CHAPTER XLVII
The New Judith
FROM sleep as from drugged stupour Judith Trine awakened, struggling back to consciousness like some exhausted diver from the black depths of a night-bound pool. At first she could not recognize her surroundings. This chamber of rough plank walls and primitive furnishings, this hard couch she shared with her still slumbering sister Rose, the view of tree-clad mountains revealed by an open window at the bedside, conveyed nothing to her intelligence.
A formless sense of some epochal change in the habits and mental processes of a lifetime added to her confusion. Who was she herself, this strange creature who rested there so calmly by the side of Rose? … If she were Judith Trine, how came she to be there? The sisters had sedulously avoided association with each other ever since childhood: they had not shared the shelter of four walls overnight since time beyond the bounds of Judith's memory! What, then, had so changed them both that they should be found in such close company?
What, undeed, had become of that wild thing, Judith Trine of yesterday? Surely she had little enough in common with this Judith of to-day, in whose heart was no more room for envy, hatred, malice, or any uncharitableness, so full was it of love which, though focussed upon the person of one man, none the less embraced all the world—even her sister and successful rival.
And this was the work of Love!
She sighed, but sighed softly, that she might not disturb her sister; and in this very act of consideration emphasized the vastness of the change that had come over her. For a week ago to have roused Rose needlessly would have afforded Judith malicious delight: while to-day Judith was not only thoughtful of her sister's minor comforts, but stood prepared to sacrifice herself, to break her own heart with her own two hands, that Rose's happiness might be assured.
Now the chain of memories was complete. She recalled every incident that had marked the growth of this great love she had for Alan Law, from that first day, not yet a month old, when he had escaped the fiery death-trap she had set for him and repaid her only by risking his life anew to save her from destruction, down to this very morning, when the stream from a hydraulic nozzle had swept over the brink of a precipice the two desperate men bent upon compassing the death of her beloved.
Alan Law might now be considered safe from further persecution, since there remained not one soul loyal enough to Seneca Trine to prosecute his private war of vengeance. And though that aged monomaniac had means whereby he might purchase other scoundrels, Judith was determined that he should never again have an opportunity to do so. If there were any justice in the land—if there were any alienists capable of discriminating between Trine's apparent sanity and his deep-rooted mania—then surely not many more days should pass into history without witnessing his consignment to an institution for the criminally insane.
She, Judith, would see to that, and then. …
She made a small gesture of resignation to her destiny. What became of her no longer mattered, so that Alan were made happy in such happiness as he coveted.
With the utmost care she rose from the bed, crept to the door of the room (now recognized as the quarters of the foreman of the hydraulic mining outfit) and out into the room adjoining. And there, pulling the door to gently behind her, she paused and stood in tense-strung contemplation of the man she loved—Alan Law—asleep in a chair beside a table, his head pillowed on his arms.
This was leave-taking between him and her—and he would never know.
Far better so: Judith felt she could not trust herself to say farewell to him.
Like a thief she stole across the creaking floor to Alan's side, hesitated, bent her head to his and touched her lips to his cheek—a caress so slight that he slept on in ignorance of it.
Then, as she lifted her head, her bosom convulsed with silent sobs, she looked into the face of Rose.