"Don't tell me, Don, don't try." She turned to him, her voice hoa.r.s.e and low. "It's a wrong thing for you to talk to me about things of that sort. Birds out of the nest begin all over again--this must begin again, I suppose--but it's too awful--too terrible. I don't want to hear any more talk about love. But rather than see you live with her, rather than see you talk that way of her, it seems to me I'd rather die. Because, she knows all about _me_--or will. What made you come? Why didn't you stay away? Why couldn't you find some other girl to love, away from here?"

"Which shows how much you really care for my happiness! I suppose, like many women, you are stubborn. Is that it, mother?"

She winced under this, wringing her hands. "If I could only lie--if I only could!"

"And if I only could, also!" he repeated after her. "But she's coming tomorrow, Mother--I've made her promise she'd come to see you. She said she'd make some excuse to come down and see her guardian. I'm going to meet her tomorrow. And when I do, I've got to tell her what I've learned today--every word of it--all--all! And I'll be helpless. I'll not be able to fight. I'll have to take it."

"That's right, Don, that's right. Even if I loved her as you do, even if it were the best thing in the world for you if you could marry her, I'd say that you should not. Don, whatever you do, don't ever be crooked with a woman. She's a woman, too. No matter what it cost, I couldn't see her suffer by finding out anything after it was too late."

"It won't take long," said he, simply. "We'll part tomorrow. But oh! Why did you save me--why did Miss Julia come that night? My place was under the water--there! Then the door would have been closed indeed. But now all the doors are closed on ahead, and none behind. I'll never be happy again. And I'm making her unhappy, too, who's not to blame. It runs far, doesn't it?--far and long."

"As you grow older, Don," said she, "you will find it doesn't so much matter whether or not you are happy."

He shook his head. "I'm done. It's over. There's nothing ahead for me. I never had a chance. Mother, you and Miss Julia made a bad mistake."

It seemed that she scarcely heard him, or as though his words, brutal, cruel though they were, no longer impinged upon her consciousness. She spoke faintly, as though almost breathless, yet addressed herself to him.

"Why, Don, it was here in this very room ... and you lay in my arms and looked up at me and laughed. You were so sweet.... But what shall I do?

I love you, and I want you to love me, and you can't. What have I done to you? Oh, wasn't the world cruel enough to me, Don? Oh, yes, yes, it runs far--far and long, a woman's sin! You are my sin. And oh! I love you, and I will not repent! G.o.d do so to me--I'll not repent!"

He looked at her, still frowning, but with tenderness under the pain of his own brow. At last he flung himself on his knees before her and dropped his head into her lap.

He felt her hands resting on his head as though in shelter--hands that lay side by side, hands long and shapely once, but bruised and worn now with labor could he but have seen them--Aurora's hands--he could not have helped but realize her long years of toil. He heard her faint, steady sobbing now.

After a time she bent lower above his head as he knelt there, silent and motionless. Slowly her hand began once more to stroke his hair.

CHAPTER VI

THE DIVIDING LINE

The commonplace sound of the telephone's ring broke the silence in the little room. Aurora Lane arose and pa.s.sed into the adjoining room to answer it. Her son regarded her with lackl.u.s.ter eyes when she returned.

"It was Miss Julia," said she, "at the library. She wanted to know if you were here. She says we must be sure to come out tonight."

"Come out--to what?"

"It's her annual jubilee, when she reports progress to the town. She is very proud of her new books and rugs and pictures. Everybody will be there. You see, Don, we don't have much in a town like this to entertain us. Why, if I could see a real theater once--I don't know how happy I would be. We've had movies, and now and then a lecture--and Miss Julia."

"I don't want to go, mother."

"Neither do I, Don; so I'm going."

"Why should we go? It's nothing to us."

"It's everything to Miss Julia--and it's everything to us, Don. Stop to think and you will realize what I mean. We can't run away under fire."

"There's something in that," he rejoined after a time, slowly. "Besides, what Miss Julia wishes we both ought to do."

Hands in pockets, he began once more gloomily to pace up and down the narrow room. "I can't stand this much longer, mother," said he. "I've got to get out--I've got to get hold of some money somehow."

"Yes," said she. "As for me, I have collected the last money due me--it went for your graduation suit. I don't know how you saved your railway fare home. I didn't want you to know these things, of course, but as things have happened, you had to know. A great many things today--well, they've gotten away from me."

"It's I who have spoiled everything, too. But how could I help it--I just couldn't submit."

"It's hard to submit, Don," said she slowly. "Perhaps a man ought not to learn it. A woman has to learn it."

He turned to look at her wonderingly, and at length went over and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Dear Mom!" said he gently. "You're wonderful. You are fine--splendid!

I'm just getting acquainted with you, am I not? You're a good woman, mother; I'm so glad."

She looked at him now with eyes suddenly wet, her face working strangely, and turned away.

"Come, Don," said she after a time. "We must get ready for our little supper. Spring Valley, you see," she added, gaily, "dines at six and goes to the movies at seven."

Presently she left him to his own devices for a time, before calling him out into the little kitchen which served her also as a dining-room.

"It's not much," said she, shrugging and spreading out her hands, "but it's all I'd have had--bread and milk and cereal. I don't use much sugar or b.u.t.ter." Then, hurriedly, seeing the pain she had caused him, she went on.

"You soon get used to such things. Why, I have only two gowns to my name, and I put on my best one to meet you, when you wired you were coming, and I saw I'd have to meet you. This hat has been fixed over I don't know how many times--once more, for you. You will see, I'll not be at much trouble to dress for the entertainment tonight."

She opened upon the table cover her little pocket book and showed its contents--one small, tightly-folded, much-creased bill, which still lay within its depths.

"My last!" said she, grimacing. "That's our capital in life, Don! And we have all the world against us now. We must fight, whether or not we want to fight."

"But now," she added, "I can't talk any more. Let us go. It may do us good. Miss Julia at least will be glad to see us, if no one else is."

Early as they were, they were not the first arrivals at the library room where Miss Julia Delafield had devised her entertainment. She had borrowed certain benches from the public school, certain chairs as well.

Already a goodly portion of Spring Valley's best people filled these.

The seats made back from the little raised platform which usually served as the librarian's desk place. This now was enlarged by the removal of all the desks.

Back of this narrow dais was draped a large flag of our Union, and in the center of its folds was the campaign portrait of Judge Henderson, chief speaker of the evening.

Aurora Lane and her son entered unnoticed for the time, and quietly took seats in the last row of benches at the rear, near to some awkward youths who had straggled in and seemed uncomfortable in their surroundings. Not even Miss Julia noted them, for presently it became her flushing duty to escort Judge Henderson, and several of her other speakers, to the edge of the little platform, where they took their places back of the conventional table and pitcher of water.

The leader in the town's affairs bent over affably to speak with his a.s.sociates--three ministers of the gospel, Reverend Augustus Wilson, of the U. P. Church, Reverend Henry Fullerton, of the Congregationalist Church, and Reverend William B. Burnham, of the Methodists. There were many other ministers of the gospel in Spring Valley, which rejoiced exceedingly in the multiplicity of its churches; but to these, in the belief of Miss Julia, had more specially been given the gift of tongues.

There came presently and seated himself on the bench next to Aurora Lane yet another minister of the gospel, old Mr. Rawlins, of the Church of Christ, the least important denomination of the village, so few of numbers and so scant of means that its house of worship must needs be located just at the edge of town, where land was very cheap. A kindly man, Parson Rawlins, and of mysterious life, for none might say whence came his raven-brought revenue. Questioned, Brother Rawlins admitted that he was not in the least sure whether or not he had a definite creed. He held out his hand smilingly to Aurora Lane.... An old man he was, with white hair and a thin face, his chin shaven smooth and shining between his bushy white side whiskers. His eyes were very mild.

"How do you do, Aurora?" said he. "Now, don't say a word to me--I know this boy." And he shook hands with Don also. "I know him," said he, "and I know all he has done today--we all know all about it, Aurora, so don't talk to me. Tut, tut, my son! But had I been in your place very likely I should have done the same thing--I might have whipped old Eph Adamson.

You know, sometimes even a minister asks, 'Lord, shall we smite with the sword?'"

The face of the old man grew grave as he looked from one to the other.

Some presentiment told him that a change had come across Aurora Lane's manner of life. Could it be possible that she had grown defiant--was she restive under the weight of the years? Had this sudden and sensational resurrection of her past brought rebellion to her heart, all these years so patient, so gentle?