XXVI
All the way to the court-house Elizabeth’s heart failed her more and more. She had often been in fear of Eades, but never had she so feared him as she did to-day; the fear became almost an acute terror. And, once in the big building, the fear increased. Though the court-house, doubtless, was meant for her as much as for any one, she felt that alien sense that women still must feel in public places. Curiosity and incredulity were shown in the glances the loafers of the corridors bestowed on this young woman, who, in her suit of dark green, with gray furs and muff, attracted such unusual attention. Elizabeth detected the looks that were exchanged, and, because of her sensitiveness, imagined them to be of more significance than they were. She saw the sign “Marriage Licenses” down one gloomy hallway; then in some way she thought of the divorce court; then she thought of the criminal court, with its shadow now creeping toward her own home, and when she reflected how much cause for this staring curiosity there might be if the curious ones but knew all she knew, her heart grew heavier. But she hurried along, found Eades’s office, and, sending in her card, sat down in the outer room to wait.
She had chosen the most obscure corner and she sat there, hoping that no one would recognize her, filled with confusion whenever any one looked at her, or she suspected any one of looking at her, and imagining all the dreadful significances that might attach to her visit. While she waited, she had time to think over the last eighteen hours. They had found it necessary to tell her mother, and that lady had spent the whole morning in hysteria, alternately wondering what people would say when the disgrace became known, and caressing and leaning on Dick, who bravely remained at home and assumed the manly task of comforting and reassuring his mother. Elizabeth had awaited in suspense the conclusion of Hunter’s visit to Eades, and she had gone down town to hear from her father the result of Hunter’s effort. She was not surprised when her father told her that Hunter reported failure; neither of them had had much faith in Hunter and less in Eades. But when they had discussed it at the luncheon they had in a private room at the club, and after the discussion had proved so inconclusive, she broached the plan that had come to her in the wakeful night,—the plan she had been revolving in her mind all the morning.
“My lawyer?” her father had said. “He could do nothing—in a case like this.”
“I suppose not,” Elizabeth had said. “Besides, it would only place the facts in the possession of one more person.”
“Yes.”
“We might consult Gordon Marriott. He would sympathize—and help.”
“Yes, that might do.”
“But not yet,” she had said, “Not till I’ve tried my plan.”
“Your plan? What is it?”
“To see John Eades—for me to see John Eades.”
She had hung her head—she could not help it, and her father had shown some indignation.
“Not for worlds!” he had said. “Not for worlds!”
“But I’m going.”
“No! It wouldn’t be fitting!”
“But I’m going.”
“Then I’ll go along.”
“No, I’ll go alone.”
He had protested, of course, but his very next words showed that he was ready to give in.
“When shall you go?” he asked.
“Now. There isn’t much time. The grand jury—what is it the grand jury does?”
“It sits next week, and Eades will lay the case before it then—unless—”
“Unless I can stop him.”
There had been a little intense, dramatic moment when the waiter was out of the room and she had risen, buttoning her jacket and drawing on her gloves, and her father had stood before her.
“Bess,” he said, “tell me, are you contemplating some—horrible sacrifice?” He had put his finger under her chin and elevated it, in the effort to make her look him in the eyes. She had paled slightly and then smiled—and kissed him.
“Never mind about me, papa.”
And then she had hastened away—and here she was.
The tall door lettered “The Prosecuting Attorney” was closed, but she did not have to wait long before it opened and three men came out, evidently hurried away by Eades, who hastened to Elizabeth’s side and said:
“Pardon me if I kept you waiting,”
They entered the private office, and, at her sign, he closed the door. She took the chair beside his desk, and he sat down and looked at her expectantly. He was plainly ill at ease, and this encouraged her. She was alive to the strangeness of this visit, to the strangeness of the place and the situation; her heart was in her throat; she feared she could not speak, but she made a great effort and plunged at once into the subject.
“You know what brings me here.”
“I presume—”
“Yes,” she said before he could finish. He inclined his head in an understanding that would spare painful explanation. His heart was going rapidly. He would have gloried in having her near him in any other place; but here in this place, on this subject! He must not forget his position; he must assume his official personality; the separation of his relations had become a veritable passion with him.
“I came,” she said, “to ask a favor—a very great favor. Will you grant it?”
She leaned forward slightly, but with a latent intensity that showed all her eagerness and concern. He was deeply troubled.
“You know I would do anything in my power for you,” he said. His heart was sincere and glowing—but his mind instantly noted the qualification implied in the words, “my power.”
And Elizabeth, with her quick intelligence, caught the significance of those words. She closed her eyes an instant. How hard he made it! Still, he was certainly within his rights.
“I want you to let my brother go,” she said,
He compressed his lips, and she noted how very thin, how resolute they were.
“It does not altogether rest with me.”
“You evade,” she said. “Don’t treat me—as if I were some politician.” She was surprised at her own temerity. With some little fear that he might mistake her meaning, she, nevertheless, kept her gray eyes fixed on him, and went on:
“I came to ask you not to lay his case before the grand jury. I believe that is the extent of your power. I really don’t know about such things.” Her eyes fell, and she gently stroked the soft gray fur of her muff, as she permitted herself this woman’s privilege of pleading weakness. “No one need be the loser—my father will make good the—shortage. All will be as if it never had been—all save this horrible thing that has come to us—that must remain, of course, for ever.”
Then she let the silence fall between them.
“You are asking me to do a great deal.”
“It seems a very little thing to me, so far as you are concerned; to us—to me—of course, it is a great thing; it means our family, our name, my father, my mother, myself—leaving Dick out of it altogether.”
Eades turned away in pain. It was evident that she had said her all, and that he must speak.
“You forget one other thing,” he said presently.
“What?”
“The rights of society.” He was conscious of a certain inadequacy in his words; they sounded to him weak, and not at all as it seemed they should have sounded. She did not reply at once, but he knew that she was looking at him. Was that look of hers a look of scorn?
“I do not care one bit for the rights of society,” she said. He knew that she spoke with all her spirit. But she softened almost instantly and added, “I do care, of course, for its opinion.”
Eades was not introspective enough to realize his own superlative regard for society’s opinion; it was easier to cover this regard with words about its rights.
“But society has rights,” he said, “and society has placed me here to see those rights conserved.”
“What rights?” she asked.
“To have the wrong-doer punished.”
“And the innocent as well? You would punish my mother, my father and me, although, of course, we already have our punishment.” She waited a moment and then the cry was torn from her.
“Can’t you see that merely having to come here on such an errand is punishment enough for me?”
She was bending forward, and her eyes blinked back the tears. He had never loved her so; he could not bear to look at her sitting there in such anguish.
“My God, yes!” he exclaimed. He got up hastily, plunging his hands in his pockets, and walking away to his window, looked out a moment, then turned; and as he spoke his voice vibrated:
“Don’t you know how this makes me suffer? Don’t you know that nothing I ever had to face troubles me as this does?”
She did not reply.
“If you don’t,” he added, coming near and speaking in a low, guarded tone, “you don’t know how—I love you.”
She raised her hand to protest, but she did not look up. He checked himself. She lowered her gloved hand, and he wondered in a second of great agitation if that gesture meant the withdrawal of the protest.
“Then—then,” she said very deliberately, “do this for me.”
She raised her muff to hide the face that flamed scarlet. He took one step toward her, paused, struggled for mastery of himself. He remembered now that the principle—the principle that had guided him in the conduct of his office, required that he must make his decisions slowly, calmly, impersonally, with the cold deliberation of the law he was there to impersonate. And here was the woman he loved, the woman whom he had longed to make his wife, the wife who could crown his success—here, at last, ready to say the word she had so long refused to say—the word he had so long wished to hear.
“Elizabeth,” he said simply, “you know how I have loved you, how I love you now. This may not be the time or the place for that—I do not wish to take an advantage of you—but you do not know some other things. I have never felt at all worthy of you. I do not now, but I have felt that I could at least offer you a clean hand and a clean heart. I have tried in this office, with all its responsibilities, to do my duty without fear or favor; thus far I have done so. It has been my pride that nothing has swerved me from the path of that plain duty. I have consoled myself ever since I knew I loved you—and that was long before I dared to tell you—that I could at least go to you with that record. And now you ask me to stultify myself, to give all that up! It is hard—too hard!” He turned away. “I don’t suppose I make it clear. Perhaps it seems a little thing to you. To me it is a big thing; it is all I have.”
Elizabeth was conscious for an instant of nothing but a gratitude to him for turning away. She pressed her muff against her face; the soft fur, a little cold, was comforting to her hot cheeks. She felt a humiliation now that she feared she never could survive; she felt a regret, too, that she had ever let the situation take this personal and intimate turn. For an instant she was disposed to blame Eades, but she was too just for that; she knew that she alone was to blame; she remembered that it was this very appeal she had come to make, and she contemned herself—despised herself. And then in a desperate effort to regain her self-respect, she tried to change the trend of the argument, to restore it to the academic, the impersonal, to struggle back to the other plane with him, and she said:
“If it could do any good! If I could see what good it does!”
“What!” he exclaimed, turning to her. “What good? What good does any of my work do?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” As she said this, she looked up at him, met his eye with a boldness she despised in herself. Down in her heart she was conscious of a self-abasement that was almost complete; she realized the histrionic in her attitude, and in this feeling, determined now to brave it out; she added bitterly: “None, I should say.”
“None!” He repeated the word, aghast. “None! Do you say that all this work I have been doing for the betterment, the purification of society does no good?”
“No good,” she said; “it does no good; it only makes more suffering in the world.” And she thought of all she was just then suffering.
“Where—” he could not catch his breath—“where did you get that idea?”
“In the night—in the long, horrible night.” Though she was alive to the dramatic import of her words and this scene, she was speaking with sincerity, and she shuddered.
Eades stood and looked at her. He could do nothing else; he could say nothing, think nothing.
In Elizabeth’s heart there was now but one desire, and that was to get away, to bring this horror to an end. She had come to save her brother; now she was conscious that she must save herself; she felt that she had hopelessly involved the situation; it was beyond remedy now, and she must get away. She rose.
“I have come here, I have humiliated myself to ask you to do a favor for me,” she said. “You are not ready to do it, I see.” She was glad; she felt now the dreadful anxiety of one who is about to escape an awful dilemma. “To me it seems a very simple little thing, but—”
She was going.
“Elizabeth!” he said, “let me think it over. I can not think straight just now. You know how I want to help you. You know I would do anything—anything for you!”
“Anything but this,” she said. “This little thing that hurts no one, a thing that can bring nothing but happiness to the world, that can save my father and my mother and me—a thing, perhaps the only thing that can save my poor, weak, erring brother—who knows?”
“Let me think it over,” he pleaded. “I’ll think it over to-night—I’ll send you word in the morning.”
She turned then and went away.