The Broken Gate Part 21

"Why, Uncle dear"--she came over to him now--"forgive me if I've been too outspoken--it's only because I'm so strained."

"Myself also," he groaned. "Strain? Why, yes. You don't know--you don't know!"

Suddenly she changed once more, still the woman, still the young girl, as yet half ignorant of life, her hands still on her heaving bosom now, the faint flush back in her cheeks.

"He _kissed_ me, Uncle!" said she. "I don't know much, but it seems to me if a man kisses a woman--in that way--it's _life_ for her and him!

They can't help it after that. After that, a woman's got to do just all she can in the game of life--and he's got to do the best he knows. They can't help it. He _kissed_ me.... And I told you I'll not desert him. It wouldn't be right. And, right or wrong, I can't--I _can't_!"

Panting, the tears now almost ready to drop from her moist eyes, she stood, a beautiful picture of young womanhood, so soft, so fully fitted for love and love's caresses; and now so wronged out of her love by sudden fate. But in her there was no sign of weakness or of yielding.

The man who faced her felt the truth of that. His own face now was far the more irresolute of the two--far the more agitated.

Suddenly, haggard, frowning, he rose, at a sound which he heard in the outer room. Someone had entered.

As he stepped to the door between the two rooms, Judge Henderson turned, his finger on his lips, and made signs that Anne should remain where she was, undiscovered. The door hung just a trifle, wedged open by the corner of a fallen rug. Judge Henderson had not time, or did not think, to close it wholly. He stood face to face with the newcomer.

It was Aurora Lane!

CHAPTER XIII

"AS YOU BELIEVE IN G.o.d!"

Aurora Lane and Judge Henderson both started back as they faced one another. For the moment neither spoke.

Aurora was pale, quite beyond her wont, haggard-looking about the eyes.

She had come direct from her home, without alteration of her usual daily costume. In spite of all, she was very far from uncomely as she stood now, about her the old indefinable stamp of cla.s.s which always had clung to her. Certainly she was quite the equal in appearance of this tall man, soft from easy living, who faced her now, a trifle pasty of skin, a trifle soft about the jaws, a trifle indefinite about the waist--a man with a face as pale and haggard as her own.

Tense as she was, her long schooling in repression stood her in such stead as to leave her in the better possession of self-control.

"My dear--my dear Madam----" began Judge Henderson.

The hearer in the room beyond must have caught the pause in his voice, its agitation--and must have heard the even tones of the woman as she spoke at last, after a long silence.

"I have come to your office, as you know, for the first time," said Aurora Lane. She gave him no t.i.tle, no formal address. "It is the first time in twenty years."

"You have lived a somewhat secluded life, yes, my dear Madam." His voice, his manner, his att.i.tude, all were labored. He at least knew or suspected that he was talking to two women, and not one; for there was no way for Anne to escape and no way in which he could be sure she did not hear.

"You know about him--about the boy? Of course, everyone in town does. He didn't die. He's been away--in college. I never wanted him to see this place. But now he's come back--you know all about it. He's in jail.

We've been thinking perhaps you could do something--that you would help us."

Her high, clear, staccato voice, easily audible far, now showed her own keyed-up condition.

Judge Henderson raised a large white hand. "My dear Madam," said he, himself very far from calm, "let us be calm! Let us above all things be calm and practical."

Aurora Lane's face froze into a sudden icy mask of wonder, of astonishment. She gulped a little. "I'm trying to be calm. I'm desperate, or I'd never have come here. You know that."

He was mumbling and clucking in his throat, gesturing imploringly, trying to stop her swift speech, which might be overheard, but she went on, not understanding.

"Until just now I was so happy. He was done with his schooling--ready to go out at his work. The expenses were very heavy for us, but we've managed. Look!"

She drew from her worn pocketbook the single bill that she had left in all the world, a tight-creased, worn thing. "In some way I've managed to hold on to this," said she. "It's all I've got left in all the world.

That's my twenty-odd years of savings--except what I've spent to bring up my boy. I've got no more."

"My dear Madam," said Judge Henderson again, sighing, "life certainly has its trials at times." A remark sufficiently ba.n.a.l to pa.s.s muster with both his hearers, Aurora Lane here and Anne Oglesby in the room beyond. But, still ignorant of any other auditor, Aurora went on as though she had not heard him:

"I thought I'd come and talk to you--at last. If only Don could get out, I'd be willing to leave with him. We'd never trouble anybody any more."

Her face was turned to him beseechingly.

"I know, of course, that you could save him if you liked.... I've had a pretty hard time of it. Don't you want to do this for him--for us--how can you _help_ wanting to? You, of all men! My G.o.d! Oh, my G.o.d!"

"Hush! Hush! Don't speak so loud! Pray compose yourself, my dear Madam,"

exclaimed Judge Henderson, himself so far from composed. His own face was ghastly in its open apprehension. "He's ruined himself, that's all, that boy," he concluded lamely.

She stood before him, stony cold, for a time, growing whiter and whiter.

"And what about my own ruin? What does it leave to me, if they take my boy--all I have in the world? I didn't think you could hesitate a moment--not even you!" Her voice, icy cold, was that of another woman.

He turned from her, flinging out his hands. "He has disgraced you----"

he began, still weakly; for he at least knew he was doubly on the defensive now, before these two women, terrible in their love.

"No, he has not!" flared Aurora Lane at last. "If I've had disgrace it's not through any fault of his. If he raised a hand in my defense, it was the first man's hand that has been raised for me in all this town--in all my life!"

She held before him again the tight-folded little bill, seeking with trembling fingers to unfold it so that he might see its pitifully small denomination. She shook it in his face in sudden rage. "That's my life savings! If there was such a thing as justice in the world, would I be helpless as this--so helpless that I could find it possible to come here to talk to you? Justice? Justice! Ah, my G.o.d in heaven!"

Aurora Lane's voice was slightly rising. She was fronting him in the last courage of despair. "You'd see that boy perish--you'd let him die?

If I thought that was true, I'd be willing to do everything I could to ruin this town. I'd pull the roof down on it if I were strong enough.

I'd throw myself away, indeed. I'd curse G.o.d--I'd die. Above all, I'd curse you, with my last breath."

Anne, in the next room, rooted in the horror of her silence, could not have heard his reply, but almost she might have pictured him, standing white, ghastly, trembling, as he was when he heard these words.

"But you can't do it--you can't deny him--he's a human being like yourself--he's part of----Ah, you'll get him free, I know!" Aurora's voice was pleading now. Judge Henderson's own voice was hoa.r.s.e, unnatural, when at last he got it.

"Look at this message," he croaked, in a half whisper; and showed her the crumpled bit of paper which he had held in his own hand. He beckoned to her--yet again--for silence, but she did not understand.

"What is it?" asked Aurora. "What do you mean?"

"From the state's attorney! I have accepted this retainer. I'm of the prosecution! You have come too late. What can I do?"

"Prosecution--what do you mean? Prosecute him--_Don_? Too late--my G.o.d!

Am I always too late--is it always in all the world for me--too late!

Prosecute _him_? What do you _mean_?"

The sudden, wailing cry broke from her. Then her voice trailed off into a whisper--a whisper which might have been heard very far--which was heard through the half-closed door which led to the inner room. "Too late!" And at length the long-tried soul of Aurora Lane broke out in a final and uncontrolled rebellion, all bounds down, all restraint forgotten, every instinct at last released of its long fettering:

"You disown him--you'd disown your own flesh and blood--you'd let him die! Why, you'd betray your own Master for the price of office and of honor! Oh, I know, I know! The limelight! Publicity! Oh, you Judas!--Ah, Judas! Judas! You, his father! _Your own son!_"