CHAPTER XIV
THE GUARDS ARE CHANGED
A NEW life had opened for Varge. There was the vast, limitless blue overhead; the warm sunshine, tanning his face to a ruddy brown and chasing the pallor of prison and of illness from his cheeks; the balmy air of springtime to drink in full, deep draughts, like precious nectar spiced with the smell of fresh, new earth and growing things—and it was her garden.
He remembered the first morning, a week ago now, when Doctor Kreelmar had discharged him from the infirmary and they had sent him to the warden's house—and he had found her on the lawn. She had seemed like a being from another world, a gift of God of sweetness, purity and innocence, one to worship as above and apart; and his soul, the better, the finer things that were in him had gone out to her in homage and allegiance, as one might reverently lay upon an altar a glad, spontaneous tribute to one of loftier mould, who, diffusing about her intangibly an air of fine contagion, bred the gentler, dearer things of life.
As he had stood before her then, the black-and-grey striped felon suit he wore had seemed a desecration of her presence; and that she should think him what he appeared to be had sent the hot blood flushing to his face. And then with what gentle tact she had put him at his ease!—talking to him of her garden, the work there was to do, her plans for some new flower-beds, the trimming of the honeysuckle hedge that fronted on the roadway, investing him so ingenuously with the counterpart of her own personal interest in it all.
"I have always had such a pretty garden," she had said before she left him; "and I love it so. And this year, you know, I am more ambitious about it than ever. I am so glad you are going to take care of it for me."
"I am afraid," he had answered her honestly, and he remembered the fear that had been his lest she should take him at his word, "that I do not know very much about gardening, and that—"
"You love flowers, too," she had interrupted, shaking her head. "I can see that; so you will love your work, and then—and then, well, it can't help but be well done, can it?"—and she had smiled at him, and nodded brightly—and he had begun to work—in her garden.
That night in his cell, and the nights thereafter, there came to cheer and brighten him not one face only, but two—Mrs. Merton's and Janet Rand's; and when thereafter, with each dawn, the first threads of morning sunlight stole across the corridor from the high windows and, eluding the steel bars of his cell door, awakened him to the rounds of another day, it was to a day different from those he had known before—a day whose prospect no longer tortured him, but one which now he welcomed with almost eager gladness.
The fearful sense of isolation was gone. During the day, the warden would sometimes stop and speak to him; or perhaps Doctor Kreelmar would halt at his elbow to fling a good-natured, jesting warning at him not to plant the bulbs upside down—but mostly it was Janet Rand, his new guard as the warden laughingly called her, who had brought the change to pass. Much through the day they were together, and her clear, ringing laugh, her rich, full voice seemed like strains of some divine melody that stirred a joyous echo in his own soul. At first, it had been as though he listened to it as one who had no right to listen, as one for whom it was not meant, as a thief who steals, or an interloper who intrudes—a strange barrier that his own, fine supersensitiveness raised. But gradually her frank, open, unaffected attitude toward him had quietly, almost unconsciously swept this aside, and in its place had come a friendly intimacy, a certain comradeship that he cherished and treasured in his heart as a priceless possession.
And so a week had passed, the happiest week he had known in weary months: and now in the fresh, cool, early morning he was beginning another day's work. From the conservatory at the rear of the house and behind the barn he wheeled his barrow, loaded with potted plants, to the lower end of the lawn where a bed had been prepared for their transplanting. He set the wheel-barrow down and for a moment, his back deliberately turned to the grey prison walls, he stood erect and motionless, gazing about him into the cloudless blue overhead, at the fields and farms that flanked the village road, at the village itself—a straggling, double row of cottages that terminated at the bridge over the little creek a quarter of a mile away, where the sawmill, the blacksmith shop and the general store were grouped together. Freedom, blessed freedom, manhood's inheritance! This much at least was his—to look and feast his eyes and, yes, if he would—to dream.
He stooped to the wheelbarrow and carefully began to set the plants upon the ground, a smile half-tender, half-whimsical playing upon his lips. These were very special treasures. She had given him particular injunctions concerning them the afternoon before.
The notes of a song floated across the lawn from the house—clear and true they rang, like a morning hymn of praise, pulsing with happiness and the joy of living, an offering of thankfulness for the beauty of the morning, the coming of another day. Then the song died away, the front door opened and he heard her step upon the veranda.
On his knees over the potted-plants, Varge watched her come. The green sward, the leafing trees, the bloom of the honeysuckle hedge framed her well. Dear God, how wonderful she was! Straight and true, the gold-crowned head erect, the laughing eyes blue as the sky above, the rich, red, smiling lips, the full white throat. God's gift of love, of innocence and purity, a shrine of His own building to His own praise—she could be naught else but that. How rare and sweet and fresh she looked in the simple print dress of dark navy blue with its wide, white collar open at the neck, its short sleeves to the elbows with their deep, white cuffs—how full of radiant health and young strength the lithe, graceful swing of her step!
It seemed as though he should stay upon his knees to greet her reverently so—and it was almost reluctantly that he rose to his feet and cap in hand stood waiting for her.
"Good-morning, Varge," she cried cheerily, as she came up and—something she had never done before—held out her hand.
Impulsively, Varge stretched out his own, then dropped it to his side—and flushed.
"I have been working," he said, and lifted his hand for her inspection. "It is not clean enough for you to take."
For a moment she did not speak and her eyes, suddenly grown serious, searched his face.
"I understand," she said, her voice low. "But if I choose to believe that it—that it is clean?"
"I think it would be very like you," Varge said slowly. "You are very kind and good and—and I am very grateful, but—"
"We were talking about you last night, Varge," she said simply, her eyes on the toe of her shoe as she patted down a little mound of earth. "Doctor Kreelmar and I, Doctor Kreelmar believes in you, and I—I think in the last week I have come to know you better than he does—I believe in you, too." She raised her eyes quickly to his. "Varge, won't you give me your hand and tell me we are right, and let us help you to clear yourself, and take us as true, staunch friends?"
Something in Varge's throat seemed to choke him, and he averted his head. Suddenly, dearer than life or freedom, the one thing in all the world that could matter now, it seemed, would be her belief in him. Just her belief—that was all. Temptation as it had never come before, as the horror of the prison life had never tempted him, surged upon him, almost unmanning him for the moment, seeking literally to wrench the secret from his lips. When he looked at her again, the agony had gone from his eyes and his face was composed.
"I cannot do it," he said steadily.
"Then I will take it on my own appraisement," she said, putting her hand frankly into his, the cheery ring back in her voice again. "You see, my faith is not to be shaken."
The cool, firm pressure of her hand thrilled him and seemed to tear down his self-restraint; the quick, spontaneous act of trust brought a mist to his eyes.
"Thank God for such as you!" he whispered.
He turned from her abruptly, and, with his cap, dusted out the wheelbarrow—it was a favourite seat of hers.
She thanked him now and took it, resting her elbows on the handles, cupping her chin in her hands.
Varge, on his knees again, began to take the plants from their pots.
For a long time, silence lay between them. He looked up finally to meet her eyes and read a puzzled something in their depths—and in the fair, sweet face a gentle, tender, troubled look of sympathy.
She started slightly, and the pink dyed the white throat and crept to her cheeks.
"How wonderfully you have done with the garden," she said with a little laugh to cover her embarrassment; "and how quickly, for one who said he knew nothing about it, you have learned in the last week. I came to superintend the transplanting this morning and I find there is no need for supervision, so"—gently—"will you talk to me as you work—about yourself? I think it helps sometimes, doesn't it—to talk? And I should be so glad to listen. About your life and your friends back in the—in the happier days."
"I am afraid there is not much to talk about—that you would care to hear," he said gravely.
The white forehead puckered daintily in pretended severity and rebuke.
"Oh, yes; there is," she said. "Your name—it is such a curious name. How did they come to call you Varge, and what does it mean?"
"I do not know what it means," Varge answered, his quick, sensitive smile upon his lips. "I am afraid it does not really mean anything—a word of babyhood coinage for something perhaps. They said it was the only word in my vocabulary when they found me, and so they called me—Varge. I was left at the door of a foundling home, you—"
"Yes," she said softly; "I knew that. But was there nothing, no mark on your clothes, no message, no little trinket—nothing that would—"
Varge shook his head.
"There was nothing."
"And nothing has come with the years? No clue to your identity? Surely you have tried to find out who you were."
The trowel in Varge's hand grated against the rim of the pot as he loosened the earth, and the massive, splendid head bent forward for an instant suddenly—then he straightened and looked up at her, the calm brown eyes, the whole strong, rugged beauty of his face mellowed with a wistful tenderness.
"Once," he said, in low tones, "the dearest wish I had was to know—my mother."
Quick tears dimmed the great blue eyes, as her hand reached out and rested upon his arm. Her lips quivered.
"I have hurt you," she said, turning away her head. "Oh, I didn't mean to do that!"
Hurt from her! He could have lifted the white hand reverently to his lips. Hurt from that crown of womanhood, that glory of womanhood—the tender heart of sympathy! Hurt—ah, no! Like the balm of some bright, radiant, ministering angel seemed her presence there to him.
"No," he said. "No; you have not hurt me—and you must not feel that you have." Then quickly, as though picking up the thread of a story: "You see, I had little opportunity to search. I dreamed of it as a boy; and as a boy, before I came really to understand, I dreamed of it in fairyland—do you know what I mean? I was very much, and I think a little importantly, concerned in my own mystery, and my imagination was constantly at play. I pictured myself awaking some day to find that I was the long lost, stolen heir of great people, and there would be castles and estates and trains of servants and yachts and—and so many things—everything that my boyish fancy could depict. And I was so very sure of it all, you see, that in my childish conceit I resented it very bitterly when people called me Varge Merton. And so"—he paused and the wistful smile deepened on his lips—"and so I remained—just Varge."
"I see"—the gold head nodded thoughtfully. "And then?"
"Another woman taught me the greatness of a mother's love," he said with simple earnestness—"Mrs. Merton—and, as I grew older and understood, filled me with the hope to be worthy of my own mother when I should find her. So then, I had two ambitions—that and"—Varge had risen suddenly and was speaking almost eagerly now, looking into the sweet face that seemed so winningly to bid him open his heart—"that, and to procure the means that would enable me to search. The thought of who I was, my identity, was rarely out of my mind. I began to study medicine, not only because no other opportunity seemed to offer, but because, too, I loved the work. I did not think then to stay so long in Berley Falls. I meant to make a beginning there, and then perhaps work through college. But the years passed on and in those years the doctor and Mrs. Merton were as father and mother to me, and there came conditions that I could not—"
Varge stopped suddenly. What glaring incongruity was he leading to! The clear, fathomless blue eyes seemed to be reading his very soul. With a quick, outflung gesture of his hands, he turned from her to his work.
"Yes?"—the single word came to him low-breathed, a world of sympathy in the voice.
Varge shook his head, but did not look at her.
"Won't you go on?" she pleaded gently. "I would like to know the rest."
He was on his knees once more over the plants.
"There is no more," he said hoarsely, still keeping his face averted. "The rest is—ruin, wreckage and disaster."
He worked on, but his movements were mechanical—black and grey, black and grey, he could see nothing else, on his sleeves, on his jacket, around his knees, black and grey—that, and the number on his breast. Madly he was fighting with himself to keep his self-control, to crush and hurl back the wild impulse that called upon him to stand before her, as was his right, a clean-handed, clean-souled man. What mattered anything else than that—at any cost—at any hazard! It stood out paramount, above all else—that she should know. Every pound of his heart, the strange new thrill that swept through his veins with every pulse-beat struggled and battered at him for mastery—that she should know.
A long, long time it seemed, and then she rose from her seat. He heard her step behind him and felt her hand laid with lightest touch upon his shoulder—it rested there a moment, just a moment—and then she was gone—walking slowly across the lawn toward the house.