He went forward again--a little more slowly; now; a sadness upon him, but, through the sadness, an uplift from that new sense of freedom that was as a balm, soothing him in the most curious way. His had been a rude awakening--mind and body and soul had been torn asunder; but he knew now, as he recalled the hours just past when he had looked on fear, when the gamut of human pa.s.sion had raged over him, when he had stood staggered and appalled before, yes, before his G.o.d, that he had come forth a new man. And how strange had been the ending, how strange and simple, and yet how significant, typifying the broad, clean outlook on life, bringing coherency to his tottering mind, had been those words of Thornton's--"because he loved her."

He had reached the end of the wagon track now, and he walked across the lawn, his steps noiseless on the velvet sward, and pa.s.sed between the maples; and the moon gleam--for the flying clouds, rear-guard of the routed storm, were flung wide apart, dispersed--fell upon a coiled and huddled little figure all in white, that was quite still and motionless upon the rustic seat beside the porch.

She did not see him, did not hear him, until he stood before her and called her name.

"Helena!" he said unsteadily. "Helena!"

She raised her head and looked at him; and then she rose from the bench, and, still holding to it by one hand, drew back a little. There was no outcry, no startled action. Her dark eyes played questioningly upon him--and he could see that they were wet with tears, and that the face from out of which they looked was very white.

"Why have you come back here to-night?" she asked in a low tone; and then, suddenly, a fear, a terror in her voice, as the Flopper's warning flashed upon her: "Thornton--you have seen Thornton?"

"Yes," he said, surprised a little that she should know; "I saw Thornton a few minutes ago."

She came toward him now and clutched his arm.

"What have you done?" she cried tensely. "Answer me! You--you met him on your way here?"

It was a moment before Madison replied. He had schooled himself of course for more than this, yet the words hurt--that was why she had asked for Thornton--she was afraid that he had harmed the man.

"No," he said; "I did not meet him. I think you must have been longer here on that bench than you imagined--haven't you? He came to my room."

"Your room! What for? Tell me!"

Madison smiled with grave whimsicality.

"To call me a gentleman and repose a trust."

She stepped back again, uncertainly.

"I do not know what you are talking about," she said in a strained way.

"And you are talking very strangely."

"Yes," he said. "Everything is strange to-night. It is like a new world, and--and I have not found my way--yet."

She drew back still further.

"Are you mad?" she whispered.

"No," he answered. "Not now--that Is past."

She looked at him for a little time; and, her hands joined before her, her fingers locked and interlocked nervously.

"And--and Thornton?" she asked, at last.

"It was a trust," said Madison slowly; "but it was betrayed before it was given. He did not know--the game. He did not know what was between--you and me."

"No," she said--and the word came almost inaudibly.

"And so," he said, "I will tell you, for it cannot matter now in any case. He told me that he had asked you to marry him to-night--and that you had refused."

Madison paused, and swept his hand across his forehead--his voice somehow had suddenly grown hoa.r.s.e, beyond control.

"Yes," she said--and reached again for the back of the bench, supporting herself against it.

"He is going away," Madison continued; "and he is to send more money here for the 'cause'--when I ask for it--only you are not to know, because you might be diffident about taking it after refusing him."

She stared at him numbly--there was no sarcasm in his words; in his tones only a sort of dreary monotony. She shivered a little--how cold it seemed! She did not quite grasp his words--and yet she shrank from them.

And then her very soul seemed to cry out against them, to pit itself against their meaning, as their meaning surged upon her. And unconsciously she drew herself up, and the whiteness of her face fled before a rush of color.

"Oh, the shame of it!" she burst out. "The bitter shame of it! You shall not touch the money--do you hear! You shall not touch it! I--I thought that you had understood this afternoon. I am glad then that you have come to-night--if I must say more to make you understand. This is the end! I do not care what happens--the little I can do now to atone for what I have done, I am going to do. The game is at an end--you shall not touch another cent--and everything that we have taken goes back to those whom we have worse than robbed it from! You hear--you understand! I will cry it out in the town street if there is no other way--but it shall stop--it shall stop to-night"--she was panting, breathless, the little figure erect, outraged, quivering--and then suddenly the shoulders seemed to droop, the lips to tremble, and she was on her knees upon the gra.s.s beside the bench, and sobbing as a child.

"Helena!" Madison said hoa.r.s.ely. "Helena! Listen! That is what I came for to-night--to find a way out for you, for us all, if I can."

The pa.s.sionate outburst pa.s.sed--and she was on her feet again, facing him.

"You are clever--clever!" she cried fiercely. "But you shall not play with me--you shall not trick me--I meant every word I said!"

But now Madison made no answer. The moonlight bathed them both in its clear, white radiance; and touched the sward, shading it to softest green; and the trees limned out like fairy things against the night; and the calm light flooded the little cottage with its hidden walls where the ivy and the creepers grew, and lingered over the trellises to drink the fragrance of the flowers that peeped out from their leafy beds. And upon Madison's face crept slowly the anguish that was in his soul--until it was mirrored there--until unconsciously it answered her where words would have been useless things. Like some white-robed, sorrowing angel, she seemed, as she stood there before him--the brown eyes full of shadow, troubled; the sweet face tear-splashed; the little figure in its simple muslin frock, pitiful in its brave defiance. And pure--just G.o.d, how pure she looked!--the brow stainless white under the ma.s.s of dark, coiled hair; the perfect throat of ivory. And--and the misery that was in every feature of her face, in every line of her poise--and he had brought her that--_he_ had brought her to that--and now when he loved her as he might have loved her once and known her love in return, when his heart cried out for her, when she was all in life he cared for, she was gone from him, out of his life, and between them was a barrier he could never pa.s.s--a barrier of his own raising.

And so he made no answer, for indeed he had not heard her; but she was coming toward him now, her hands outstretched in a wondering way, wistfully, pleadingly, as though to hold back a refutation that would change the dawning light upon her face to dismay and grief again.

"It--it is true," she faltered. "It has come to you too--this change, this new life that has come to me. It is true--I can see it in your face."

"Yes; it is true," he answered, in a low voice.

"Thank G.o.d!" she whispered--and hid her face in her hands--and presently he heard her sob again.

A tiny cloud edged the moon, and the light faded, and it grew dark, and the darkness hid her; then softly, timidly almost it seemed, the radiance came creeping through the branches overhead again--and then he spoke.

"Helena," he said, steadying his voice with an effort, "you spoke of atonement a little while ago; but there is no atonement that I can make to you--nothing that I can do to change what I would give my soul to change. I know what it meant to you to send Thornton away to-night, for I love you now as you love him--I know why you did it, and--"

She was staring at him a little wildly--her hands pressed against her cheeks.

"Love--Thornton," she repeated in a sort of wondering way, a long pause between the words.

"Yes," he said gently; "I know. Have you forgotten what you told me this afternoon?--that you had learned--last night--what love was."

She shook her head.

"I do not love Thornton," she said in a monotone. "And yet it is true that through him I learned what love was, what it _could_ be--don't you understand?"

Understand! No; it seemed that he could never understand! She did not love Thornton! And then, as some fiery cordial, the words seemed to whip through his veins, quickening the beat of his heart into wild, tumultuous throbbing. Yes, yes, he could understand--it was true--true--she did not love Thornton.

"Helena!" he cried--and stretched out his arms to her. "I thought, oh, G.o.d, I thought that I had lost you--Helena!"

But she did not move.

"What does it matter to you whether I love Thornton or not?" she said dully. "Does it change anything where you and I are concerned--does it change what I told you this afternoon--that I would not go back to _that_."