by Leroy Scott
CHAPTER IX
FATHER AND DAUGHTER
For several minutes after Allen had gone, Helen sat, her face in herhands, waiting for the refluence of her strength. Then she walked backto the library, where she found David pacing restlessly to and fro. Hesaw that she was very white and that she was trembling, and forbearingto question her he led her to a deep easy-chair before the open woodfire. But she saw his suspense and at once told him that Allen would besilent.
Gently, reverently, David laid his hand upon her hair, and of all thethings in his heart he could only say, "You saved me."
She drew his hand down and held it against her cheek and gazed up intohis eyes. He sat down on the arm of her chair. They had both beenthrough too great a strain to fall into easy converse, and for severalminutes each was filled with quivering thoughts. Presently Davidremembered what he had forgotten since entering the house--hisexperience at St. John's Hospital. He told her the story, and when hehad ended he drew out the packet containing the yellow letters, thephotograph and the two notes of five years before.
"Well, they'll make no more trouble," he said, and started toward thefire-place.
She laid a hand upon his arm. "What are you going to do?"
"Burn them."
She shook her head and held out her hand. "No--you must not. Give themto me."
He laid them in her hand. "But why do you want them?"
"Didn't you ever think, David, that there may come a time, years fromnow, when you may want to clear your name? Well, these letters willhelp. I shall keep them for that time. They're precious to me, becausethey contain your good name."
She slipped the soiled and worn packet into the front of her dress. Inthe silence that followed, her mind, as it was constantly doing thesedays, reverted to her father's business practices, and again she wasbeset by the necessity of telling David her new estimate of her father.She gathered her strength, and, eyes downcast, told him briefly,brokenly, that her father was not an honest man. "So you see," sheended, "I have no right to any of these things about me--I have no rightto stay here."
David had suffered with her the shame of her confession. He took herhands. "Oh, I wish I had the right to ask you to come to me, Helen!"
She raised her eyes. "I'm coming to you," she said.
"But I'd be a brute to let you. You can leave your father, and yet keepalmost everything of your present life except its wealth--your friends,your position, your influence, your honour. I can't let you give up allthese things--exchange them for my disgrace. I can't let you become thewife of a thief! I love you too much!"
"But I'm ready for it!"
"I can't do it, Helen! I can't!"
She gazed at his pain-drawn, determined face--her eyes wide, her lipsloosely parted, her face gray. "And you never will?" she whispered.
"I can't!" he groaned huskily.
His arm dropped from the chair back about her shoulders, and they satsilently gazing into each other's eyes. They were still sitting so whenthe library doors rolled back and Mr. Chambers appeared between them.David sprang up, and Helen also rose. Mr. Chambers gave back a pace asto a blow, and his hand gripped the door. For a moment he stared atthem, then he quietly closed the door and crossed the room.
Rigidly erect, he paused in front of Helen, his face pale and set andharsh, and looked squarely into her face. He turned a second to David;his gray eyes were like knives of gray steel. Then his gaze came back toHelen.
"What's this mean?" his quiet voice grated out.
Helen's face was like paper and her eyes, held straight into his, had afixed, wild stare. She gathered her strength with a supreme effort.
"I'm going to marry him," she said.
For a moment he merely stared at her. Then he reached out a hand thattrembled, caught her arm and shook her lightly.
"Helen?" he cried. "Helen?"
"I'm going to marry him," she repeated, with a little gasp.
"You're--really--in--your--senses?"
"I am."
He loosed his hold, and studied her strained face. "You are!" hewhispered, in low consternation.
David's defiant hatred of Mr. Chambers was beginning to rise. He waswilling that Mr. Chambers should feel pain; but Helen's sufferingbecause of himself, this would not let him keep silent.
"But, Helen, you know you're----"
She stopped him with a touch on his shoulder. "This is my moment. I'vebeen expecting it. It is I that must speak."
Mr. Chambers slowly reddened with anger. "Marry that thief? You shallnot!" he cried.
Her face was twitching, tears were starting in her eyes. "Forgive me forsaying it, father," she besought tremulously, "but--can you prevent me?"
"Your reason, your self-respect, should prevent you. Have you thought ofthe poverty?"
She put a hand through David's arm. "I have. I'm ready for it."
"And of the disgrace?"
"I'm ready for it."
He paled again. He saw the utter social ruin of his daughter, and itgave him infinite pain--and he saw the social injury to himself. Shewould sink from her present world, and her sinking would be the year'sscandal; and that scandal he would have to live with, daily meet face toface.
"Yes," he said slowly, "but your act will also disgrace your family,your friends. You are willing to disgrace me?"
For three weeks conscience had demanded one attitude toward him, loveanother. "Please let's not speak of that!" she begged.
"You're willing to disgrace me?" he repeated.
She did not answer for a moment; then "Forgive me--I am," she whispered.
"And you're decided--absolutely determined?"
She nodded.
"My God, Helen!" he burst out, "to think that you, with open eyes, woulddestroy yourself and dishonour your father!"
"Forgive me!" she begged.
He turned to David, his face fierce with rageful contempt. "And Aldrich!Let me say one thing to you. Any man in your situation who would ask adecent woman to marry him is a damned cad!"
Helen raised a hand to stop the retort that was on David's lips. "It isI that insist on marriage--he refuses me," she said quietly.
Mr. Chambers stared long at her, astounded as he had never before beenin his life. "There's something behind all this," he said, abruptly.
She was silent.
Even in this tense moment his readiness did not desert him. Sometimesone is stronger than two, sometimes weaker. This time one would beweaker.
"Mr. Aldrich," he said quietly, "would you be so kind as to leave us.There are matters here to be talked over only between Helen and me."
Helen felt the moment before her she had for a month been fearing--feltherself on the verge of the greatest crisis of her life. "Yes--pleasedo, David. It's best for us two to be alone."
She gave David her hand. He pressed it and silently withdrew.
Mr. Chambers stepped close to Helen and gazed searchingly into her face."There's something back of this. You're telling me all?"
"I can't--please don't ask me, father!"
"You propose--he refuses," he said meditatively. He studied her face forseveral moments. "I think I know you, my child.--I would have staked myfortune, my life, that you would never have given yourself to any but aman of the highest character."
His face knitted with thought; he began to nod his head ever soslightly. "I recall now that there were some queer circumstancesconnected with his taking the money. His motives, what he did with it,did not seem particularly plausible to me."
His eyes fairly looked her through. His mind, trained to see andconsider instantly all the factors of a situation, and instantly toreach a conclusion, sought with all its concentration the most logicalexplanation of this mystery.
After a moment he said softly: "So--he didn't take the money after all?"
She gazed at him in choking fascination.
"If he had taken it, if he was what he seems to be, you would never haveoffered to marry him," he went on in the same soft voice. "I've
guessedright--have I not?"
She did not answer.
"Have I not?" he repeated, dominantly.
It seemed to her that the words were being dragged from her by aresistless power. "Yes," she whispered. The next instant she claspedher hands. "Oh, why did I tell!" she cried.
"I guessed it," he said.
They looked silently at each other for a space. When he spoke his tonewas quiet again.
"Since I know the main fact I might as well know the minor ones. Why didhe pretend to be guilty?"
She hesitated. But he knew the essential fact--and, besides, he was herfather, and she had the daughter-desire for her father to appreciatewhat manner of a man this was whom she loved. So she told the story in afew sentences.
"It's remarkable," he said in a voice that showed he had been affecteddeeply. "I can see that it was a deed to touch a woman's heart. All thesame--he's not the match I'd prefer for you."
He was thoughtful for several moments. He knew the quality of Helen'swill--knew there was no changing her determination to marry David. Theproblem, then, was to arrange so that the marriage would bring theminimum disgrace.
"No, he's not the match I'd prefer for you. Still, if he'll publiclyadmit and establish his innocence, I'll have not a word to say againsthim."
"But we've agreed that he can't do that," she said. "I've already madeplain to you that to clear himself would be to destroy St.Christopher's."
"Nothing can change that decision?"
"No."
Mr. Chambers again thought for a minute. "I think you exaggerate theeffect of the truth on St. Christopher's. However, for the moment, I'llgrant you're right. From what you told me I gather Mr. Aldrich has somerather large philanthropic ideas. Well, if he will clear himself, I'llsettle upon you any amount you wish--ten million, twenty million. Thatwill enable him to carry out his ideas on any scale he may like. Thegood he can do will more than balance any injury that may be done to St.Christopher's. On the one hand, he will have, and you with him,powerless disgrace. On the other, clear name, love, fortune, unlimitedpower to do good."
She slowly shook her head. "It's all thought over--he can't do it."
"And nothing can change your determination to marry him?"
She held out a hand to him. "No. Forgive me, father," she whispered.
He gazed steadily at her--and again his quick mind was searching for asolution to the situation. He pressed her hand. "I want to think. We'llspeak of this again."
He started out, but she stepped before him. "Wait--there's something Imust say. But first, you must never tell what you've just found out."'
He did not answer.
His silence stirred a sudden new fear. She crept close to him and peeredup into his face. "Father--you're not going to tell, are you?"
Again he was silent.
Her face paled with consternation. She drew a long breath, and her voicecame out a thin whisper. "You are going to tell, father! I see it."
He looked into her wide brown eyes and at her quivering face. "I think,Helen, you can leave the proper action to my discretion."
She swayed slightly, and then her whole body tightened with effort. "Youare going to make his innocence public," she said, with slow accusation."You can't deny it."
"I am," he said shortly.
She stepped a pace nearer him. "You must not! You must not!" she cried.
His jaw tightened and his brows drew together. "I shall!--you hear me?"
"But, father--it isn't your secret. You haven't the right."
"I have the right to protect my own daughter and myself!"
"But to destroy others?" she implored. "You know it will ruin hundreds.Have you the right to do that?"
"A man's first duty is to those nearest him."
"But don't you see?--you destroy hundreds to save yourself, and me!"
"You have my answer," he said.
She looked at him despairingly. "Then nothing can stop you?"
"Nothing." His face was firm, his voice hard. "And now, Helen, I'mgoing," he said shortly. "There's nothing more to be said."
Helen caught his arm. "Not yet!" She gazed at him, her face gray andhelpless.... Then the crisis gave her inspiration. A new view of thesituation flashed into her mind. She considered it for several moments.
"Father," she said.
"Well?"
She spoke slowly, with a frantic control, with the earnestness ofdesperation. "Listen, father. Suppose you tell--what will be the use?David will deny your story. I, who shall be with him, I shall deny thestory. And there is the decision of the court. All say the same. On yourside, you have no proof--not one bit. The world will say you made up thestory just to save yourself. The world will honour you less, because itwill say you've tried to save yourself by disgracing Mr. Morton....Don't you see, father?--it will do you no good to tell!--don't you see?"
He gazed at her, but did not answer.
"The story will create a great scandal--yes," she went on. "For you toaccuse Mr. Morton--you know how that will injure St. Christopher'sbefore the public--you know how it will lessen the Mission's influencein the neighbourhood. The story will do great ill--so very great an ill!But it will not help you a bit, father--not a bit!"
She paused a moment. "Please do not tell it father! Please do not ... Ibeg it of you!"
He did not reply at once. He realised the truth of what she hadsaid--but to yield was hard for the Chambers's will, and it was hard toaccept the great dishonour. He swallowed with an effort.
"Very well," he said.
"Then you'll say nothing?" she asked eagerly.
"No."
"Oh, thank you!--thank you!" she cried, her voice vibrating with hergreat relief.
They looked into each other's eyes for a long space. "I hope this isall," he said.
"There's one more thing," she answered, and tried to gather herself foranother effort. Her breast rose and fell, and she was all a-tremble."There is something else--something I must say--something that has beenupon my heart for weeks. Say that you forgive me before I say it,father!"
"Go on!"
Her voice was no more than a whisper. "I have learned that thestories ... about your not being honest ... are true."
His face blanched. "So--you insult your own father!"
"Don't make it any harder!" she besought piteously.
"You do not understand business matters," he said, harshly.
She did not hear his last words. "This is the other thing--I'm going toleave home," she went on rapidly. "Perhaps I would not decide to do whatI am going to do, if I thought I could help you--to be different. But Iknow you, father; I know you will not--be different; you do not needme--you are strong and need no support--you will have Aunt Caroline. SoI am going to go.
"I'm going to leave home because it seems to me that I have no right toit--to it and the other things of my life. You understand. So I want toask you not to send any of these things to me. I want nothing--not acent."
He was silent a moment. The determination in her face again kept himfrom argument or intercession. He saw that to her this break was agreat, tragic, unchangeable fact, and so it also became to him.
"But how are you going to live?" he asked.
"I have the money mother left me--that's enough."
Despite the tragedy of the moment a faint smile drew back the corners ofhis mouth. "That's two thousand a year--that doesn't begin to pay foryour clothes."
"I shall wear different clothes. It will be enough."
"Very well." His face became grim. "And I have my reason why I cannotgive you anything! Do you realise, Helen, that you are driving me, inorder to protect my reputation, to disown you publicly if you marry Mr.Aldrich?"
She did not reply. "But don't forget," he went on after a moment, "thatyou are escaping my fortune only temporarily. It will all go to you onmy death."
"No--no! I don't want it!"
"But you can't escape it, if I choose to leave it to you."
"If you do," she
said slowly, "I shall use it to make restitution, asfar as I can, to the people it--it came from." She added, almostbreathlessly, "Why not do that now, father? It's the thing I've beenwanting to ask you, but have not dared."
"I have not noticed any lack of daring," he observed grimly.
There was a brief silence. "Then this is all," she said.
Suddenly she stretched out her arms to him, and tears sprang into hereyes. "Forgive me, father!--forgive me!"
Standing very erect, his hands folded before him, he gazed fixedly intoher imploring face while his mind comprehended their new relations.
She dared a step nearer and laid a hand upon his arm. "Forgive me--won'tyou please, father?" she whispered.
His face twitched, and he put his hands on her shoulders almostconvulsively. "You're taking my heart out!" he said huskily.
"Forgive me!" she sobbed. "I can't help it! I'm the way God made me."
"And God made you very much like your mother," he said, his mind runningback to scenes not unlike this. He drew her to him and she flung herarms about his neck and they kissed.
"I love my father--I always shall--it's the business man that"--but hervoice trailed away into sobs.
They drew apart. "We shall never speak of this matter again," she saidtremulously. She held out her hand. "Good-bye ... father. I shall seeyou again--yes. But this is the real good-bye."
He took her hand. "Good-bye," he said.
They gazed steadily into each other's eyes. "Good-bye," she repeated ina low voice, and, head down, walked slowly from the room.
* * * * *
He sat long before the fire while upon him his new situation pressedmore heavily, more sharply. It was the bitterest hour of his life. Uponhim bore the pain of impending public disgrace, the pain of the loss ofhis daughter--and cruellest of all, the pain of being judged by the oneperson of his heart, disowned by her. And this last bitterness was givena deep-cutting, ironic edge as he realised afresh that, to protecthimself, he must disown her--that, cast off by her, he must make itappear to the world that he had cast her off.
And how the world would take this! His imagination saw in the papers ofsome near day, across the first page in great black head-lines, "MissHelen Chambers Marries Ex-Convict--Disowned and Disinherited By HerFather--Social World Horrified!" The irony of it!
But even in this hour, pained as he was by Helen's judgment, he felt noregret for those deeds for which he had been judged. For thirty yearsand more he had had one supreme object--to take from life, for himself,all that life could be made to yield. All his faculties were pointed to,attuned to, acquisition. His instinct, his long habit, his mighty will,his opportunity-making mind, his long succession of successes, theirresistible command of his every cell to go on, and on, and on--allthese united in a momentum that allowed him neither to recoil from whathe had done nor to regard it with regret. He felt pain, yes--but mixedwith his pain was no other feeling, no impulse, that would swerve hislife even a single degree from its thirty-years' direction.
CHAPTER X
THE BEGINNING OF LIFE
In five minutes the long, heavy express was due to pull out of thestation and go lunging westward through the night. Kate's and Rogers'shand luggage was piled in Kate's seat, and across the aisle and a littleahead, in Rogers's seat, were the two travellers, side by side. Facingthem sat David and the Mayor, the latter just back from his briefhoneymoon, and standing in the aisle was Tom.
"Well, got everything you need for the trip?" asked the Mayor, in tonesthat filled the sleeper.
"There's enough in our trunks and in those bags"--Rogers nodded backwardtowards Kate's seat--"for a trip to the moon. Aldrich tried to buy outNew York."
"There's nothin' like havin' too much," declared the Mayor. "Oh, saythere, captain," he cried to the porter who had just brushed by. "Seehere."
The porter turned back. "Yes suh." There was even more than the usualporterly deference in his manner, as he instantly measured the authorityin the Mayor's florid person and took note of the silk hat and theimposing beflowered vest. "Yes suh."
"These here two people are friends o' mine. You want to see that theyget everything that's comin' to 'em, and a few more besides.Understand?"
"Yes suh."
The Mayor, with some effort, got into and out of a trouser pocket, andheld forth a dollar. "If you ain't bashful, take that. And stick it someplace where your willingness'll know you've got it.
"There's nobody'll treat you as white as a well-tipped nigger," heremarked as the porter passed on. He leaned forward and laid a hand onRogers's knee, his smiling face redly brilliant under the Pintsch light."Just as soon as you get your bellows mended and some meat on yourbones, I'm goin' to write you a letter handin' you some straightadvice."
The edge of his glance slyly took in Kate. "No, I ain't goin' to wait.I'll tell you now and be in the price o' the stamp. Friend--getmarried!"
Kate rose abruptly, walked back to her seat and began to fumble aboutthe baggage.
The Mayor nodded his head emphatically. "There's nothin' like it!"
The cry, "All aboard," sounded through the car, and they rose. The Mayorsaid good-bye, and after him Tom. Then David took Rogers's thin hand.The two men silently gazed at one another for a long moment; eachrealised he might never again look into the other's face.
"Good-bye, old man," breathed David, gripping his hand. "I hope it'sgoing to be as you hope. God knows you deserve it!"
Rogers's large eyes clung to him. "I've never had a friend like you!"he said slowly. "Good-bye--and if it's to be the long good-bye, then ...well, good-bye!"
He broke off, then added: "You're going to try to help change somethings we both know are wrong. Never forget one thing: the time toreform a criminal is before he becomes one. Save the kids.--God blessyou!"
The car began slowly to move. They gripped hands again, and Davidhurried back to Kate, whom the Mayor had just left and who was kissingTom good-bye. David took her hand, and on gazing into her dark eyes andrestrained face, it rushed upon him anew how much joy she had broughthim and how much misery he had given her; and suddenly he was without asingle word to say farewell.
"Good-bye," she said with a forced calmness.
"Forgive me!" he burst out in a whisper. "Your heart will tell you whatI'd like to tell you. Forgive me!"
Her head sank forward in affirmation. "But you've done nothing."
There was no time to reply to that. "God bless you, Kate!--Good-bye!" hecried in a low voice. He ran out of the rapidly moving car and swunghimself to the platform--unconscious that Kate's eyes had followed himto the last.
He joined the Mayor, and together with Tom they walked out of thestation and into the street, talking of the friends they had just left.But the Mayor, who had met the party at the station, and consequentlyhad not had a confidential word with David, was bubbling with his ownaffairs, and he quickly left Kate and Rogers to travel their way alone.
"Friend," he said with joyful solemnity, slipping his arm throughDavid's, "I'm the biggest fool that ever wore pants!"
"Why?"
"For not lettin' Carrie marry me before."
"Then you're happy?"
"Happy?" A great laugh rose from beneath the Mayor's vest, and he gaveDavid a hearty slap upon the back. "Yes, sir! Happy!--that's me!
"Yes, sir," he went on, after they had boarded a car, "I've got only onething agin Carrie, and that is that she didn't rope me in before. Say,she's all right--she's _It_. No siree, friend, there ain't nothin' likegettin' married!"
The Mayor continued his praise of his present state till David and Tombade him good night and left the car. As they walked through the crossstreet a sense of loneliness began to settle upon David; so that whenTom slipped a hand through his arm he drew the hand close against hisside.
"You're not going to leave me, are you?"
"Me?" Tom hugged the arm he held. "Not till you turn me out!"
They walked in silence for a block. "Par
d," Tom began in a low voice, "Idon't know why you've been so good to me. I don't know nuttin', an' I'ma lot o' trouble. Mebbe sometimes you t'ink I don't appreciate all whatyou've done for me. But I do. When I t'ink about when I tried to stealyour coat a year ago, an' den when I t'ink about now--I certainly doappreciate. I'm goin' to work hard--an' I'm goin' to study hard--an' I'mgoin' to do what you tell me. If I do, d'you t'ink I'll ever makesomebody?"
David pressed the arm closer. "My boy, you're going to make a splendidman!"
Tom looked up; tears were in his eyes. "Pard--I'd die tryin'--for you!"he said.
When they reached the apartment house that held their new home, Davidsent Tom upstairs and set out for St. Christopher's Mission. His senseof loneliness made his mind dwell upon Mr. Chambers's offer of millions;for earlier in the evening a messenger had brought a note from Helenwhich gave the substance of her talk with her father. He would not havereturned an answer different from hers--yet in this moment he ached forthose things which had been refused in his name, and the aching drew himto look upon that for which he had given them up.
He paused across the street from St. Christopher's and gazed at thebrilliant windows of the club-house and at the great window in thechapel that glowed in memory of Morton. Then he crossed the street andentered the club-house. A few young men and women were coming down thestairway, and a few struggling late-comers were mounting to the floorsabove. He stood irresolute, then noticing that farther down the hall thedoor of the assembly room was open, he cautiously joined the little knotof people who stood about it.
The room was crowded with men and women, all in their best clothes.David quickly gathered from the talk of the officers on the platform,all women, that this was a meeting of the Women's Club, held for thedouble purpose of installing new officers and entertaining the members'husbands. He had been gazing in but a few minutes when the newpresident, a shapeless little woman, was sworn into office. The audiencedemanded a speech, and her homely face glowing with happiness andembarrassment, she responded in a few halting, grammarless phrases. "Ihope I can do my duty," she ended, "so good that Dr. Morton, who got usto make this club, won't never be ashamed when he looks down on it."
Her other sentences had been applauded, but this last was received inthat deep silence which is applause at its highest; and it came to Davidafresh that Morton was still the soul of St. Christopher's. All thewhile that other officers were being installed this closing sentence andits significance persisted in his mind, and so engrossed him that he wasstartled when the folding chairs began to be rattled shut and stacked inone corner of the room. A little later a piano and a violin started up,and part of the fathers and mothers began stumbling about in a two-step,and part crowded against the walls and made merry over the awkwardnessand disasters of the dancers.
David slipped out of the building. Clearer than ever before had come tohim a realisation of the responsibility of sacrifice: when one gives,the gift no longer belongs to one--it belongs to those who have buildedtheir lives upon it.
Across the street, he looked back. Only once before had the MortonMemorial window seemed to him more significant, more warm and powerfulin its inspiration--and that was on the day of his discharge from prisonwhen it had first flashed upon his vision. Above the glowing window thechapel's short spire, softened by the round-hanging poetry of night,seemed to his imagination to be the uplifted, supplicatory hands of theneighbourhood.... Well, their Morton was safe.
When David reached home he found that Tom was in bed and fast asleep. Hewalked through the scantily furnished rooms. They were still strange tohim, for this was his first night in them--and their strangeness, andthe fresh loss of two of his best friends, and the sense, which grewheavier and darker, that he and Helen must remain apart, sharpened hisloneliness to a racking pain. He tried to dissipate it by thinking ofthe ground he had gained--progress that a year ago, when all men refusedhim a chance, he would have thought impossible; by thinking of thegreater achievements the future held. But he could not beget even anartificial glow of spirits; his success seemed but ashes. So he ceasedto struggle, and gave himself over to his dejection.
He turned down the gas in his little sitting-room, and raising the shadeof a window he sat down and gazed into the street. It was always a quietstreet--and now, at half past ten, only an occasional figure moveddarkly along its sidewalks. Far above the line of opposite housetops, ina moonless sky, gleamed thousands of white stars. Leaning back in hiseasy chair, and gazing up at the remote points of light, he went overanew the problem of his relations with Helen, and he asked himself againif he had decided rightly. Yes, he had done right to save her.... Andyet, how he longed for the thing she was willing to give! How empty hislife seemed without it--what a far, far stretch of loneliness!
His gloom was pressing heavier and heavier upon him, when suddenly therecame a ring of his bell. Wondering who could be calling on him at thathour, he crossed the room and opened the door. A tall figure, heavilyveiled and wearing a long coat, stepped in. Despite the veil and thedusk of the room, he knew her instantly.
"Helen!" he exclaimed in an awed whisper.
She did not speak. He closed the door and turned up the gas, and he sawshe carried a small travelling bag in one hand.
"Helen!" he said.
She set the bag on a chair, and drew her veil up over the front of herhat. Her face was pale, determined.
"I've come to stay," she said slowly.
He could only stare at her.
"I've come to stay," she repeated.
"Helen!" he breathed.
"I've left home--for good. I belong with you. I shall not go away."
"Helen!"
"We shall be married to-night."
He gazed wordless at her white face, and he vaguely realised what hermind had passed through since he had left her five hours before. A wildjoy sprang ablaze within him--yet he held fast to his old decision."But Helen----"
"I've thought it all over," she broke in. "Everything. Heretofore you'vebeen the rock. Now I'm the rock--I can't be changed.... I understandthat you've refused me because you want to save me, and I love you forit. But I have searched my soul--I know what I want, I know what I canbear, I know what is best for us both. I know, David!--I know! Since youwould not take me, I have come here to force you to take me. You cannotavoid it. I shall not go away."
His heart thrilled at her words, at the steadfastness of her erectfigure. "But Helen!--when I think of the disgrace that will fall uponyou--oh, I can't let you!"
"The truth is not known about either of us," she returned, steadily. "Ifthe truth were known and if justice were done, my father would bedisgraced and I would share his disgrace, and you would be exalted. Itwould be I who would dishonour you. If I do get a part of your falsedisgrace, I only get what is due me.
"You have borne this disgrace for years," she went on. "Don't you thinkI have the strength to bear, supported by you and love, what you haveborne alone?"
His heart drew him toward her with all its tremendous strength.
"I've come to stay!" she repeated.
He wavered. But his old decision had still another word. "There's onemore thing, Helen. We can speak of it--we are no longer children."
"No," she said. Her mind fluttered back a month to when they had stoodtogether at the window of the Mission, and she smiled tremulously. "I'mtwenty-eight."
He remembered the day, too, and smiled. "And I'm thirty-one--and see,the gray hairs!"
His face sobered. "There's another thing--children. Would it be fair tothem?--to be born into disgrace?"
A faint colour tinged her cheeks. "I have thought of everything--thattoo," she returned steadily. "In a few years you will have won therespect of all; it will be an honour, not a disgrace, to be your child."
Suddenly she stretched out her hands to him. "Oh, I want to share yoursorrows, David! I want to share your sorrows! And there will be glories!I want to help in the good you are going to do. My life will count formost with you ... I've
come to stay, David! I belong with you! I'm notgoing away! Take me!"
He sprang forward. "Oh, Helen!" his soul cried out; and he gathered herinto his arms.
* * * * *
A few minutes later, when he returned from telephoning an old clergymanwhom she knew well, she met him with a glowing smile. "I've been allthrough it--I shall love it, _our_ home!"
He thought of the home she had just left. He caught her hands and gazedinto her deep eyes. "Darling--you'll never regret this?" he askedslowly.
"I never shall."
"God grant it!"
"I never shall. This is the day when my life begins."
"And mine, too!" He drew her to him, and kissed her. "But we must go. Hesaid he'd be waiting for us. Come."
She lowered her veil, and they stepped into the hall. In the darknessthey reached for each other, their hands touched and clasped; and so,hand in hand, they went down the stairs and forth into the night--andforth into the beginning of life.
