The Barrier: A Novel

"You mean you found it?" she asked. "Did you not originate it?"

Ellis flushed and hesitated; Judith spoke quickly. "I don't suppose anything in the world is so original that it hasn't been proposed before. Mr. Ellis, Beth, is profiting by the experience of other cities – aren't you?" And Judith turned to him.

Gratified, he assented. Beth saw the glance of understanding that passed between them; turning to her father, she saw him watching Judith with satisfaction. She felt almost faint: how was the world going so wrong that this could happen? Nothing was left for Beth but to declare, as brightly as she could – yet Judith felt the distress in her voice – that this was all so new that she must think it over. After that she sat silent.

But Judith, having expressed her zeal in Ellis's cause, was more than ever pleased with herself and with him. It struck her particularly that he was generous toward Mather, that it was kind of Ellis to praise him and desire him as an ally, and that, contrasting with Mather's denunciation of his rival, Ellis showed the finer character. She was about to question him again when the servant brought a note and laid it at her plate.

"The messenger asked me to deliver it to you at once, Miss Judith."

Judith took it up; it was addressed in Mather's hand. Her instant impulse to destroy it he had foreseen, for in the corner of the envelope he had written "Not personal." So, still flushing with the indignation she had first felt, she opened the envelope and took out the note. It was written on the paper of the University Club.

"My dear Judith: I must find Jim Wayne, but Beth must not know. Trusting absolutely to your secrecy, I give my reasons. Matters have been mismanaged at the mill; and just now, calling on Mrs. Wayne, I found her in despair over the disappearance of her securities. I fear that Jim has been speculating, and I am sure he is avoiding me, but I must find him before he takes it into his head to leave the city, for perhaps I can set matters right. If he comes to your house, will you immediately telephone me at the club? I am

Yours in great haste,

George Mather."

Judith was not one to be disturbed by sudden news, bad or good; she took this calmly. But as she sat, still looking at the letter, its meaning began to come upon her. Jim had been with Ellis that afternoon, had had some previous understanding with him, had almost accused him. Jim had fled at Mather's coming, leaving unsaid more of those reproaches and demands with which he had showered Ellis. His very words came back to her: "Who gave me the idea? Who told me what to do?" Then she remembered Ellis's cold remark: "Wayne, you have no claim upon me."

Not understanding why, Judith began to tremble, and her hands grew cold. It was as if her instinct outstripped her mind and gave warning of what was coming. Slowly, sitting there in her place and looking straight before her, she began to unravel the puzzle. Ellis looked at her once, curiously; then Beth, seeing the glance and noting Judith's absorption, took her place in the conversation. Judith thought on. If Jim had speculated, had Ellis known? Had Ellis led him into it? Once in, did Ellis refuse to help him? She recalled what Mather had said of Ellis discarding his tools. But how could Jim be of use to him, except – yes! – as a handle, a hold on her through Beth! And was this Ellis's method of bringing Jim into his power? She heard again the boy's despairing words: "Who gave me the idea?"

She looked at Ellis: what was this wild suspicion? Could it be true?

Beth, not knowing what else to speak about, had made him talk of the suggested strike. Ellis had laughed about it. There would be no strike.

"Why," he was saying as Judith looked at him, "the air seems charged with strike-talk sometimes, yet nothing comes of it. Now that I think of it," and he paused to laugh, "a man tried blackmail on me this afternoon. He was a fellow I once had to do with when we were both younger, a crank if ever there was one. He has ideas of the rights of the workingman, yet he is far from honest. He came to me with the statement that he could bring on the strike if he wished – with his socialistic talk, you understand. He wished me to pay him to keep from haranguing my men."

"Did you do it?" Judith suddenly demanded.

"No, no," he said lightly. "A mere agitator, he could do no harm."

"An agitator?" asked Beth, interested. "Why, there was such a man at George's mill this summer. Don't you remember, Judith. He tried to bring about a strike there. I wonder if it was the same man, Mr. Ellis. Was his name Stock?"

Judith had watched steadily. At Beth's first words Ellis had changed, hardened, made his face stone. But at the name – did he not control a start? Yet he answered with indifference. "Oh, no. There are many such fellows. It is quite another man."

But he glanced at Judith, and though he did it quietly and steadily, as once he had described his habit to be, she recalled the conversation which she had overheard, and understood it all. She had known the voice, the husky tones which became harsh when raised. She remembered the words, the Chebasset job for which money had been promised, yet which had failed. And Ellis had paid – had paid! The meanness, the whole base plot, was revealed to her.

The servant had come with the dessert, but Judith rose from her chair; her face was white. "I cannot eat any more," she said. "You must excuse me."

"Is anything – " began her father.

"I must go," she said, and went into the parlour, wishing only to be alone and think, to despise herself at leisure. Ellis had revealed not only himself, but also her blind folly. She cast herself upon the sofa and put her face in her hands.

Then she heard his footsteps; he had followed. He crossed the room; she felt him sit beside her, and she heard his voice. He spoke gently. "Miss Judith – Judith!" He took her hand to draw it from her face.

His touch was a disgrace, but she yielded her hand to his; she wished his fingers might burn like fire, to brand her punishment. Writhing in spirit as she felt herself unclean, for very scorn would not resist him.

"Judith," he repeated, his hope rising, "you are not ill?"

"No." She turned and looked upon him resolutely; she would see once more this man whom she had admired.

"If anything I have said," he went on, "if I have – oh, did it come over you then so strongly that you left the table? Did you feel that we are made for each other?"

She withdrew her hand quickly. "Made for each other!"

His face changed, the eagerness was checked, and he said the conventional words, conventionally: "I love you."

She looked into him: how small he was! How cold his voice, which should have been impassioned! "Love me?" she asked. "You love crooked ways!"

Slowly he rose. "What is this?" he asked.

"I so felt our – sympathy, that I left the table? Oh, yes, yes!" Scorn overcame her; again she hid her face. Oh, but to die from the strength of this hatred of herself!

She heard him walk away; then he returned and stood before her. "I do not understand you," he said. "I have been foolish, perhaps, but I told the truth. I do feel that we are made for each other. Will you marry me?"

Her contempt of him left her; she loathed only herself. All through this acquaintance he had been his natural man; it was she who had deceived herself. For that she could not punish him. "I cannot marry you," she answered.

His effort at self-control was visible, but it succeeded. "I beg," he said, "that you will give me time. If I have been hasty – "

"No," she said, rising and facing him. "Mr. Ellis, I acknowledge that I have treated you badly; I am as sorry as I can be. Can I say more than that? Yes, I beg you to forgive me. But I can never marry you."

He pressed his lips firmly together; his brows contracted, and he looked at her out of those narrow eyes which could control his subordinates or threaten his opponents. But she met him with sorrow, not defiance, and he could not understand.

"What has happened?" he cried. "Yesterday – this very day – "

"You were sure of me?" she asked. "Rightly, Mr. Ellis. But now it is too late."

"What is it, then? Has that fellow Mather – ?"

"Yourself only," she interrupted. "I beg you to leave me."

He looked at her a moment longer; then he left the room. But not the house: she heard him go to the dining-room and speak to her father. Then Beth came into the parlour quickly; she was agitated.

"Judith – "

"Not now, Beth," and Beth left her again.

There was a pause, and then her father came; she heard his dragging step. When he appeared he showed the last shreds of his natural feeling – shame that at Ellis's order he should come to advise his child.

"Judith," he began, "Mr. Ellis tells me that – that you – "

"I have declined to marry him," she said.

"Why is this?" he asked. "It has seemed so plain that you would take him."

Judith hung her head. Had it then been so plain? "I have changed."

"Come," said the Colonel with an attempt at briskness. "You can't mean this. There's nothing against Ellis that I can see."

"Nothing?" she asked. "And you say that, father? What will our friends say."

"Girls marry out of their station," he urged uneasily. "We can bring him in, Judith."

"Father," she demanded, "what hold has he on you, to make you say this?"

"Hold?" he asked. "My dear child, there is nothing of the sort." But when the truth was thrust directly at him the Colonel was a poor actor.

"There is something between you," Judith said.

"I have come to see Mr. Ellis in a different light," he explained. "That is all there is to it."

"Father," cried Judith, "tell me!"

He turned away from her and began to walk up and down, but she held his sleeve and stopped him.

"Father!" she beseeched.

He tried to meet her eye, and failed; he looked at the carpet and shifted his feet. But still he felt her insistent grasp upon his arm, and at last he spoke huskily.

"Judith, I owe him money."

"Oh!" she gasped, and fell away from him. "Father, what have you done?" Yet feeling that she had not even the right to reproach him, she said no more. As she stood with bowed head, he took courage.

"You see," he said, "why it must be."

"Must be?" she demanded. "Oh, father, does that make it inevitable?"

"Judith," he asked her, startled. "Do you mean that you – you won't?"

"How much do you owe him?" she questioned with energy.

"Some thousands."

"Well," she said, "what are four or five thousand? We can sell the house and live differently."

He looked his alarm. "It is more than five," he said. "Nearer ten thousand."

"The house is worth more than that," she responded.

"But to leave this place?" he objected. "Judith, this is absurd, unreasonable! Where could we go?"

"Go anywhere!" she answered. "Live as we must. Father, you can work."

"Work?" he gasped. "I – work?"

"Then I will support you. Beth and I."

"No, no!" he said in despair. "I couldn't stand it; I couldn't exist. At my age; think of that!" and his tone turned to pleading.

She heard a footstep at the threshold, and there was Ellis. He entered and spoke to her. "I couldn't wait. Miss Blanchard, has not your father persuaded you?"

She turned upon him with flaming eye. "How did you first persuade him? Did you offer to release his debt?"

"So," he snarled to the Colonel, "you have told!"

The Colonel stepped away from the venomous gleam of his teeth. "She made me," he stammered.

"Made you!"

"There is no advantage in discussing this, Mr. Ellis," said Judith.

"Do not count it against me," he urged quickly. "Your father came to me of himself, asking for help. I did it for you."

"You would have served me better by refusing. But Mr. Ellis, the money shall be paid."

"Paid with money?" he asked. With clenched hands he turned upon the Colonel. "Oh, you fool!"

"Father!" cried Judith, and stepped between them to restrain the burst of military wrath which should cast Ellis from the house. But to her amazement her father stood motionless, almost cringing. Then first she recognised the slow degeneration which in all these years had been going on beneath the unchanged exterior. "Father!" she said again, but now in pity, and took her place at his side. She felt, as he made a little movement toward her, his gratitude for the protection – another revelation of his loss of manliness. "Mr. Ellis, there is nothing further to say."

"Oh, you have led me on to this!" he cried. "Was it put up between you? Such a way to gain money!"

Instinctively she took her father's arm, to hold him; again he proved, by his passivity, that his spirit was all gone. "Will you leave us?" she asked coldly.

"Oh!" Ellis cried, shaking with anger and carried away. "You put it on well! Because I am not one of you, you tricked me, then? And was it Mather all the time? But my turn is coming!" He would have said more, but she left her father and went toward the door. Then he saw how hopelessly he was cutting himself off from her. "Oh, forgive me – Judith! I am frantic."

But she turned at the door, and standing like an angry goddess, pointed into the hallway. "Go!" she commanded.

"Miss Blanchard!" he exclaimed in consternation.

"Go!"

His hold on her was gone forever; he saw it, and his venom returned. He went swiftly to her father; she did not hear the words that Ellis hissed. "I have bought up the mortgages on this house; you know they are long overdue. Monday I turn you out!"

With delight he saw the Colonel flinch, but by no effort of resolution could Ellis meet the glance of the haughty figure at the door. Yet as he passed her Judith quailed and shivered, for by the same commanding gesture she had sent Mather from the house.

CHAPTER XXV

The Colonel Gives Up His Luxuries

The Colonel pulled himself together. Ellis was gone, and relieved from that oppressive influence Blanchard held up his head. He tried to smile, and found that he succeeded fairly well. He tested his voice; it came as usual, sonorously.

"Thank Heaven!" he said, "the fellow's gone."

"Father," answered Judith, "you and I have both done wrong."

He waved his hand impatiently; would her confounded straightforwardness not let him forget? "Never mind."

"Never mind?" she repeated. "Father, we can't put this aside for a single minute. We must plan at once what shall be done."

"You always were fiery," he said indulgently. "Well, go ahead."

"We need Beth," and Judith went to call her in. Beth came, white with apprehension, having heard tones but not words, and feeling rather than knowing that there was trouble. She sought to learn all from one question. "Where is Mr. Ellis?"

"Gone," answered Judith. "He will not come here again."

"Oh," she cried, "I am glad. Then why so grave?"

"Mr. Ellis," her sister said, "has gone away very angry, and father owes him money." Then she looked upon the Colonel with sudden suspicion. "Father, you said about ten thousand dollars. Was it more?"

"My dear child," he protested, "this matter is not so great as you suppose. And I cannot tell you all of my affairs."

"Father," she returned, "for my sake, if not for yours, Mr. Ellis should be paid at once."

He rebuked her. "I know how to keep our honour clean. Mr. Ellis shall be paid at once."

"You promise that, sir?"

"I do."

"And will it mean that we must sell the house?"

"It will." The Colonel always excelled in the delivery of monosyllables.

"Sell the house?" gasped Beth.

"Come here, dear," said Judith, and drew her to her side. "Beth, you have plenty of courage, I know."

"I hope so." Pleased by the unusual caress, Beth controlled her trembling. "What are you planning, Judith?"

"We must entirely change our way of life." Judith looked to her father for confirmation; he nodded. "Are you willing to work, Beth?"

"I am willing," was the confident answer.

"Father," Judith asked, "how much will the house bring?"

"Come here," he answered. "Let me tell you what we must do."

He went to the sofa; they followed. Beth took the place he indicated at his side; Judith sat in a chair. The Colonel, still smiling, looked on them paternally, and began to depict in words his ready imaginings.

"When the house is sold and the debt is paid," he said, "we shall have left – let me see, perhaps twenty thousand dollars. I don't need to explain," he interrupted himself to say, "that had not other resources previously failed me – mismanagements and losses, dears, not from my fault – I should never have turned to Mr. Ellis for assistance. No, no; of course you understand that. Therefore, the house is our only source of capital. Well, twenty thousand left: that would mean perhaps a thousand dollars a year to house and feed and clothe us. Yes, perhaps a thousand." The Colonel clung to the perhaps; it was covering a lie, several lies. "You see, we shall really be in difficulties."

"Yes," murmured Beth.

The Colonel warmed to his task. "Now, you are both young; on the other hand I am not old, and I am a soldier. The habit of courage, girls, I learned in my youth. So we are well equipped. But, only a thousand dollars! That will pay rent; perhaps it will pay for food. And our clothes, our little knick-knacks, we must earn for ourselves."

"Shall we take an apartment?" asked Beth, for Judith remained silent, watching her father intently. "One of the new ones they have been putting up?"

"Ah, no," he said kindly. "They cost five hundred a year, my child. This must be something of an emigration, Beth: this quarter of the town is no longer for us. But there are very respectable, quiet neighbourhoods where we can go; and even houses, not apartments, that we can rent. Does that dismay you?"

Beth pressed his hand. "No, father, no!"

He avoided Judith's steady look, and smoothed Beth's hair. "Servants – I don't think we can afford them. One of you two must do the housework. Which shall it be?"

"I!" Beth answered promptly.

"Cooking, dishwashing, sweeping," he warned her. "Are you really willing?"

"If you will be patient with my mistakes."

"My dear little girl, I am proud of you. Judith, is she not fine?" But still he kept his eyes upon the pleased and blushing Beth. "And we two others will earn the money."

"I am sorry," responded Beth. Then she brightened. "But, father, need it be so bad as this? You know so much of affairs; you can command a good salary at once."

"Remember," he said, "that I have failed. The world has gone against me. No one will have use for me. A clerk or a bank messenger – that is the most I can look to be."

"No, no!" cried Beth, shocked.

"It is natural," he said with resignation. "And perhaps Judith, with her talents and her typewriter, before long will be supporting all three of us." For the first time Judith heard his natural tone, in this reminder of his many little flings. "And we will all economise!"

"It will not be hard," Beth said.

"No," was the paternal response, "because we shall be doing it together. Think – some little four-room cottage. Perhaps not all the modern improvements, but never mind. We leave you early in the morning, Judith and I; we take the crowded electrics with all the other people going to their work. Judith snatches a few minutes to go to a bargain sale; I, at a ready-made-clothing store, fit myself to a twelve-dollar suit. Then we work hard all day, we three – and perhaps it will be hardest for you, Beth, to be so much alone. But at night we meet over the simple meal you have prepared, and go early to bed, fatigued by our day."

Even Beth saw how far this was from the Colonel's nature. "Father, it will be hardest for you."

"No worse," he replied, "than the Wilderness campaign. Never you fret, dear; I can resign my luxuries. And if our friends over here sometimes speak of us with pity, we shall not meet them often enough to feel hurt when they do not recognise us in our cheap clothes."

"Father," cried Beth. "Our friends will stand by us. You shall see!"

"They will patronise us," he answered. "Shall we care for that? Especially Judith." And he turned to her at last.

"I can stand anything," she replied. "I am glad that you have foreseen all this, father."

"Did you doubt me?" he asked. He rose, and the girls rose with him. "But now I must go to my room; I must make a beginning on my new life. Good-night, Beth. Kiss me. Kiss me, Judith. Dears," he said, gazing on them affectionately, "we have had little dissensions from time to time, but I promise never to quarrel with you more. No, don't reply; I know you will be as forbearing toward me. Good-night; I am going to my study." He went to the door, and paused a moment. "Judith, did you really doubt me? You shall see what I can do."

Waving them a final good-night, he was gone. He climbed the stair briskly at first; then his step became slower, and his head bowed. In his study he sank into a chair and passed his hand across his forehead, where the perspiration had already started out. That had been an effort, but it was over, and now – !

He was sitting alone in this little room; like shadows his thoughts closed in on him. No, he had not lied; he had said perhaps. But the house was mortgaged to its full value, Ellis held the mortgages, and the interest was long overdue. The furniture was pledged. Monday, owning nothing but the clothes on his back, he would be turned into the street. Judith had failed him; everything had failed him. Life, so pleasant, had played him false at last; there was no outlook any more. Slowly, without spirit, consumed with self-pity, he took pen and paper and began to write. How little there was to say! The letter was finished all too soon.

In the parlour the two girls sat and spoke together. "How brave of father!" Beth said.

Judith answered, "I never saw him less like himself."

"He is a new man," Beth explained. "He is setting us an example. We must work, and be a credit to him."

Judith's energy returned. She would work, she said. The typewriter was her own; it was paid for. She would apply herself to master it. Were they still rich, even then she would go to work. She must occupy herself, and forget. And as for Beth, before long Jim would come and claim her.

Then Judith remembered Mather's note, and the trouble deepened. If Jim had gone wrong, how would Beth, innocent Beth, bear that? She stole a glance at her sister. Beth was listening.

"Father, is that you?" she called.

The Colonel's voice answered from the hall. "I just came down for something." They heard him go up-stairs again.

"He came down very quietly," said Beth. "I heard him in the back parlour. Poor father! He is very brave."

Then both sat silent, thinking. "We have good blood," said Judith at last with a tremor of pride in her voice. "We will show we are not afraid of what may happen."

"Yes," Beth answered. " – Hush, what was that?"

"I heard nothing," Judith said.

Beth's eyes grew larger as she sat rigid. "It was a groan," she whispered. "Listen!"

Then they both heard it, unmistakable, coming from the floor above. They started up, but stood in fear, questioning each other with their eyes. Again it came, but feebler, like a deep sigh.

"Father!" cried Judith, and hastened to the stairs. Up they hurried; they were breathless when they reached the study door. There they halted, transfixed.

The Colonel had finished his letter; it lay on the desk by his side. He reclined in the easy-chair as if asleep, but from his breast stood out the handle of the Japanese knife.

CHAPTER XXVI

In Which Judge Harmon Enters the Story

Judith stood waiting at the telephone; at the Club the waiter had gone to fetch Mather. How slow he was in coming! How tired she felt! The wires sang in her ears; she heard faint voices speaking indistinctly; she had a dull consciousness of surrounding space, of connection with far-off spheres, out of which those voices rose, whispered, almost became articulate, then died away to let the humming of the spheres begin again. Then some man said loud and briskly: "Hello!"

"I am using the line," said Judith.

The man begged her pardon and drifted across the Styx, from whose dim territory a tinkling voice spoke complainingly for a while, then faded away. The buzzing in the wires increased the confusion in her head, and Judith, very, very weary, found herself clinging to the instrument lest she should fall. With a strong effort she regained her self-control.