. This is a most terrible happening, but it is now too late to remedy. We cannot restore life once taken. We must face the fact and do the very best we can for the future. This man is dead.

How he died can make no difference to us now. You must go away from here; you must go away from here at once."

"And--and leave him alone?"

The whispered words stung him, his distressed mind placing wrong construction on the utterance.

"Has he been so much to you that now you must sacrifice yourself needlessly for him?" he questioned quickly.

"No, not that--not that," a shudder ran through her body, "but he--he was my husband. You forget."

"I do not forget. G.o.d knows it has been burden enough for me. But you have no further duty here, none to him. You have to yourself and to me."

"To--to you?"

"Yes, to me. I will put it that way, if it will only stir you to action. I can not, will not, leave you here alone to suffer for this.

If you stay, I stay. In Heaven's name, Beth, I plead with you to go; I beg you to be guided in this by me."

"You--you will go with me?" her voice trembling, yet for the first time exhibiting a trace of interest. "If I go, you will go?"

"Yes, yes; can you suppose I would ever permit you to go alone? Do you give me your promise?"

She still held her head pressed between the palms of her hands, her dishevelled hair hanging far below the waist, her dark eyes, wild and filled with terror, roving about as though seeking to pierce the surrounding darkness.

"Oh, my G.o.d! I don't know!" she cried in a breathless sob. "I don't know! Why won't you go? Why won't you go, and leave me here with him, until some one else comes? I cannot understand; my brain is on fire.

But that would be better--yes, yes! Do that. I--I am not afraid of him."

He caught her outflung hand firmly within his own grasp. She shuddered, as if the contact were painful, yet made no effort to escape, her eyes widening as she looked at him.

"No, I will not go one step without you." He held her helpless, his face grown stern, seeing in this his only hope of influencing her action. "Can it be you believe me such a cur? Beth, we both comprehend the wrong this man has done, the evil of his life the provocation given for such an act as this. He deserved it all. This is no time for blame. If we desired to aid him, our remaining here now would accomplish nothing. Others will discover the body and give it proper care. But, oh, G.o.d! do you realize what it will inevitably mean for us to be discovered here?--the disgrace, the stigma, the probability of arrest and conviction, the ruthless exposure of everything? I plead with you to think of all this, and no longer hesitate. We have no time for that. Leave here with me before it becomes too late. I believe I know a way out, and there is opportunity if we move quickly. But the slightest delay may close every avenue for escape. Beth, Beth, blot out all else, and tell me you will go!"

The intense agony apparent in his voice seemed to break her down utterly. The tears sprang blinding to her dry eyes, her head bent forward.

"And," she asked, as if the thought had not yet reached her understanding, "you will not go without--without me?"

"No; whatever the result, no."

She lifted her face, white, haggard, and looked at him through the mist obscuring her eyes, no longer wide opened in wildness.

"Then I must go; I must go," she exclaimed, a shudder shaking her from head to foot; "G.o.d help me, I must go!"

A moment she gazed blankly back toward the motionless body on the ground, the ghastly countenance upturned to the stars, her own face as white as the dead, one hand pressing back her dark hair. She reeled from sudden faintness, yet, before he could touch her in support, she had sunk upon her knees, with head bowed low, the long tresses trailing upon the ground.

"Beth! Beth!" he cried in an agony of fear.

She looked up at him, her expression that of earnest pleading.

"Yes, yes, I will go," she said, the words trembling; "but--but let me pray first."

He stood motionless above her, his heart throbbing, his own eyes lowered upon the ground. He was conscious of the movement of her lips, yet could never afterward recall even a broken sentence of that prayer.

Possibly it was too sacred even for his ears, only to be measured by the infinite love of G.o.d. She ceased to speak at last, the low voice sinking into an inarticulate whisper, yet she remained kneeling there motionless, no sound audible excepting her repressed sobbing. Driven by the requirements of haste, Winston touched her gently upon the shoulder.

"Come, my girl," he said, the sight of her suffering almost more than he could bear. "You have done all you can here now."

She arose to her feet slowly, never looking toward him, never appearing to heed his presence. He noticed the swelling of her throat as though the effort to breathe choked her, the quick spasmodic heaving of her bosom, and set his teeth, struggling against the strain upon his own nerves.

"You will go with me now?"

She glanced about at him, her eyes dull, unseeing.

"Oh, yes--now," she answered, as if the words were spoken automatically. He led her away, ignoring the constant efforts she made, as they climbed the bank, to gaze back across his shoulder.

Finally the intervening branches completely hid that white, dead face below, and, as if with it had vanished all remaining strength of will, or power of body, the girl drooped her head against him, swaying blindly as she walked. Without a word he drew her close within his arm, her hair blowing across his face, her hand gripping his shoulder.

It was thus they came forth amid the clearer starlight upon the ridge summit. Again and again as they moved slowly he strove to speak, to utter some word of comfort, of sympathy. But he could not--the very expression of her partially revealed face, as he caught glimpses of it, held him speechless. Deep within his heart he knew her trouble was beyond the ministration of words. Some one was standing out in front of the cabin. His eyes perceived the figure as they approached, and he could not bring himself to speak of this thing of horror in her presence.

"Beth," he said gently, but had to touch her to attract attention, "I want you to sit here and wait while I arrange for our journey. You are not afraid?"

"No," her voice utterly devoid of emotion, "I am not afraid."

"You will remain here?"

She looked at him, her face expressionless, as though she failed to understand. Yet when he pointed to the stone she sat down.

"Yes," she answered, speaking those common words hesitatingly as if they were from some unfamiliar foreign tongue, "I am to do what you say."