CHAPTER XXVI
THE GREATEST THING
IT was unconquerable. The very greatness, the bigness of the man nourished it and fostered it until, beating down his defences, routing him, it dominated and owned him. A strange paradox? No—rather the inevitable.
A foreshadowing of it had come to Varge on that night of wild turmoil when he had faced death, had momentarily expected it, on the storm-swept schooner's deck—but only a foreshadowing—he had not realised it all then. Perhaps, if he had never seen her again, in time he might have come to hold his love as a cherished, hallowed memory, a shrine at which he might kneel, a secret source of strength inspiring him, by thought of her, to keep ever sacred and inviolate the finest and best ideals of manhood—but it was more than that now. It had been more than that since that evening on the beach when, for an instant, the mad thought had come to him that she, in all her glorious, fresh young innocence and beauty, in all her tender purity and sweetness, cared for him—a nameless man, an escaped convict, a branded felon. Yes; he had put it from him—then. Not easily—for then in all its meaning, in all its depth, as it had not come to him before, had come the knowledge of the fulness, the completeness of his own love. After that, as a man outwardly himself but mentally almost oblivious and indifferent to events and happenings around him, they had caught him, the warden had caught him, and put him in the lock-up of the little town. Darkness had come, the numbed apathy had passed, his soul had seemed as a seething vortex and like a wild man he had torn his way to freedom.
Since then, that was two months ago now, the days and weeks had passed as in a dream. He had gone from place to place, working, a little here, a little there, at whatever offered—then on again. Never but a few days at most in the same place—not so much from fear of capture, he felt strangely free and safe from that, but because of the restlessness of spirit that he could not quell, that grew ever stronger, more insistent, more constantly with him as the days went by.
In the hours of night when wakeful or asleep, in the day at whatever task he might be engaged upon the craving of his soul never left him—to hear the sound of her voice again, to see her face, her smile. It was worth any price, any risk—what else could matter? It was his life—the one thing his soul asked for. A hopeless thing—illogical? Perhaps—but it was unconquerable. Logic, philosophy and reason—what part had they in this? What was logic, what philosophy, what reason to the yearning prompted by a love that made all else but naught! Unwise, unsafe?—his was the risk, his the added pang, if pang it would cause him; upon him and him alone the consequences—she would never know!
Just to hear her voice, to see her face, her smile once more, to feel her presence near him—because he loved her.
Well, he had come! He had left the train at a station ten miles from Hebron, and since afternoon he had walked the rest of the distance. And now? If, after all, the pitiful chance and hope he clung to should be vain! It was so little that he asked—to steal a glimpse of her through the window of the sitting-room perhaps, to hear her laugh, her song float out to him through the night—that was all—just that—and then to go away again. It was so little to ask for, to hope for, the striving for so desperately hard that surely, surely that much would be his.
The night was calm and quiet. Across the fields in front of him the great walls of the penitentiary stood out in black irregular lines in the white moonlight; twinkling lights from the houses dotted the village road; just before him he could distinguish in a dark blur the warden's lawn, the avenue of maples that fringed the driveway. He wondered, a little curiously, a little wistfully, what the house looked like now—the front, of course, would be the same for there the fire had hardly touched it; but the rear—had it been rebuilt just exactly as it was before, or was it changed?—not that it could matter, only it all seemed so intimately a part of her—and this was her home.
He reached the roadside, looked up and down it, listened—then suddenly lay down full length upon the grass. A step crunched on the gravel across the way, and a man turned into the road—it was Warden Rand—and started briskly off in the direction of the village away from the penitentiary. Varge waited until the warden was out of sight and hearing, then he crossed the road quickly, gained the shadows of the maples and, keeping on the edge of the lawn to deaden the sound of his steps, passed cautiously from tree to tree, making his way toward the house.
How familiar, how full of memory was every object around him—the trees themselves, the flower beds, the sweep of lawn, so delicate a shade of light green now with the moon's softening rays upon it—those blacker shadows ahead, dense, impenetrable, were the great elm and the giant willow, one at each corner of the veranda, whose branches, all but meeting, almost entirely hid the house from view.
How silent, how still, how peaceful it was! There was no sound, not even the stir of leaves in the trees—he stopped abruptly, dazed, as though some blow had fallen upon him and in its sudden hurt had left him dismayed and faint. Yes; it was silent, still—and dark. He had come to the elm; the house, barely five yards away, was before him—dark. No light in any window—no sound—and he had not asked for much—only for very little.
For a moment he stood silently behind the elm trying in a fogged way to think this out. All that afternoon the picture in his mind had been so distinct, so real, so vivid, so actual—he was standing just where he was standing now, and the window was open and she was sitting there by the table, the lamplight falling, oh, so softly, on the golden head and—his hand brushed swiftly across his eyes—and instead it was all dark and nothingness. He had tried to tell himself that it might be like this, but he had needed her so much, and love and hope and yearning had risen in arms against the practical and the matter of fact—and only the picture had lived.
Calmer presently after the first shock of bitter disappointment, hope came again. It was very early yet—he had only to wait. Perhaps she was down in the village at some house and the warden had gone to join her there and, later, to bring her home. Wait! If that were all—just to wait for a little while longer! But he could not wait there behind the elm—it was too close to the driveway, she would pass it when she came back and he would be seen—at the other end of the veranda, behind the willow, he could see equally well and without risk of his presence becoming known.
He stepped quietly out from the shadow of the elm onto the moonlit lawn; he would go there at once while the opportunity was his, and before—
"Varge!"
It came in a cry—not a startled cry; but soft, broken, like a sudden sob, full of wonder, full of pathos, a naked cry robed in no studied dress, the cry of a soul, that halted him, chained him to the spot and robbed him of his strength.
"Varge!"
Something white showed behind the dark network of the Virginia creeper that trailed over the end of the veranda, a chair scraped and toppled over—and she was coming toward him down the veranda steps.
What had he done! In that moment all the joy of Heaven above, the tortures and the sorrows of the lost seemed his. He had never dreamed of this—that she should know — that she should see him. There could be but one reason, only one, for his presence there; and she, so sensitive, so sure in intuition—it could not pass her by. And he, who months ago had fought his way to freedom from this very place that she might not have the hurt, the pain of this, had brought it back, God knew how innocently, how unintentionally, upon her now—grim, mocking irony blending an agony of bliss!
His hand rose slowly to his hat and he stood bareheaded as she came.
Softly, wondrously the moonlight played upon her, seeming to hold her in its embrace, lingering on the little white-shod feet, creeping so reverently around the graceful form, flooding the full throat, the sweet face, the golden hair with its mellow radiance—glorying in its right to its caress.
She stood before him now, so small, so delicate in her beauty, like some pure, God-given angel, and a fragrance as of some rare perfume was about her. The long lashes fell suddenly, hiding the great blue eyes, and her head was lowered, bowed a little.
"You have come here, Varge"—the words came very slowly in an unsteady voice—"here where—where your danger is very terrible, and you have taken this frightful risk because, because—will you tell me why?"
Lie to her? Yes! Yes, a thousand times now—if there were but one lie to tell! The knotted cords at his temples, throbbing, throbbing, seemed that they must burst their bounds; the brown hair falling over his forehead cloaked beads of moisture that sprang out upon his brow—and no word would come to his lips, his brain seemed blunted, dulled, in chaos, in turmoil.
A long, long time the silence held, and then she spoke again, her head a little lower.
"You—you are making it very hard for me," she whispered. "You will not answer and—and I know. I—I knew on the beach that day—did you think I did 
SOFTLY, WONDROUSLY, THE MOONLIGHT PLAYED UPON HER.
"Janet!"—all of life and death seemed in the word; rapt wonder, a wild questioning that would not let him yet believe, was in his eyes, his face.
Slowly, hesitatingly, he put out his hands and touched her—her arms, her shoulders—and gently lifted her face and looked into the swimming eyes that for a breathless moment were raised to his—and then he swept her to him, kissing the blue-veined eyelids, the trembling lips, the golden head of hair, the pure white brow.
"I love you, I love you—Janet—Janet"—the words came over and over again from his lips—words he had never thought to say—came voicing a song of wondrous melody in his soul—all else was blotted from him—and only that glad pæon of supernal joy rang out entrancing him.
"Varge—dear Varge," she answered him tremulously—and like a tired child lay passively in his arms.
He held her close to him in a silence that had no need of words, her head upon his breast, his face buried in the golden hair again—and then her hand stole into his, and she led him toward the willow.
"I do not think we could be seen from the road," she said, a little laughter, a little sob mingling their notes in her voice, "but it will be safer here."
Beneath the limbs of the great tree it was shadow and the light was gone—and to Varge, suddenly, it seemed as though a vast pall, cold and chill, had fallen. It was madness—a black, yawning gulf of utter madness—and to its bottomless depths he had hurled himself—and her. A taste of joy, divine beyond all telling, a glimpse into a world of rapture, of enchantment, through gates of dazzling glory, had been his—but now—God pity him—the price.
He faced her, pale, haggard, his eyes full of the misery that was upon him.
"Janet! Janet!"—grief, self-condemnation, hopelessness, all were in his voice; and wrung from him in a hoarse cry came the words that had flashed upon him when he had stepped out from the elm upon the lawn and she had seen him: "Janet—what have I done!"
Her hands felt up and rested upon his face.
"I know," she said softly. "But we could not undo that now if we would. I know—so well. You never meant that I should see you—but, oh, I am so glad, so glad I did. I have wanted you so and—and now you have come and—and I will never let you go again."
His fingers brushed back the hair from her forehead and smoothed it tenderly.
"I would to God," he said in a choked voice, "that it were so—that I should never leave you."
"I can never let you go," she said, and her hands pressed tightly on his cheeks. "I can never let you go—alone—for it would be—forever."
He drew her to him, drew her head to his shoulder again, holding her tightly, thinking to soothe her.
She held quite still for an instant; then she raised her head, and her eyes as they met his were blinded with tears, but there was brave control and quiet resolve in her voice.
"I do not think you understand," she said steadily. "You must go soon—now—but not alone"
He looked at her startled, reading her eyes, searching her face.
"Janet!" he cried. "You mean—you mean that you will marry me, that when I go you—"
"Will go too," she said resolutely.
With a strange, slow movement Varge shook his head.
"You do not know what you are saying," he said numbly. "I, who am convicted of a crime of which I cannot even tell you I am innocent; I, who—"
"My heart told me that long ago," she interrupted him. "I have thought of it since that morning in the garden here, since that afternoon on the beach—you could not tell me then, and I do not ask it now—I shall never ask it. If it is a sacrifice that involves other lives, as I know it must be, if it seals your lips so that you can never speak, at least it shall not take from us all happiness—the love that God has given us."
"My name"—his head was bowed, his voice dull. "Have you forgotten that I do not even know who I am—that I have no name but Varge—that I can never hope to find another?"
"Would it be a prouder one?" she said, a quiver in the full throat as she lifted her head. "A prouder name than Varge—just Varge—because you have made it what it is."
"You love me so?" he murmured brokenly.
"Is my love greater than yours that risked more than life to-night that for a few minutes you might be near me?" she asked, with a little sob. "Yes; I love you so. I do not know how great my love is, I only know that it is the greatest thing in my life—that you shall not go and face the terrible future that you are thinking of alone." She had drawn closer to him, and now her arms had crept around his neck and tightened there.
"No, no!" he burst out desperately. "I cannot—I must not!"
"Yes," she said passionately. "You must—there is no other way. You could not live alone through those years, they would be too terrible, too cruel—but together we will make another future for ourselves somewhere—and you will be happy—and it is my happiness too—we will find happiness together. I—I think that I should die if you left me here."
Find happiness! Make another future for themselves! It was like a glimpse of Heaven! Happiness—ah, yes, there would be happiness—and his life had been clean—if there was a stain upon his name there was none upon his soul—and it was God-given, this pure love of theirs, as she had said—and there was no other way—the barriers were down, torn down through no voluntary will of his—nothing could change that now—and they were each other's—for all of life.
"Listen, Varge"—her arms still clung around his neck, but her face was raised to his. "The time is going and it is so precious—every minute is so precious to us now—we must not lose a single one. You know the bridge over the creek? You must go there by the fields. I have a few things I must get together, but it will take you longer going that way than it will take me by the road. I will meet you there, and a little further on there is some one I can trust who will give us a horse and buggy, and we can drive to Claxton and get a train. Oh, Varge, Varge, did you think that I would let you go alone! That I—"
She was crushed in his arms, his lips to hers, to her hair, to her eyes again—and again in his soul burst forth that deathless song of glad, wondrous joy, and now its melody was carried in high, exultant notes, like crashing strains of martial music that fired his blood—and he was immortal, a god, and power and majesty and might and heaven and earth were his.
"Yes!" he whispered fiercely. "Yes, yes—yes!"
She freed herself, half-laughing, half-crying, the blue eyes smiling at him through a blinding mist; then breathlessly, pantingly, she pushed him away.
"Go, then!" she pleaded. "Oh, go at once—quick! I will be there before you are—and we have no time to lose."
She turned from him and ran toward the house. For a moment the little white figure paused on the veranda steps and looked back at him—and then she was gone.
The song in his soul rose into higher, wilder, almost barbaric chords—the primal, elemental song that may slumber sometimes but never dies. Quickly he passed across the lawn, down the driveway, over the road and gained the fields. Bathed in the white, clear moonlight, fairy carpeted they seemed, giving a new lightness, a new spring to his steps, as though they too heard the song and would speed him on his way.
But presently his steps grew slower, faltered, and he stopped—and presently the moonlight seemed to hover curiously, wonderingly, doubtfully over a great form outstretched upon the ground.
For a space, whose passing had no measure of time for him, Varge lay there. The day of madness had come, and it had been stronger than he—but now it had gone for a little season and the nakedness of it all was upon him—the realisation in all its glaring horror of what he would be bringing her to face, to endure, to suffer; the greatness of her sacrifice, a sacrifice that would alienate her forever from all friends and kindred; the thought of children that might come to them; the constant fear, the ever present dread of discovery no matter where they might be; the suspicion that would haunt them in every face they saw, that would be always hanging over them, crushing them down; the possibility of final capture, even if not until far on in the after years; the degradation, the shame that would follow and be her sure and only portion—the whole miserable picture of a desperate, hunted life, of what it meant to her, was before him now. And this, in her great, unselfish, boundless love, she had sought to share, to brighten the awful darkness with her own radiant presence. And he—the temptation had been too great for him, had blinded him, the yearning, the vision of Heaven that had been his had made mockery of resistance—and he had come this far, almost so far that there was no turning back—but now, before it was too late, he must save her from herself—from himself.
He lay face down, his head buried in his hands, his body motionless. He was stronger now than the temptation—for the moment—but, if subservient temporarily, this temptation was his ultimate master. He realised it, felt it, knew it—grim in leering irony the fact thrust itself upon him, and denial was but added mockery, an added barb. He was weak here, pitifully, helplessly weak—his craving, his hunger for her dominated him, would dominate him, intoxicate his senses—master him. Yes; he would, he could, he must stop now—but hereafter—afterwards? The temptation had not come for the last time. It would come again and again, and each time it would grow stronger—and he had so nearly yielded now! Go where he would, put the world between them—and he would come back—drawn to her irrevocably by the love that knew no other reason than fulfilment, bigger, stronger than himself, engulfing him—drawn to her as he had been drawn in the last two months—drawn to her more surely, more irresistibly than he had been drawn this time, for now her love was his and he would hear her calling, always calling, across the distance—and sooner or later he would come back to her—his soul told him that. Yes; here he was weak, a pliable thing—here he could not trust himself—he dared not trust himself—he would yield again now at one word of her voice upon his ears, one breath of hers upon his cheek, one touch of her lips to his—one glimpse of her. And she—she was waiting for him now—at the bridge.
A cloud veiled the moonpath; the white brightness of the fields faded to a sombre grey, grew darker, and all around was black. Slowly, very slowly, the cloud passed, as though lingering to shield the form upon the ground, and then from its filmy edges the moonglint struggled forth again and the soft whiteness flooded the earth once more.
The terror of that life for her!—as the years went by, the awfulness of it for her! And he could not trust himself—as a fearful, menacing truth that fact burned itself into his soul—he could not trust himself—yet he must never go to her again—at any cost, for all of happiness that might still be left in life for her, he must never go to her again. His, she was his now, she had told him so, and alone, depending on his own strength, when every thought and longing and desire was for her, he could not trust himself—there was nothing in himself to hold him from her—and the next time he would not stop before he reached the bridge. But there was a way and he must take it, one way to make it impossible—impossible for him to accept her sacrifice; impossible for her to plead and insist upon it; impossible for them both—a way to put it forever beyond their reach, hers or his. It was a very terrible, cruel way for her—but better that than that all her life should be utter wreckage, ruin and dismay.
He rose to his feet, and for an instant stood with his hands tight-clasped across his eyes; then swiftly, with ever quickening step as one bent upon an object where pause or delay were fatal to the resolution, he retraced his way to the road, stepped out upon it—and kept on. The prison walls, high, towering, flung their grim shadows across his path; above him a figure, dark-outlined, carbine slung in the crook of his arm, paced to and fro by the little turret guard-house on the corner of the wall.
Opposite the prison entrance Varge turned from the road, mounted the short flight of steps and pulled the bell. And mechanically, as he waited, his shoulders lurched forward a little, like one bracing himself to meet a blow—all trusty privileges forfeited, he was standing outside the walls for the last time.
He dared not trust himself—he was battling now to let no other thought but that creep in upon him—and living in his brain and soul, beyond all strength of his to fight it back, to obliterate it from his mind, was the picture of a little white-robed figure, her arms outstretched toward him, beckoning to him, waiting anxiously, waiting, waiting, waiting at the bridge; and ringing in his ears was her voice calling, calling, calling him to come.
A bead of sweat sprang out upon his forehead—his resolution was weakening with every second of inaction—she was calling, she was waiting—for him—for him! Great God, would they never come, would they never open the door until it was—too late! He seized the bell again and wrenched at it violently.
And now a hurried step sounded from the hall within, then sliding bolts, the rattle of a steel key—and the door, still held by a chain lock, was opened a cautious inch or so.
"What's wanted?" demanded a gruff voice.
"Open the door"—Varge's voice was strained, low, a whisper—he pushed desperately against the door. "Open the door—let me in."
"Here now, none of that!" growled the guard roughly. "Keep your hands off the door! Let you in, eh? And who the devil are you?"
Varge leaned suddenly a little further forward, and, thrusting both hands into the opening, grasped at the edge of the door—it seemed that he must literally hold himself, cling to something, something tangible that responded to his sense of touch—mind and soul were in turmoil—the bridge, the bridge, she was waiting for him, calling to him from there—his fingers tightened on the door until it seemed that the blood must spurt from the nail-tips to keep that voice from dragging them from their hold.
"Let me in!" he cried out hoarsely. "Let me in! I am Varge. I am Seven-seventy-seven."
It was dark there in the shadow of the doorway, and there was a vicious, threatening note in the guard's tones.
"Yes—like hell you are!" he snapped. "Go on, now—beat it! None of your funny joker business, or I'll let you in in a way you won't like! D'ye hear, beat it or—"
Varge was upon the door like a madman—a wild shout from the guard echoed back through the hallway and rang, reverberating, through the high, vaulted dome of the prison beyond.
In—he must beat his way in—tear his way in—now—another instant and he would turn and flee—in—in—IN! With all his Titanic strength he heaved against the door, and his muscles, leaping into play, hardened like knobs of steel.
For an instant there in the darkness there was no sound save of great breathing, while a form, curiously contorted into crouched shape bulked black against the doorway—then again, and once again, the guard's shout of alarm, full of a sudden terror now, rang out in a high-pitched yell. Came then a low, ominous noise of yielding things, steel and iron and wood—then the chain-lock, torn from its socket, clattered jangling against the steel door—the door shot wide and brought up against the wall with a terrific crash, hurling the guard on the other side to the floor—and Varge, resistance suddenly gone, pitched forward, recovered himself, and staggered into the hallway.
Shouts and cries were everywhere now—the stillness of the prison, that at night was the stillness of the tomb, was gone—guards, on the run, dashed through the steel-barred gates from the prison proper into the hall. Panting, gasping, his face white with the fearful strain, great drops standing out upon his forehead and trickling courses down his face, Varge leaned heavily against the wall.
The door-guard gained his feet, and his jaw dropped, stared like one looking at a ghost into Varge's face.
"Seven-seventy-seven!" he mumbled. And again: "Seven-seventy-seven!"
There was a smile, grim, ironical, on Varge's lips, as the other guards surrounded him—the door-guard had rushed back to the door and was frantically closing it, shooting home the bolts, nervously, hurriedly turning the great steel key!