CHAPTER XXX
THE BARRIERS DOWN
WHITISH-GREY in the full, bright moonlight the road stretched out ahead, and all the earth seemed bathed in the soft radiance and there was a great quiet, a deep, still serenity over all, as though Nature herself were taking her repose—no sound but the rhythmic beat of the horse's hoofs, the pleasant rattle of the buggy's wheels.
From the brow of the hill, where, in another world it seemed now, in the far past, in the long ago, Varge had first seen the penitentiary at sunrise, the prison stood outlined in the calm light, the walls traced in black, uncouth shapes, the great dome of the central building rising spectre-like against the sky. Around it, the fields, the little village, the sweep of country, white-cloaked in the moon-rays near at hand, gradually merged, blurred and indistinct with distance, into shadow, into night.
What men say to each other when their hearts are full, Doctor Kreelmar and Varge had said. They were silent now—as they had been during the last half of the drive back from Berley Falls.
Upon Varge was still a strange sense of unreality; still but the hesitant understanding when the mind is numbed for a time in the face of some great crisis and there lingers the fancy that one is but living in a world of dreams; vivid dreams, it is true, but dreams from which none the less surely there must come the awakening—to reality.
Harold Merton had told all—Varge raised his hand and passed it slowly across his eyes. To his soul a coward, Merton must have lived a life of frightful terror for the last two days—from the moment he had known his mother could not live—and then, a nervous wreck, unbalanced, half mad, the collapse had come, and, his fears climaxed by the belief that at last there was nothing to stand between him and his crime, the little hold he had left upon himself had been torn from him and he had made his wild, frantic appeal—a damning confession in itself. It had not been a pleasant sight when the man had become more rational and the little doctor, without mercy, pitilessly, tolerating no word of interference, had probed and dragged the miserable story from Merton, and in the presence of Doctor MacCausland as a witness had made the wretched man sign his confession.
And then—it seemed to ring in Varge's ears yet—they had gone downstairs and left Merton tossing upon his bed, locked in his room, where they had taken him. They had stood in the hall, Doctor MacCausland with white, horror-stricken face, Doctor Kreelmar mopping with his handkerchief at his brow, his jaws clamped and outthrust a little; and then—yes, he could hear it yet—the sullen, muffled report of a revolver shot. It was he who had broken in the door and found Merton a huddled heap upon the floor—that was all—the man had never spoken again—but darkness had fallen and evening had come before Doctor MacCausland had finally straightened up from the bedside, and in strange, awed, reverent tones had said: "It is over. Thank God he took that way."
That was all—they had started back then, Doctor Kreelmar and himself—and now they were nearing the penitentiary again. A dream? Well, there was another dream then, too, in which sombre shadow, chill and blackness had no place, where there were flowers and trees and blades of grass again, and children prattled in their happy mirth, and there was laughter that was not stilled, and there was no dreariness, no hopelessness—where there was life and love. Life—to live; and love, a love so great, so true, so strong, to fill to overflowing all the years to come that God should grant.
Dreams? No—he was no longer dreaming now—it was true—all true. Here were the great walls looming over him—one more night within them, perhaps two, or three at most—and he would never enter them again. Just this once—they were stopping now—there was a light burning in the warden's office—just this once.
Doctor Kreelmar's hand fell upon Varge's knee.
"Get out!" said the little man crisply.
Varge obeyed quietly; and then, as they both stepped from the buggy, they stood an instant silently facing each other before the prison entrance. Suddenly Doctor Kreelmar snatched for his handkerchief and began to jab at his face.
"Hum!" said he. "Hum! I've got to have a little talk with the warden. I telephoned him before we left. He's waiting for me"—he jerked his thumb toward the office window. "I'll be some time with him, and if I were you I'd walk down the road to the first house on the left—you ought to know it—what?"
Varge was leaning tensely forward, staring into the other's face.
"You mean," he said, and doubt and hope struggled in his voice, "you mean that—"
"Mean what I say—usually do—make a point of it," snapped the little doctor tartly. "You're a free man, aren't you?—all except some fol-de-rol and fiddle-de-dee red-tape. Your pardon 'll be along in time enough to have it framed and hung up before you get to housekeeping! Meanwhile, I'm responsible for you until I hand you over again, and I'll—hum!—give you an hour. After that, if the warden can't find any better accommodation for you than a cell it'll be a different Bob Rand than I've known for twenty years."
Varge's two hands reached out, closed upon the doctor's shoulders and drew the little man's face suddenly close to his own.
"I can go to her—now?" he said hoarsely, and his fingers tightened fiercely on their hold.
"Confound you!" growled Doctor Kreelmar, wriggling himself loose and rubbing glumly at his shoulder blade, "confound you, keep your hands off me—you're as gentle as a grizzly bear!"
Varge's hands fell away; but he still stared into the other's eyes, a great wonder, a great joy upon his face.
"Hum!" said Doctor Kreelmar, and a chuckle crept into his voice as he turned and started up the penitentiary steps. "I forgot to tell you that I telephoned her too!"—another chuckle, and the little man was gone.
It was like that other night—as though the three days had never been—silent, still and quiet—the moonlight falling calmly all about, on road and trees and fields—and the shadows of the maples on the driveway were the same.
In Varge's heart was song again, and the melody filled his soul, enraptured him—now low, now high it rang; now triumphant, rising to the heights; now softened, rippling over chords of tenderest harmony—crowning him a king of a wondrous kingdom, where he would reign supreme as monarch, and bow the knee as subject in glad, joyous homage to her love—this was his inheritance; the song was his acclaim.
And over all, pervading all, was peace, banishing care and sadness, sorrow and strife—a great peace, bearing him onward, in which he seemed to lose himself until, suddenly, out of the beyond he heard his name in liquid, silvery tones that blended like some divine symphony into the music in his soul.
"Varge—just Varge!"
She was coming. She had been waiting, watching for him, and she had heard his step upon the driveway.
Yes; it was like that other night—the soft moonlight playing upon the golden head, lingering upon the pure beauty of her face, touching so reverently the full, glorious throat, caressing again the little, white-clad, graceful form. Yes; like that other night it was—as though he had never left her.
"Janet!" he said, and stretched out his arms. "I am free now—we can go."
THE END