Chapter XIII
To Gloria the sluggish moments were fraught with despondency or pulsating terror. All arrangements were made; she was powerless, in a trap; a justice was coming; she was going to marry Gratton. She lay on her bed with her door bolted and wept bitterly, moaning over and over: “Oh, I wish I were dead!” She heard Gratton stirring restlessly downstairs. She herself grew restless; she sprang up, tiptoed to her door, and slipped out as silent as a shadow. She went into the little room where the telephone was and through it to the sun-porch. For a long time she stood looking out across the mountains, her hand pressed to lips which trembled. She thought of her mother who, coming as fast as she could, no doubt by automobile, since she would not have the patience for trains, would not arrive before to-morrow morning. A night here—alone, worse than alone——
But great as was the emotional tension, lusty and now wearied youth must be served. She had danced and ridden all through the night; she had not had over an hour or so of broken sleep; she had been going all day. She dropped to sleep on the swing-couch on the porch. It was so very silent all about her; the shadows were creeping, creeping among the pines.
She awoke with a start. It was quite dark; the first stars burned with steadily growing brilliancy. Some one was standing above her, looking down at her. She could see only the vague outline——
“Gloria——”
A little cry of fear broke from her.
“Gloria,” pleaded Gratton. “Don’t you know I wouldn’t——?”
“I’ll be down in a minute,” she told him, drawing as far away as she could, speaking with nervous haste. “Go down, please. Wait for me.”
“The justice is downstairs,” he said, his own voice agitated despite his effort for mastery. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, yes! In a minute I’ll be down. Go. Please go.”
He hesitated; she could have screamed at him. But presently he began withdrawing. Slowly, hideously slowly——
“When you are ready. And—he has a long ride back, Gloria. We should not keep him waiting.”
She watched until he had gone. Then she crouched, staring with wide, unseeing eyes into the outside dark. The man would go right away; she would not have even him to mitigate the horrible condition of aloneness with Gratton.
“I won’t marry him!” she cried out. “I won’t. I hate him. He is a beast, and—I won’t!”
There was, after all, nothing to force her. Nothing—save that she had been away all this time with Gratton, that he had bought clothing for her, that he had registered himself and wife. And the newspapers! She heard a door slam and sprang up; if the justice went away now without marrying them! She would marry him; why, if he had been of a notion to demur she would have made him marry her!
“I can’t think clearly. I wonder if I am insane?” She went with heavy, leaden steps back to her room. A pale, weary face looked at her from her glass. She began arranging her hair. Her fingers, with wills of their own, refused to obey her own command laid upon them. She sought wildly to delay, delay to the last fragment of the last second before yielding to the inevitable; she wanted to loiter over her hair, and her fingers raced. She could hear voices downstairs. Gratton’s voice, low and urgent; a thin, querulous voice; she shuddered. That would be the justice. Another voice, a man’s and strange to her. He said nothing, but twice she heard him laugh, a laugh that jarred upon her nerves. She guessed who he would be; the man Gratton had sent to bring the justice.
“Gloria!” Gratton was calling from the foot of the steps.
The voice that answered for her was clear and steady and, downstairs, must have sounded untroubled:
“I’m coming. Just a minute.”
Two hours ago, while Gloria had been watching the shadows creeping among the pines, Mark King had arrived. He had come down the ridge from the rear and thus to the outbuilding by the stable which housed the caretaker, old Jim Spalding.
“Hello, Mark,” Jim had said, a trifle startled by King’s sudden appearance. “Here you come again, like a Injun out’n the woods.”
Jim was smoking his pipe on his bench. King paused, saying:
“Hello, Jim. Has Ben showed up yet?”
“No, he ain’t showed, Mark. Expectin’ him?”
“Yes. Who’s in the house, then?”
“Why, some of ’em come on ahead. Ben’s girl, for one, and that city guy, Gratton, for another. She didn’t say anything about Ben comin’; she did say, though, the missis would be along pretty soon.”
Gloria and Gratton here? King frowned. He had had ample time during the long weeks since the twelfth of August to decide that he had nothing to say to Gloria Gaynor. And now she was here—with Gratton. He turned into Jim’s quarters. He had no desire—or at least so he told himself very emphatically—to see either one of them.
“I’ve hit the trail hard to-day, Jim,” he said as Jim followed him and King closed the door. “And I’m dead tired and as hungry as a bear. What shape’s the cupboard in?”
“Fine,” returned Spalding hospitably. “You know me, Mark.”
So it happened that while Gloria fought her losing battle all alone, Mark King sat at Spalding’s table, not a hundred yards away, and made a silent meal of coffee and bread of Jim’s crude baking, and a dubious, warmed-over stew. Thereafter King threw himself down on Jim’s bunk and the two smoked their pipes. With nothing in particular to be said, virtually nothing was said.
“Needn’t tell anybody I’m here, Jim.” King was knocking the ashes out of his pipe. “I haven’t any business with the folks in there. But keep your eye peeled for Ben, will you? The minute he comes I want to see him.”
“Maybe,” suggested Spalding, “his girl brought word?”
“No. Ben is in Coloma. Gratton and Miss Gaynor and Mrs. Gaynor would have come up from the city, you know. That means they would have come through Placerville or Truckee.”
“Guess so,” agreed Spalding. “That’s right. I’ll set outside where I can watch for Ben. Goin’ to take a snooze?”
“Yes.”
And after lying ten minutes staring up at the ceiling above him King went to sleep.
“Must of been goin’ some to-day,” meditated the man who was once more on his bench outside the door. “King looks tuckered.”
He sat through the thickening shadows watching the stars come trooping into the darkening sky, hearkening to the night breeze among the trees, and the thin singing noises of insects. An hour or so later he heard horses. “That would be Ben, now,” was his first thought. His second was that it might be some one else, and that there was no sense waking a tired man for nothing. So he went down toward the house. He saw two men dismount and tie their horses; he saw the door open and Gratton come out. The horsemen went up to the porch. Neither was Ben Gaynor. One, as he passed in through the light-filled doorway, was a little grey man whom Jim had never seen before; the other man, it happened, he knew. Rather well by sight and reputation, a good-for-nothin’ scalawag, as Jim catalogued him, name of Steve Jarrold. The door closed after them and Jim went back to his bench.
In the house they were waiting for Gloria. The little grey man whom they called “judge,” and who had a way of clearing his throat before and after the most trifling remark, went up and down with his hands under his coat-tails, peering near-sightedly at pictures and books and wall-paper.
“Quite a tidy little place Ben Gaynor’s got here,” he said patronizingly. “Quite a tidy little place.”
Gratton paced back and forth, whirling always abreast of the stairs, looking up expectantly. Steve Jarrold, the man whom Gloria had heard laugh, never budged from the spot where he had landed when entering the living-room; his wide, spraddled legs seemed rooted through the big feet into the floor. Big-framed and bony, with startlingly black restless eyes and a three or four days’ growth of wiry beard no less lustrously black, he was ragged, unkempt, and unthinkably dirty. His eyes roved all about the room; they came back to Gratton, sped up the steps, came back to Gratton with a leer in them, and all the while he turned and turned his black dusty hat like a man doing a job he was being paid for.
At last, since no delay holds back for ever the rolling of the great wheels of time, Gloria came. Slowly she descended the stairs, one hand at her breast, one gripping the banister. Her pallor was so great that her lips, though pale also, looked unnaturally red in contrast. They were just a little apart; she seemed to breathe with difficulty. Her eyes, glancing wildly about the room and at the men to be seen in the hallway, were the eyes of one in a trap, seeking frantically for escape, knowing that there was no escape. Her brain, like one’s in a fever, was quick to impressions, alive with broken fragments of thought like so many flashes of vari-coloured light. She noted trifles; she saw a painting over Gratton’s head—a seascape her father had given her for her fourteenth birthday. She saw three pairs of eyes staring at her, men’s eyes, to her the eyes of wild animals; she read as clearly as if their messages had been in large, printed letters what lay in the mind of each: in the little grey man’s, the judge’s, speculation; in Steve Jarrold’s, the jeers of a man of Jarrold’s type at such a moment when they fall upon the bride; in Gratton’s, quickened desire of her and triumphant cunning.
“My dear,” said Gratton, coming forward as though to meet her and then pausing abruptly and holding back, “this is Judge—Judge Summerling. He will—perform the ceremony, you know. And this is Mr. Jarrold. He brought the judge and will be a witness.”
Gloria from the last step regarded the three men as a prisoner might have looked upon jailers coming to drag her to execution. Her lips moved but no sound issued. “Judge” Summerling bowed stiffly and cleared his throat. Steve Jarrold’s hat ceased revolving an instant, then fairly spun as though to make up for lost time.
Suddenly Gloria began to laugh hysterically, uncontrollably. Gratton whipped back and stared at her; Summerling and Jarrold were mystified. She looked so little like laughter! And, as both had cause to regard the situation, there was so little call for laughter. But they could have no clue to Gloria’s thoughts. Her wedding! With that insignificant little grey man in his cheap wrinkled clothes to officiate; with that unshaven, leering, dirty man to witness! Holy matrimony! Gloria Gaynor’s wedding! She was near madness with the hideous, cruel travesty of such weddings as are dear to the hearts of San Francisco “society” girls.
The “judge” was clearing his throat again. She looked at him curiously, with the odd sensation that while Gloria Gaynor was asleep, drugged into a deep stupor, there was within her another Gloria who took a keen interest in the smallest happenings.
“This affair ain’t any more regular than it ought to be,” he was saying. “Now, just the matter of the licence——”
Gratton jerked about and glared at him. The “judge” broke off with a vehement clearing of his throat. In a moment he spoke again.
“Seein’ as both parties want to get married,” he said hastily, “and as circumstances is what they is—keepin’ in mind how circumstances does alter cases—well then—are you ready?”
That “Are you ready?” seemed to explode like a pistol shot in Gloria’s ears. Something within her shrieked: “No, no, no!” Gratton had said a quiet “Yes,” and was looking at her. She heard herself saying faintly: “Yes.”
Gratton put out his hand as though to help her down the last step. She made a little gesture, motioning him back. He bit at his lip and obeyed, though with a quick flash of the eyes. Gloria looked down at the step. About six inches high, and yet—and yet where she stood was as high as heaven, down there as deep as hell. She seemed powerless to achieve that last step. But Gratton was stirring restlessly; he would put out his hand again to help her. She shuddered and moved quickly. Now she stood on the same level as Gratton and the others; the physical fact was sinister as though symbolical of the psychical.
The “judge” began to grow vastly businesslike. He must have the full names correctly, ages, birthplaces. Gratton answered for himself and for Gloria, who stood now with her hand on the back of a chair just within the living-room door. Across the room was the fireplace; over it an ornamental mirror. She wondered dully what she looked like; the “bride”! But from where she stood she could see only the reflection of the window across the room, the strip of curtain at the side stirring softly in the evening breeze. That breeze came down through the pines; it wandered free; why couldn’t she, Gloria, be like that? She thought poignantly of her few days among the pines with Mark King. Oh, the remembered glory of it, the clean, sweet freedom of it.
“Now, folks, if you’re ready. Stand side by side—”
“Oh!” cried Gloria.
“Eh? What’s that?” demanded the “judge.”
She tried to smile.
“I—I think——” She saw Steve Jarrold leering. “The witness,” she said wildly. “There is only one, and——”
“It’s usual to have two, anyhow,” admitted the “judge.” “But, being as things is a bit irregular and everything, why we’ll make one do.”
“There’s Jim,” said Gloria. She did not look toward Gratton, but he understood that she addressed him. “Jim Spalding. I’d feel better if some one I knew—if you’d get Jim to come, please.”
She knew that she did not care whether Jim Spalding came or did not come; that she was fighting for delay and could not help snatching at any straw, though she knew that in the end she would go down, overwhelmed by circumstance. Circumstance and—Gratton. Gratton also knew and frowned.
“Gloria,” he said smoothly, “that isn’t necessary, is it?”
“Yes, it is!” she flared out at him hotly. “Go, get him.”
“It will take only a minute,” Gratton said over his shoulder as he went. He would see to it that it took no great amount of time. Spalding on his bench saw Gratton running toward him.
“You’re wanted in the house a minute, Spalding,” he said curtly. “Step lively, will you?”
Spalding, not given to stepping lively at other men’s commands, was slow in answering, and then spoke drawlingly:
“Wanted, am I? Well, that’s interestin’. By who? I’m wonderin’.”
“Miss Gloria. She wants you right away.”
“That’s different,” said old Jim, getting to his feet.
Gratton turned and hastened back to the house, Jim quickening his own pace as he sensed something out of the ordinary. The house door stood open as Gratton had left it, and the two entered hastily. Jim looked from face to face with keen, shrewd eyes, ignored Jarrold, who said a mirthful “Evenin’, Jim,” and turned to Gloria for explanation.
“Miss Gloria wanted——” began Gratton. But Jim Spalding lifted a big hand as though to ward off the words.
“I’m here, miss,” he said when Gloria’s white face only stared at him.” You ain’t sick, are you?”
“No, Jim, I—I am going to be married, and——”
“Married!” Jim looked incredulous and then puzzled as again his eyes went swiftly from one to the other of the three men’s faces.
“Yes, Jim. And I want you to be a witness.”
Jim flushed up and shifted uneasily. He had never been at a wedding; he did not know what a “witness” had to do. And to witness the wedding of Miss Gloria, who had never appeared to come down to earth long enough to know that there was such a man as Jim Spalding on the same sphere with her——He managed an uneasy “Yes’m,” and backed off toward the door.
“Now, if you folks is ready,” began the “judge” again.
“Right now?” muttered Jim. “You’re gettin’ married right now?”
“Yes,” said Gloria wearily. And to Summerling: “I am ready.”
“But I ain’t!” cried Spalding. He got to the door and started down the hall. “Wait a minute, will you?”
Gratton hurried after him, his face hot with rage, while Steve Jarrold guffawed loudly and then, under Gloria’s startled look, dropped his eyes.
“Come back here, Spalding,” commanded Gratton angrily. “Whatever you’ve got to do can wait a minute——”
“You wait,” growled Jim. “I’ll be back quick enough.”
Mark King was awakened by old Jim rushing into the room, lighting a lamp hastily, and making a deal of clatter. He sat up, demanding:
“Has Ben come?”
Jim began chuckling. After all, a wedding was a wedding, and therefore a matter well worth a man’s allowing himself to get a bit excited. From a cupboard he began dragging forth his one and only serviceable suit of clothes, dingy black, shiny affairs, but Jim’s “best.” He kicked off his breeches, drew on the black trousers, and caught up the coat.
“No, Ben ain’t back,” he grinned at King. “Guess he’ll be surprised when he does come. His girl’s gettin’ herself married. To that city guy, Gratton. Right now in the house!”
“What!” King had heard well enough, but that “What!” broke from him explosively.
“An’ me, I’m a witness,” said old Jim. “Steve Jarrold’s another. They got the preacher there an’ everything.” He paused a moment and reflected, with puckered brows. “What do you think of her marryin’ that swab, now? Think Ben’s goin’ to be pleased? Kind of surprising ain’t it, Mark?”
King managed a laugh which escaped critical notice only because old Jim was only half listening.
“Oh, it’s been open and shut all along that she’d marry Gratton,” he said, keeping his head down as he drew a match across the floor as though to like a pipe whose bowl was empty. “If it suits his womenfolk, I guess Ben will stand for it.”
By now Jim had drawn his coat on and was back at the door.
“Better come along, Mark,” he invited. “You don’t see a weddin’ every day. Comin’?”
“No, thanks,” said King. He broke his match between nervous fingers. He raised his head to watch Jim go.
“Lord, Mark,” said Spalding, holding on his heel a moment. “You must of made one all-mighty day of it! You sure do look tuckered!”
King rose and went to the door and stood looking after the swiftly departing figure. He saw the house, the windows bright with lights, light streaming out through the door to the porch. There was Gloria. Just there. And he had slept, and Gloria was marrying. And here was the end of it—the end of everything, it dawned on him. He, who had never looked twice on a woman, had looked thrice on her and again. He, the one-woman man, had found the one woman—and had lost her. He looked out toward the house and through its thick log walls saw Gloria; Gloria as she had come down the stairs to him that first day, floating down like a pink thistledown, putting her two hands into his, looking up into his eyes with eyes which he would never forget; he saw her in the woods, riding with him; by the spring waiting eagerly for the little water-ouzel, she so like a bird herself; crossing a stream on boulders—she had slipped; he had caught her into his arms—close. Her hair had blown across his face. He stood with her on the highest crest of a ridge; the world lay below them, they were alone in the blue heavens. And he loved her. He groaned and ran his hand across his eyes as though to wipe the pictures out—pictures which would never pass away.
Gloria was marrying. Gratton. Now. He looked up into the sky bright with stars; its great message to him was “Emptiness.” The world was empty, life was empty. There was nothing. Simply because Gloria had come, had laughed into his eyes, and had gone on. She was like the springtime which came dancing into the mountains which softened them and brightened them—and laughed and passed on and away. She would be laughing now—into Gratton’s eyes.
He would never see her again after to-night. Other men had loved and their loves had crumbled to ashes, blown away by the winds of time. But to-night he would see her. The last time. While still she was Gloria Gaynor and not Gratton’s wife——
He started and hurried toward the house. They were waiting for Jim and Jim had hurried. He came to the porch and, with never a board to creak under his careful tread, he made his way silently around to the living-room side of the house. There was a window there; the shade was not drawn; the curtains were blowing back and forth. He drew close and stood, watching. He would look at Gloria one last time, turning away just before the preacher said the last words; it was like looking for the last time on a beloved face before the sod fell——
He saw her. Her back was turned to him; her head was down. He watched her fingers moving nervously at her sides and his brow contracted with a sudden access of pain. Those fingers had touched his and he had thrilled to the soft, warm contact; he loved them better than he loved life. And soon they would find their way into Gratton’s.
Not once did he move his eyes from her. She did not turn toward him, but as the “judge” began talking she lifted her head and King saw her throat, her cheek. How pale she was——
Though her head was up, her slim body drooped. Like a little wildwood flower wilting. So she remained for what seemed a very long time. Then suddenly he saw her body stiffen; her hands flew to her breast. The “judge,” hurrying along, had asked:
“And do you take this man to be your wedded husband?”
King did not want to hear the answer; he turned to go. But hear now he must, for though until now responses had been low-voiced, hardly above a murmur, he heard Gloria crying:
“No! No and no and no!”
King stopped like a man paralysed. Had he gone mad? Then his pulses leaped and hammered. Gloria had cried “No!” A tremor shook him; he could no longer see her, but he stood where he was, his senses keyed to hear a falling pin within.
“He is a beast and I hate him!” cried Gloria wildly. “He tried to trick me and trap me. He tried to make me marry him But I won’t! I won’t! I’d rather die.”
Her voice died chokingly away, and for five seconds it was deathly still. Still King did not move. He heard Gratton’s exclamation, Gratton’s hurried step. The man was excited, was expostulating. Other voices; the other men had drawn aside, amazed, leaving Gratton a clear field with his unwilling bride.
“Have you gone mad, Gloria?” King could hear the words now. “Think what you are saying——”
“I have thought. I hate you. Go away. Let me go.”
Gratton’s pale eyes must be ablaze with wrath now; his tone told that.
“There’s no way out for you. You’ve got to marry me. I——”
“Take your hand off——”
Her voice broke into a scream.
“You’re hurting me——”
And now Mark King moved at last. Before the last word had done vibrating through the still room he was through the window, taking the shortest way. Gratton’s hand was on Gloria’s shoulder; King threw it off, hurling the man backward across the room. Gloria turned to him——
“Mark!” she cried. “Oh, Mark King!”
He put his arms about her, thinking that she was going to fall. For an instant he held her tight; he felt her heart beating as though it would burst through her bosom.
“You won’t let him——?”
He moved with her to a chair, placed her in it, and turned toward Gratton, a look like a naked knife in his eyes.
“By jings!” muttered old Jim under his breath. “By jings!”