She watched him as he disappeared into the wood, and after that, like a flitting will-o'-the-wisp, watched his flashlight moving about amongst the trees. Then presently the cheery blaze of a fire from where he was at work sprang up, and she heard the crackle of resinous pine knots—then a great crashing about, the snapping of branches as he broke them from larger limbs—and a rapid fire of small talk from him as he worked.

Helena answered him more or less mechanically—her mind, roving from one consideration of their plight to another, had caught at a certain viewpoint and was groping with it. They were stalled more effectively than any accident to the car could have stalled them—they were there for the night, there seemed no escape from that. But there was nothing to be afraid of. She had no fears about passing the night alone with him here in the woods—why should she? Why should she! She laughed low, suddenly, bitterly. Why should she—even if he were other than the man he was, even if he were of the lowest type! Fear—of that! A yearning, so intense as for an instant to leave her weak, swept upon her—a yearning full of pain, of shame, of remorse, of hopelessness—oh, God, if only she might have had the right to fear! Then passion seized her in wild, turbulent unrestraint—hatred for this clean-limbed, pure-minded man, who flaunted all that his life stood for in her face—hatred for everybody in this life of hers, for all were good save her—hatred, miserable, unbridled hatred for herself.

And then it passed, the mood—and she tried to think more calmly, still answering him as he called from the woods. She had seen a great deal of Thornton lately—a great deal. He had been kind and thoughtful and considerate—nothing more. More! What more could there have been? Love! There was something of mockery in that, wasn't there? Everything she thought about lately, every way her mind turned seemed to hold something of mockery now. Of course, Mrs. Thornton's words expressing the wish that she and Thornton might come together had been often enough with her—mockingly again!—but Thornton could have known nothing of that—so, after all, what did that matter? She had snatched at every opportunity to motor with Thornton despite Doc's protests, protests that had grown sullen and angry of late—snatched at the opportunities eagerly, as she would snatch at a breath of air where all else stifled her—snatched at them because they took her out of herself temporarily, away from everything, where everything at times seemed to be driving her mad. Hate Thornton! No, of course, she didn't hate him—she had thought that a moment ago because—because her brain was—was—oh, she didn't know—so tired and weary, and she was cold now and quite wet. She didn't hate him, she even—

"All ready now—house to let furnished"—he was calling out, laughing as he came thrashing through the undergrowth—"excellent situation, high altitude, luxuriant pine grove surrounds the property, and—and"—he had halted beside the car and opened the door—"what else do they say?"

Helena caught his spirit—or, rather, forced herself to do so. It wasn't quite fair that one of them should do all the pretending.

"Flies," she laughed. "They always speak of flies in Maine."

"None!" said Thornton promptly. "There hasn't been one since the house was built. Now then, Miss Vail"—he held out his arms.

"Oh, but really, I can walk."

"And I can carry you," he said—and, from the step, gathered her into his arms.

And then, as she lay there passively at first, she seemed to sense again that curious diffidence, that gentleness, like the touch upon her throat of a little while ago, though now he held her in both his arms. How strong he was—and, oh, how miserably wet—her hand around his shoulder felt the thin shirt clinging soggily to his arm. Yes; she was glad he hadn't let her walk—it wasn't far, but she would have had to force her way continually through bushes that scattered showers from their dripping leaves, and underfoot she could hear his boots squash through the mud. And then suddenly it happened—the trees, just a yard or so from the fire, were thick together, tangled—she bent her head quickly, instinctively, to avoid a low-hanging branch as he for the same reason swerved a little—and their cheeks lay close-pressed against each other's, her hair sweeping his forehead, their lips mingling one another's breaths. He seemed to stumble—then his arms closed about her in a quick, fierce pressure, clasping her, straining her to him—relaxed as suddenly—and then he had set her down inside the shelter he had built.

Quick her breath was coming now, and across the fire for a moment she met his eyes. His face was gray, and his hands at his sides were clenched.

"I'll—I'll get the seat out of the car," he said hoarsely. "It will help to make things more comfortable." And turning abruptly, he started back for the road again.

Helena did not move. Mechanically her eyes took in the little hut, crude, but rainproof at least—branches heaped across two forked limbs for a roof; the trunk of a big tree for the rear wall; branches thrust upright into the ground for the sides—the whole a little triangular shaped affair. The fire blazed in front just within shelter at the entrance; and beside it was piled quite a little heap of fuel that he had gathered.

He came back bringing the leather upholstered seat, shook the rain from it, and dried it with the help of the fire and his handkerchief—then set it down inside the hut. His face was turned from her; and as he spoke, breaking an awkward silence, his voice was conscious, hurried.

"I'm not going to be gone a minute more than I can help, Miss Vail. It's mighty rough accommodation for you, but there's one consolation at least—you'll be perfectly safe."

Helena seated herself, and held her skirt to the fire.

"Gone!" she said, a little dully. "Where are you going?"

"Why, to get help of course," he told her.

"Help!"—she shook her head. "You don't know where to find any—you only know for a certainty that there isn't any within miles."

"I know there's a house back on the main road," he said. "I noticed it as we came along."

"That's seven or eight miles from here," she returned. "And it's raining harder than ever—mud up to your ankles—it would take you hours to reach it."

"Possibly two, or two and a half," he said lightly.

"Yes; and another two at least to get back. I won't hear of you doing any such thing—you are wet through now. It's far better to wait for daylight and then probably the storm will be over."

"But don't you see, Miss Vail"—his voice was suddenly grave, masterful—"don't you see that there is no other thing to do?"

"No," said Helena. "I don't see anything of the kind. I won't have you do anything like that for me—it's not to be thought of."

Thornton stooped, placed a knot upon the fire, straightened up—and faced her.

"It's awfully good of you to think of me," he said in a low tone; "but, really, it won't be half as bad as you are picturing it in your mind. And really"—he hesitated, fumbling for his words—"you see—that is—what other people might say—your—reputation—"

With a sudden cry, white-faced, Helena was on her feet, staring at him, her hands clutched at her bosom—a wild, demoniacal, mocking orgy in her soul. Her reputation! It seemed she wanted to scream out the words—her reputation!

Thornton's face flushed with a quick-sweeping flood of crimson.

"I'm a brute—a brute with a blundering tongue!" he cried miserably. "You had not thought of that—and I made you. I could have found another excuse for going if I had only had wit enough. I was a brute once before to-night, and—" He stopped, and for a moment stood there looking at her, stood in the firelight, his face white again even in the ruddy glow—and then he was gone.

Time passed without meaning to Helena. The steady patter of the rain was on the leaves, the sullen, constant drip of water to the ground, and now, occasionally, a rush of wind, a heavier downpour. She sat before the fire, staring into it, her elbows on her knees, her face held tightly in her hands, the brown hair, wet and wayward now, about her temples. Once she moved, once her eyes changed their direction—to fix upon her sleeve in a strange, questioning surprise.

"I let him go without his coat," she said.



—XVIII—

THE BOOMERANG

It was early afternoon, as Madison, emerging from the wagon track, and walking slowly, started across the lawn toward the Patriarch's cottage. He was in a mood that he made no attempt to define—except that it wasn't a very pleasant mood. Before Thornton had returned to Needley it had been bad enough, after that, with his infernal car, it had been—hell.

Madison's fists clenched, and his gray eyes glinted angrily. His hands had been tied like a baby's—like a damned infant's! Helena was getting away from him further every day, and he couldn't stop it—without stopping the game! He couldn't tell Thornton that Helena belonged to him—had belonged to him! He couldn't even evidence an interest in what was going on. He had to put on a front, a suave, cordial, dignified front before Thornton—while he itched to smash the other's face to pulp! Hell—that's what it was—pure, unadulterated hell! He couldn't get near Helena alone with a ten-foot pole, morning, noon or night—she had taken good care of that. And he wanted Helena—he wanted her! It was an obsession with him now—at times driving him half crazy,—and it didn't help any that he saw her grow more glorious, more beautiful every day! Of course she knew she had him—had him where she knew he couldn't do a thing—where she could laugh at him—go the limit with Thornton if she liked. But, curse it, it wasn't only Thornton—that was what he could not understand—she had begun to keep away from him before ever Thornton had come back.

Madison was near the porch now, and, raising his eyes, noted a supplicant going into the shrine-room—a woman, richly dressed but in widow's weeds, who walked feebly. The game went on by itself, once started—there were half a hundred more about the lawn! Like a snowball rolling down hill, as he had put it at the Roost. The Roost! If he only had Helena back there for about a minute there'd be an end of this! She'd go a little too far one of these days—a little too far—it was pretty near far enough now—and then there'd be a showdown, game or no game, and somebody would get hurt in the smash, and—

He lifted his eyes again, as some one came hurrying through the cottage door. It was the Flopper. And then to his surprise, he found himself being pushed unceremoniously from the porch and pulled excitedly behind the trellis.

"What's the matter with you!" he demanded angrily. "Are you crazy!"

"T'ank de Lord youse have showed up!" gasped the Flopper. "Say, honest, I can't do nothin' wid him—he's got me near bughouse."

"Who?"—Madison scowled irritably.

"De Patriarch, of course. He's noivous, an' gettin' worse all de time. He won't eat an' he won't keep still. He wants Helena, an' he keeps writin' her name on de slate—he's got me going fer fair."

"Well, I'm not Helena!" growled Madison. "Why doesn't she go to him?"

"Now wouldn't dat sting youse!" ejaculated the Flopper. "How's she goin' to him when she ain't here?"

"Not here?" repeated Madison sharply. "Where is she?"

The Flopper looked down his nose.

"I dunno," said he.

Madison stared at him for a moment—then he reached out and caught the Flopper's arm in a sudden and far from gentle grip.

"Out with it!" he snapped.

"I dunno where she is," said the Flopper, with some reluctance. "She ain't back yet, dat's all."

"Back from where?"—Madison's grip tightened.

The Flopper blinked.

"Aw, wot's de use!" he blurted out, as though his mind, suddenly made up, brought him unbounded relief. "Youse'll find it out anyhow. Say, she went off wid Thornton in de buzz-wagon yesterday, an' I put de Patriarch to bed last night 'cause she wasn't back, an' dat's wot's de matter wid him, she ain't showed up since an' he's near off his chump, an'—fer God's sake let go my arm, Doc, youse're breakin' it!"

A sort of cold frenzy seemed to seize Madison. He was perfectly calm, he felt himself perfectly calm and composed. Off all night with Thornton—eh? Funny, wasn't it? She'd gone pretty far at last—gone the limit.

"Why didn't you send me word this morning?"—was that his own voice speaking? Well, he wouldn't have recognized it—but he was perfectly calm nevertheless.

"Fer God's sake let go my arm," whimpered the Flopper. "I—I ain't no squealer, dat's why."

Madison's arm fell away—to his side. He felt a whiteness creeping to his face and lips, felt his lips twitch, felt the fingers of his hands curl in and the nails begin to press into the palms.

"Mabbe," suggested the Flopper timidly, "mabbe dere was an accident."

Madison made no answer.

The Flopper shifted from foot to foot and licked his lips, stealing frightened glances at Madison's face.

"Wot—wot'll I do wid de Patriarch?" he stammered out miserably.

And then Madison smiled at him—not happily, but eloquently.

"Swipe me!" mumbled the Flopper, as he backed out from the trellis. "Dis love game's fierce—an' mabbe I don't know! 'Sposin' she'd been Mamie an' me the Doc—'sposin' it had!" He gulped hastily. "Swipe me!" said the Flopper with emotion.

Madison, motionless, watched the Flopper disappear. He wasn't quite so calm now, not so cool and collected and composed. He must go somewhere and think this out—somewhere where it would be quiet and he wouldn't be disturbed.

A step sounded on the path—Madison looked through the trellis. A man, with yellow, unhealthy skin and sunken cheeks, his head bowed, was passing in through the porch. It caught Madison with fierce, exquisite irony. Why not go there himself if he wanted quiet—the shrine-room—the place of meditation! Well, he wanted to meditate! He laughed jarringly. The shrine-room—for him! Great! Immense! Magnificent! Why not? That's what he had created it for, wasn't it—to meditate in!

He stepped inside. The woman, whom he had seen enter a short while before, was sitting in a sort of rigid, strained attitude in the far corner; the man, who had just preceded him, had taken the chair by the fireplace—they were the only occupants of the room. There was no sound save his own footsteps—neither of the others looked at him. There was quiet, a profound stillness—and the softened light from the shuttered window fell mellow all about, fell like a benediction upon the simplicity of the few plain articles that the room contained—the round rag mats upon the white-scrubbed floor; the hickory chairs, severe, uncushioned; the table, with its little japanned box and book.

Madison's eyes fixed upon the japanned box, as he leaned now, arms folded, against the wall—a jewel, even in the subdued light, glowed crimson-warm where it nested on a crumpled bed of bank-notes—a ruby ring—the last contribution—it must have been the woman who had placed it there. Madison glanced at her involuntarily—but his thoughts were far away again in a moment.

Anger and a blind rage of jealousy were gripping him now. Accident! The thought only fanned his fury. Accident! Yes; it was likely—as an excuse! There would have been an accident all right—leave that to them! Thornton perhaps wasn't the stamp of man to seek an adventure of that kind deliberately—perhaps he wasn't—and perhaps he was—you never could tell—but what difference did that make! Helena was that kind of a woman—though he'd always thought her true to him since he'd known her—and Thornton, whatever kind of a man he was, wouldn't run away from her arms, would he?

The red glow from the ruby ring had vanished—the man had risen from his seat and was placing something in the box on top of the ring—Madison's mind subconsciously absorbed the fact that it was a little sheaf of yellow-backed bills. And now the man bent to the table and was writing in the book.

Yellow-backs and rubies! Rubies and yellowbacks! Madison's lips thinned and curled downward at the corners. Oh, it was coming all right, money, jewels, pelf, rolling in merrily every day, there wasn't any stopping it, but he was paying for it, and paying for it at a price he didn't like—Helena. Helena! She wanted Thornton, did she—with his money! Wanted to dangle a millionaire on her string—eh? She'd throw him over—would she! And she thought she had him where he couldn't lift a finger to stop it—just sit back and grin like a poor, sick fool!

The red crept up the knotted cords of Madison's neck, suffused the set jaws, and, as though suddenly liberated to run its course where it would, swept in a tide over cheeks and temples.

He couldn't do a thing—couldn't he! Well, he'd see the game in Gehenna before Thornton or any other man got her away from him. She belonged to him—to him! And he'd have her, hold her, own her—she was his—his! And he'd settle with Thornton too, by Heaven!

A laugh, low, unpleasant, purled to his lips—and he checked it with a sort of strange mechanical realization that he must not laugh aloud. His eyes swept the room—the man had returned to his seat, the woman had not moved, both were silent, motionless—that ghastly, hallowed, sanctimonious hush—that subdued, damnable light—meditation!

"For God's sake let me get out of here," he muttered, "or I'll go mad."

He turned—and stopped. Came a cry spontaneously from the man and the woman—they were on their feet—no, on their knees. The doorway at the further end of the room was framing a majestic figure, tall and stately—and a sun-gleam struggling suddenly through the lattice seemed to leap in a golden ray to caress in homage the snow-white hair, the silver beard that fell upon the breast, the saintly face of the Patriarch.

Then into the room advanced the Patriarch, and his hands were outstretched before him, and he moved them a little to and fro—and the gesture, the poise, the mien, as, touching nothing he seemed to feel his way through space itself, was as one invoking a blessing of peace ineffable.

Spellbound, Madison watched. Upon the face was a yearning that saddened it, and, saddening, glorified it; the head was slightly turned as though to listen—while slowly, with measured, certain tread, as though indeed he had no need for eyes, the Patriarch circled the table and passed on down the room. The man and the woman reached out and touched him reverently, and drew back reverently to let him pass, and, rising from their knees, followed him through the door and out onto the porch.

The room was empty. Madison stared at the doorway. Upon him fell a sudden awe—it was as though a vision, an ethereal presence, some strange embodiment of power, had been and gone—and yet still remained.

And now from without there came a sound like a distant murmur. It rose and swelled, and began to roll in its volume, and then, like the clarion sound of trumpets, voices burst into glad acclaim.

"The Patriarch! The Patriarch! The Patriarch!"

From the little hallway came the Flopper, running—and he stopped and gaped at Madison.

"I left him in his room fer a minute," he gasped. "He's—he's lookin' fer Helena."

And then Madison shook himself together—and smiled ironically. And at the smile the Flopper hurried on.

Madison stepped out onto the porch. Helena! Helena! Within him seemed to burn a rage of hell; but it seemed, too, most strangely that for the moment this rage was held in abeyance, that something temporarily supplanted it—this scene before him.

Onward across the lawn moved the Patriarch, and the Flopper had joined him now; but the Patriarch, unheeding, turning neither to the right nor to the left, his arms still extended before him, kept on. And the people cried aloud:

"He is coming—he is coming! The Patriarch! The Patriarch!"

Madison moved on—out upon the lawn himself.

From everywhere, from every scattered spot where they had been, men and women ran and limped and dragged themselves along, all converging on one point—the Patriarch.

Madison, in the midst of them now, hurried—for it was plainly evident that the Flopper's control over the Patriarch was gone. He reached the Patriarch and touched the other's arm—and at the touch the Patriarch halted instantly, his hand went out and lay upon Madison's sleeve in recognition, and he turned his face, and it was smiling and there was relief upon it—and confidence and trust, as, suffering himself to be guided, they started back toward the cottage.

And then upon Madison came again that sense of awe, but now intensified. From every hand tear-stained faces greeted him, white faces, faces full of sorrow and suffering through which struggled hope—hope—hope. They flung themselves before the Patriarch—yet never blocked the way. They cried, they wept, they prayed—and some were silent. It seemed that souls, naked, stripped, bare, held themselves up to his gaze. Men, prostrate on stretchers, tried to rise and stagger nearer—and fell. Friends, where there were friends to help, tugged and dragged desperately at cots—and from the cots in piteous, agonized appeal the helpless cried out to the Patriarch to come to them. All of human agony and fear and hope and despair and terror seemed loosed in a mad and swirling vortex. And ever the cries arose, and ever around them, giving way, closing in again, pressed the soul-rent throng.

And presently to Madison it seemed as though he had awakened from some terrifying dream, as, in the Patriarch's room again, he swept away a bead of sweat from his forehead, and stood and looked at the Patriarch and the Flopper.

The Flopper licked his lips, and pulled the Patriarch's chair forward—but his hands trembled violently.

"It's been gettin' me, Doc," he whispered, "an' I can't help it. It's been gettin' into me all de time. Say, I wisht it was over. Honest to God I do! Dis—dis makes me queer. Say, de Patriarch's got me, Doc—an'—an'—say—dere's been somethin' goin' on inside me dat's got me hard."

Madison did not answer—but he started suddenly—and as suddenly stepped to the window and looked out. Over the cries, the wailings, the confused medley of voices, growing lower now, subsiding, there had come the throb of a motor car.

Madison's eyes narrowed—that was supreme again. A car was coming to a stop before the porch—Thornton was helping Helena to alight.

Madison turned and caught the Flopper's arm in a fierce, imperative grasp.

"You keep your mouth shut—do you hear?" he flung out, clipping off his words. "You haven't seen me to-day—understand!" And, dropping the Flopper's arm, he stepped quickly across the little hall to Helena's door, opened it, went in—and closed the door behind him.

And the Flopper, staring, licked his lips again.

"Swipe me!" he croaked hoarsely. "Pipe de eyes on de Doc! Dere'll be somethin' doin' now!"



—XIX—

THE SANCTUARY OF DARKNESS

There was a grim, merciless smile on Madison's lips; and a whiteness in his face windowed the passion that seethed within him. He stood motionless, listening, in Helena's room. He heard the automobile going away again; then he heard Helena's light step in the hallway without—and the smile died as his lips thinned.

But she did not come in—instead, he heard her go into the Patriarch's room, heard her talking to the Patriarch, and bid the Flopper go to the kitchen and make her some tea. Then the Flopper's step sounded, passing down to the rear, of the cottage.

The minutes passed—then that light footfall again. The door of the room swung suddenly wide—and closed—there was a cry—and Helena, wide-eyed, the red of her cheeks fading away, leaned heavily back against the door.

Neither spoke. Madison, in the center of the room, did not move. The smile came back to his lips.

Helena's great brown eyes met the gray ones, read the ugly glint, dropped, raised again—and held the gray ones steadily.

Madison gave a short laugh—that was like a curse. His hands at his sides knotted into lumps.

Then Madison spoke.

"Why don't you say, 'you!—you!'—and scream it out and clutch at your bosom the way they do in story books!" he flung out raucously. "Why don't you do your little stunt—go on, you're on for the turn—you can put anything over me, I'm only a complacent, blind-eyed fool! Anything goes! Why don't you start your act?"

"You don't know what you are saying," she said in a low voice. "If there's anything you want to talk about, we'd better wait until you're cooler."

"Oh, hell!" he roared, his passion full to the surface now. "Cut out the bunk—cut it out! Anything! No, it isn't much of anything—for you—out all night with Thornton. Do you think I'm going to stand for it! Do you think I'm going to sit and suck my thumb and share you, and—"

"You lie!" She was away from the door now, close before him, her breath coming fast, white to the lips, and in a frenzy her little fists pummelled upon him. "It's a lie—a lie—a lie! It's a lie—and you know it!"

He pushed her roughly from him.

"It is, eh?"—his words came in a sort of wild laugh. "And I know it—do I? Why should I know it? What do you think you are? Say, you'd think you were trying to kid yourself into believing you're the real thing—the real, sweet, shy, modest Miss Vail. Cut it out! You're name's Smith—maybe! And it's my money that's keeping you, and you belong to me—do you understand?"

She stood swaying a little, her hands still tightly clenched, breathing through half parted lips in short, quick, jerky inhalations like dry sobs.

"It's true," she faltered suddenly—and suddenly buried her face in her hands. And then she looked up again, and the brown eyes in their depths held an anger and a shame. "It's true—I was—was—what you say. But now"—her voice hurried on, an eagerness, a strange earnestness in it—"you must believe me—you must. I'll make you—I must make you."

"Oh, don't hurt yourself trying to do it!" jeered Madison. "We're talking plain now. I'm not taking into account how you feel about it —don't you fool yourself for a minute. The sanctity of my home hasn't been ruined—because it couldn't be! Get that? Thornton don't get you—not for keeps! But you and he don't make a monkey of me again. Do you understand—say, do you get that? You're mine—whether you like it or not—whether you'd rather have Thornton or not. But I'll fix you both for this—I'm no angel with a cherub's smile! I'll take it out of Thornton till the laugh he's got now fades to a fare-thee-well; and I'll put you where there aren't any strings tying me up the way there are here. Do you understand!" His voice rose suddenly, and for a moment he seemed to lose all control of himself as he reached for her and caught her shoulder. "I love you," he flashed out between his teeth. "I love you—that's what's the matter with me! And you know that—you know you've got me there—and you'd play the fool with me, would you!" He dropped his hands—and laughed a short, savage bark—and stepped back and stared at her.

"Will you listen?"—she was twisting her hands, her head was drooped, the long lashes veiled her eyes, her lips were quivering. "Will you listen?" she said again, fighting to steady her voice. "It was an accident."

"I saw the machine when you drove up—it was a wreck!" snapped Madison sarcastically.

"We ran out of gasoline," she said quietly.

And then Madison laughed—fiercely—in his derision.

"Oh, keep on!" he rasped. "I told you I was only a blind fool that you could put anything over on! That accounts for it, of course—a breakdown isn't so easy to get away with. Gasoline!"

"We were miles from anywhere," she went on. "We had taken what we thought was a short cut. Mr. Thornton built a shelter for me in the woods, and went to—to—"

He caught up her hesitation like a flash.

"Fake the lines, Helena, if you haven't had enough rehearsals," he suggested ironically. "Anything goes—with me."

And now a tinge of color came to Helena's cheeks, and the brown eyes raised, and flashed, and dropped.

"He went to try and find help," she said. "He was out all night in the storm. I do not know how far he must have walked. I know the nearest house was five or six miles away—and there was no horse there—the man had driven to some town that morning. It was almost daylight before Mr. Thornton at last came back with a team. We were forty miles from here—we sent the team to the nearest town for gasoline and then motored back." She stopped—and then, with a catch in her voice: "He—he was very good to me."

"Good to me"—the words seemed to stab at Madison, seemed to ring in his ears and goad him with a fiercer jealousy—and her story of the night, what she had been saying, save those words, was as nothing, meant nothing, was swept from his consciousness—and only she, standing there before him, glorious, maddening in her beauty, remained. Soul, mind and body leaped into fiery passion—she was his, and his she always would be—those eyes, those lips, the white throat, those perfect arms to cling about his neck—and all of heaven and hell and earth were naught beside her.

"I love you!"—his face was white, his words fierce-breathed, almost incoherent—and he leaned toward her with a sudden, uncontrollable movement, his arms sweeping out to clasp her. "I love you, Helena—I love you. Do you understand—it's you! You—I love you!"

"You love me!"—she retreated from him, but her head was raised now, and her voice rang with a bitterness cold as the touch of death. "Love! What do you know of love! We talk plain, you say. Love—love for me! Passion, vice, lust, sin—and, oh, my God, degradation and misery and shame—love! Love! That is your love!"

He stood for a moment and stared at her again—and her face was as pallid ivory. And something seemed to daze him, and he brushed his hand across his eyes—the logic was faulty, torn and pitiful, and he groped after the flaw.

"It's—it's your love as well as mine," he said in a stumbling way—then his brain flashed quick into action. "My love—what other love have you known but that?" he cried. "It's our love—the love we have known together—and we're going back to it—see? I've had enough of this. You pack your trunks—and pack them quick! We're going to beat it out of here! We're going back to our—love. We're going back where I don't have to sit around like a puling fool and watch Thornton chuck you under the chin—we're going where he'll want a tombstone if he ever shows his face there. You thought the game would hold me to the last jackpot—did you? Well, I've got enough—and there's no game big enough to make me stand for this. That looks like love—doesn't it?" He burst again into a sudden, mirthless laugh—and once again swept his hand across his eyes. "We're going to beat it out of here now—to-night—to-morrow morning."

But now she had drawn further away from him—and there was a frightened look in her eyes, and her lips quivered pitifully.

"No—I can't—I can't," she cried out. "No, no—I can't—I can't go back to that."

"That! That—is love," he said wildly. "The only love you know. What more do you want? There's loot enough now, and—ha, ha!—that little contribution of Thornton's, to give you all the money you want. Love, Helena—you and I—the old love—you and I together again, Helena. I tell you I love you—do you hear? I love you—and I'll have you—I love you! What do you know, what do you care about any other kind of love!"

She looked at him, misery and fear still in her eyes, and her slight figure seemed to droop, and her hands hung heavy, listless, at her sides.

"I care"—the words came in a strange mechanical way from her lips. "Oh, I care. I can't—I won't go back to that. And I know—I know now. I have learned what love is."

Quick over Madison's face surged the red in an unstemmed tide—volcanic within him his love that he knew now possessed his very soul, jealousy that, blinding, robbed him of his senses, roused him to frenzy.

"Oh, you've learned what love is, have you—with him!" he cried—and sprang for her and snatched her into his arms. "And you won't come, eh? Well, I've learned what love is too in the last month—and if I can't get it one way, I'll get it another"—he was raining mad kisses upon her face, her hair, her eyes—"I love you, I tell you—I love you!"

With a cry she tried to struggle from him—and then fought and struck at him, beating upon his face with her fists. Fiercer, closer he held her—around the little room, staggering this way and that, they circled. He kissed her, laughing hoarsely like a madman, laughing at the blows, beside himself, not knowing what he did—mad—mad—mad. He kissed her, kissed the white throat where the dress was torn now at the neck; imprisoned a little fist that struck at him and kissed the quivering knuckles; kissed the wealth of glorious, burnished-copper hair that, unloosened, fell about her, kissed it and buried his face in its rare fragrance. And then—and then his arms were empty—and he was staring at the calm, majestic figure of the Patriarch—and Helena was crouched upon the floor, and, sobbing, was clinging with arms entwined around the old man's knees.

And so for a little while Madison stood and stared—what had brought the Patriarch there—the Patriarch who could neither see nor hear nor speak—what had brought him from his own room across the hall! And Madison stared, and his hands crept to his temples and pressed upon them—weak he seemed as from some paroxysm of madness that had passed over him. The sunlight streaming through the window sheened the luxuriant mass of hair that falling over shoulders and to the waist seemed alone to cloak the little figure in its crouched position—the little figure that shook so convulsively with sobs—the little figure that clung so desperately at the feet of this god-like, regal man, whose beard was silver, whose hair was hoary white, upon whose face, marring none its strength or self-possession, was a troubled, anxious, questioning look.

Strange! Strange! Madison's hands fell to his sides. The Patriarch's eyes were turned full upon him, wavering not so much as by the fraction of an inch—full upon him. And then, as into some holy sanctuary, fending her from harm and danger, the Patriarch turned a little to interpose himself before Madison, and, raising Helena, held her in his arms, her head against his bosom—and one hand lay upon her head and stroked it tenderly. But upon Madison was still turned those sightless eyes, that noble face, serene, commanding even in its perturbation, even in its alert and searching look.

Madison stirred now—stirred uneasily—while the silence held. There was a solemnity in the silence that seemed to creep upon and pervade the room—a sense of a vast something that was the antithesis of turmoil, passion, strife, that seemed to radiate from the saintly figure whose lips were mute, whose ears heard no sound, whose eyes saw no sight. And upon Madison it fell potent, masterful, and passion fled, and in its place came a strange, groping response within him, a revulsion, a penitence—and he bowed his head.

And then Helena spoke—but her head was turned away from him, hidden on the Patriarch's breast.

"Once," she said, and her words were like broken whispers, for she was sobbing still, "once, long, long ago, when I was a little girl, I read the story of Mary Magdalen. I had almost forgotten it, it was so long ago, but it has come back to me, and—and it is a glad story—at the end."

She stopped—and Madison raised his head, and his face was strained as with some sudden wonder as he looked at her.

"It is a glad story," she said presently. "It—it is my story."

"You mean"—Madison's voice was hoarse—"you mean that you've turned—straight!"

"They love me here," she said. "They trust me and they think me good—as they are. All think me that—the little children and this dear man here—and for a little while, since I have been here, I have lived like that. They made me believe that it was true—true. And there was shame and agony—and hope. It seemed they could not all be wrong, and I have asked and prayed that I might make it true always—and—and forgiveness for what I was."

"You mean," he said again hoarsely, and he stepped toward her now, "you mean that you are—straight!"

She did not answer—only now she turned her face toward him and lifted up her head.

And for a long minute Madison gazed into the tear-splashed eyes, deep, brave in chastened wistfulness, gazed—and like a man stunned walked from the room, the cottage, and out across the lawn.



—XX—

TO THE VICTOR ARE THE SPOILS

Many were still about the lawn as he left the cottage—they were all about him, those sick, half frantic creatures—and still they made noises; still some of them cried and sobbed; still in their waning paroxysms they moved hither and thither. They appealed to some numbed, dormant sense in Madison, in a subconscious way, as things to be avoided. And so, almost mechanically, he took the little path that, striking off at right angles to the wagon track where it joined the Patriarch's lawn, came out again upon the main road at the further end of the village.

And, as he walked, like tidal waves on-rushing, emotions, utterly at variance one with another, hurled themselves upon him, and he was swept from his mental balance, tossed here and there, rolled gasping, strangling in the chaos and turmoil of the waters, as it were, and, rising, was hurled back again.

White as death itself was Madison's face; and at times his fingers with a twitching movement curled into clenched fists, at times his open palms sought his temples in a queer wriggling way and pressed upon them. Doubt, anger, fear, a rage unhallowed—in cycles—buffeted him until his brain reeled, and he was as a man distraught.

It began at the beginning, that cycle, and dragged him along—and left him like one swooning, tottering, upon the edge of a precipice. And then it began over again.

And it began always with a picture of the Roost that night—the vicious, unkempt, ragged figure of the Flopper—the sickly, thin, greedy face of Pale Face Harry, the drug fiend, winching a little as he plunged the needle into his flesh—the easy, unprincipled gaiety and eagerness of Helena for the new path of crime—crime—crime—the Roost exuded crime—filth—immorality—typified them, framed them well as they had sat there, the four of them, while that bruised-nosed bouncer had brought them drink on his rattling tin tray. And then his own self-satisfied, smug, complacent egotism at his own cleverness, his unbounded confidence in his own ability to pull off the game, and—

Well, he had pulled it off—he'd won it—won it—won it—everybody had fallen for it—the boobs had been plentiful—the harvest rich. What was the matter with him! He'd won—was winning every time the clock ticked. Somebody back there was probably throwing good hard coin at him this minute—the damned fool! Madison threw back his head to laugh in derision, for there was mocking, contemptuous laughter in his soul—but the laugh died still-born upon his lips.

It was fear now—fear—staggering, appalling him. He was facing something—something—his brain did not seem to define it—something that was cold and stern and immutable, that was omnipotent, that embodied awe—a condemnation unalterable, unchangeable, before which he shrank back with his soul afraid. Before him seemed to unfold itself the wagon track, the road to the Patriarch's cottage; and he was there again, and whispering lips were around him, and men and women and children were there, and in front of them, leading them, slithered that twisted, misshapen, formless thing—and now they were upon the lawn, and about him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere was a sea of white faces out of which the eyes burned like living coals. What power was this that, loosed, had stricken them to palsied, moaning things!

Madison shivered a little—and a sweat bead oozed out and glistened upon his forehead. Hark—what was that! Clarionlike, clear as the chimes of a silver bell, rang now that childish voice—rang out, and rang out again—and the crutch was gone—and the lame boy ran, ran—ran! And who was that, that stood before him now—that golden-haired woman beside an empty wheel-chair, whose face was radiant, who cried aloud that she was cured! And who were these others of later days, this motley crowd of old and young, that passed before him in procession, that cried out the same words that golden-haired woman by the wheel-chair had cried—and cried out: "Faith! Faith! Faith!"

Madison swept the sweat bead from his forehead with a trembling hand. It was a lie—a lie—a lie! He had taught them to say that—but it was all bunk—and all were fools! He could laugh at them, jeer at them, mock at them, deride them—they were his playthings—and faith was his plaything—and he could laugh at them all!

And again he raised his head to laugh; and again the laugh was choked in his throat, still-born—Helena was straight! To his temples went his twitching hands. Anger raged upon him—and died in fear. Anger, for the instant maddening him, that he should lose her; rage in ungovernable fury that the game, his plans, the hoard accumulated, was bursting like a bubble before his eyes—died in fear. No, no; he had not meant to laugh or mock—no, no; not that, not that! What was this loosed titanic power that had done these things—that had brought this change in Helena; that had brought a change in the Flopper, transforming the miserable, pitiful, whining thief into a man reaching out for decent things; that had wrought at least a physical metamorphosis in Pale Face Harry—that had transfigured those three who, in their ugly, abandoned natures then, had hung like vultures on his words in the Roost that night! What was this power that he was trifling with, that brought him now this cold, dead fear before which he quailed! What was this something that in his temerity he had dared invoke—that rose now engulfing him, a puny maggot—that snatched him up and flung him headlong, shackled, before this nebulous, terrifying tribunal, where out of nothingness, out of a void, the calm, majestic features of the Patriarch took form and changed, and changed, and kept changing, and grew implacable, set with the stamp of doom. What was it—in God's name, what was it brought these sweat beads bursting to his forehead! Was he going mad—was he mad already!

And then the cycle again—doubt, anger, fear—until his brain, exhausted, seemed to refuse its functions; and it was as though, heavy, oppressing, a dense fog shut down upon his mind and enveloped it; and now he walked as a man in great haste, hurrying, and now his pace was slow, uncertain.

And so he went on, following the little path that bordered the woods on one hand and the fields on the other; went on until he neared the village—and then he stopped suddenly, and turned about. Some one had called his name.

From the field, a man climbed over the fence and came toward him. The man's face was tanned and rugged, his form erect, and the sleeves rolled back above the elbows displayed browned and muscular forearms. Madison stared at the man apathetically. This was the farm of course where Pale Face Harry boarded, and this was Pale Face Harry—but—

"Doc," said Pale Face Harry, and he shuffled his feet and looked down, "Doc, I got something I've been wanting to say to you for a week."

Madison still gazed at him apathetically—Pale Face Harry for the moment was as some unwarrantable apparition suddenly appearing before him.

Pale Face Harry raised his eyes, lowered them, kicked at a clod of earth with the toe of his boot—and raised his eyes again.

"Say," he blurted out, "I'm through, Doc. I'm—I'm going to quit."

Into Madison's stumbling brain leaped and took form but one idea—and he jumped forward, reaching savagely for Pale Face Harry's throat.

"You'd throw me, would you! You'd throw the game—would you!" he snarled, as his fingers locked.

Pale Face Harry, twisting, wriggled free—and retreated a step.

"No; I ain't!" he gasped—and then his sentences came tumbling out upon each other jerkily, as though he were trying to compress what he had to say into as few words as possible and as quickly as he could, while he watched Madison warily. "I ain't throwing nothing. I just want to quit myself. I keeps my mouth shut—see? I don't want none of the share what's coming. Say, I've got more'n a hundred times that out of it. Look at me, Doc! Say, I'm like a horse. That's the Patriarch and living honest. Say, in all me life I never knew what it was before till we comes here. If I took the dough what's coming I'd go back to the old hell, and I'd go down and out again. Say, it ain't worth it, there's nothing in it. I ain't throwing you, Doc—I just blows out of here with me trap closed. Say, look at me, Doc—don't you get what I mean?"

And then Madison burst into a peal of wild, strange laughter; and, as though no man stood before him, started on along the path—and Pale Face Harry sidled out of his way and stared after him.

"For—for God's sake, Doc," he called out, stammering, "what's the matter?"

But Madison made no answer. He heard Pale Face Harry call out behind him; in a subconscious, mazed way, he sensed the other following him, gropingly, hesitantly, for a few yards, then hold back—and finally stop.

The path swerved. Madison went on—blindly, mechanically, as though, once set in motion, he must go on. Some ghastly, unnatural thing was clogging his brain; not only in a mental way, but clogging it until there was physical hurt and pain, an awful tightness—something—if he could only reach it with his fingers and claw it away! There was black madness here, and a pain insufferable—a damnable impotence, robbing him of even the power, the faculty to think or reason, or to make himself understand in any logical degree the meaning or the cause of this thing that sent his brain swirling sick.

He halted. His lips were working; the muscles of his face quivered. And suddenly, snatching his hat from his head, he flung himself on the ground and plunged face and head, feverishly, tigerishly, into the little brook that ran beside the path. Again and again he buried his face in the cold, clear, refreshing water—and then, still on hands and knees, he raised his head to listen. Softly, full of a great peace, full of a strange sweetness that knew no discord, no strife, the notes of the chapel bell floated across the fields. Evening had come; the day's work was done—it was benediction time. It was the call of the faithful—the Angelus of those who believed.

It came, the revulsion, to Madison in a choked sob—and he stood up. The day's work was done—here. Here they would go in quiet thankfulness each from the farm to his little cottage, each to his simple, wholesome meal, each to the twilight hours of gentle communion as they talked to one another from their doorways, each to his bed and his rest, tranquil in the love of God and of man.

Madison flung back the dripping hair from his forehead. Strange, the contrast that, unbidden, came insistently to him now: The liquid notes of the bell wafted sweetly on the evening breeze; the howling, jangling turmoil of the city slums, of his familiar haunts where, in mad chaos, reigned the hawkers' cries, the thunder of the elevated trains, the noisome traffic of the street, the raucous clang of trolley bells—the sweet perfume of the, fields, the smell of trees, of earth, of all of God's pure things untouched, unsoiled; the stench of Chatham Square, the reek of whiskey spilled with the breath of obscene, filthy lips—the little village that he could see beyond him, the tiny curls of blue smoke rising like the incense from an altar over the roofs of houses whose doors had no locks, whose windows were not barred, where plain, homely folk, unsullied, lived at peace with God and the world; the closed areaways of the Bowery, the creaking stairs, the dim hallways leading to dens of vileness and iniquity where, safe by bolts from interruption, crime bred its offsprings and vice was hatched. What did it mean!

And so he stood there for a little space; then presently he started forward again; and presently he reached the village street, walked down its length, greeted from every doorway with hearty, unaffected sincerity, and after a little while he came to the hotel, and to his room—and there he locked the door.

Helena was straight—the words were repeating themselves over and over in his brain. He began to pace up and down the room. The words seemed to take form and shape in fiery red letters, being scrawled by invisible hands upon the walls—Helena was straight. Straight with Thornton, straight with any man—straight with her Maker. He knew that now—he had read it as a soul-truth in those brave, deep, tear-dimmed eyes. And he had lost her! It seemed as though he had become suddenly conscious that he was enduring some agony that was never to know an end, that from now on must be with him always. He had lost her—lost Helena.

From his pocket he drew out his keys and opened his trunks, and took out the trays and spread them about. There were very many trays, they nested one upon the other—and they were exceedingly ingenious trays—false-bottomed every one. And now he opened these false-bottoms, every one of them, and stood and looked at them. The surest, safest, biggest game he had ever played, the game that had known no single hitch, the game that had brought no whispering breath of suspicion flung its tribute in his face. Money that he had never tried to count, notes of all denominations, large and small, glutted the receptacles—jewels in necklaces, in rings, in pendants, in brooches, in bracelets, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, winked at him and scintillated and glowed and were afire.

And he stood and looked upon them. What was it the Flopper had said when they had brought the Patriarch back—he did not remember. What was it that Pale Face Harry had said a little while ago—he did not remember. These were jewels here and money—wealth—and he had won the greatest game that was ever played—only he had lost her—lost Helena. And he stood and looked upon them—and slowly there crept to his face a white-lipped smile.

"I'm beat!" he whispered hoarsely. "Beat—by the game—I won."



—XXI—

FACE VALUE

It was evening of the same day—and there came a knock at the outer door of the cottage porch.

The Flopper answered it, and came back to the Patriarch's room; where the Patriarch sat in his armchair; where the lamp, turned low, throwing the little room into half shadow, burned upon the table; where Helena, far away from her immediate surroundings, quite silent and still, her own chair close beside the other's, nestled with her head on the Patriarch's shoulder.

Helena looked up as the Flopper returned.

Upon the Flopper's face was a curious expression—not one that in the days gone by had been habitual—it seemed to mingle a diffidence, a kindly solicitude and a sort of anxious responsibility.

"It's Thornton askin' fer youse," announced the Flopper.

Helena rose from her chair, and started for the door—but the Flopper blocked the way. Helena halted and looked at him in astonishment.

The Flopper licked his lips.

"Say, Helena," he said earnestly, "if I was youse I wouldn't go—say, I'll tell him youse have got de pip an' gone ter bed."

"Not go?" echoed Helena. "What do you mean?"

The Flopper scratched at his chin uneasily.

"Oh, you know!" he said. "De Doc let youse down easy ter-day. Say, if youse had piped his lamps when you drives up in de buzz-wagon dis afternoon youse wouldn't be lookin' fer any more trouble. Say, I'm tellin' youse straight, Helena. When I was out dere in de kitchen an' youse was in yer room wid him me heart was in me mouth all de time. Youse can take it from me, Helena, he let youse down easy."

Helena's brown eyes, a little wistfully, a little softly, held upon the Flopper.

"Yes?" she said quietly.

"Youse had better cut it out ter-night, Helena," the Flopper went on. "Y'oughter know de Doc by dis time—de guy dat starts anything wid de Doc gets his—dat's all! Remember de night he threw Cleggy down de stairs in de Roost?—an' he was only havin' fun! Say, you go out wid Thornton again ter-night an' de Doc finds it out—an' something'll happen. Say, Helena, fer God's sake, don't youse do it—de Doc was bad enough dis afternoon when he let youse down easy, but he's worse now, an'—"

"Worse?" Helena interrupted, smiling a little apathetically. "In what way is he worse? And how do you know? You haven't seen Doc, have you?"

"No," the Flopper answered, circling his lips with his tongue again. "No; I ain't seen de Doc since—but I seen Pale Face. Say, Helena"—the Flopper's words came stumbling out now, agitated, perturbed, not altogether coherent—"wot's de answer I dunno; I dunno wot's de matter here. Say"—he pointed suddenly to the Patriarch, whose face was turned toward them as he stroked thoughtfully at his silver beard—"he's got me fer fair—dere ain't no fake here—dis way ter live is de real t'ing—he ain't like you an' me—he's more'n dat—look at him now—youse'd t'ink he could see us, an' was listenin' ter wot we said. I dunno wot's de end—I dunno wot's de matter wid me. I was scared more'n ever out dere dis afternoon on de lawn, an' I thought mabbe God 'ud strike me dead—but 'tain't only dat I'm scared ter buck de game any more, 'tain't only dat—I don't wanter any more, an' it don't make no difference about de dough—I wanter live straight, same as him, same as de guys around here, same—same as Mamie. Say, Helena, say, do youse believe in love—in—in de real t'ing?"

Helena's apathy was gone now—a flush dyed her cheeks. She was not startled at what the Flopper had said—she had seen it coming, subconsciously, vaguely, mistily, for days now, only she had been immersed in herself—she was not startled, and yet, in a way, she was. The end! She too had been thinking about that—and she too did not know. What was the end?

"You were going to say something about Pale Face," she said, prompting the Flopper. "Something about Pale Face and Doc."

"Yes," said the Flopper, and again the tip of his tongue sought his lips nervously. "Dat's why I don't want youse ter go out wid Thornton ter-night. Pale Face has got it de same as me, an' he told de Doc dis afternoon, out in de path dere, after de Doc left de cottage here. Dere was a showdown—see? De Doc 'ud kill youse an' Thornton ter-night if he caught youse ter-gether. He's like a wild man. When Pale Face tells him he was goin' ter quit, de Doc makes a grab fer him by de t'roat like a tiger, only Pale Face gets away, an' den de Doc goes off widout a word, laughin' like he'd escaped out of a dippy-house. An' Pale Face was shakin' like he had a fit when he gets here. Say, Helena, don't youse go ter-night."

Helena made no answer for a moment. Thoughts, a world of them, confused her, crowded upon her, as they had ever since Madison had left her room a few hours ago—and the future was as some dread, bewildering maze through which she had tried to stumble and grope her way—and had lost herself ever deeper. How full of utter, miserable, bitter irony it was that this thing, unscrupulous and shameful, that they had created in their guilt should have brought the beauty and the glory and the yearning of a new life to her—and yet should chain her remorselessly to the old! True, she had broken with Madison, irrevocably, forever, she supposed, it could not be other than that, for the ugly bond between them was severed—but the game still went on! In repentance, on her bended knees, sobbing as a tired and worn-out child, she could ask for forgiveness; but the double life, the duplicity, by reason of the very nature in which they had fashioned this iniquitous monster, still went on, and like some hideous octopus reached out its waving, feeling tentacles to encircle her—the Patriarch there; the world-wide publicity, those poor creatures upon whose misery and whose suffering, upon whose frantic, frenzied snatching out at hope they had preyed and fed and gorged themselves; the life itself that she had taken up, in its minutiae, in its care of this great-souled, great-hearted man so dear to her now, the life itself because it was what it was, changed though she herself might be, though her soul cried out against it in its new-found purity—all this still held her fast! The end—she could not see the end. What would Madison do—and there was Thornton. Thornton! She caught her breath a little. Yes; she had promised Thornton she would see him to-night—she knew well enough why he wanted to see her—last night had told her that—he loved her. Her face softened. Last night—it seemed a thousand years ago, and it seemed but as an instant passed—last night—she had learned what love was, and—

The Flopper stirred uneasily.

"Wot'll I tell him?" asked the Flopper. "He's waitin' out dere by de porch."

"Why—why nothing," said Helena, and she smiled a little tremulously at the Flopper. "Nothing. I'll—I'll go and see him."

"Say, Helena," protested the Flopper, "don't youse—"

But Helena stepped by him now.

"Don't leave the Patriarch," she cautioned, turning on the threshold. "I—I won't be late."

She passed down the little hall, through the still, quiet room beyond, empty now, through the porch, and out into the night—and then from out the shadows by the row of maples, Thornton came hurriedly toward her, holding out his hands.

"It's good of you to come, Miss Vail," he said, in his grave, quiet way. "You must be nearly dead with weariness after last night, and I am afraid I am not very thoughtful—only I—" he broke off suddenly. "Shall we sit here on the bench for a little while, or would you rather walk—I—I have something to say to you."

It was very dark—the storm of the night before still lingered in a wrack of flying clouds, scurrying one after the other, veiling the stars—and the moon was hidden—and hidden too was the sudden whiteness of Helena's face. She knew what he had to say, knew it before she had come to him—and yet she was there—and she had come resolutely enough—only now she was afraid.

"I would rather walk a little, I think," she said. "Here where—where I can be within call. My absence last night seems to have made the Patriarch very uneasy, you know, and—and—let us just walk up and down here beneath the maples in front of the cottage."

How heavy upon the air lay the fragrance of the flowers; how still the night was, save for the constant muffled boom of the breaking surf!—for a moment an almost ungovernable impulse swept upon her to make some excuse, anything, no matter how wild, a sudden faintness, anything, and run from him back into the cottage. And then she tried to think, think in a desperate sort of way of some subject of conversation that she might introduce that would stave off, postpone, defer the words that she knew were even now on his lips—nothing—she could think of nothing—only that she might have let the Flopper have his way, have let him tell Thornton that she had gone to bed with—the pip. The pip! She could have screamed out hysterically as the word flashed all unbidden upon her—it stood for a very great deal that word—her world of the years of yesterday. Could she never get away from that world; was it too late—already! Could she, even with all the earnestness, all the yearning that filled her soul, ever live it down, ever be what Naida Thornton had called her that night—a good woman! Could she—

Thornton was speaking now—how strange that she would have done anything, given anything to prevent his speaking—and done anything, given anything to make him speak! How strange and perplexed and dismayed her brain was! Love! Yes; she wanted love! God knew she wanted love such as his was—for he had shown her what love, free from abasing passion, in its purest sense, was. Like a glimpse of glory, hallowed, full of wondrous amazement, it came to her—and then her head was lowered, and the whiteness was upon her face again.

He had halted suddenly and detained her with his hand upon her arm—with that touch, so full of reverence, of fine deference, that had thrilled her before—that thrilled her now, awakening into fuller life these new emotions whose birth was in gladder, sweeter, purer aspirations.

"Miss Vail," he said, in a low voice, "there was a letter—a letter that Naida left—did you know of it?"

They were close together, and it was very dark—but was it dark enough to hide the crimson that she felt sweeping in a flood to her face! What was in that letter? Had Mrs. Thornton written as she had talked, or only about the Patriarch and the work in Needley? She had forgotten for the moment about the letter—if there were more in it than that, if it were about Thornton and herself and what Mrs. Thornton had hoped for between them, and she admitted knowledge of it, what would he think, what could he think of her! But to deny it—no, not now. Once, and this came to her in a little thrill of gladness, she would not have hesitated; but now it—it was—it was not that world of yesterday.

"Yes," she said faintly; "she told me that she had left a letter for you."

"It was about the work here," said Thornton gently. "Her whole soul seemed wrapt up in that—and she asked me as her last wish to do what she would have done if she had lived; and she spoke of you very beautifully." Thornton paused for a moment—then he laid his hands on Helena's shoulders—and she felt them tremble a little. "Miss Vail—Helena," he said, and his voice was full of passionate earnestness now, "I cannot say these things well—only simply. I came back here to take an interest in the work, for I too have it at heart—but I have more than that now—there is you—your dear self. I love you, Helena—you have come into my life until you are everything and all to me. Helena, look up at me—will you marry me, dear? Tell me what I long to hear. Helena, Helena—I love you!"

But Helena did not answer—only very slowly she raised her head. And his hands on her shoulders tightened, and he was drawing her gently toward him. Then he bent his head until it was close to hers, and his breath was upon her cheek as it had been that other night—and the longing to know that it was hers, a caress, pure in its motive, hers, snatched out of all that had gone before that sought to rob her of the right to ever know it, fascinated her, held her spellbound, possessed her. Closer his lips came to hers, closer, until they touched her—and then, with a cry, she sprang back, and her hands were fiercely pressed against her cheeks, her throbbing temples. Was she mad! Mad! Was it for this that she had forced herself to give him the opportunity to speak to-night, when her motive was so different, when it had seemed the only right thing left for her to do!

And now, still holding her temples, she raised her eyes to Thornton—he had stepped back like a man stricken, his hands dropped to his sides.

"I—we are mad!" she whispered.

"Helena!" he said in a numbed way; and again; "Helena!" Then, with an effort to control his voice: "You—you do not care—you do not love me?"

"No," she said—and thereafter for a long time a silence held between them.

Then Thornton spoke.

"Some day perhaps, Helena," he said, "you could learn to love me—for I would teach you. Perhaps now you feel that your whole duty lies here in this work to which you have so unselfishly given your life; but I would not hinder that, only try to help as best I could. Perhaps I have been abrupt, have spoken too soon—it is only a few weeks since I saw you first, but it seems as though in those few weeks I had come to know you as if I had known you all my life and—"

But now she interrupted him, shaking her head in a sad little fashion.

"You do not know me," she said. "Sometimes I think I do not know myself. Think! You do not know where I came from to join the Patriarch here; you have no single shred of knowledge about me; you do not know a single particular of my life before you knew me."

"I do not need to know," he answered gravely. "You are as genuine as pure gold is genuine—it is in your voice, your smile, your eyes. It is a crude simile perhaps, but one never asks where the pure gold was dug—it stands for itself, for what it is, because it is what it is—pure gold—at its face value."

The words seemed to stab at Helena, condemning, accusing; and yet, too, in a strange, vague way, they seemed to bring her a hope, a promise for the days to come—at face value! If she could live hereafter—at face value!

"Listen," she said, and her voice was very low. "I do not know how to say what I must say to you. Last night I knew that—that you loved me. I had not thought of you like that, in that way, until then, or—or I should have tried never to have let this hurt come to you. But last night I knew, and since then I have known that sooner or later you would—would tell me of it." She stopped for an instant—her eyes full of tears now. "And so," she went on presently, "I have let you speak to-night because it was better, it was even necessary that I should do so at once—because this could not go on—because you must go away and—"

"Necessary?" he repeated. "I—I do not understand."

"No," she said helplessly; "you do not understand—and I—I cannot explain. Oh, I do not know what to say to you, only that you must take what I say, as you have taken me—at face value."

"I do not understand," he said again. "Helena, I do not understand. Are you in trouble—tell me?"

"No," she said.

"But I cannot go away like this!" he cried out suddenly. "I cannot go and leave you, Helena. You have come into my life and filled it; and I cannot let you pass out of it—like this—without an effort to hold what has come to mean everything to me now. You may not love me now, but some day—"

She shook her head, interrupting him once more.

"There can never be a 'some day,'" she said. "Oh, I do not want to hurt you—you, to whom I owe more than you will ever know—but—but there can never be anything between us, and—and we are only making it harder for ourselves now—aren't we?"

And then he leaned abruptly toward her.

"Is there—some one else?" he asked in a strained voice.

And to Helena the question came as though it had been an inspiration given him—for after that he would ask no more, seek no more to understand, for he was too big and strong and fine for that; and even if it was hopeless now this love that she had known for Madison, even if it could never be again, still that love was hers, and she could answer truthfully.

"Yes," she said beneath her breath.

For a moment Thornton neither moved nor spoke. Then he held out his hand.

"Miss Vail," he said simply, "will you tell this 'some one else' that another man beside himself is the better for having known you. Good-night. And may God bring you happiness through all your life."

But she did not speak—they were standing by the rustic bench and she sank down upon it, and, with her head hidden in one arm outflung across the back of the seat, was sobbing softly.

And he stood and watched her for a little space, his face grave and white; then taking the hand that lay listlessly in her lap, he raised it to his lips—and turned away.

And so he left her—and so, because of this, he knocked upon another door that night, and all unwittingly gave to that "some one else" himself the message that he had asked Helena to deliver.

Madison, pacing his room like a caged beast, his teeth working upon the cigar that he had never thought to light, paid no attention to the summons until it had been repeated twice; then, with a glance around the room, his eyes lingering for a critical instant upon the trunks, closed now, the trays restored to their hiding places, he stepped to the door, unlocked it, and flung it open. And at sight of Thornton, mechanically, as second nature to him, outwardly, like a mask, there came a smile upon his working lips, a suave, unconcerned composure to his face; while inwardly, in his dazed, fogged brain where chaos raged, surged an impulse to fling himself upon the other, wreck a mad vengeance upon the man—and then swift upon the heels of this an impulse to refrain, for if Helena was straight why should he harm Thornton—and then the shuttle again—why should he not—hadn't Helena said that she had learned what love was last night—and last night she had been with Thornton. How his brain whirled! What had brought Thornton here, anyhow? If he stayed very long perhaps he would batter Thornton to jelly after all! Quick, almost instantaneous in their sequence came this wild jumble singing dizzily its crazy refrain through his mind—and then to his amazement he heard some one speaking pleasantly—and to his amazement it was himself.

"Come in, Thornton. Come in—and take a chair."

"Thanks," Thornton answered; and, entering the room, closed the door behind him. "No; I won't sit down—I shall only remain a moment."

The lamp was on the washstand, and, intuitively again, Madison shifted his position to bring his face into shadow—and leaned against the foot of the bed. He stared at Thornton, nodding—Thornton's face was white and exceedingly haggard—rather curious for Thornton to look that way!

"Madison," said Thornton abruptly, "I believe you to be a gentleman in the best sense of the word, and because of that, and because of the unusual circumstances that first brought us together and the mutual interests that have since been ours, I have come to you to-night to tell you, first, that I am going away from Needley and that I shall not return—and then to ask a service and repose a trust in you. You have said several times that you intended to remain here and take a personal and active part in the work?"

Madison removed the chewed cigar end from one corner of his mouth—and placed it in the other.

"Yes," said Madison.

"Then this is what I want to say," said Thornton seriously. "For my own sake, because it was my wife's wish, and for other reasons as well, my interest here, though I am going away, will be just as great as it has ever been; and so I want you to keep me thoroughly posted, and when the time comes that I can be of further material assistance to let me know. I impose only one condition—you are to say nothing to Miss Vail about it—you can make anything that I may do appear to come from yourself."

"Say nothing to Miss Vail!" repeated Madison vaguely—then a sort of ironic jest seemed to take possession of him: "But Miss Vail keeps all the funds."

"That is why I am asking you to represent me," said Thornton quietly. "I am afraid that she might have a natural diffidence about accepting anything more from me—I asked Miss Vail to marry me to-night, and she refused."

The cigar kind of slid down unnoticed from the corner of Madison's mouth—and he leaned forward, hanging with a hand behind him to the bedpost—and stared at Thornton.

"You—what!" he gasped.

"Yes; I know," Thornton answered—and moved abruptly toward the door. "Love makes one's temerity very great—doesn't it? I asked her to marry me—because I loved her." He came back from the door and held out his hand, "I've told you what I would tell no other man, Madison. You understand now why—and you'll do this for me?"

What answer Madison made he never knew himself—he only knew that he was staring at the door after Thornton had gone out, and that he wanted to laugh crazily. Marry Helena! Thornton had asked Helena to marry him because he loved her. God, there was humor here! His brain itself seemed to cackle at it—marry Helena!

And then suddenly there seemed no humor at all—only black, infamous shame and condemnation—and he straightened up from where he leaned against the bedpost, his face set and strained.

"Thornton had asked Helena to marry him because he loved her"—the words came slowly, haltingly, aloud—and then he covered his face with his hands. But he, he who loved her too—what had he done!



—XXII—

THE SHRINE

For a little time Madison stood there in his room, motionless, staring unseeingly before him—and then, as one awakening from a dream that had brought dismay and a torment too realistic to be thrown from him on the instant, his brain still a little blunted, he took up his hat mechanically, went out from the room, descended by the back stairs to the rear door of the hotel, and took the road to the Patriarch's cottage.

And as he walked in the freshness of the night, the restless turmoil of his soul that since early afternoon had brought him near to the verge of madness itself, that had robbed him of sane virility, that a moment since in his room had suddenly begun to lift from him even as the leaden clouds in the vault above him now were scattering, breaking, and through the rifts a moon-glint and the starlight came, passed from him utterly—and a strange calm, a strange joy, a strange sadness was upon him—and his brain for the first time in many hours was rational, keen—and he was master of himself again—and yet master of himself no more!

He smiled a little at the seeming paradox—smiled a little wistfully. He was beaten—by the game—he had won. How strange it was that sense of more than resignation now—a sense that seemed like one of thankfulness—a sense that bade him fling wide his arms as though suddenly they had been loosed from bondage and he was free, free as the God-given air around him.

He could understand Helena, and the Flopper, and Pale Face Harry now. With them it had come slowly, in a gradual concatenation, a progression, as it were, that had worked upon them, molding them, changing them day by day—and he had been too blind to see, or, seeing, had measured the changes only by a standard as false as all his life had been false. With him it had come in a crash, unheralded, that had left him a naked, quivering, stricken thing to know madness, terror and despair, to taste of emotions that had sickened the soul itself.

On Madison walked—along the road, across the little bridge, into the wagon track where, under the arched branches, it was utter dark. There was no one upon the road—he passed no one—saw no one—he was alone.

He had lost Helena—but he understood her now—understood the depth of remorse that she was living through, the terror and the dread as she sought escape, the fear of him—yes, it would be fear now where once it had been love! He had lost Helena—that was the price he had paid—but he understood her now, and he was going to her to help her if he could, going to tell her that he, too, was changed—as she was changed.

His hands clenched suddenly. God, the misery, the hopelessness, the wreck and ruin that lay at his door! And amends—what amends could he make—it was too late for that! How clearly he saw now—when it was too late! Her life was a broken thing, robbed, stripped and despoiled for all the years to come. Their love had not been love—she had given it its name—"passion, vice, lust, sin, degradation and misery and shame." And then love had come to her, into her life, love as God had meant love to be, and she had learned what love was she had said—only that she might never know its fulness, only that it might bring her added bitterness and added sorrow! Thornton had asked her to marry him that night—and she had refused him—because the past, it must have been as a shuddering, hideous phantom that the past had risen before her, had left her no other thing to do but turn away. It seemed he could see her—see her bury her face in her hands and—

He stopped short in his walk. Was he changed so much as this! Did he care so much that it was her happiness—even with another—that counted most! Yes; it was true—he was changed indeed. And the change had brought him too, it seemed, to learn what love was—too late.

He went forward again—a little more slowly; now; a sadness upon him, but, through the sadness, an uplift from that new sense of freedom that was as a balm, soothing him in the most curious way. His had been a rude awakening—mind and body and soul had been torn asunder; but he knew now, as he recalled the hours just past when he had looked on fear, when the gamut of human passion had raged over him, when he had stood staggered and appalled before, yes, before his God, that he had come forth a new man. And how strange had been the ending, how strange and simple, and yet how significant, typifying the broad, clean outlook on life, bringing coherency to his tottering mind, had been those words of Thornton's—"because he loved her."

He had reached the end of the wagon track now, and he walked across the lawn, his steps noiseless on the velvet sward, and passed between the maples; and the moon gleam—for the flying clouds, rear-guard of the routed storm, were flung wide apart, dispersed—fell upon a coiled and huddled little figure all in white, that was quite still and motionless upon the rustic seat beside the porch.

She did not see him, did not hear him, until he stood before her and called her name.

"Helena!" he said unsteadily. "Helena!"

She raised her head and looked at him; and then she rose from the bench, and, still holding to it by one hand, drew back a little. There was no outcry, no startled action. Her dark eyes played questioningly upon him—and he could see that they were wet with tears, and that the face from out of which they looked was very white.

"Why have you come back here to-night?" she asked in a low tone; and then, suddenly, a fear, a terror in her voice, as the Flopper's warning flashed upon her: "Thornton—you have seen Thornton?"

"Yes," he said, surprised a little that she should know; "I saw Thornton a few minutes ago."

She came toward him now and clutched his arm.

"What have you done?" she cried tensely. "Answer me! You—you met him on your way here?"

It was a moment before Madison replied. He had schooled himself of course for more than this, yet the words hurt—that was why she had asked for Thornton—she was afraid that he had harmed the man.

"No," he said; "I did not meet him. I think you must have been longer here on that bench than you imagined—haven't you? He came to my room."

"Your room! What for? Tell me!"

Madison smiled with grave whimsicality.

"To call me a gentleman and repose a trust."

She stepped back again, uncertainly.

"I do not know what you are talking about," she said in a strained way. "And you are talking very strangely."

"Yes," he said. "Everything is strange to-night. It is like a new world, and—and I have not found my way—yet."

She drew back still further.

"Are you mad?" she whispered.

"No," he answered. "Not now—that Is past."

She looked at him for a little time; and, her hands joined before her, her fingers locked and interlocked nervously.

"And—and Thornton?" she asked, at last.

"It was a trust," said Madison slowly; "but it was betrayed before it was given. He did not know—the game. He did not know what was between—you and me."

"No," she said—and the word came almost inaudibly.

"And so," he said, "I will tell you, for it cannot matter now in any case. He told me that he had asked you to marry him to-night—and that you had refused."

Madison paused, and swept his hand across his forehead—his voice somehow had suddenly grown hoarse, beyond control.

"Yes," she said—and reached again for the back of the bench, supporting herself against it.

"He is going away," Madison continued; "and he is to send more money here for the 'cause'—when I ask for it—only you are not to know, because you might be diffident about taking it after refusing him."

She stared at him numbly—there was no sarcasm in his words; in his tones only a sort of dreary monotony. She shivered a little—how cold it seemed! She did not quite grasp his words—and yet she shrank from them. And then her very soul seemed to cry out against them, to pit itself against their meaning, as their meaning surged upon her. And unconsciously she drew herself up, and the whiteness of her face fled before a rush of color.

"Oh, the shame of it!" she burst out. "The bitter shame of it! You shall not touch the money—do you hear! You shall not touch it! I—I thought that you had understood this afternoon. I am glad then that you have come to-night—if I must say more to make you understand. This is the end! I do not care what happens—the little I can do now to atone for what I have done, I am going to do. The game is at an end—you shall not touch another cent—and everything that we have taken goes back to those whom we have worse than robbed it from! You hear—you understand! I will cry it out in the town street if there is no other way—but it shall stop—it shall stop to-night"—she was panting, breathless, the little figure erect, outraged, quivering—and then suddenly the shoulders seemed to droop, the lips to tremble, and she was on her knees upon the grass beside the bench, and sobbing as a child.

"Helena!" Madison said hoarsely. "Helena! Listen! That is what I came for to-night—to find a way out for you, for us all, if I can."

The passionate outburst passed—and she was on her feet again, facing him.

"You are clever—clever!" she cried fiercely. "But you shall not play with me—you shall not trick me—I meant every word I said!"

But now Madison made no answer. The moonlight bathed them both in its clear, white radiance; and touched the sward, shading it to softest green; and the trees limned out like fairy things against the night; and the calm light flooded the little cottage with its hidden walls where the ivy and the creepers grew, and lingered over the trellises to drink the fragrance of the flowers that peeped out from their leafy beds. And upon Madison's face crept slowly the anguish that was in his soul—until it was mirrored there—until unconsciously it answered her where words would have been useless things. Like some white-robed, sorrowing angel, she seemed, as she stood there before him—the brown eyes full of shadow, troubled; the sweet face tear-splashed; the little figure in its simple muslin frock, pitiful in its brave defiance. And pure—just God, how pure she looked!—the brow stainless white under the mass of dark, coiled hair; the perfect throat of ivory. And—and the misery that was in every feature of her face, in every line of her poise—and he had brought her that—he had brought her to that—and now when he loved her as he might have loved her once and known her love in return, when his heart cried out for her, when she was all in life he cared for, she was gone from him, out of his life, and between them was a barrier he could never pass—a barrier of his own raising.

And so he made no answer, for indeed he had not heard her; but she was coming toward him now, her hands outstretched in a wondering way, wistfully, pleadingly, as though to hold back a refutation that would change the dawning light upon her face to dismay and grief again.

"It—it is true," she faltered. "It has come to you too—this change, this new life that has come to me. It is true—I can see it in your face."

"Yes; it is true," he answered, in a low voice.

"Thank God!" she whispered—and hid her face in her hands—and presently he heard her sob again.

A tiny cloud edged the moon, and the light faded, and it grew dark, and the darkness hid her; then softly, timidly almost it seemed, the radiance came creeping through the branches overhead again—and then he spoke.

"Helena," he said, steadying his voice with an effort, "you spoke of atonement a little while ago; but there is no atonement that I can make to you—nothing that I can do to change what I would give my soul to change. I know what it meant to you to send Thornton away to-night, for I love you now as you love him—I know why you did it, and—"

She was staring at him a little wildly—her hands pressed against her cheeks.

"Love—Thornton," she repeated in a sort of wondering way, a long pause between the words.

"Yes," he said gently; "I know. Have you forgotten what you told me this afternoon?—that you had learned—last night—what love was."

She shook her head.

"I do not love Thornton," she said in a monotone. "And yet it is true that through him I learned what love was, what it could be—don't you understand?"

Understand! No; it seemed that he could never understand! She did not love Thornton! And then, as some fiery cordial, the words seemed to whip through his veins, quickening the beat of his heart into wild, tumultuous throbbing. Yes, yes, he could understand—it was true—true—she did not love Thornton.

"Helena!" he cried—and stretched out his arms to her. "I thought, oh, God, I thought that I had lost you—Helena!"

But she did not move.

"What does it matter to you whether I love Thornton or not?" she said dully. "Does it change anything where you and I are concerned—does it change what I told you this afternoon—that I would not go back to that."

"To that! Ah, no!"—his voice rang dominant, vibrant, triumphant now. "Helena, don't you understand? We are to begin life again—in a new way, the true way, the only way. Don't you see—I love you!"

Still she did not move—but there was a great whiteness in her face, and in the whiteness a great light.

"You mean?"—her lips scarcely seemed to form the words.

"Yes!" he cried. "Yes; to make a home for you, to marry you if only you love me still, to live in God's own sight and hold you as a sacred gift—Helena! Helena!"—his arms went out to her again, and the yearning in his soul was in his voice—to crush her to him, to hold her in his arms, and hold her there where none should take her from him, to shield and guard her through the years to come, to live with her a life that seemed to break now in a vista of gladness, of glory, as the day-dawn breaks with its golden rays of God-given promise—the new life, perfect and pure and innocent—because he loved her. "Helena! Speak to me. Tell me that it is not too late—tell me that you love me too."

And then her eyes were raised to his, and they were wet—but there was love-light and a wondrous happiness shining through the tears.

"Helena!" he murmured brokenly—and swept her into his arms—and kissed the eyelids, lowered now, the hair, the white brow, the lips—kissed her, and held her there, her clinging arms about his neck, her face half hidden on his shoulder.

And so for a space they stood there—and there were no words to say, only the song in their hearts in deathless melody—but after a little time he held her from him, and lifted up her face that he might look his fill upon it.

"Helena," he said, "I cannot understand it all yet—it is as though it were born out of the sin and the darkness and the blackness of what is gone—as though here at this Shrine that we created in mockery and crime it was meant that you and I should save each other for each other. And yet this Shrine as we have made it is a thing of guilt, and it has brought us all, you and I, and Harry, and the Flopper to a new life."

She lay still for a moment in his arms—then her hand crept up and touched his forehead and smoothed back his hair.

"I do not quite know how to say it," she said a little timidly. "When you went away this afternoon, the Patriarch took me back into his room, and—and I knelt at his knees—and after a little while my mind seemed very calm and quiet—do you know what I mean? And I tried to think things out—and understand. And it seemed to come to me that there was a shrine everywhere if we would only look for it—that God has put a shrine in every heart, only we are so blind—that every one can make their own surroundings beautiful and good and true, no matter where they are, or how poor, or how rich—and if they live like that they must be good and true themselves."

"Yes," he said slowly; then, after a moment: "And faith too is very much like that."

"Only some need a sign," she said.

There was silence again, while her hand crept over his face and back to his forehead to smooth his hair once more—and then very gently she slipped out of his arms.

"What are we to do about—about everything here?" she asked soberly. "We are forgetting that in our own happiness. How are we going to return the money that we have taken?"

"I don't know yet," he answered. "I haven't thought much about it—but we'll manage somehow."

She shook her head.

"I've thought a great deal about it since yesterday—and I'm not so sure it is to be 'managed somehow'—and the more I've thought the more tangled and complicated it has become."

"Well, we'll untangle it to-morrow," said Madison, with a smile, "and—"

"No"—she touched his sleeve. "To-night. Let us do it now—to-night. I should be so happy then."

He smiled at her again, and drew her to him.

"But we ought to have Pale Face and the Flopper too, don't you think so?" he said.

"Of course," she said; "and so we will. The Flopper is here, and we can send him for Harry. It's early yet—not ten o'clock."

"All right," said Madison; "if you wish it. We'll go in then and get the Flopper."

And so they walked to the cottage door, and into the porch—but in the porch Madison held her for a moment, and lifted up her face again and looked into her eyes.

"My—wife," he whispered—and took her in his arms.



—XXIII—

THE WAY OUT

Strange scene indeed! Strange antithesis to that other night when these four were gathered in that crime-reeked, sordid room at the Roost—where Pale Face Harry, gaunt, emaciated, coughed, and, trembling, plunged a morphine needle in his arm; where the Flopper, a wretched tatterdemalion from the gutter, licked greedy lips and gloated in his rascality; where Helena, flushed-faced, inhaled her interminable cigarettes and dangled her legs from the table edge; where Madison, suave, flippant, so certain of his own infallibility, glorying in his crooked masterpiece, laid the tribute to genius at his own feet!

Strange scene! Strange antithesis indeed! It was quiet here—very still—only the distant, muffled boom of the pounding surf. And the shrine-room, for the first time since its creation, was locked against the night. It lay now in shadow from the single lamp upon the table—and the light, where it fell in a shortened circle, for the lamp itself had a little green paper shade, was soft, subdued and mellow.

Where he had been wont to sit in the days gone by, the Patriarch sat now in his armchair by the empty fireplace—in the shadow—his head turned in his strange, listening, attentive way toward the table—toward the four who were grouped around it. There had been no one to stay with him in his own room, and so Helena had brought him there—to play his silent part.