The Witness Part 33

"I'll find out."

That was a silent ride through the late moonlight. The men spoke only when it was necessary to keep the right road. Gila, huddled sullenly in the back seat beside a dozing, gray-haired chambermaid, spoke not at all. And who shall say what were her thoughts as hour after hour she sat in her humiliation and watched the two men whom she had wronged so deeply? Perhaps her spirit seethed the more violently within her silent, angry body because she was not yet sure of Tennelly. Her tears and explanations, her pleading little story of deceit and innocence, had not wrought the charm upon him that they might had not Aquilar been known to him for the past two weeks, a stranger who had been hanging about Gila, and who had been encouraged against her lover's oft-repeated warnings. A certain mysterious story of an unfaithful wife put an air of romance about him that Tennelly had not liked. Gila had never seen him so serious and hard to coax as he had been to-night. He had spoken to her as if she were a naughty child; had commanded her to go at once to her aunt in Beechwood and remain there the allotted time. She simply _had_ to obey or lose him. There were things about Tennelly's fortune and prospects that made him most desirable as a husband. Moreover, she felt that through marrying Tennelly she could the better hurt Courtland, the man whom she now hated with all her heart.

They reached Beechwood at not too unearthly an hour. The aunt was surprised, but not unduly so, for Gila was a girl of many whims, and that she came at all to quiet Beechwood to rest was shock enough for one day. She asked no troublesome questions.

Tennelly would not remain for breakfast, even, but started on the return trip at once, with only a brief stop at a wayside inn for something to eat. The elderly attendant in the back seat was disappointed. She had no chance to get a bit of gossip by the way with any one, but she got good pay for the night's ride, and made up some thrilling stories to tell when she got back that were really better than the truth might have turned out to be, so there was nothing lost, after all.

It was Tennelly who broke the silence between them when he and Courtland were at last alone together. "She only went for a ride in his aeroplane," he said, sadly. "She had no idea of staying more than an afternoon. He had promised to set her down at the next station to Beechwood, where her aunt was to meet her. She was filled with horror and consternation when she found she must be away overnight. But even then she had no idea of his purpose. She says that n.o.body ever told her about such things, she was ignorant as a little child! She is full of repentance, and feels that this will be a lesson for her. She says she intends to devote her life to me if I will only forgive her."

So that was what she had told Tennelly behind the closed doors!

Before Courtland's eyes there floated a vision of Gila as she first caught sight of him in the office of the inn. If ever soul was guilty in full knowledge of her sin she had been! Again she pa.s.sed before his vision with shamed head down-drooped and all her proud, imperial manner gone. The mask had fallen from Gila forever so far as Courtland was concerned. Not even her little, pitiful, teary face that morning, when she crept from the car at her aunt's door, could deceive him again.

"And you _believe_ all that?" asked Courtland. He could not help it. His dearest friend was in peril. What else could he do?

"I--don't know!" said Tennelly, helplessly.

There was silence in the room. Then Tennelly did realize a little!

Perhaps Tennelly had known all along, better than he!

"And--you will forgive her?"

"I _must_!" said Tennelly, in desperation. "Court, my life is bound up in her!"

"So I once thought!" Courtland was only musing out loud.

Tennelly looked at him sadly.

"She almost wrecked my soul!" went on Courtland.

"I know," said Tennelly, in profound sorrow. "She told me."

"She _told you_?"

"Yes, before we were engaged. She told me that she had asked you to give up preaching, that she could never bear to be a minister's wife. I had begun to realize what that would mean to you then. I respected your choice. It was great of you, Court! But you never really loved her, man, or you could not have given her up!"

Courtland was silent for a moment, then he burst out: "Nelly! It was not that! You _shall_ know the truth! She asked me to give up _my G.o.d_ for her!"

"_I have no G.o.d_," said Tennelly, dully.

A great yearning for his friend filled the heart of Courtland. "Listen, old man, you _mustn't_ marry her!" he burst out again. "I believe she's rotten all the way through. You didn't see and hear all last night. She _can't be_ true! She hasn't it in her! She will be false to you whenever she takes the whim! She will lead you through h.e.l.l!"

"You don't understand. I would _go_ through h.e.l.l to be with her!"

Tennelly's words rang through the room like a knell, and Courtland could say no more. There was silence in the room. Courtland watched his friend's haggard face anxiously. There were deep lines of agony about his mouth and dark circles under his eyes.

Suddenly Tennelly lifted his hand and laid it on his friend's. "Thanks, Court. Thanks a lot. I appreciate it all more than you know. But this is my job. I guess I've got to undertake it! And, _man_! can't you see I've _got_ to believe her?"

"I suppose you have, Nelly. G.o.d help you!"

When Courtland got back to the seminary he found a letter from Mother Marshall.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

Courtland opened Mother Marshall's letter with a feeling of relief and antic.i.p.ation. Here at least would be a fresh, pure breath of sweetness.

His soul was worn and troubled with the experience of the past two days.

A great loneliness possessed him when he thought of Tennelly, or when he looked forward to his future, for he truly was convinced that he never should turn to the love of woman again; and so the dreams of home and love and little children that had had their normal part in his thoughts of the future were cut out, and the days stretched forward in one long round of duty.

DEAR PAUL [it began, familiarly]:

This is Stephen Marshall's mother and I'm calling you by your first name because it seems to bring my boy back again to be writing so familiar-like to one of his comrades.

We've been wondering, Father and I, since you said you didn't have any real mother of your own, whether you mightn't like to come home Christmas to us for a little while and borrow Stephen's mother. I've got a wonderful hungering in my heart to hear a little more about my boy's death. I couldn't have borne it just at first, because it was all so hard to give him up, and he just beginning to live his earthly life. But now since I can realize him over by the Father, I would like to know it all. Bonnie says that you saw Stephen go, and I thought perhaps you could spare a little time to run out West and tell me.

Of course, if you are busy and have other plans you mustn't let this bother you. I can wait till some time when you are coming West and can stop over for a day. But if you care to come home to Mother Marshall and let her play you are her boy for a little while, you will make us all very happy.

When Courtland had finished reading the letter he put his head down on his desk and shed the first tears his eyes had known since he was a little boy. To have a home and mother-heart open to him like that in the midst of all his sorrow and perplexity fairly unmanned him. By and by he lifted up his head and wrote a hearty acceptance of the invitation.

That was in November.

In the middle of December Tennelly and Gila were married.

It was not any of Courtland's choosing that he was best man. He shrank inexpressibly from even attending that wedding. He tried to arrange for his Western trip so early as to avoid it. Not that he had any more personal feeling about Gila, but because he dreaded to see his friend tied up to such a future. It seemed as if the wedding was Tennelly's funeral.

But Tennelly had driven up to the seminary on three successive weeks and begged that Courtland would stand by him.

"You're the only one in the wide world who knows all about it, and understands, Court," he pleaded, and Courtland, looking at his friend's wistful face, feeling, as he did, that Tennelly was entering a living purgatory, could not refuse him.

It did not please Gila to have him take that place in the wedding party.

He knew her shame, and she could not trail her wedding robes as guilelessly before him now, nor lift her imperious little head, with its crown of costly blossoms, before the envious world, without realizing that she was but a whited sepulcher, her little rotten heart all death beneath the spotless robes. For she was keen enough to know that she was defiled forever in Courtland's eyes. She might fool Tennelly by pleading innocence and deceit, but never Courtland. For his eyes had pried into her very soul that night he had discovered her in sin. She had a feeling that he and his G.o.d were in league against her. No, Gila did not want Courtland to be Tennelly's best man. But Tennelly had insisted. He had given in about almost every other thing under heaven, and Gila had had her way, but he would have Courtland for best man.

She drooped her long lashes over her lovely cheeks, and trailed her white robes up a long aisle of white lilies to the steps of the altar; but when she lifted her miserable eyes in front of the altar she could not help seeing the face of the man who had discovered her shame. It was a case of her little naked, sinful soul walking in the Garden again, with the Voice and the eyes of a G.o.d upon it.

Lovely! Composed! Charming! Exquisite! All these and more they said she was as she stood before the white-robed priest and went through the ceremony, repeating, parrot-like, the words: "I, Gila, take thee, Llewellyn--" But in her heart was wrath and hate, and no more repentance than a fallen angel feels.

When at last the agony was over and the bride and groom turned to walk down the aisle, Gila lifted her pretty lips charmingly to Tennelly for his kiss, and leaned lovingly upon his arm, smiling saucily at this one and that as she pranced airily out into her future. Courtland, coming just behind with the maid of honor, one of Gila's feather-brained friends, lolling on his arm, felt that he ought to be inexpressibly thankful to G.o.d that he was only best man in this procession, and not bridegroom.

When at last the bride and groom were departed, and Courtland had shaken off the kind but curious attentions of Bill Ward, who persisted in thinking that Tennelly had cut him out with Gila, he turned to Pat and whispered, softly:

"For the love of Mike, Pat, let's beat it before they start anything else!"

Pat, anxious and troubled, heaved a sigh of relief, and hustled his old friend out under the stars with almost a shout of joy. Nelly was caught and bound for a season. Poor old Nelly! But Court was free! Thank the Lord!

Courtland was almost glad that he went immediately back to hard work again and should have little time to think. The past few days had wearied him inexpressibly. He had come to look on life as a pa.s.sing show, and to feel almost too utterly left out of any pleasure in it.