Part 38 (2/2)

She hasn't much in her own right; her aunt told me that.”

An icy hand suddenly gripped Martin's heart. He stood immovable, as if stunned. Lucy! Lucy penniless and homeless because of him!

Little by little Ellen's evil scheme unfolded itself before his consciousness. He saw the cunning of the intrigue which the initial outburst of his wrath had obscured. There was more involved in his decision than his own inclinations. He was not free simply to flout the legacy and toss it angrily aside. Ellen, a Richelieu to the last, had him in a trap that wrenched and wrecked every sensibility of his nature. The more he thought about the matter, the more chaotic his impulses became.

Justice battled against will; pity against vengeance; love against hate; and as the warring factors strove and tore at one another, and grappled in an anguish of suffering, from out the turmoil two forces rose unconquerable and stubbornly confronted one another,--the opposing forces of Love and Pride. There they stood, neither of them willing to yield.

While Love pleaded for mercy, Pride urged the destruction of every gentler emotion and clamored for revenge.

Mr. Benton was not a subtle interpreter of human nature, but in the face of the man before him he saw enough to realize the fierceness of the spiritual conflict that raged within Martin Howe's soul. It was like witnessing the writhings of a creature in torture.

He did not attempt to precipitate a decision by interfering. When, however, he had been a silent spectator of the struggle so long that he perceived Martin had forgotten his very existence, he ventured to speak.

”Maybe I'd better leave you to reconsider your resolution, Howe,” he remarked.

”I--yes--it might be better.”

”Perhaps after you've thought things out, you'll change your mind.”

Martin did not reply. The lawyer rose and took up his hat.

”How long before you've got to know?” inquired Martin hoa.r.s.ely.

”Oh, I can give you time,” answered Mr. Benton easily. ”A week, say--how will that do?”

”I shan't need as long as that,” Martin replied, looking before him with set face. ”I shall know by to-morrow what I am going to do.”

”There's no such hurry as all that.”

”I shall know by to-morrow,” repeated the younger man in the same dull voice. ”All the time in the universe won't change things after that.”

Mr. Benton made no response. When in his imaginings he had pictured the scene, he had thought that after the first shock of surprise was over, he and Martin would sit down together sociably and discuss each petty detail of the remarkable comedy. But comedy had suddenly become tragedy--a tragedy very real and grim--and all desire to discuss it had ebbed away.

As he moved toward the door, he did not even put out his hand; on the contrary, whispering a hushed good night and receiving no reply to it, he softly let himself out and disappeared through the afternoon shadows.

If Martin were conscious of his departure, he at least gave no sign of being so, but continued to stand motionless in the same spot where Mr.

Benton had left him, his hands gripped tightly behind his back, and his head thrust forward in thought.

Silently the hours pa.s.sed. The sun sank behind the hills, tinting the ridge of pines to copper and leaving the sky a sweep of palest blue in which a single star trembled.

Still Martin did not move. Once he broke into a smothered cry:

”I cannot! My G.o.d! I cannot!”

The words brought Jane to the door.

”Martin!” she called.

There was no answer and, turning the k.n.o.b timidly, she came in.

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