IX
It had been months since Marriott had gone up those steps at the Wards', and he mounted them that November evening with a regret at the loss of the old footing, and an impatience with the events that had kept him away. He had waited for some such excuse as Gusta's commission now gave him, and the indignation he felt at the girl's arrest was not strong enough to suppress his gratitude for the opportunity the injustice opened to him. He was sure that Elizabeth knew he was to defend Archie; she must know how sensitive he was to the criticism that was implied in the tone with which the newspapers announced the fact. The newspapers, indeed, had shown feeling that Archie should be represented at all.
They had published warnings against the law's delays, of which, they said, there had already been too many in that county, forgetting how they had celebrated the success and promptness, the industry and enterprise of John Eades. They had spoken of Archie as if he were a millionaire, about to evade and confound law and justice by the use of money. Marriott told himself, bitterly, that Elizabeth's circle would discuss the tragedy in this same tone, and speak of him with disappointment and distrust; that was the attitude his own friends had adopted; that was the way the lawyers and judges even had spoken to him of it; he recalled how cold and disapproving Eades had been. This recollection gave Marriott pause; would it not now be natural for Elizabeth to take Eades's attitude? He shrank from the thought and wished he had not come, but he was at the door and he had Gusta's message--impossible as it seemed after all these thoughts had crossed his mind.
She received him in her old manner, without any of the stiffness he had feared the months might have made.
"Ah, Gordon," she said. "I'm so glad you came."
She led the way swiftly into the library. A little wood fire, against the chill of the autumn evening, was blazing in the wide fireplace; under the lamp on the broad table lay a book she must have put down a moment before.
"What have you been reading? Oh, _Walden_!" And he turned to her with the smile of their old comradeship in such things.
"I've been reading it again, yes," she said, "and I've wished to talk it over again with you. So you see I'm glad you came."
"I came with a message from--"
"Oh!" The bright look faded from her eyes. "Well, I'm glad, then, that some one sent you to me."
He saw his mistake, and grieved for it.
"I wanted to come," he stammered. "I've been intending to come, Elizabeth, anyway, and--"
He felt he was only making the matter worse, and he hated himself for his awkwardness.
"Well," she was saying, "sit down then, and tell me whom this fortunate message is from."
She leaned back in her chair, rather grandly, he felt. He regretted the touch of formality that was almost an irony in her speech. But he thought it best to let it pass,--they could get back to the old footing more quickly if they did it that way.
"You'd never guess," he said.
"I'll not try. Tell me."
"Gusta."
"Gusta!" Elizabeth leaned forward eagerly, and Marriott thought that he had never before seen her so good to look upon; she was so virile, so alive. He noted her gray eyes, bright with interest and surprise, her brown hair, too soft to be confined in any conventional way, and worn as ever with a characteristic independence that recognized without succumbing to fashion. He fixed his eyes on her hands, white, strong, full of character. And he bemoaned the loss of those months; why, he wondered, had he been so absurd?
"Gusta!" she repeated. "Where did you see Gusta?"
"In prison."
"What! No! Oh, Gordon!" she started with the shock, and Marriott found this attitude even more fascinating than the last; her various expressions changing swiftly, responding with instant sensitiveness to every new influence or suggestion, were all delightful.
"What for? Tell me! Why don't you tell me, Gordon? Why do you sit there?"
Her eyes flashed a reproach at him--and he smiled. He was wholly at ease now.
"For nothing. She's done nothing. She went to see Archie, and the police, stupid and brutal as usual, detained her. That's all; they placed the charge of suspicion against her to satisfy the law. The law!"
He sneered out the word.
Elizabeth had fallen back in her chair with an expression of pain.
"Oh, Gordon!" she said with a shudder. "Isn't it horrible, horrible!"
"Horrible!" he echoed.
"That poor Koerner family! What can the fates be about? You know--you know it all seems to come so near. Such things happen in the world, of course, every day the newspapers, the dreadful newspapers, are filled with them. But they never were real at all, because they never happened to people I knew. But this comes so near. Just think. I've seen that Archie Koerner, and he has spoken to me, and to think of him now, a murderer! Will--they hang him?"
She leaned forward earnestly.
"No," he said slowly. "They may electrocute him though--to use their barbarous word."
"And now Gusta's in prison!" Elizabeth went on, forgetting Archie. "But her message! You haven't given me her message!"
Marriott waited a moment, perhaps in his inability to forego the theatrical possibilities of the situation.
"She wants you--to come to her."
Elizabeth stared at him blankly.
"To come to her?"
"Yes."
"In prison?"
"Yes."
Her brows contracted, her eyes winked rapidly.
"But Gordon, how--how can I?"
"I don't know." He sat at his ease in the great chair, enjoying the meaning, the whole significance of her predicament. He had already appreciated its difficulties, its impossibilities, and he was prepared now to wring from every one of them its last sensation. Elizabeth, with her elbow on the arm of her chair, her laces falling away from her white forearm, bit her lip delicately. She seemed to be looking at the toe of her suede shoe.
"Poor little thing!" She spoke abstractedly, as if she were oblivious to Marriott's presence. He was satisfied; it was good just then to sit, merely, and look at her. "I must go to her." And then suddenly she looked up and said in another tone:
"But how am I to do it, Gordon?"
He did not answer at once and she did not wait for a reply, but went on, speaking rapidly, her eyes in a dark glow as her interest was intensified.
"Isn't it a peculiar situation? I don't know how to deal with it. I never was so placed before. You must see the difficulties, Gordon.
People, well, people don't go to such places, don't you know? I really don't see how it is possible; it makes me shudder to think of it! Ugh!"
She shrugged her shoulders. "What shall you say to her, Gordon?" She said this as if the problem were his, not hers, and showed a relief in this transfer of the responsibility.
"I don't know yet," he said. "Whatever you tell me."
"But you must tell her something; you must make her understand. It won't do for you to hurt the poor girl's feelings."