V
THE CASE OF HELEN BRANDOW
"'S Iverson," barked Nestor Hurd, over the low partition which dividedhis office from that of his staff, "c'm' here!"
I responded to his call with sympathetic haste. It had been a hard dayfor Mr. Hurd. Everything had gone wrong. Every reporter he had sentout seemed to be "falling down" on his assignment and telephoning into explain why. Next to failures, our chief disliked explanations. "Adead man doesn't care a hang what killed him," was his terse summingup of their futility.
He was shouting an impassioned monologue into the telephone when Ireached his side, and as a final exclamation-point he hurled thereceiver down on his desk, upsetting a bottle of ink. I waited insilence while he exhausted the richest treasures of his vocabulary andsoaked up the ink with blotters. It was a moment for feminine tact,and I exercised it, though I was no longer in awe of Mr. Hurd. I hadbeen on the _Searchlight_ a year, and the temperamental storms of myeditors now disturbed me no more than the whirling and buzzing ofmechanical tops. Even Mollie Merk had ceased to call me the "conventkid." I had made many friends, learned many lessons, suffered manydisappointments, lost many illusions, and taken on some new ones. Ihad slowly developed a sense of humor--to my own abysmal surprise. Thememory of my convent had become as the sound of a vesper-bell, heardoccasionally above the bugle-calls of a strenuous life. Also, I hadlearned to avoid "fine writing," which is why my pen faltered just nowover the "bugle-calls." I knew my men associates very well, andadmired most of them, though they often filled me with a maternaldesire to stand them in a corner with their faces to the wall. Ifrequently explained to them what their wives or sweethearts reallymeant by certain things they had said. I was the recognized officeauthority on good form, Catholicism, and feminine psychology.Therefore I presented to Mr. Hurd's embittered glance the serene browof an equal--even on occasions such as this, when the peace of theoffice lay in fragments around us.
At last he ceased to address space, threw the blotters into hiswaste-paper basket, and turned resentful eyes on me.
"Gibson's fallen down on the Brandow case," he snapped.
I uttered a coo of sympathy.
"The woman won't talk," continued Hurd, gloomily. "Don't believeshe'll talk to any one if she won't to Gibson. But we'll give her'nother chance. Go 'n' see her."
I remained silent.
"You've followed the trial, haven't you?" Mr. Hurd demanded. "Whatd'you think of the case?"
I murmured apologetically that I thought Mrs. Brandow was innocent,and the remark produced exactly the effect I had expected. My chiefgave me one look of unutterable scorn and settled back in his chair.
"Great Scott!" he groaned. "So you've joined the sobbing sisterhood atlast! I wouldn't have believed it. 'S Iverson"--his voice changed, hebrought his hand down on the desk with a force that made theink-bottle rock--"that woman's as guilty as--as--"
I reminded him that the evidence against Mrs. Brandow was purelycircumstantial.
"Circumstantial? 'Course it's circumstantial!" yelped Hurd. "She's tooclever to let it be anything else. She has hidden every track. She'sthe slickest proposition we've had up for murder in this state, andshe's young, pretty, of good family--so she'll probably get off. Butshe killed her husband as surely as you stand there, and the fact thathe was a brute and deserved what he got doesn't make her any lessguilty of his murder."
It was a long speech for Mr. Hurd. He seemed surprised by it himself,and stopped to glare at me as if I were to blame for the effort it hadcaused him.
"You know Davies, her lawyer, don't you?" he asked, more quietly.
I did.
"Think he'll give you a letter to her?"
I thought he would.
"'L right," snapped Mr. Hurd. "Go 'n' see her. If she'll talk, get aninterview. If she won't, describe her and her cell. Tell how she looksand what she wears--from the amount of hair over her ears to the kindof polish on her shoes. Leave mawkish sympathy out of it. See her asshe is--a murderess whose trial is going to make American justice looklike a hole in a doughnut."
I went back to my desk thinking of his words. While I was pinning onmy hat the door of Mr. Hurd's room opened and shut, and his assistant,Godfrey Morris, came and stood beside me.
"I don't want to butt in," he began, "but--I hope you're going on thisassignment with an open mind, Miss Iverson."
That hurt me. For some reason it always hurt me surprisingly to haveGodfrey Morris show any lack of faith in me in any way.
"I told Mr. Hurd," I answered, with dignity, "that I think Mrs.Brandow is innocent. But my opinion won't--"
"I know." Mr. Morris's ability to interrupt a speaker without seemingrude was one of his special gifts. "Hurd thinks she's guilty," he wenton. "I think she's innocent. What I hope you'll do is to forget whatany one thinks. Go to the woman without prejudice one way or theother. Write of her as you find her."
"That," I said, "is precisely what I intend to do."
"Good!" exclaimed Morris. "I was afraid that what Hurd said might sendyou out with the wrong notion."
He strolled with me toward the elevator. "I never knew a case wherethe evidence for and against a prisoner was so evenly balanced," hemused. "I'm for her simply because I can't believe that a woman withher brains and courage would commit such a crime. She's too good asport! By Jove, the way she went through that seven-hour session onthe witness-stand the other day ..." He checked himself. "Oh, well,"he ended, easily, "I'm not her advocate. She may be fooling us all.Good-by. Get a good story."
"I'll make her confess to me," I remarked, cheerfully, at the elevatordoor. "Then we'll suppress the confession!"
"We'll give her a square deal, anyway," he called, as the elevatorbegan to descend.
It was easy to run out to Fairview, the scene of the trial, easy toget the letter from Mr. Davies, and easiest of all to interview thefriendly warden of the big prison and send the note to Mrs. Brandow inher cell when she had returned from court. After that the broadhighway of duty was no longer oiled. Very courteously, but veryfirmly, too, Mrs. Brandow declined to see me. Many messages passedbetween us before I was admitted to her presence on the distinctunderstanding that I was not to ask her questions, that I was not toquote anything she might say; that, in short, I was to confine thedrippings of my gifted pen to a description of her environment and ofherself. This was not a heartening task. Yet when the iron door ofNumber 46 on the women's tier of the prison had swung back to admit memy first glance at the prisoner and her background showed me that Mr.Hurd would have at least one "feature" for the _Searchlight_ the nextmorning.
On either side of Number 46 were typical white-painted andcarbolic-scented cells--one occupied by an intoxicated woman whosnored raucously on her narrow cot, the other by a wretched hag whoclung to the bars of her door with filthy fingers and leered at me asI passed. Between the two was a spot as out of place in thosesurroundings as a flower-bed would seem on the stern brow of an Alpineglacier.
Mrs. Brandow, the newspapers had told the world, was not only abeautiful woman, but a woman who loved beauty. She had spent sixmonths in Fairview awaiting her trial. All the members of the "goodfamily" Mr. Hurd had mentioned had died young--probably as a reward oftheir excellence. She had no intimate friends--her husband, it wassaid, had made friendships impossible for her. Nevertheless, firstwith one trifle, then with another, brought to her by the devoted maidwho had been with her for years, she had made herself a home in herprison.
Tacked on the wall, facing her small, white-painted iron bed, was alarge piece of old Java print, its colors dimmed by time to dullbrowns and blues. On the bed itself was a cover of blue linen, and thecement floor was partly concealed by a Chinese rug whose rich tonesharmonized with those of the print. Over the bed hung a fine copy of aHobbema, in which two lines of trees stretched on and on toward avague, far-distant horizon. Near this a large framed print showed agreat stretch of Scotch moors and wide, empty skies. A fewsilver-backed toilet articles lay on a small glass-covered hospi
taltable. Against this unlooked-for background the suspected murderess,immaculate in white linen tailor-made garments, sat on awhite-enameled stool, peacefully sewing a button on a canvas shoe.
The whole effect was so unprecedented, even to me after a year of thevaried experiences which come to a New York reporter, that my sense ofthe woman's situation was wiped out by the tableau she made. Withoutintending to smile at all, I smiled widely as I entered and held outmy hand; and Mrs. Brandow, who had risen to receive me, sent back ananswering smile, cool, worldly, and understanding.
"It _is_ a cozy domestic scene, isn't it?" she asked, lightly, readingmy thoughts, "but on too small a scale. We're a trifle cramped. Takethe stool. I will sit on the bed."
She moved the stool an inch, with a hospitable gesture which almostcreated an effect of space, and sat down opposite me, taking me infrom head to foot with one straight look from black eyes in whosedepths lurked an odd sparkle.
"You won't mind if I finish this?" she asked, as she picked up herneedle. "I have only two more buttons."
I reassured her, and she bit off a piece of cotton and rethreaded herneedle expertly.
"They won't let me have a pair of scissors," she explained, as shebegan to sew. "It's a wonder they lend me a needle. They tell me it'sa special privilege. Once a week the guard brings it to me at thishour, and the same evening he retrieves it with a long sigh of relief.He is afraid I will swallow it and cheat the electric chair. Heneedn't be. It isn't the method I should choose."
Her voice was a soft and warm contralto, whose vibrations seemed tolinger in the air when she had ceased to speak. Her manner wasindescribably matter-of-fact. She gave a vigorous pull to the buttonshe had sewed on and satisfied herself of its strength. Then she bitthe thread again and began to secure the last button, incidentallychatting on, as she might have chatted to a friend over a cup of tea.
Very simply and easily, because it was my cue, but even more becauseI was immensely interested, I fell into her mood. We talked a longtime and of many things. She asked about my work, and I gave her somedetails of its amusing side. She spoke of the books she had read andwas reading, of places she had visited, and, in much the same tone, ofher nights in prison, made hideous by her neighbors in near-by cells.As she talked, two dominating impressions strengthened in memomentarily: she was the most immaculate human being I had ever seen,and the most perfectly poised.
When she had sewed on the last button, fastening the thread withworkman-like deftness, she opened a box of pipe-clay and whitened bothshoes with a moist sponge.
"I don't quite know why I do all this," she murmured, casually. "Isuppose it's the force of habit. It's surprising how some habits lastand others fall away. The only wish I have now is that I and mysurroundings may remain decently clean."
"May I quote that?" I asked, tentatively--"that, and what you havetold me about the books you are reading?"
Her expression of indifferent tolerance changed. She regarded me withnarrowed eyes under drawn, black brows. "No," she said, curtly."You'll be good enough to keep to your bond. You agreed not to repeata word I said."
I rose to go. "And I won't," I told her, "naturally. But I hoped youhad changed your mind."
She rose also, the slight, ironic smile again playing about her lips."No," she answered, in a gentler tone, "the agreement holds. But Idon't wonder I misled you! I've prattled like a school-girl, and"--thesmile subtly changed its character--"do you know, I've rather enjoyedit. I haven't talked to any one for months but my maid and my lawyer.Mary's chat is punctuated by sobs. I'm like a freshly watered gardenwhen she ends her weekly visits. And the charms of Mr. Davies'sconversation leave me cold. So this has been"--she hesitated--"apleasure," she ended.
We shook hands again. "Thank you," I said, "and good-by. I hope"--Inmy turn I hesitated an instant, seeking the right words. The oddsparkle deepened in her eyes.
"Yes?" she murmured. "You hope--?"
"I hope you will soon be free," I ended simply.
Her eyes held mine for an instant. Then, "Thank you," she said, andturned away. The guard, who had waited outside with something of theeffect of a clock about to strike, opened the iron door, and I passedthrough.
Late that night, after I had turned in my copy and received inacknowledgment the grunt which was Mr. Hurd's highest tribute tosatisfactory work, I sat at my desk still thinking of the Brandowcase. Suddenly the chair beside me creaked as Godfrey Morris droppedinto it.
"Just been reading your Brandow story. Good work," he said, kindly."Without bias, too. What do you think of the woman now, after meetingher?"
"She's innocent," I repeated, tersely.
"Then she didn't confess?" laughed Morris.
"No," I smiled, "she didn't confess. But if she had been guilty shemight have confessed. She talked a great deal."
Morris's eyes widened with interest. The day's work was over, and hewas in a mood to be entertained. "Did she?" he asked. "What did shesay?"
I repeated the interview, while he leaned back and listened, his handsclasped behind his head.
"She _was_ communicative," he reflected, at the end. "In a mood likethat, after months of silence, a woman will tell anything. As you say,if she had been guilty she might easily have given herself away. Whata problem it would have put up to you," he mused, "if she _had_ beenguilty and _had_ confessed! On the one hand, loyalty to the_Searchlight_--you'd have had to publish the news. On the other hand,sympathy for the woman--for it would be you who sent her to theelectric chair, or remained silent and saved her."
He looked at me quizzically. "Which would you have done?" he asked.
It seemed no problem at all to me, but I gave it an instant'sreflection. "I think you know," I told him.
He nodded. "I think I do," he agreed. "Just the same," he rose andstarted for his desk, "don't you imagine there isn't a problem in thesituation. There's a big one."
He turned back, struck by a sudden idea. "Why don't you make amagazine story of it?" he added. "I believe you can write fiction.Here's your chance. Describe the confession of the murderess, themental struggle of the reporter, her suppression of the news, and itsafter-effect on her career."
His suggestion hit me much harder than his problem. The latter wascertainly strong enough for purposes of fiction.
"Why," I said, slowly, "thank you. I believe I will."
Before Mr. Morris had closed the door I was drawing a fresh supply ofcopy-paper toward me; before he had left the building I had writtenthe introduction to my first fiction story; and before the roar of thepresses came up to my ears from the basement, at a quarter to two inthe morning, I had made on my last page the final cross of thepress-writer and dropped the finished manuscript into a drawer of mydesk. It had been written with surprising ease. Helen Brandow hadentered my tale as naturally as she would enter a room; and againstthe bleak background of her cell I seemed to see her whole life passbefore me like a series of moving-pictures which my pen raced afterand described.
The next morning found me severely critical as I read my story. Still,I decided to send it to a famous novelist I had met a few monthsbefore, who had since then spent some of her leisure in good-naturedlyurging me to "write." I believed she would tell me frankly what shethought of this first sprout in my literary garden, and that night,quite without compunction, I sent it to her. Two days later I receiveda letter which I carried around in my pocket until the precious bit ofpaper was almost in rags.
"Your story is a corker," wrote the distinguished author, whoseepistolary style was rather free. "I experienced a real thrill whenthe woman confessed. You have made out a splendid case for her; alsofor your reporter. Given all your premises, things _had_ to happen asthey did. Offer the story to Mrs. Langster, editor of _The Woman'sFriend_. Few editors have sense, but I think she'll know enough totake it. I inclose a note to her."
If Mrs. Appleton had experienced a thrill over my heroine's confessionwe were more than quits, for I experienced a dozen thrills over herletter, and long afterwar
d, when she came back from a visit to Englandwith new honors thick upon her, I amused her by describing them.Within twenty-four hours after receiving her inspiring communication Ihad wound my way up a circular staircase that made me feel like ananimated corkscrew, and was humbly awaiting Mrs. Langster's pleasurein the room next to her dingy private office. She had read Mrs.Appleton's note at once, and had sent an office boy to say that shewould receive me in a few minutes. I gladly waited thirty, for thishome of a big and successful magazine was a new world to me--and,though it lacked the academic calm I had associated with the haunts ofliterature in the making, everything in it was interesting, from theink-spattered desks and their aloof and busy workers to the recurrentroar of the elevated trains that pounded past the windows.
Mrs. Langster proved to be an old lady, with a smile of extraordinarysweetness. Looking at her white hair, and meeting the misty glance ofher near-sighted blue eyes, I felt a depressing doubt of Mrs.Appleton's wisdom in sending me to her with a work of fiction whichturned on murder. One instinctively associated Mrs. Langster withorgan recitals, evening service, and afternoon teas in dimly lightedrooms. But there was an admirable brain under her silver hair, and Ihad swift proof of the keenness of her literary discrimination; forwithin a week she accepted my story and sent me a check for an amountequal to the salary I received for a month of work. Her letter, andthat of Mrs. Appleton, went to Sister Irmingarde--was it only a yearago that I had parted from her and the convent? Then I framed themside by side and hung them in a place of honor on my study wall, as asolace in dark hours and an inspiration in brighter ones. Theyrepresented a literary ladder, on the first rung of which I was sure Ihad found firm footing, though the upper rungs were lost in clouds.
Mrs. Langster allowed my story to mellow for almost a year before shepublished it; and in the long interval Helen Brandow was acquitted,and disappeared from the world that had known her.
I myself had almost forgotten her, and I had even ceased to look formy story in the columns of _The Woman's Friend_, when one morning Ifound on my desk a note from Mr. Hurd. It was brief and cryptic, forMr. Hurd's notes were as time-saving as his speech. It read:
Pls. rept. immed. N. H.
Without waiting to remove my hat I entered Mr. Hurd's office. He wassitting bunched up over his desk, his eyebrows looking like anintricate pattern of cross-stitching. Instead of his usual assortmentof newspaper clippings, he held in his hand an open magazine, which,as I entered, he thrust toward me.
"Here!" he jerked. "What's this mean?"
I recognized with mild surprise the familiar cover of _The Woman'sFriend_. A second glance showed me that the page Mr. Hurd wasindicating with staccato movements of a nervous forefinger bore myname. My heart leaped.
"Why," I exclaimed, delightedly, "it's my story!"
Mr. Hurd's hand held the magazine against the instinctive pull I gaveit. His manner was unusually quiet. Unusual, too, was the suddenstraight look of his tired eyes.
"Sit down," he said, curtly. "I want to ask you something."
I sat down, my eyes on the magazine. As Mr. Hurd held it, I could seethe top of one illustration. It looked interesting.
"See here," Mr. Hurd jerked out. "I'm not going to beat around thebush. Did you throw us down on this story?"
I stared at him. For an instant I did not get his meaning. Then itcame to me that possibly I should have asked his permission to publishany work outside of the _Searchlight_ columns.
"But," I stammered, "you don't print fiction."
Mr. Hurd tapped the open page with his finger. The unusual quiet ofhis manner began to impress me. "_Is_ it fiction?" he asked. "That'swhat I want to know."
Godfrey Morris rose from his desk and came toward us. Until thatinstant I had only vaguely realized that he was in the room.
"Hurd," he said, quickly, "you're in the wrong pew. Miss Iversondoesn't even know what you're talking about." He turned to me. "He'safraid," he explained, "that Mrs. Brandow confessed to you inFairview, and that you threw us down by suppressing the story."
For an instant I was dazed. Then I laughed. "Mr. Hurd," I said, "Igive you my word that Mrs. Brandow never confessed anything to me."
Mr. Hurd's knitted brows uncreased. "That's straight, is it?" hedemanded.
"That's straight," I repeated.
Hurd dropped the magazine on the floor and turned to his papers. "'Lright," he muttered, "don't let 't happen 'gain."
Mr. Morris and I exchanged an understanding smile as I picked up themagazine and left the room.
In the outer room I met Gibson. His grin of greeting was wide andfriendly, his voice low and interested.
"Read your story last night," he whispered. "Say, tell me--_did_ she,really?"
I filled the next five minutes explaining to Gibson. He lookedrelieved. "I didn't think there was anything in it," he said. "Thatwoman's no murderess. But, say, you made the story read like the realthing!"
Within the next few days everybody on the _Searchlight_ staff seemedto have read _The Woman's Friend_, and to be taking part in thediscussion my story aroused. Those of my associates who believed inthe innocence of Mrs. Brandow accepted the tale for what it was--awork of fiction. Those without prejudice were inclined to think therewas "something in it," and at least half a dozen who believed herguilty also firmly believed that I had allowed an acute and untimelyspasm of womanly sympathy to deprive the _Searchlight_ of "the bestand biggest beat in years." For a few days I remained pleasantlyunconscious of being a storm-center, but one morning a second summonsfrom Mr. Hurd opened my eyes to the situation.
"See here!" began that gentleman, rudely. "What does all this talkmean, anyway? They're saying now that you and Morris suppressed theBrandow confession between you. Jim, the elevator-boy, says he heardyou agree to do it."
Godfrey Morris leaped to his feet and came toward us. "Good Lord,Hurd," he cried, fiercely, "I believe you're crazy! Why don't you cometo me with this rot, if you're going to notice it, and not bother MissIverson? We joked about a confession, and I suppose Jim heard us. Thejoke was what suggested the magazine story."
"Well, _that's_ no joke." Hurd spoke grudgingly, as if unwillinglyimpressed. "Suppose the woman had confessed," he asked me,suddenly--"would you have given us the story?"
I shook my head. "Certainly not," I admitted. "You forget that I hadagreed not to print a word she said."
Hurd's expression of uncertainty was so funny that I laughed. "But shedidn't," I added, comfortingly. "Do you think I'd lie to you?"
"You might." Hurd was in a pessimistic mood. "To save her, or--" Arare phenomenon occurred; he smiled--all his boyish dimples suddenlyrevealed--"to save Morris from losing his job," he finished, coolly.
I felt my face grow hot. Morris rushed to the rescue. "The only thingI regret in this confounded mess," he muttered, ignoring Hurd's words,"is the effect on Mrs. Brandow. _The Woman's Friend_ has half amillion readers. They'll all think she's guilty."
"Good job," said Hurd. "She _is_ guilty!"
"Rot! She's absolutely innocent," replied Morris. "Why, even the fooljury acquitted her on the first ballot!"
I left them arguing and slipped away, sick at heart. In the suddenmoment of illumination following Morris's words it had come to me thatthe one person to be considered in the whole episode was the person ofwhom I had not thought at all! I had done Helen Brandow a great wrong.Her case had been almost forgotten; somewhere she was trying to buildup a new life. I had knocked out the new foundations.
It was a disturbing reflection, and the events of the next few daysdeepened my depression. Several reviewers commented on the similarityof my story to the Brandow case. People began to ask where Mrs.Brandow was, began again to argue the question of her innocence or herguilt. Efforts were made to find her hiding-place. The thought of theinjury I had done the unhappy woman became an obsession. There seemedonly one way to exorcise it, and that was to see or write to my"victim," as Hurd jocosely called her, make my confession, and haveher absolve me, i
f she would, of any intent of injury.
On the wings of this inspiration I sought Mr. Davies, and, putting thesituation before him, asked for his client's address.
"Of course I can't give you her address," he explained, mildly. "ButI'll write to her and tell her you want it. Yes, yes, with pleasure. Iknow how you feel." He smiled reflectively. "She's a wonderful woman,"he added. "Most remarkable woman I ever met--strongest soul." Hesighed, then smiled again. "I'll write," he repeated; and with this Ihad to be content. I had done all that I could do. But my nerves beganto feel the effect of the strain upon them, and it was a relief when Ireached my home in Madison Square late one evening and found Mrs.Brandow waiting for me.
She was sitting in a little reception-room off the main hall of thebuilding, and as I passed the door on my way to the elevator she roseand came toward me. She wore a thick veil, but something in merecognized her even before I caught the flash of her eyes through it,and noticed the characteristically erect poise of the head which everyreporter who saw her had described.
"Mr. Davies said you wanted to talk to me," she began, withoutgreeting me. "Here I am. Have I come at the wrong time?"
I slipped my hand through her arm. "No," was all I could say. "It wasvery good of you to come at all. I did not expect that." In silencewe entered the elevator and ascended to my floor. As I opened the doorwith my latch-key and waited for her to go in I spoke again. "I can'ttell you how much I've been thinking of you," I said.
She made no reply. We passed through the hall into my study, and whileI turned on the electric lights she dropped into a big arm-chairbeside a window overlooking the Square, threw back her veil, andslipped off the heavy furs she wore. As the lights flashed up weexchanged a swift look. Little more than a year had passed since ourformer meeting, but she seemed many years older and much lessbeautiful. There were new lines about her eyes and mouth, and theblack hair over her temples was growing gray. I started to draw downthe window-shades, for it was snowing hard, and the empty Squarebelow, with a few tramps shivering on its benches, afforded but adreary vista. She checked me.
"Leave them as they are," she directed, imperiously, adding as anafterthought: "Please. I like to be able to look out."
I obeyed, realizing now, as I had not done before, what those monthsof confinement must have meant to her. When I had removed my hat andcoat, and lit the logs that lay ready in my big fireplace, I took achair near her.
"First of all," I began, "I want to thank you for coming. And then--Iwant to beg your forgiveness."
For a moment she studied me in silence. "That's rather odd of you,"she murmured, reflectively. "You know I'm fair game! Why shouldn't yourun with the pack?"
My eyes, even my head, went down before that. For a moment I could notreply. Then it seemed to me that the most important thing in the worldwas to make her understand.
"Of course," I admitted, "I deserve anything you say. I did a horriblething when I printed that story. I should never have offered it to aneditor. My defense is simply that I didn't realize what I was doing.That's what I want to make clear to you. That's why I asked to seeyou."
"I see," she said, slowly. "It's not the story you're apologizing for.It's the effect."
"Yes," I explained, eagerly, "it's the effect. I hadn't been out ofschool more than a year when I came to you in Fairview," I hurried on."I was very young, and appallingly ignorant. It never occurred to methat any one would connect a fiction story with--with your case."
She looked at me, and with all the courage I could summon I gazedstraight back into her strange, deep eyes. For a long instant the lookheld, and during it something came to me, something new and poignant,something that filled me with an indescribable pity for the lonelinessI now understood, and for the courage of the nature that bore it sosuperbly. She would ask nothing of the world, this woman. Nor wouldshe defend herself. People could think what they chose. But she wouldsuffer.
I leaned toward her. "Mrs. Brandow," I said, "I wish I could make youunderstand how I feel about this. I believe it has made me ten yearsolder."
She smiled. "That would be a pity," she said, "when you're sodeliciously young."
"Is there anything I can do?" I persisted.
She raised her eyebrows. "I'm afraid not," she murmured, "unless it isto cease doing anything. You see, your activities where I am concernedare so hectic."
I felt my face burn. "You're very hard on me, but I deserve it. Ididn't realize," I repeated, "that the story would suggest you to thepublic."
"Even though you described me?" she interjected, the odd, sardonicgleam deepening in her black eyes.
"But I didn't describe you as you are," I protested, eagerly. "I madeyou a blonde! Don't you remember? And I made a Western city the sceneof the trial, and changed some of the conditions of the--" Ifaltered--"of the crime."
"As if that mattered," she said, coolly. "You described _me_--to theshape of my finger-nails, the buttons on my shoes." Suddenly shelaughed. "Those dreadful buttons! I see them still in my dreams. Itseems to me that I was always sewing them on. The only parts of me Iallowed to move in the court-room were my feet. No one could seethem, under my skirt. I used to loosen a button almost every day. Thenof course I had to sew them on. I had a sick fear of looking messy anduntidy--of degenerating physically."
She faced the wide windows and the snow-filled sky. In my own chair,facing the fire, I also directly faced her.
"I'm going to Europe," she announced at last. "I'm sailing to-morrowmorning--to be gone 'for good,' as the children say. That's why I cameto-night." For a moment she sat in silence, wholly, restfully at herease. Dimly I began to realize that she was enjoying the intimacy ofthe moment, the sense of human companionship, and again it came to mehow tragically lonely she must be. She had no near friends, and in theminds of all others there must always be the hideous interrogation-pointthat stood between her and life. At best she had "the benefit of thedoubt." And I had helped to destroy even the little that was left toher. I could have fallen at her feet.
"I'm going away," she added, "to see if there is any place for me inthe life abroad. If there is I want to find it. If I were the sort ofwoman who went in for good works, my problem would be easier; but yousee I'm not."
I smiled. I could not see her as a worker in organized charity,parceling out benefits tied with red tape. It was no effort, however,to picture her doing many human and beautiful kindnesses in her ownway.
We talked of Europe. I had never been there. She spoke of northernAfrica, of rides over Morocco hills, of a caravan journey from Tangierto Fez, of Algerian nights, of camping in the desert, of palms andripe figs and of tropical gardens. It was fascinating talk in thepurple lights of my driftwood fire, with a snow-storm beating at mywindows. Suddenly she checked herself.
"I think, after all," she said, lightly, "you're rather good for me.You've done me good to-night. You did me good the day you visited meat Fairview. You were so young, so much in earnest, so much in lovewith life, and you saw so much with your big, solemn eyes. You gave mesomething new to think about, and I needed it. So--don't regretanything."
I felt the tears spring to my eyes.
She drew on her gloves and buttoned them slowly, still smiling at me.
"I might never even have seen your story," she went on, quietly, "ifmy maid had not brought it to me. I don't read _The Woman's Friend_."There was a hint of the old superciliousness in her tone and about herupper lip as she spoke. "On the whole, I don't think it did me anyharm. The opinion of strangers is the least important thing in mylittle arctic circle. So, forget me. Good night--and good-by."
I kept her hand in mine for a moment. "Good-by," I said. "Peace bewith you."
She drew her veil down over her face, and moved to the door. Ifollowed and opened it for her. On the threshold she stopped andhesitated, looking straight at me; and in that instant I knew assurely as I ever knew anything in my life that now at last her guardwas down--that from the fastness of her soul something horrible hadescape
d and was leaping toward me. She cast a quick glance up and downthe outer hall. It was dim and empty. I hardly dared to breathe.
"There is one thing more," she said, and her words rushed out with anodd effect of breathlessness under the continued calm of her manner."The only really human emotion I've felt in a long time is--anupheaval of curiosity."
I looked at her, and waited.
She hesitated an instant longer, then, standing very close to me,gripped my shoulders hard, her eyes deep in mine, her voice so low Ihardly caught her meaning.
"Oh, wise young judge!" she whispered. "Tell me, before we part--_howdid you know_?"