CHAPTER X
A COWARD SOUL
FATE plays grim tricks sometimes; and acts performed of seemingly little consequence at the moment may be but the first unconscious step, from which, once taken, there is no turning back, that leads irrevocably, and ever deeper, into that darkest maze of life's tragedy where all is confusion and panic and from which there is no egress—save one.
Harold Merton had not left Berley Falls after the trial. Associations that he did not care to face in New York, together with his mother's persuasions, had led him to decide, for the time being at least, to remain where he was. The doctor's estate brought to his mother a sufficient, if modest, competence, which, too, was no small factor in his determination; so, with an eye to public opinion, he announced his intention of practising his profession—that of law—in his home town.
Following the trial, his first feelings had been ones of relief; relief so great that the revulsion was like a deathly weakness, the swooning horror of one snatched from the edge of a precipice upon which he had stumbled. Then came fear. And thereafter upon the coward soul, as the shuttle in its guides, fixed, undeviable, moves backward and forward, came relief and fear, relief and fear, forward and backward—relief and fear.
Gratitude toward Varge he had; but it was a strange gratitude that lost itself in the wish—that even he drew back with a shudder from formulating in so many words, but which lived dominant in his consciousness—that Varge's sentence had been—death. That would have been the end of it then. There would be no further cause to fear—it would have meant safety, absolute safety, beyond the chance, the possibility, that someday, in some way, the truth would become known. The very fact that, once found guilty, Varge's sentence should have been any other than that customary one, the full penalty of the law, was like a dread finger-post that pointed with grim, premonitory foreboding to the future.
But the case was closed, it was at an end, the law had been satisfied, it was over, it was done, it was ended—relief would come upon him again. But supposing Varge should weaken!—a clutch at his heart, and hot fear would have him in its grip.
At times, he argued pitiful, specious justification to himself. He had never asked Varge to do what he had done; Varge had brought that on himself; all he had asked Varge to do was to run away—just to run away. Poor, miserable cavil, of as little avail as its worth!—Varge loomed up ever before him. What was he to do? What attitude was he to adopt toward Varge? He dared not ignore him.
The crime itself was swallowed up in the all-possessing, craven selfishness for self-preservation—it lived as a black, hideous phantom behind him, it is true, but it lived chiefly in a sort of ghastly proxy—lived because it was that from whence came the haunting dread and fear of the present—and the future.
Day in and day out, Varge was an obsession to him—the fear that Varge would weaken preyed upon him. Too small himself to understand the bigness of the other, to realise that such an act could be performed other than by sudden impulse, which, afterwards, dying gradually away, would, in the face of its own consequences, tempt and lead Varge to undo it all, he sought for means to bolster up the other's constancy. One way alone seemed open to him. To go to Varge, to visit him in the penitentiary, to show him that he was not deserted, to exhibit gratitude, to procure for him such favours as the prison regulations would permit—and, above all else, to speak of his mother, to keep her before Varge. He must do that.
But to visit the penitentiary, to visit his father's murderer—what would people say? It was a strange thing to do. Would it look suspicious? What excuse could he give for going there? There could be but one reason that would seem natural in the eyes of others—that it was a simple, kindly act prompted by generosity. But in this, blinded by his impure motives, he feared to put reliance.
The shuttle again. From one side to the other he swerved, trying to make up his mind, daring to do neither one thing nor the other. He chose in the end what seemed to him the lesser of the evils—his safety lay with Varge. But his choosing was not soon in coming, and it was a month after Varge's incarceration before he drove over one morning from Berley Falls to the penitentiary and was admitted to the warden's office.
Nerved to a preliminary trying ordeal, he found himself instead almost confidently at ease—such impressions of a penitentiary warden as he had formed here and there from different sources, that involved as their prime factor brutishness, were not at all applicable to the pleasant- faced, short, sturdy man who greeted him.
A glance at his card, and Warden Rand, shaking hands, pulled up a chair for him beside the desk and waved him into it.
"I'm glad to see you, Mr. Merton," said the warden with unaffected cordiality, leaning back in his own seat. "I'm glad to see you—I knew your father slightly—not as well as I would have liked, but well enough to hold him in the highest regard and esteem."
"Yes," said Merton, in a low voice, and his black eyes dropped to his hands that were playing with the glove he had taken off.
Warden Rand bent forward with a quick, impulsive movement and laid a hand on Merton's shoulders with kindly pressure.
"Pardon me," he said gently; then briskly, changing the subject: "You've come over in reference to Varge, Mr. Merton, I suppose?"
"Yes," Merton answered. He pulled himself together and looked up. "Yes; I wanted to see you about Varge. I don't know whether you know all the circumstances, rather strange ones—how he came to be with us, the years he was there and—"
"I know," interposed Warden Rand. "It is a very peculiar case. Sheriff Marston told me all about it."
"Then," said Merton, forcing a sober smile, "I think you'll understand why I've come. The man is not bad at heart; what he did was in the hot impulse of the moment, and though he has brought a terrible sorrow upon us, his own punishment is terrible too. I do not know just how to explain myself, I am afraid. He was almost one of us—like one of the family. Neither my mother nor myself can harbour any vindictive feelings—there is only great sorrow and—pity for him."
"I understand," said Warden Rand quietly.
"And so"—Merton was more confident now, surer of his ground, feeling a sympathetic response from the other, "and so any leniency or favour or anything that a little money"—Merton took out his pocketbook—"will procure him that would brighten—"
Warden Rand shook his head.
"There are no favours here, Mr. Merton," he said gravely. "It does you credit; do not think I am insensible to that, but it is impossible."
"But," said Merton, "surely there is something that—"
Again the warden shook his head.
"No," he said; "there is nothing."
Merton put his pocketbook slowly back into his pocket.
"I had no idea the prison regulations were so stringent—aren't they almost too strict, too severe, warden?"
"This is a penitentiary," replied the warden seriously. "We are strict, at times perhaps harshly so, but it is not because we want to be or because we take delight in it—it is because we have to be. We are dealing for the most part—there are exceptions, I am glad to say, even if they are wofully in the minority—with the dregs of the criminal world, men to whom crime has become almost second nature, men who would stop at nothing. I can bring a hundred of them into this office one at a time, open that window there, lay a knife on the desk, my clerk being, of course, for the moment absent, turn around, say, to glance toward the safe, and, desperate as their chances would be, there's not one of the hundred but would take them—and leave the knife in the small of my back!" The warden smiled, and flung out his hand deprecatingly. "That sounds overdrawn perhaps you think." He turned to his clerk. "Stall," said he, "would you take a chance?"
"I would not!" said the clerk with a promptness and emphasis that left no doubt of his sincerity.
Warden Rand laughed; then growing serious again:
"You see, Mr. Merton, why discipline can never for an instant be relaxed. But if I am severe, I try to be just. Their lot is a hard one—it has to be or there would be no punishment in it—and what leniency or favour I can show I do, but it is shown impartially what one man gets, they all get."
"I see," said Merton—he had barely heard what the warden was saying. He was screwing up his courage to the request that he dreaded both to make and to have granted. "I see. But, at least, they are allowed to have visitors, aren't they?"
"Oh, yes," responded the warden, "a limited number."
"Then, if I can't do anything else"—Merton spoke suggestively—"perhaps I could see Varge?"
"Why, yes," said the warden promptly. "Would you like to see him now?"
"Yes," said Merton.
Warden Rand's steel-grey eyes played for a moment over Merton appreciatively.
"You've got a good heart, Merton, a good heart—like your father," he said ; then to the clerk: "Stall, have Number Seven-seventy-seven brought to the visitor's room, and send Willett to me."
"Yes, sir," said Stall, and, rising, left the office.
A moment later a guard entered and saluted.
"Willett," said the warden, "this is Mr. Merton. He is to see Number Seven-seventy-seven." Then to Merton: "The guard will take you to the visitor's room, Mr. Merton. Come back here afterwards; it is nearly noon and you can't drive home before dinner—I shall expect you to come over to the house and have it with my daughter and me. I'll see that your horse is looked after."
"Why, thank you," said Merton, "but I—"
"Nonsense!" smiled the warden genially. "I couldn't hear of anything else." He nodded at Willett.
"This way, sir," said the guard, starting toward the door.
"Oh, by the way, Willett!" the warden called, as they reached the doorway.
"Yes, sir?" said the guard, returning to the desk.
Merton did not catch the warden's words; they were spoken in a low tone, but, whatever they were, they were few and brief, for in another minute Willett had returned to his side and they were going down the hallway together.
A guard on the other side of the great, steel-barred door before them swung back the ponderous barrier and they passed through; it closed with a remorseless clash, and they were in a small, open space from which a corridor led off at either end. A convict, on his knees, scrubbing the floor, darted a furtive glance at them—and upon Merton came suddenly a cold, clammy weakness.
"This way, sir," directed the guard.
They turned to the left; and, presently, in the corridor, Willett threw open a door.
"Just step in here, sir—behind the grating, please. They'll have him up in a jiffy."
Dully, Merton obeyed. An icy hand seemed to be at his heart; his mouth was dry. He moistened his lips with his tongue. Frantically now he regretted his decision; if he could but draw back, give some excuse, he would take the chances, a thousand of them, the other way.
He stood behind a mesh-like grating that reached to the ceiling and ran the length of the room, all except the little opening by the door that had allowed him to pass behind it. Another grating, similar but for the fact that it had no opening, paralleled the one behind which he stood. The two gratings were separated from each other by a space of about a yard, allowing room for a guard to pace between them.
Again Merton moistened his lips. There was a door behind this second grating that led to somewhere, from somewhere—Willett was leaning unconcernedly against the wall outside in the corridor. A tread, dull, muffled, came nearer, grew more distinct. Merton's knees were shaking, and it seemed as though Willett must hear the pound of his heart—but Willett still leaned unconcernedly against the corridor wall without— unconcernedly, that was it—what did Willett know, what did any one know except Varge?—he was a fool to give way to—
The door behind the other grating opened and closed, and in front of him, close against the grating, there was a sudden blur—a blur that wavered in curiously alternating stripes of black and grey; and there was a white face above the blur staring at him, a face that held nothing of familiarity in it, just a face which because it was very pale made the eyes very luminous and that was why they seemed to bore through him. Once before he had seen a face—yes, that night, that cursed night—but this had nothing to do with that, nothing at all, nothing— He wrenched himself together—he was acting worse than a madman—what if Willett, the guard, should notice it! He glanced that way. Willett was still leaning unconcernedly against the corridor wall—he wasn't even looking into the room.
Merton's eyes fastened on the grating—there was no blur now—the splendid physique seemed to stand out intensified by the loose-fitting convict garb, the massive shoulders, the strong, white neck, the upright form—and the face; yes, it was Varge's face. The clustering brown hair was gone and the skin was of a curious pallor, but the eyes were undimmed, clear, deep and steady—yes; it was Varge's face, a face like a carven god's, of ivory, of wondrous strength and power, and there was no savagery, no passion, no anger in it, but there was—yes; there was pity. It was a cold pity, perhaps, contemptuous pity—but it was pity, Merton snatched at it ravenously. Pity—that was his cue.
Only an instant it had been since Varge had entered—but it was an instant that seemed to have spanned hours. Merton's eyes dropped.
"Varge!" he said, in a numbed voice.
"I know why you have come," said Varge quietly. "I expected that sooner or later you would come. You are afraid that some day I shall speak, that this will be too much for me; but that day—"
"No, no, Varge," Merton broke in quickly; "it isn't only that—I mean it isn't that at all. I wanted to see—I wanted to try and help—"
"But that day has passed, the day when I might have done what you fear now"—Varge spoke on, calmly, evenly, ignoring Merton's interruption. "That day was past with the first week here. You have nothing to fear—I shall never speak."
There was something in Varge's voice that Merton caught—a world of passion suppressed, like a mighty tide that purls and bubbles and seethes against the dam that holds it back and will not let it have its way; but there was also something else that filled him with wild elation—finality. But he mustn't show that. He was perfectly in control of himself now—he was safe—he knew that.
"I know it, Varge," he said huskily; "I know it. But there must be something I can do for you; I know Warden Rand; there must be something—"
"There is nothing," said Varge.
"But—"
"There is nothing," repeated Varge, "except for you to go. You have got all you came for. Do you think it is easy for me to stand here and look at you? One question—and then go—and answer that question with a single word—even you will understand why. Mrs. Merton—is she well?"
"Yes," said Merton, and the hoarseness in his voice this time was not assumed.
"You are allowed thirty minutes for a visit," said Varge, "and they may think it strange if, without reason, you stay only five for you are going now—so I am going to make a disturbance in order that no suspicion may be directed against you, do you understand?"—he glanced toward the guard outside in the corridor, then he raised his fist and brought it down with a crash on the steel mesh in front of him. "I don't want to talk to you!" he shouted. "Do you hear, I don't want to talk to you! You've got no business here, anyway!"
Willett, from unconcern, sprang instantly into attention, and jumped forward into the room.
"Shut up, you!" he flung at Varge. "What's the matter with you, you surly cuss? Shut up—don't answer back! If you can't appreciate a gentleman's kindness in—"
"Perhaps," said Merton hastily, "perhaps I'd better go."
"I guess you might as well," grunted the guard. "They're all alike—you'd only waste your breath." He banged with his cane on the grating, the door behind Varge opened, he nodded to the guard who entered—and the next minute Varge had passed out of sight.
Hysterically, Merton wanted to laugh when they got out into the corridor; his spirits seemed as light as air; he was safe, safe; he could hardly control himself; the steel doors, the convict still scrubbing at the floor affected him now with no sense of chill; Varge would never speak. He was cordial to Willett—apologetic for Varge.
"Yes, sir," said the guard affably, pocketing Merton's dollar; "they're a hard lot—sympathy's lost on 'em."
Willett left him at the warden's door.
"Well," said the warden, with a smile, "your visit didn't last very long, but it seems to have done you good."
"Yes"—Merton glanced at the grey eyes, saw the frank smile, and smiled in return. "Yes; I think it has. I can't say that it has been quite as I had intended and hoped—Varge seemed to resent my coming—but I feel, at least, that I have done my duty."
Warden Rand nodded his head.
"Yes," he said, with unaffected sincerity; "and you have a right to feel so. Few would have acted as you have done." He rose from the desk. "And now," he laughed pleasantly, dismissing the subject, "duty done, if you are ready, we'll go over to the house and have dinner."
The hour that followed for Merton over the warden's table was an hour that seemed strangely genuine compared with the hours of the month and more just past. He laughed and talked through it all—mostly with Janet Rand. And after dinner he stayed on, while the warden returned to his office.
He was a good talker, pleasant-mannered, and now with the uplift upon him and the presence of this girl who attracted him, he exerted himself to the utmost to be entertaining and agreeable—or perhaps, better, gave way unrestrainedly to a sense of easy spontaneity in an effort to please and impress her favourably.
Janet Rand was pretty and good fun. He decided mentally that he would see more of her. In the meantime, the day that he had dreaded to face, in anticipation of which he had lain sleepless the night before—and more than one night before that—had turned out to be a red-letter day. He was safe; Varge would never speak—Varge had said so; he had heard it from Varge's lips. And the afternoon had been a windfall of luck; he had not expected to meet any one like Janet Rand—she was a mighty good-looking girl, trim-figured and dainty; a picture of gold hair, and laughing eyes and lips, and charmingly rounded arms exposed by the half-sleeved dress she wore. Yes; he would see more of Janet Rand.
It was quite late in the afternoon, and the warden had come back to the house with a guard and two convicts to have some work started which he wanted done, when Merton left for his drive back to Berley Falls.
Janet, from the front window, watched him drive away; then she turned with a perplexed little frown to her father.
"I can't make up my mind whether I like him or not, dad," she said. "Somehow, he doesn't seem quite natural, but perhaps that may be no more than nervous mannerisms. What I did like about him, though, was his coming here to see that man—that was perfectly splendid of him."
"So it was," agreed the warden. "Yes; so it was. It's a curious case. I've never had anything to do with a man like that before, and I must confess I'm puzzled."
"Why, what are you talking about, dad? Had anything to do with whom—Mr. Merton? I didn't see anything so very extraordinary about him."
"No; not Mr. Merton"—Warden Rand pinched his daughter's cheeks playfully. "Varge, the man who murdered Mr. Merton's father—the man that Sheriff Marston brought in last month when you were in the office."
"I remember," said Janet slowly. "I remember I was very sorry for him—after he went out. What has happened, dad? What has he done?"
"He hasn't done anything," replied the warden soberly, taking a turn or two up and down the room. "I can't explain it—he's different, that's all. I thought I had seen all kinds and all types and had had years enough of experience to see through any veneer any criminal ever thought of coating himself with—but this man is different. I've gone midnight rounds with the guards and listened in front of his cell—he sleeps as sweetly and easily as a babe. I've spoken to him suddenly in the shop, come up behind him when he was off his guard—never a start or tremor. He's clean, clean-skinned, clean-eyed and—" Warden Rand paused and looked at his daughter thoughtfully.
"And therefore he ought to be clean inside," completed Janet. "You nearly said, it, dad. I actually think you believe he's innocent."
Warden Rand's fine, ruddy face relaxed and a whimsical smile crept into his eyes and flickered on his lips.
"My dear," said he, "I've got seven hundred and ninety-three prisoners in there, and this man is the only guilty one amongst them."
"Why, dad!" exclaimed Janet. "What a thing to say—you don't mean that."
"Well," said the warden, "I'm only taking his own say-so for it—the other seven hundred and ninety-two are ready to swear they're innocent until they're black in the face."
Janet laughed; then she slipped her arm through her father's.
"What else is there, dad? You know I'm chief confidant. The man is worrying you."
"No; not worrying me, dear—he's puzzling me," said the warden. "There's nothing else, except, curiously enough, while he's a model prisoner in every other respect, he seems to be taking up with the worst element in the shop, according to Wenger's report."
"Wenger!" Janet burst out. "I—I think I hate that man."
"Tut, tut," chided Warden Rand. "I know you dislike him, but—"
"He's brutal and overbearing," insisted Janet. "You needn't shake your head, dad. I wish he wasn't here. Some day there'll be trouble. I believe he nags and picks at the prisoners and that's probably what he's doing now—he's taken a grudge against this man, and that's at the bottom of it."
"I've never found anything wrong with Wenger," said Warden Rand gravely.
"No," said Janet, "and for a very good reason—Wenger is a sublime hypocrite."