Part 6 (1/2)

”You've been out in all this weather?” demanded the other.

”I lost my way. In the hills back there. I don't know where I was.”

”Had you no place of shelter?”

”Where could I seek shelter? I spent the day in the cellar of a farmer's house. He didn't know I was there. I have had no food.”

”Why did you kill that man?”

”There was nothing left for me to do but that.”

”And why did you rob him?”

”Ah, I had ample time to think of all that. You may tell the officers they will find everything hidden in that farmhouse cellar.

G.o.d knows I did not want them. I am not a thief. I'm not so bad as that.”

Mrs. Wrandall marvelled. ”Not so bad as that!” And she was a murderess, a wanton!

”You are hungry? You must be famished.”

”No, I am not hungry. I have not thought of food.” She said it in such a way that the other knew what her whole mind had been given over to since the night before.

A fresh impulse seized her. ”You shall have food and a place where you can sleep--and rest,” she said. ”Now please don't say anything more. I do not want to know too much. The least you say to-night, the better for--for both of us.”

With that she devoted all of her attention to the car, increasing the speed considerably. Far ahead she could see twinkling, will-o'-the-wisp lights, the first signs of thickly populated districts. They were still eight or ten miles from the outskirts of the city and the way was arduous. She was conscious of a sudden feeling of fatigue.

The chill of the night seemed to have made itself felt with abrupt, almost stupefying force. She wondered if she could keep her strength, her courage,--her nerves.

The girl was English. Mrs. Wrandall was convinced of the fact almost immediately. Unmistakably English and apparently of the cultivated type. In fact, the peculiarities of speech that determines the London show-girl or music-hall character were wholly lacking. Her voice, her manner, even under such trying conditions, were characteristic of the English woman of cultivation. Despite the dreadful strain under which she laboured, there were evidences of that curious serenity which marks the English woman of the better cla.s.ses: an inborn composure, a calm orderliness of the emotions. Mrs. Wrandall was conscious of a sense of surprise, of a wonder that increased as her thoughts resolved themselves into something less chaotic than they were at the time of contact with this visible condition.

For a mile or more, she sent the car along with reckless disregard for comfort or safety. Her mind was groping for something tangible in the way of intentions. What was she to do with this creature?

What was to become of her? At what street corner should she turn her adrift? The idea of handing her over to the police did not enter her thoughts for an instant. Somehow she felt that the girl was a stranger to the city. She could not explain the feeling, yet it was with her and very persistent. Of course, there was a home of some sort, or lodgings, or friends, but would the girl dare show herself in familiar haunts?

She had said to the sheriff that she hoped the slayer of her husband would never be caught. She recalled her words, and she remembered how sincere she had been in uttering them. But she had not figured on herself as an instrument in furthering the hope to the point of actual realisation. What could be more incongruous, more theatric,--yes, more bizarre, than her att.i.tude at this moment? It seemed impossible that this shrinking, inert heap at her side was a living thing; a woman who had slain a fellow creature, and that creature the man who had been her husband for six years. It seemed utterly beyond sense or reason that she should be helping this murderess to escape, that she should be showing her the slightest sign of mercy. And yet, it was all true. She was helping her, she was befriending her.

She found herself wondering why the poor wretch had not made way with herself. Escape seemed out of the question. That must have been clear to her from the beginning, else why was she going back there to give herself up? What better way out of it all than self-destruction?

Sara Wrandall reached a sudden conclusion. She would advise the girl to leave the car when they reached the centre of a certain bridge that spanned the river! No one would find her...

Even as the thought took shape in her mind, she experienced a great sense of awe, so overwhelming that she cried out with the horror of it. She turned her head for a quick glance at the mute, wretched face showing white above the robe, and her heart ached with sudden pity for her. The thought of that slender, alive thing going down to the icy waters--her soul turned sick with the dread of it!

In that instant, Sara Wrandall--no philanthropist, no sentimentalist--made up her mind to give this erring one more than an even chance for salvation. She would see her safely across THAT bridge and many others. G.o.d had directed the footsteps of this girl so that she should fall in with the one best qualified to pa.s.s judgment on her. It was in that person's power to save her or destroy her. The commandment, ”Thou shalt not kill,” took on a broader meaning as she considered the power that was hers: the power to kill.

Back of all these finely human impulses was the mysterious arbiter that makes great decisions for all of us, from which there can be no appeal, and which brooks no argument: Self. Self it was that put a single question to her and answered it as well: what personal grievance had she against this unhappy girl? None whatever. Self it was therefore that slyly thanked her for an unspeakable blessing: she had brought to an end not only the life of her husband but the false position she herself had been obliged to maintain through a mistaken sense of duty and self-respect. And who was to say, outside the law, that this frail girl had not just cause to slay?

A great relaxation came over Sara Wrandall. It was as if every nerve, every muscle in her body had reached the snapping point and suddenly had given way. For a moment her hands were weak and powerless; her head fell forward. In an instant she conquered,--but only partially,--the strange feeling of la.s.situde. Then she realised how tired she was, how fiercely the strain had told on her body and brain, how much she had really suffered.

Her blurred eyes turned once more for a look at the girl, who sat there, just as she had been sitting for miles, her white face standing out with almost unnatural clearness, and as rigid as that of the sphinx.

The girl spoke. ”Do they hang women in this country?”

Mrs. Wrandall started. ”In some of the States,” she replied, and was unable to account for the swift impulse to evade.