Part 55 (2/2)

And this time there was an answer.

Without a moment's hesitation, without a second's thought, he dashed through an open doorway and ran up the narrow flight of stairs beyond.

At last, at last! His Jessie! He had heard her voice. He had heard the music he had longed for, craved for, prayed for. Was there anything in the world that mattered else? Was there anything in the world that could keep him from her now? No, not now. His love permeated his whole being. There was no thought in his mind of what she had done. There was no room in his simple heart for anything but the love he could not help, and would not have helped if he could. There was no obstacle now, be it mountain or stream, that he could not bridge to reach his Jessie. His love was his life, and his life belonged to--Jessie.

He reached the top of the stairs, and a door stood open before him. He did not pause to consider what lay beyond. His instinct guided him.

His love led him whither it would, and it led him straight into the presence he desired more than all the world. It led him straight to Jessie.

For the fraction of a second he became aware of a vision of womanhood, to him the most perfect in all the world. He saw the well-loved face, now pale and drawn with suffering and remorse. He saw the shadowed eyes full of an affrighted, hunted expression. And, with a cry that bore in its depth all the love of a heart as big as his small body, he ran forward to clasp her in his arms.

But Jessie's voice arrested him half-way. It thrilled with hysterical denial, with suffering, regret, horror. And so commanding was it that he had no power to defy its mandate.

”No, no,” she shrilled. ”Keep back--back. You must not come near me. I am not fit for you to touch.”

”Not fit--?”

Scipio stared helplessly at her, his eyes settling uncertainly upon her hands as though he expected to find upon them signs of some work she might have been engaged upon--some work that left her, as she had said, unfit to touch. His comprehension was never quick. His imagination was his weakest point.

Then his eyes came to her well-loved face again, and he shook his head.

”You--you got me beat, Jess. I--”

”Ah, Zip, Zip!” Suddenly Jessie's hands went up to her face and her eyes were hidden. It was the movement of one who fears to witness the hatred, the loathing, the scorn which her own accusing mind a.s.sures her she merits. It was the movement of one whose heart was torn by remorse and shame, whose eyes were open to her sins, and who realizes that earthly d.a.m.nation is her future lot. Her bosom heaved, and dry sobs choked her. And the little man, who had come so far to claim her, stood perplexed and troubled.

At last he struggled out a few words, longing to console, but scarcely understanding how to go about it. All he understood was that she was ill and suffering.

”Say, Jess, you mustn't to cry,” he said wistfully. ”Ther' ain't nothin' to set you cryin'. Ther' sure ain't--”

But a woman's hysteria was a thing unknown to him, and his gentle attempt was swept aside in a torrent of insensate denial.

”No, no! Don't come near me,” she cried in a harsh, strident tone.

”Leave me. Leave me to my misery. Don't dare to come here mocking me.

Don't dare to accuse me. Who are you to accuse? You are no better than me. You have no right to come here as my judge. You, with your smooth ways, your quiet sneers. Don't you dare! Don't you dare! I'm no longer your wife, so you have no right. I'm his--his. Do you understand? I'm his. I shall live the life I choose, and you shall not molest me. I know you. You've come to accuse me, to tell me all I am, to tax me with my shame. It's cruel--cruel. Oh, G.o.d, help me--help me!”

The woman's voice died out in a piteous wail that smote straight to the heart of the little man who stood shaking before her hysterical outbreak. He knew not what to do. His love prompted him to go to her and crush her to his simple, loving heart, but somehow he found himself unable to do anything but gaze with longing eyes upon the heart-broken figure, as she leant upon the foot-rail of the bed.

He stirred. And in the moments that pa.s.sed while his eyes were fixed upon her rich, heaving bosom, his mind groping vaguely, he became aware of everything about him. He knew he was in her bedroom. He knew that the furnis.h.i.+ngs were good. He knew that the sunlight was pouring in through the open window, and that a broad band of dazzling light was s.h.i.+ning upon her l.u.s.trous dark hair. He knew all these things in the same way that he knew she was suffering so that she came near breaking his own sympathetic heart.

But though his intellect failed him, and he had no idea of what he ought to say or do, words came at last and tumbled headlong from his lips, just as they were inspired, all unconsidered, by his heart.

”Say, Jessie gal,” he cried in a softly persuasive tone, ”won't you come to home--an'--an' help me out? Won't you, gal?”

But he was given no time to complete his appeal. The woman suddenly raised her face, and once more broke out in hysterical fury.

”Home? Home? With you?” she cried. ”Ha, ha! That's too good! Home, with you to forever remind me what I am? For you to sneer at me, and point me to your friends for what I am? Never, never! Go you back where you came from. I'm not a wife. Do you hear? G.o.d help me, I'm--”

And she buried her face again upon her arms.

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