The Barrier: A Novel

by Allen French

  CHAPTER XXIX

  KNOWLEDGE OF NEW THINGS

  While the Colonel lay unburied his house was unchanged. His daughterstalked over their plans, and settled it between them, to the dismay oftheir new guardians, that Judith was to become a stenographer, Beth agoverness. On the third day the fashionable part of Stirling showed asmuch interest as was permitted in the two funerals which took place atthe same hour. The services for the Colonel were private, no flowerswere sent, and a single carriage brought the mourners to the grave. Ontheir way they passed the church where the body of the Judge, as becamehis high position and his wife's love of display, was having almost astate funeral, and where a curious throng waited at the door to see thepeople who should fill the score of waiting carriages. And so the Judgewent to his rest much honoured, and the journals wrote about him; butthe poor Colonel travelled simply to the cemetery, and only hisdaughters, Pease, and Mather, stood beside his grave. George remained towatch the filling-in; the others returned home, now home nolonger--Judith could not regard it so.

  "To-morrow," she said suddenly to her two companions in the carriage, "Ishall begin to look for a boarding-house."

  Beth gave her a startled glance, but said nothing. Pease answered, "Wemust talk it over." Even in the hurry and distress of their recentrelations, Judith had learned to understand him so well that she knewthat his reply meant opposition. Pease was something new to her; sheliked his deliberation, and was beginning to appreciate his force. When,arriving at the house, she found Miss Cynthia there, Judith knew thatsome plan had been made between them.

  Miss Cynthia proposed it at once: the sisters should come to live withher. "You shall have a room apiece," she said. "You shall do exactly asyou please. And there is nothing else for you to do."

  "I knew," said Judith, "that our friends would think we oughtn't board."

  "It isn't that," replied Miss Cynthia. "I say you can't. Next Mondaythis house and furniture are to be given over to Mr. Ellis. My deargirl, you haven't a penny to your name!"

  Perhaps the brusque reply was merciful, as it swept away all grounds forargument. "Take Beth," Judith answered, "but there is no reason why youshould help me. Let me go out and earn my living."

  "I mean to take Beth," was the determined answer. "And I claim thechance to know you better."

  "Judith," cried Beth tearfully, "would you go away from me?"

  And Pease put in his argument. "You are not able to earn money yet. Youmust stay somewhere while you study."

  "So," asked Judith, "all this has been talked over between you?"

  Pease answered by giving her a note from Mather. "I hope," it read,"that for Beth's sake you will accept Miss Pease's offer." For Beth'ssake! Judith looked at Beth, then at the other two, both prepared forbattle, and yielded.

  "I think," was Miss Pease's sole remark, "that you are wise." Hermanner implied a threat withdrawn, much as if, had not Judith agreed,she would have been carried off by force.

  In three days more the house was vacated, and was surrendered to Ellis.When Pease and Mather had adjusted the Colonel's accounts, some fewdollars were remaining to his estate, only to be swallowed up by theoutstanding bills, the most significant of which was the account for theJapanese knife. And so the two girls, whose small savings had gone tobuy their mourning, were left almost literally without a cent.

  Thus Judith began the world anew on the charity of friends, tellingherself that she must submit for the sake of accomplishing. She took herplace at the side of Pease's table with the air of still presiding ather own, and Mather, coming in the evening, noted her bearing andgroaned in spirit. He explained that he had come to see if the movingwere successful. "Three trunks between us," said Judith. "Did you thinkthe undertaking was very great?"

  "There is your typewriter," he reminded her.

  But she would have no jesting. "My one really valuable asset. And nowyou must tell me, George, where I should go to school. To what businesscollege, I mean?"

  For in spite of all protests, the sisters were preparing to work. Fromtheir old school-books they had saved those which might still be ofservice, and on the morrow Beth was to begin with her geography andarithmetic.

  "It will be very unpleasant," Mather said, "going to a commercialschool. Look here, there is a little girl in my office--you saw her atChebasset--who can come and teach you, evenings."

  "And my days?" she returned. "I am not afraid of the unpleasantness."

  So he sighed and advised her. She appreciated that he had inquired intothe standing of the schools, and could tell which was the best. Thetuition was expensive, but there was a scheme by which scholars mightpay out of future wages.

  "And so I go deeper into debt before I can begin to earn for my fifteenthousand dollars?"

  "Judith," he said, "let your friends make up that sum and relieve you ofall relations with Ellis."

  "Mr. Pease and you?" she asked.

  "And Mr. Fenno. Excuse me for telling him; he had learned something ofit from Beth."

  "He is very kind," said Judith. "So are you all, but the debt wouldremain."

  "Ellis can annoy you," he reminded her.

  "Then let me bear it as a punishment. It may help me to make somethingof myself."

  "How many years," he demanded, "do you mean to keep this up?"

  "Forever, if necessary," she returned, but then spoke softly. "George,don't be vexed with me. What else can I do?"

  She was earnest; he saw there no other way for her. "Let me help, then,"he said, and told her more about the school. In her questions andcomments he saw her interest in the future, her curiosity as to the lifeshe was about to lead. In spite of all that had passed, in spite of thenew deceptive softness, the old idea still held and ruled her: she wouldbe in touch with things, would know what was going on in the world.

  In her new home, little lessons began to come to Judith. Pease was arevelation of kindliness and ability--a contradiction. That suchsimplicity could cover such power, that he could set up an inflexibleopinion against hers and yet be embarrassed in her presence, wasstrange, yet very pleasing. Miss Cynthia with her violent manners wasanother source of knowledge, for this odd person was a woman of theworld; she had experience and importance; she corresponded withphilanthropists, and people of note came to see her. And Judith gainedfrom her this lesson: that from a quiet home one may extend a wideinfluence, and be of the world while not at all times in it. Thus thetwo Peases, with their individuality, did much to show Judith that therewas force still remaining in the old families which she had rated solow. She grew to have a little fear of Miss Pease, with her searchingquestions and blunt comments, lest she should inquire into Judith'sinterest in Ellis, and with that cutting tongue lay bare her folly. Andyet at the same time Judith took comfort in Miss Cynthia, who upheld herin her plans. Miss Cynthia had worked for her living, and declared thatit did a woman good.

  But the strongest new influence on Judith was in her relations withBeth. Judith had always recognised Beth's strength. A femininefortitude, not disdaining tears; a perception of worldly values whichJudith was coming to see was clearer than her own; steadfastness andcharity: these were the qualities which had brought Beth through therecent crisis with less actual change than in her sister. And Judith,beginning to admire in Beth the traits which previously she had merelynoted, found also a great comfort in her sister's girlishness, a solacein her softer nature which was to Judith the beginning of thepossibilities of friendship.

  For, save with Ellis, Judith had never spoken freely, and with him butlittle. At the same time she had never been lonely, turning fromfriends. Yet in this changed life she took pleasure in Beth's nearness,interested herself in her doings, and invited her confidences. She grewjealous lest Miss Cynthia, so long Beth's friend, should take the placewhich belonged to her; and so by gentleness Judith won from Beth thestory which weighed on her mind.

  It was one evening when the sisters had gone up-stairs; Judith went intoBeth's room. Beth, with her sadness so well controlled,
seemed sweeterthan she had ever been. She had grown pale over her books. "If you go toyour school," she said when Judith remonstrated with her, "why shouldn'tI work, too?" But she was often weary at the end of the day, and seemedso now.

  "Beth," said Judith, "I saw Mrs. Wayne to-day. She was looking better.George has found a buyer for her house, and she is going to live withsome cousins."

  "I am very glad that is settled so well," answered Beth, and then askedwith hesitation: "Has anything been heard from--Jim?"

  "Nothing," replied Judith. "Beth, are you worrying about him?"

  "No," Beth said. "I--I am sorry for him, but----" She looked up. "Oh,Judith, I want to speak to some one about it. There is a part of it thatno one knows. May I tell you?"

  Judith knelt at her side. "Tell me, dear?" she begged.

  Beth, clasping Judith's hand and feeling the comfort of her sympathy,told the story of that meeting at the Judge's--told the whole of it. Hadshe done right in giving back the ring?

  Judith assured her that she had.

  "That is not all," said Beth. "I thought that I gave it back because hehad been--untrue, yet that I loved him just the same. But, Judith, Ihave been thinking--you have seen me thinking?"

  "Yes, dear," Judith answered. "What have you thought?"

  Beth pressed her hands. "You must tell me if I am right. For I seemalmost hard-hearted, sometimes. Judith, why did the Judge die?"

  Judith looked at her with startled eyes. "It killed him!"

  Beth nodded solemnly. "_It_ killed him, or did--they!"

  "They!" Judith cried.

  "But she most," went on Beth, looking straight in front of her."Sometimes I think I understand it, Judith. It wasn't sudden; it musthave been going on for some time. I went to see Mrs. Wayne that once,you remember, after it all happened. She doesn't blame Jim; she took meup into his room: it was just as it was that night, with his bed openedfor him. And she cried there. But I looked on the bureau, Judith, andsaw pictures of--her."

  "Of Mrs. Harmon?"

  "Yes. And one almost covered the one he had of me. Judith, he hadn'tcome to this all of a sudden? Tell me, for I don't want to misjudgehim."

  "I have seen him with her," answered Judith. "Once I saw them at thetheater door, going out together." The coincidence made itself clearer."That was the day you and he went; I supposed you were behind."

  "We--he--it was my fault," said Beth. "I went away from the play, and heleft me, angry. He must have met her and gone with her. And at othertimes, when I knew he was not at Chebasset, and expected him to come tome, and he didn't--do you suppose he was with her?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "And that kiss," said Beth, shuddering. "It was so eager--fierce! Itwasn't just flirting. He--he preferred her to me."

  "Beth, dear!" murmured Judith, soothing her.

  "He was--weak," went on Beth. "I suppose I always knew it, but Iwouldn't admit it. So weak that she--I want to be charitable, but Ithink she led him away from me."

  "I am afraid she did, dear."

  "I forgive him," said Beth, struggling to pursue her thought to the end."Of course you know that, Judith. But I was fond of the Judge, and hedied from--it. And Jim was--false to me, and" (Judith felt the littleform begin to quiver) "even his dishonesty was not for me but for--her,because Mr. Price sent Mrs. Wayne a great bill for expensive jewels, andshe asked me if--if I'd give them back, and I had to say that he--hadn'tgiven me any!"

  "Beth, dear!" cried Judith, clasping the quivering form. "Beth, bebrave!"

  "I will," said Beth, struggling heroically. "But as I've thought it outby myself----"

  "Oh, you've been all alone!" cried Judith, reproaching herself. "Whydidn't I understand?"

  "I had to think it out," Beth said. "I think I see it clearly now,Judith, and I know myself better, and I'm--ashamed of myself that I'm soselfish, but I think that I--don't love him--any more!"

  Tears came to her relief, and she clung to her sister, shaken with sobs.Judith wept with her; for them both that was a blessed hour. Long afterothers were abed their murmured conference lasted, for Beth needed to betold, over and over again, that she had done right, and felt right, andJudith was glad of it.

  Thus new feelings grew in Judith, stronger for her contact with theoutside world. For the school was disagreeable and humiliating. She hadto go back to the rudiments of knowledge; she had to do examples andfind them wrong. Her teachers were unpleasant, her fellow-pupils coarseand inquisitive. The many little daily rubs commenced to tell on her;her cheeks lost colour, her step something of its vigour, and she beganto look upon the outer world as something with power to do her stillmore harm.

  Yet to it she presented a haughty front, as one person found. Mrs.Harmon came to call, an interesting widow, dressed in her new mourning.It was late in the afternoon; the day had gone hard with Judith, she hadforgotten to eat luncheon, and since her return from the school had beensitting over her "home lessons," wretched tasks which called her to makeup the accounts of a certain Mr. Y----, and also to calculate theinterest on notes at four, five, and seven and a half per cent. forperiods of from twelve to a hundred days. Her answers would not agreewith those in the book. But faint and discouraged as she was, her eyesgrew bright as she saw Mrs. Harmon's card, and she walked into theparlour with the air of a grenadier.

  "Why, Judith, child," said Mrs. Harmon, rising, "how changed you look! Iam so glad I came to comfort you."

  "And I am glad you came," Judith returned. "I have been wishing to seeyou."

  "You have been lonesome, dear?"

  "To thank you," pursued Judith steadily, "for the service you did mysister, in ridding her of Mr. Wayne."

  Very fortunately, after the two had remained looking at each other for aquarter of a minute, while Mrs. Harmon grew very red in the face andJudith remained unchanged, Miss Cynthia suddenly entered the room.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, halting. "I didn't know that any onewas here."

  "You didn't disturb us," Judith answered. "Mrs. Harmon was just going."

  Mrs. Harmon, looking as if she would burst if she attempted to speak,could only bow with an attempt at frigidity, quite spoiled by thevisible heat which was almost smothering her, and departed withsuddenness. Miss Cynthia, never surprised at people's actions, looked atJudith, whose cheeks were very pale, while her eyes had lost their fire.

  "I suppose I've insulted her," said Judith.

  "I hope you have," Miss Cynthia answered. But watching Judith intently,she suddenly seized her by the arm, forced her to the sofa, forbade herto stir, and sent for tea. It was a sign of change that Judith took theministration passively.

  Yet her growing weariness was not to be relieved by a short rest or acup of tea. Her nerves kept her at work, driving her at forced draught,which for long at a time is good for neither machinery nor man. Mathercame that evening, and was led into the parlour by Beth, but his eyessought for Judith in vain. "Where is she?" he demanded.

  "She's in the dining-room," Beth said. "This evening it's her shorthand;she's expanding her notes."

  "And she wouldn't want to see me?"

  "She _needs_ company."

  He looked at her, trying to read her meaning; she smiled and tossed herhead. "Beth is beginning to look better," he thought, and rememberedthat she had never asked him for news of Jim. Then her expressionchanged as a step was heard in the hall; it was Pease coming,plantigrade and slow. "Is that it?" thought Mather.

  "I think I'll go and see Judith," he said, and passed Pease at the door.

  Judith was in the dining-room, bending over her note-book. Scatteredsheets lay on the table before her; her hair had in places escaped fromits confinement and strayed over forehead and nape. He saw the fatiguein her eyes as she raised them.

  "I'm all mixed up," she said.

  He drew up a chair and sat down. "So I should think. How any one readsshorthand I don't see." He took the note-book. "It seems well done."

  "Sometimes I write it correctly," she said, "and then c
an't read it.Sometimes I could read it if I had only written it right. To-day the manread very fast, on purpose, and I lost some of it."

  "I think," he said, "that if you could at times forget your work, youwould come back to it fresher."

  "I can't forget it," she replied. "Sometimes I dream of it."

  "We'll have you sick on our hands," he warned her. "Don't lecture,George," she answered. "Give me the book."

  He watched her for a while as she translated her hieroglyphs; she keptat it doggedly. "Good-night," he said at last. She looked up to respond,smiled mechanically, and turned to her work before he was out of theroom. He went to the parlour and stood anxiously before Beth and Pease.

  "You'll have her breaking down," he said.

  "There is nothing we can do," Beth answered. "She will keep at it."

  "I've warned you," he responded, and took his hat. He was at the frontdoor, when from the dining-room Judith called him to her. "George," sheasked, "is six per cent. the legal rate of interest?"

  "In this State it is," he answered.

  "Then my note to Mr. Ellis is rolling up interest at nine hundred ayear?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Can I ever earn as much?"

  "With experience you can."

  "And I must earn much more in order to pay anything on the principal?"

  "Yes."

  She put her hands together in her lap. "I am learning something." As hestood and looked at her, he saw two tears roll out upon her cheeks.

  "Judith!" he cried, striding toward her.

  But she rose quickly, putting out a hand to keep him away. "I am onlytired," she said. "I'm sorry not to be better company. Good-night,George."

  He stopped instantly, said "Good-night," and went away. Then suddenlyshe felt forlorn, and more tears came into her eyes. "He would not havegone if he loved me still."