The Broken Gate Part 24

CHAPTER XIV

AURORA AND ANNE

When Judge Henderson pa.s.sed down the office stair, and out across the street toward the narrow little brick walk of the courthouse--which even on that day of the week now held a certain crowd--so disturbed, so preoccupied, was he that he gave no greeting to one or two belated loiterers about the store fronts.

"I reckon that young feller'll get his dose now," said old Aaron Craybill, demi-chorus to this tragedy, following with his bleared eyes the tall and well-groomed figure, frock-coated, top-hatted, which now was pa.s.sing toward the temple of justice. "I wouldn't like to have no man like the Jedge after me if I'd done what that boy done. He's a-going to get _hung_, that's what's going to happen to him. Everybody knows Slattery ain't big enough for this case. With a 'Nited States Senator a-prosecutin' it, though, and ten reporters from the cities--well, I guess Spring Valley'll be heard from some!"

"I wonder when the funer'l's goin' to be," said his neighbor, Silas Kneebone. "Of course Rawlins is goin' to preach the sermon. He's good on funer'ls. Seems like he's e'en--a'most as comfortin' at a funer'l as ary minister you could get in this town--and there's quite some ministers here, too."

They hurried on away now presently even as Judge Henderson disappeared in the courthouse door. A strain of music had come to their ears, the sound of reeds and bra.s.ses.

"Thar's the band now!" exclaimed Aaron Craybill. "Knight Templar, too!

They're goin' over to the hall to practice for the funer'l. Come on ahead! Hurry, Silas!"

Down the street, audible also through the open windows of Judge Henderson's office, came the music. Jerome Westbrook had hastened from his duties on the coroner's jury only to a.s.sume his labors as leader of the Spring Valley Silver Cornet Band; and as it was the duty of that band to head the procession of the Knights Templar in the funeral march of Joel Tarbush, himself a brother of the order, it seemed that a certain rehearsal in the infrequent effort of playing under march was needful on this Sabbath day.

Slow-paced, with swords reversed and even step, with eyes looking neither to the right nor to the left, following the music of the wailing horns, the m.u.f.fled tapping of the drums, it came now into the civic center of the town, this solemn procession. At its head walked Saunders, master in the order, his opportunity now at hand; and behind him, in full regalia, came many others, all the leading citizens of this community, the pillars of the church, the props of the business structure of this village, the leaders and formers of its customs and its social order; all these anxious that the appearance of the secret order in public should be in all ways above reproach, even at cost of this quasi-public rehearsal. Joel Tarbush dead was receiving more tribute than ever had Joel Tarbush living.

In accordance with ritual or custom, after the actual march to the tomb, the musicians must render that selection which has spoken for so many hearts bowed down in weight of woe; but Jerome Westbrook knew that his men needed practice on Pleyel's Hymn; so they gave it now tentatively, in advance, as they pa.s.sed through the public square on the way to the hall. To the strained senses of Aurora Lane, still sitting with Anne in the office where they had lingered, the wailing of the music seemed a thing unbearable. She caught her hands to her ears.

"Oh, G.o.d!" she whispered. "Oh, G.o.d! If only they would not."

The white, sad-faced young woman at her side took her trembling hand in her own. "It will pa.s.s," said she. "Everything pa.s.ses. You have been brave all these years. I ought to be brave too! even now--after what you've told me."

"And I never knew you," said Aurora Lane after a time. "Not many women have ever said much to me."

"Nor did I know you," rejoined Anne Oglesby. "You were a stranger to me when I saw you now, right here--Don's mother! We were so excited, Don and I, that I never identified you two, although--yes--I knew--something about--about----What shall I call you--you see, maybe I'll be your daughter yet."

"Some call me--Mrs. Lane. Some--Miss Lane. You can't call me 'mother.'

For most part I am the village milliner, my dear--nothing more than that. I'm n.o.body. But generally, I'm 'Aurora Lane.' ... Now you know it all. I'm so sorry for you, my dear girl. You're fine--you're splendid.

You're a good girl; and you're so very beautiful. If only you belonged with--with him--with me. It's too bad for you."

Anne Oglesby, the more composed of the two, impulsively stroked back the thick ruff of auburn hair from Aurora's face. "You mustn't bother about me," she said.

"But I must bother about you! You must give him up. My dear, my dear, it can't be! I'm just learning now how hard that would be for him because it's so hard for me."

"He kissed me," said Anne Oglesby simply. "After that it was too late."

"Why, what do you mean, my dear?"

"He didn't have to do anything more after that," said Anne Oglesby slowly. "He had not had time to say anything before that."

"He should not have kissed you," said Aurora Lane. "But that was his farewell to you."

"It was not farewell!" said Anne Oglesby. "It was our beginning! I will _not_ give him up. If he had not kissed me--just when he did--just as he did--I would not have known! I'm glad!"

Aurora Lane looked at her searchingly, slowly.

"Poor girl!" said she. "Dear girl! He could not help loving you--I cannot help it myself. You are the only woman in the world, I think, for him."

"I am not good enough," said Anne Oglesby stoutly. But then suddenly she cast both her strong young arms about the neck of Aurora Lane and dropped her head upon Aurora's shoulder.

"Oh, yes I am!" she said; "oh, yes I _am_! I know I must have been meant for him, or else--else--"

But she did not as yet reveal the secret of the Sphinx. They both fell silent.

"Ah, sacrifice!" said Aurora, wearily, after a time. "Sacrifice always for the woman. We are all so bent on that."

"There's much more than that," said Anne Oglesby, sagely. "Besides, sacrifice itself is not an odious thing. You sacrificed much of your life, your happiness, your freedom. Are you sorry for that now, or proud?"

"Dear girl!" murmured Aurora Lane, patting her on the shoulder. "Ah, you sweet girl! If you could only just remain always this young and wise--and ignorant!"

But Anne Oglesby seemed not to hear her. She was looking out of the window musingly now, her yellow-gloved hands supported on her tight-rolled umbrella, her hat making a half-shadow for her dark hair and her clear, definite features.

Now the red sun ball, having well completed its circuit over the parched and breathless town, was sinking to yet another lurid sunset. There lay over all a blanket of that humid heat which so often arrests activity in communities such as this, situated in the interior, where few cooling breezes come. The dry, dust-covered leaves of the maples hung unmoved.

Here and there, still hitched to the iron piping which served as a rail on all sides of the courthouse fence, stood the teams of farmers still tarrying, unwilling to face the hot ride home from town, even though the duty of church attendance was long since past. A murder and a funeral--a Knights Templar funeral--Spring Valley had never known the like! And there was going to be a trial--a murder trial. Court would sit tomorrow.

What village could ask more than was the portion of Spring Valley in these few hurrying days? And it was her boy, 'Rory Lane's; and she'd fooled everybody--but now----! Spring Valley licked its chops as it said "But now----"

The two women in Judge Henderson's office sat still in the sultry heat, looking out of the window over the sultry, sordid, solemn little town; how long they did not know; until now there came again across the heat-hazy s.p.a.ces of the maples, over the hot tops of the two-storied brick buildings, the sound of the wailing music--the same music which may come from the n.o.blest organs of the world, the same music which may have pealed on fields of battle after heroes have fallen, speaking, as music may, of a soul pa.s.sed, of a life ended, so soon to be forgot. For a time let the wailing of the horns, the tapping even of these unskilled drums, record the duty of this man's fellows to give him at least a moment's full remembrance.

In this hot lifeless air of the somber Sabbath afternoon the burden of sorrow, the weight of solemnity, seemed yet heavier and more oppressive.

If a soldier dies the music plays some lilting air which speaks forgetfulness on the march home; but now, for the second time came this reiterated mournful wailing for a pa.s.sing soul. The band had learned its lesson by now. The dirge for the dead arose in a volume well regulated and sustained as the men marched from the hall at last for the final trial on the street.

To the tapping rhythm of the anthem of the dead, sometimes such a community as this does take thought--these uniforms are justified, these white plumes, these reversed swords are justified; for an humble man who has pa.s.sed is dignified before his fellow men; and he has had his tribute. Sometimes at least men thus stand shoulder to shoulder, heads bared, and forget envy, backbiting, little jealousies, forget cynicism and ridicule. The diapason of the drums surely had its hearing. It sank deep to the soul of Aurora Lane, striking some chord long left unresponsive.

"Anne!" said she, her hand lying in that of the wet-eyed girl at her side, "it's over--for him."

The girl nodded. But after all, Anne was young. She raised her head in the arrogance of youth, even as there pa.s.sed more and more remotely the mournful cadence of the drums.

"But he was old!" she said, defensively. All of youth and hope was in her protest.

Aurora turned upon her her own large eyes, dark-ringed today. Her mouth, long drawn down in resolution, was wondrous sweet now as it trembled a little in its once ripe red fulness. It became the mouth of a young woman--not made for sorrow. "You still can hope, then?" she smiled. And Anne nodded, bravely. So, seeing replica of her own soul, Aurora Lane could do no more nor less than to fold her in her own arms, the two understanding perfectly a thousand unsaid things.

"But come!" said Anne Oglesby at last. "We must make plans. There's a lot to be done yet, and we must start."

"I have no money," said Aurora Lane. "I don't know what to do."

"Money isn't everything," said Anne Oglesby, with the a.s.surance of those who have all the money that they need. "I suppose I have plenty of money if my guardian will let me have it."

"Even if your guardian allowed it," said Aurora Lane proudly, "Don would not. He would not let you help him, nor would I, though we are paupers--worse than that. Did you know that, Anne?"

"I am finding out these things one by one," was the girl's reply. "But they have come after my decision." She spoke with her own quaint primness and certainty of her mind.

"There's just one man could help us," said Aurora Lane, hesitating, and coloring a trifle. "I mean Mr. Brooks, Horace Brooks. He's a good lawyer. Some say he is the equal of Judge Henderson--I don't know. You heard what Judge Henderson said of him. It's fear of Horace Brooks, as much as his own conscience, that's influencing Judge Henderson."