But the town of Harvey had more or less to say about the divorce and what the town said, more or less concerned Judge Thomas Van Dorn. For although Henry Fenn sober would not speak of the divorce, Henry Fenn drunk, babbled many quotations about the "rare and radiant maiden, who was lost forever more." He was also wont to quote the line about the lover who held his mistress "something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse."

As for the Judge, his sensitive mind felt the disapproval of the community. But the fighting blood in him was roused, and he fought a braver fight than the cause justified. That summer he went to all the farmers' picnics in his district, spoke wherever he was invited to speak, and spoke well; whatever charm he had he called to his aid. When the French of South Harvey celebrated the Fall of the Bastille, Judge Van Dorn spoke most beautifully of liberty, and led off when they sung the _Ma.r.s.eillaise_; on Labor Day he was the orator of the occasion, and made a great impression among the workers by his remarks upon the dignity of labor. He quoted Carlyle and Ruskin and William Morris, and wept when he told them how the mob had crucified the Carpenter, who was labor's first prophet.

But one may say this for Judge Van Dorn: that with all his desire for the approval of his fellows, even in South Harvey, even at the meetings of men who he knew differed with him, he did not flinch from attacking on every occasion and with all his eloquence the unions that Grant Adams was promoting. The idea of mutual help upon which they rested seemed to make Van Dorn see red, and he was forever going out of his way to combat the idea. So bitter was his antagonism to the union idea that in the Valley he and Grant Adams became dramatized in the minds of the men as opponents.

But in Harvey, where men regarded Grant Adams's activities with tolerant indifference and his high talk of bettering industrial conditions as the madness of youth, Judge Van Dorn was the town's particular idol.

A handsome man he was as he stood out in the open under the bower made by the trees, and with the grace and charm of true oratory, spoke in his natural voice--a soft, penetrating treble that reached to the furthest man in the crowd; tall, well-built, oval-faced, commanding--a judge every inch of him, even if a young judge--was Tom Van Dorn. And when he had finished speaking at the Harvest Home Picnic, or at the laying of the corner stone of the new Masonic Temple, or at the opening of the Grant County fair, men said:

"Well, I know they say Tom Van Dorn is no Joseph, but all the same I'm here to tell you--" and what they were there to tell you would discourage ladies and gentlemen who believe that material punishments always follow either material or spiritual transgressions.

So the autumn wore into winter, and the State Bar a.s.sociation promoted Judge Van Dorn; he appeared as president of that dignified body, and thereby added to his prestige at home. He appeared regularly at church with Mrs. Van Dorn--going the rounds of the churches punctiliously--and gave liberally when a subscription paper for any cause was presented.

But for all this, he kept hearing the bees of gossip buzzing about him, and often felt their sting.

Day after day, through it all he never slept until in some way, by some device, through some trumped up excuse that seemed plausible enough in itself, he had managed to see and speak to Margaret Fenn. Whether in her office in the Light, Heat & Power Company's building upon a business errand, and he made plenty of such, or upon the street, or in the court house, where she often went upon some business of her chief, or walking home at evening, or coming down in the morning, or upon rare occasions meeting her clandestinely for a moment, or whether at some social function where they were both present--and it of necessity had to be a large function in that event--for the town could register its disapproval of the woman more easily than it could put its opprobrium upon the man; or whether he spoke to her just a word from the sidewalk as he pa.s.sed her home, always he managed to see her. Always he had one look into her eyes, and so during all the day, she was in his thoughts.

It seems strange that a man of great talents could keep the machinery of his mind going and still have an ever present consciousness of a guilty intrigue. Yet there it was. Until he had seen her and spoken to her, it was his day's important problem to devise some way to bring about the meeting. So with devilish caution and ponderous circ.u.mlocution and craft he went about his daily work, serene in the satisfaction that he was being successful in his elaborate deceit; rather gloating at times in the iniquity of one in his position being in so low a business. He wondered what the people would say if they really knew the depths of his infamy, and when he sentenced a poor devil for some minor crime, he would often watch himself as a third party and wonder if he would ever stand up and take his sentence. But he had no fear of that. The little drama between Judge Van Dorn, the prisoner at the bar, and the lover of Margaret Fenn, was for his diversion, rather than for his instruction, and he enjoyed it as an artistic travesty upon the justice he was dispensing.

Thomas Van Dorn believed that the world was full of a number of exceedingly pleasant things that might be had for the taking, and no questions asked. So when he felt the bee sting of gossip, he threw back his head, squared his face to the wind, put an extra kink of elegance into his raiment, a tighter crimp into his smile and an added ardor into his hale greeting, did some indispensable judicial favor to the old spider of commerce back of the bra.s.s sign at the Traders National, defied the town, and bade it watch him fool it. But the men who drove the express wagons knew that whenever they saw Judge Van Dorn take the train for the capital they would be sure to have a package from the capital the next day for Mrs. Fenn; sometimes it would be a milliner's box, sometimes a jeweler's, sometimes a florist's, sometimes a dry-goods merchant's, and always a candy maker's.

At last the whole wretched intrigue dramatized itself in one culminating episode. It came in the spring. Dr. Nesbit had put on his white linens just as the trees were in their first gayety of foliage and the spring blooming flowers were at their loveliest.

After a morning in the dirt and grime and misery and injustice and wickedness that made the outer skin over South Harvey and Foley and Magnus and the mining and smelter towns of the valley, the Doctor came driving into the cool beauty of Quality Hill in Harvey with a middle aged man's sense of relief. South Harvey and its neighbors disheartened him.

He had seen Grant Adams, a man of the Doctor's own caste by birth, hurrying into a smelter on some organization errand out of overalls in his cheap, ill-fitting clothes, begrimed, heavy featured, dogged and rapidly becoming a part of the industrial dregs. Grant Adams in the smelter, preoccupied with the affairs of that world, and pa.s.sing definitely into it forever, seemed to the Doctor symbolic of the pa.s.sing of the America he understood (and loved), into an America that discouraged him. But the beauty and the calm and the restful elm-bordered lawns of Harvey always toned up his spirits. Here, he said to himself was the thing he had helped to create. Here was the town he had founded and cherished. Here were the people whom he really loved--old neighbors, old friends, dear in a.s.sociations and sweet in memories.

It was in a cherubic complaisance with the whole scheme of the universe that the white-clad Doctor jogged up Elm Street behind his maternal sorrel in the phaeton, to get his noon day meal. He pa.s.sed the Van Dorn home. Its beauty fitted into this mood and beckoned to him. For the whole joy of spring bloomed in flower and shrub and vine that bordered the house and clambered over the wide hospitable porch. The gay color of the spring made the house glow like a jewel. The wide lawn--the stately trees, the gorgeous flowers called to his heart, and seeing his daughter upon the piazza, the Doctor surrendered, drew up, tied the horse and came toddling along the walk to the broad stone steps, waving his hands gayly to her as he came. Little Lila, coming home from kindergarten and bleating through the house lamb-wise: "I'm hungry," saw her grandfather, and ran down the steps to meet him, forgetting her pangs.

He lifted her high to his shoulder, and came up the porch steps laughing: "Here come jest and youthful jollity, my dear," and stooping with his grandchild in his arms, kissed the beautiful woman before him.

"Some one is mighty sweet this morning," and then seeing a package beside her asked: "What's this--" looking at the address and the sender's name. "Some one been getting a new dress?"

The child pulling at her mother's skirts renewed her bleat for food.

When Lila had been disposed of Laura sat by her father, took his fat, pudgy hand and said:

"Father, I don't know what to do; do you mind talking some things over with me. I suppose I should have been to see you anyway in a few days.

Have we time to go clear to the bottom of things now?"

She looked up at him with a serious, troubled face, and patted his hand.

He felt instinctively the shadow that was on her heart, and his face may have winced. She saw or knew without seeing, the tremor in his soul.

"Poor father--but you know it must come sometime. Let us talk it all out now."

He nodded his head. He did not trust his voice.

"Well, father dear," she said slowly. She nodded at the package--a long dress box beside the porch post.

"That was sent to Margaret Fenn. It came here by mistake--addressed to me. There were some express charges on it. I thought it was for me; I thought Tom had bought it for me yesterday, when he was at the capital, so I opened it. There is a dress pattern in it--yellow and black--colors I never could wear, and Tom has an exquisite eye for those things, and also there is a pair of silk stockings to match. On the memoranda pinned on these, they are billed to Mrs. Fenn, but all charged to Tom. I hadn't opened it when I sent the expressman to Tom's office for the express charges, but when he finds the package has been delivered here--we shall have it squarely before us." The daughter did not turn her eyes to her father as she went on after a little sigh that seemed like a catch in her side:

"So there we are."

The Doctor patted his foot in silence, then replied:

"My poor, poor child--my poor little girl," and added with a heavy sigh: "And poor Tom--Laura--poor, foolish, devil-ridden Tom." She a.s.sented with her eyes. At the end of a pause she said with anguish in her voice:

"And when we began it was all so beautiful--so beautiful--so wonderful.

Of course I've known for a long time--ever since before Lila came that it was slipping. Oh, father--I've known; I've seen every little giving of the tie that bound us, and in my heart deep down, I've known all--all--everything--all the whole awful truth--even if I have not had the facts as you've had them--you and mother--I suppose."

"You're my fine, brave girl," cried her father, patting her trembling hand. But he could speak no further.

"Oh, no, I'm not brave--I'm not brave," she answered. "I'm a coward. I have sat by and watched it all slip away, watched him getting further and further from me, saw my hold slipping--slipping--slipping, and saw him getting restless. I've seen one awful--" she paused, shuddered, and cried, "Oh, you know, father, that other dreadful affair. I saw that rise, burn itself out and then this one--" she turned away and her body shook.

In a minute she was herself: "I'm foolish I suppose, but I've never talked it out before. I won't do it again. I'm all right now." She took his hands and continued:

"Now, then, tell me--is there any way out? What shall we do to be saved--Tom and Lila and I?" She hesitated. "I'm afraid--Oh, I know, I know I don't love Tom any more. How could I--how could I? But some way I want to mother him. I don't want to see him get clear down. I know this woman. I know what she means. Let me tell you, father. For two years she's been playing with Tom like a cat. I knew it when she began. I can't say how I knew it; but I felt it--felt it reflected in his moods, saw him nervous and feverish. She's been torturing him, father--she's strong. Also she's--she's hard. Tom hasn't--well, I mean she's always kept the upper hand. I know that in my soul. And he's stark, raving mad somewhere within him." A storm of emotion shook her and then she cried pa.s.sionately, "And, oh, father, I want to rescue him--not for myself.

Oh, I don't love him any more. That's all gone. At least not in the old way, I don't, but he's so sensitive--so easy to hurt. And she's slowly burning him alive. It's awful."

The little pink face of the Doctor began to harden. His big blue eyes began to look through narrow slits in his eyelids, and the pudgy, white-clad figure stood erect. The daughter's voice broke and as she gripped herself the father reached his bristling pompadour and cried in wrath, "Let him burn--let him burn, girl--h.e.l.l's too good for him!"

His voice was high and harsh and merciless. It restored the woman's poise and she shook her head sorrowfully as she resumed:

"I can't bear to see it; I--I want to shield him--I must--if I can." A tremor ran through her again. She caught hold of herself, then went on more calmly. "But things can't go on this way. Here is this box--"

"Child--child," cried the Doctor angrily, "you come right home--right home," he piped with rising wrath. "Right home to mother and me."

The wife shook her head and replied: "No, father, that's the easy road.

I must take the hard road." Her father's mobile face showed his pain and the daughter cried: "I know, father--I know how you would have stopped me before I chose this way. But I did choose and now here is Lila, and here is a home--a home--our home, father, and I mustn't leave it. Here is my duty, here in this home, and I must not ran away. I must work out my life as it is--as before G.o.d and Lila--and Tom--yes, Tom, father, as before all three, I have my responsibility. I must not put away Tom--no matter--no matter how I feel--no matter what he has done. I won't," she repeated. "I won't."

The father turned an impatient face to his daughter, and retorted, "You won't--you won't leave that miserable cur--that--that woman hunting dog--won't leave--"

The father's rage sputtered on his lips, but the daughter caught his hand as it was beating his cane on the floor. "Stop, father," she said gently, "it's something more than women that's wrong with Tom. Women are merely an outward and visible sign--it's what he believes--and what he does, living his creed--always following the material thing. As a judge I thought he would see his way--must see his way to bring justice here--" She looked into the fume stained sky above South Harvey, and Foley and Magnus, far down the valley, and tightened her grip on her father's hands. "But no--no," she cried, "Tom doesn't know justice--he only sees the law, the law and profits, and prosperity--only the eternal material. He sits by and sees the company settle for four and five hundred dollars for the lives of the men it wasted in the mine--yes, more than sits by--he stands at the door of justice and drives the widows and children into a settlement like an overseer. And he and Joe Calvin have some sort of real estate partnership--Oh--I know it's dishonest, though I don't know how. But it branches so secretly into the law and it all reaches down into politics. And the whole order here, father--Daniel Sands paying for politics, paying for government that makes the laws, paying for mayors and governors that enforce the laws and paying the judges to back them up--and all that poverty and wretchedness and wickedness down there and all this beauty and luxury and material happiness up here. It's all, all wrong, father." Her voice broke again in sobs, and tears were running down her cheeks as she continued. "How can we blame Tom for violating his vows to me? Where are all our vows to G.o.d to deal justly with His people--the widows and orphans and helpless ones, father?" She looked at her father through her tears, at her father, whose face was agape! He was staring into the wistaria vines as one who saw his world quaking. A quick bolt of sympathy shot through the daughter's heart. She patted his limp hands and said softly, "So--father--I mustn't leave Tom. He's a poor, weak creature--a rotten stick--and because I know it--I must stay with him!"

Behind the screen of matter, the l.u.s.ty fates were pulling at the screws of the rack. "Pull harder," cried the first fate; "the little old pot-bellied rascal--make him see it: make him see how he warned her against the symptoms, but not the disease that was festering her lover's soul!"

"Turn yourself," cried the second, "make the forehead sweat as he sees how he has been delivering laws in a basket to grind iniquity through Tom Van Dorn's mill! Turn--turn, turn you lout!"

"And you," cried the third fate at the screw to the first, "twist that heart-string, twist it hard when he sees his daughter's broken face and hears her sobbing!"

But the angels, the pitying angels, loosened the cords of the rack with their gentle tears.

As the taut threads of the rack slackened, he heard the soft voice of his daughter saying: "But of course, the most important thing is Lila--not that she means a great deal to him now. He doesn't care much for children. He doesn't want them--children."

She turned upon her father and with anguished voice and with all her denied motherhood, she cried: "O, father--I want them--lots of them--arms full of them all the time."

She stretched out her arms. "Oh, it's been so hard, to feel my youth pa.s.sing, and only one child--I wanted a whole house full. I'm strong; I could bear them. I don't mind anything--I just want my babies--my babies that never have come."