The Broken Gate Part 4

So Aurora Lane did look at Julia Delafield. They comforted one another.

It was from Miss Julia that year by year, falteringly, she learned to hope, learned to hold up her head. Thus gradually, by the aid of the love of another woman--a rare and beautiful thing, a wondrous thing--a thing so very rare in that world of jealousy in which by fate women so largely live--she got back some hold on life--she, mother of the son of no man, at the urge of a woman who could never have a son!

"Oh, we will plan, Aurora!" said Miss Julia in those piteous earlier times. "We will plan--we will get on. We'll fight it out together." And so they had, shoulder to shoulder, unnoted, unpraised and unadvised, year by year; and because they knew she had at least one friend, those who sat in judgment on Aurora Lane came little by little to forgive or to forget her sin, as it once was called of all the pulpits there.

And now a drunken tongue had recalled sharply, unforgivably, unescapably, that past which had so long lain buried--a past to which neither of them ever referred.

In all these years time had been doing what it could to repair what had been. Time wreathes the broken tree with vines to bind up its wounds. It covers the scarred earth with gra.s.ses presently. In all these years some men had died, others had left the village. Certain old women, poisonous of heart, also had died, and so the better for all concerned. Other women mayhap had their sacrifices--and their secrets. But as for Aurora Lane, at least she had won and held one friend. And so they two had had between them a child, a son, a man. One had gathered of the philosophy of life, of the world's great minds. The other had brought into the partnership the great equipment with which Nature forever defies all law and all philosophy save her own.

Now, product of their twenty years of friendship, here he stood, tall and strong--Don Lane, their boy, blood on his hand because of that truth which he swiftly--too swiftly--had declared to be a lie; and which was no lie but the very truth.

But Don Lane still was ignorant of the closeness of truth of his last remark. He only put such face now on all this as he might.

"Miss Julia," said he lamely, and giving her instinctively the t.i.tle which the town gave her, "I know you have been good to my mother."

"Why, no, I haven't, Don," said she, "not at all. I've been so busy I have hardly seen your mother for a month or so. But we have kept track of you--why, Don, I've got your cla.s.s records, every one. You don't know how I got them? Isn't it true, Aurie?"

"I don't know what I would ever have done without her," said Aurora Lane slowly.

Don Lane laughed suddenly. "Why," said he, "it's almost as if I had _two_ mothers, isn't it?"

Both women grew red now, and poor Don, knowing little as he did, grew red as well.

"But what's the matter with your hand, Don--you've cut yourself! I've told your mother she ought to fix that gate-latch."

Don looked once more at his wounded hand, and sought to cover the blood-stain with his kerchief. He saw that Miss Julia had heard nothing of the affair of a few moments earlier in the public square.

"Why, that's nothing," he mumbled.

This was too much for the straightforward nature of Aurora Lane, and rapidly as she might she gave some account to Miss Julia of these late events. She told all--except the basic and essential truth. A sad shame held her back from talking even before Miss Julia of the fact that her boy now knew he was the child of shame itself.

"That's too bad," said Julia Delafield slowly, gravely, as she heard the half news. "I'm awfully sorry--I'm awfully sorry for your mother, Don.

You fought? My! I wish I had been there to see it."

Miss Julia's face flushed once more, indicative of the heroic soul which lay in her own misshapen body.

"I didn't want to hit that fellow," said Don. "Of course, they had no chance, either of them, with a man who could box a bit."

"And you learned that--in college, Don?"

He only grinned in reply, and thrust the wounded hand into his pocket, out of sight.

"I'll warrant you, Don," said Miss Julia, "that if it hadn't been for you old Tarbush, the town marshal, never would have taken Johnnie Adamson to jail. Those two were a public nuisance every Sat.u.r.day afternoon. I'm glad you have ended it. But tell me, what made them pick on you?"

Don Lane struggled for a time, not daring to look at his mother, before he spoke. "The half-wit wouldn't let us pa.s.s, and then his father called me a name--if that man or any other ever calls me that again, I'm going to beat him up till his own people won't know him. I can't tell you," he went on, flushing.

He did not catch the sudden look which now pa.s.sed between the two women.

A sudden paleness replaced the flush on Miss Julia's cheek. A horror sat in her eye. "What does he know?" was the question she asked of Aurora Lane, eye only speaking the query.

"At least, Miss Julia," said poor Don, "you somehow certainly must know about me. I'll get all my debts squared around some time. As soon as I can get settled down in my new place West--I've got a fine engineering job out in Wyoming already--I'm going to have my mother come. And if ever I get on in the world, there are some other things I'm not going to forget. Any friend of hers----" His big hand, waved toward his mother, told the rest of what he could not speak.

They sat on, uncomfortable, for a time, neither of the three knowing how much the others knew, nor how much each ought to know. Of the three, Aurora Lane was most prepared. For twenty years she had been learning to be prepared. For twenty years she had been praying that her boy never would know what now he did know.

Don Lane looked at his mother's face, but could not fathom it. Life to him thus far had been more or less made up of small things--sports, books, joys, small things, no great ponderings, no problems, no introspections, no self-communings--and until but very recently no love, no great emotion, no pa.s.sion to unsettle him. This shadow which now fell over him--he could not have suspected that. But his mother all these years had known that perhaps at any unforeseen time this very hour might come--had prayed against it, but known always in her heart that it might come, nay, indeed one day must come.

"d.a.m.n the place, anyhow!" he broke out at length. "You've lived here long enough, both of you. It's nothing but a little gossiping h.e.l.l, that's all. I'll take you away from here, both of you, that's what I'll do!" He stretched out a hand suddenly to his mother, who took it, stroking it softly.

"Don, boy," said she, "I didn't run away. Why should we run away now? If we did, we'd take ourselves with us wherever we went, wouldn't we? This is as good a place to live out life as any I could have found. You can't really evade things, you know."

"As though I asked to! I'd rather fight things than evade them."

"I think so," said his mother mournfully. "I suppose that's true."

"But you've got to be happy, mother," said he, again taking her hand in his. "I'll _make_ you happy. I'm ready to work for you now--I'll pay you back."

"And Miss Julia?" smiled his mother. "It was she who told you the news, you know, and you didn't obey her--you came against orders."

"Why, yes, of course. She's been so awfully good to you. I know what she's been, be sure of that." (As though he did know!)

"Don't be too bitter, Don," said Miss Julia Delafield, slowly now, hoping only to salve a wound she felt he might have, yet not sure herself what the wound might be. "Don't be unrelenting. Why, it seems to me, as we grow older and begin to read and think, we find out the best of life is just being--well, being charitable--just forgetting. Nothing matters so very much, Don. That's doctrine, isn't it?"

Don Lane never finished what reply he might have made. There came yet another interruption, yet another footfall on the little walk without, following the clash of the crippled gate as it swung to. It was a man's footfall which they heard on the gallery. They all rose now as Aurora threw open the door.

It was the solemn visage of Joel Tarbush, the town marshal, which met Aurora Lane.

"How do you do, Mr. Tarbush?" asked she. "Won't you come in?"

The gentleman accosted gave a quick glance up the street and down.

"I'm a married man," said he, with something of a vile grin on his face as he looked at her.

She answered him only with the level gaze of her own eyes, and pushed open the door. He followed her in, hesitatingly, and then saw the others in the little room.

"Ma'am," said he, "I come to summons you to the justice court this afternoon."

"Yes," said Aurora Lane. "Why?"

"It's that Adamson case," said he--"he knows." He turned now to the tall figure of Dieudonne Lane, instinctively stepping back as he did so.

"In what way do you want us?" asked Don Lane now. "As witnesses? My mother----?"

"I want your--your _ma_ as a witness, yes," said Tarbush, grinning, "since you've said it. For you, you'll have to come along on charge of resisting a officer; likewise for a.s.sault and battery, charge brought by Ephraim Adamson; likewise for disturbing the peace. Likewise we're going to test the case of _habeas chorus_. Old Man Adamson's got money.

He's sober now, and he's got a lawyer--the best lawyer in town. They're going to get the eejit out of jail, and Old Man Adamson's going to make trouble for you."

How much longer Tarbush might have prattled on in his double capacity of officer and gossip remained uncertain. Miss Julia turned upon him, her large dark eyes flashing:

"Why do you bring her into it? She's just told me--they were only crossing the square--she was only trying to go home--she wasn't troubling anyone in all the world! Leave her out of it."

"I ain't got no choice in it," said Tarbush. "I'm serving the papers now. Miss Lane and the boy both comes. Not that I got any feeling in the matter."