Part 31 (1/2)
”I'll tell nothing of the sort, Agnes. I don't fight that way. You ought to know that. You've been my enemy, I'll admit. I've felt bitter, terribly so, against you. I believed that you used my trust to betray me. But I believe I know the reason now. Besides, the harm's done. It's in the past. I fight men, not women.”
”Do you want help?” A thin hand stretched out. ”Will you give me a promise--if I give you one?”
”About what, Agnes?”
”My baby. You--you're not going to let it stay there? You're--”
”I hardly know what to do. I thought after you were better, I'd--”
”I'm better now.” She tried to rise. ”I'm better--see? I've more strength. You could leave me alone. I--I want you to take my baby.”
”Where?”
”Where she can sleep in peace--in hallowed ground. I--I want a priest for her. Tell him that I baptized her Helena.”
”Yes. And the other name?”
A weird laugh came from the colorless lips.
”She hasn't one.”
”But--”
”Then use mine--so you'll have evidence that I'm not married. Use mine, if that's the kind of a man you are--so you can go back and tell them--back home--that I--I--” The last bond had snapped. She caught at him with clawing hands, her eyes wild, her teeth showing from behind tightly drawn lips. ”Torture me--that's it--torture me! At least, I didn't do that to you! I told you that I believed in you--at least that cheered you up when you needed it--I didn't tell you that I believed you guilty. Did I? I didn't continually ask you for the name of the man you'd killed? Oh, there were other things--I know there were other things--” the lips seemed to fairly stream words, ”but at least, I didn't torture you. I--I--”
Then she halted, for the briefest part of a moment, to become suddenly madly cajoling, crazily cunning:
”Listen, Barry, listen to me. You want to know things. I can tell them to you--oh, so many of them. I'll tell them too--if you'll only do this for me. It's my baby--my baby. Don't you know what that means? Won't you promise for me? Take her to a priest--please, Barry--for what you once thought I was? Won't you, Barry? Haven't I had punishment enough? Did you ever lie all day and listen to the wind shriek, waiting for somebody who didn't come--with your dead baby in your arms? Do you want to punish me more? Do you want me to die too--or do you want me to live and tell you why I did the things I did?
Do you? Do you want to know who was back of everything? I didn't do it for myself, Barry. It was some one else--I'll help you, Barry, honestly I'll help you.”
”About the murder?” Houston was leaning forward now, tense, hopeful.
But the woman shook her head.
”No--I don't know about that. Maybe you did it--I can't say. It's about other things--the lease, and the contract. I'll help you about that--if you'll help me. Take my baby--”
”And keep your secret, Agnes? Is that it?”
”Will you?” The woman's eyes were gleaming strangely. ”My mother doesn't know. She's old--you know her, Barry. She thinks I'm--what I should have been. That's why I came back out here. I--I--”
The man rose. He walked to the window and stood for a long time looking out, trying to close his ears to the ramblings of the woman on the bed, striving to find a way to keep the promise she sought. For just a moment the old hatred flooded through him, the resentment toward this being who had been an integral factor in all the troubles which had pursued him in his efforts to beat back to a new life. But as swift as they came, they faded. No longer was she an enemy; only a broken, beaten woman, her empty arms aching as her heart ached; hara.s.sed by fears of exposure to the one woman in whom she still desired to be held in honor, of the whereabouts of the man who had led her on through the byways of love into a dismal maze of chicanery.
Only a woman, ill, perhaps dying. A woman crying out for the one boon that she could ask of a person she knew to distrust and despise her, seeking the thing that now was her greatest desire in the world, and willing to promise--whether truthfully or not, Barry had no way of telling--to reveal to him secrets of the past, if he would but comply.
Was she honest? As he stood there looking out at the snow, it seemed to make little difference. Was she sincere? He would strive to aid a dumb brute if he found it in distress. At last he turned and walked to the bed.
”I'll promise, Agnes. If you want to help me afterward, well and good.
If not--you are free to do as you please. I suppose you want her dressed before--”
”Yes.” The woman had raised eagerly. ”There are clothes--she's never had on--in the bottom drawer of that old bureau. Take them with you.
Then look in a box in the top drawer. You'll find a crucifix.