"Jericho!"
Then she was gone, and he was alone with the memory of the past.
CHAPTER XV
In the year of grace in which this story moved, the Macon fair began the tenth day of July. All things were now leading up to it, for July had come, and the days, while really long, passed quickly.
Glenning had a fearful task before him. Only once since that memorable night when so many things had happened—when he had been almost scorned by the girl he loved; when he had held a mob at bay and saved a worthless scoundrel's life; when he had received a young lady caller in his office at two o'clock in the morning; when he had walked home with her to be ruthlessly wakened from his blissful love-dream—only once since that night had he been able to get himself to that point of moral courage which would enable him to make his confession, and plead his cause unhampered and with a conscience at rest. And in that hour when his soul was trembling on the verge of a full disclosure of all that had passed during that hateful, bitter-sweet time in Jericho, an interruption had come at the inopportune moment, and his chance went, for when they were together again alone that very evening he knew that it was impossible for him to speak. He knew, too, that possession and a full reciprocity of affection would never be his until he had lain bare that hidden portion of his life. He wanted to tell it; he wanted her to know. It was not a desire for concealment which held his tongue. That night when they stood in the wan moonlight by the portico steps, he had forgotten the untold secret. He knew only that she was before him, very close to him; that he had held her hand, had, for a few moments, pressed her young body to his as they went down the steps at his office; knew that she had filled him and thrilled him with a rare happiness, and that life without her would be commonplace, sunless and dreary. Another moment his consuming love would have been pouring from his lips in fervent words of fire, when he heard that name which he had come to hate—"Jericho!"
In the days which followed he fought with himself again, and some there are who will know what this means, and others there are who will not. But of all battles fought, surely this is the most terrible, when a man fights himself. It was not the old struggle with which he had contended night upon night after his arrival in Macon. That had been horrible, for the devil and an angel had locked in his heart then, and their efforts had torn him pitiably. But his angel had won in the end. The red-gold hair and the eyes of wine came no more to make a picture of living temptation above his pillow. They were banished. Now the same devil had come again, and the same angel, and it was all to do over again. This time the devil told him to keep his mouth shut, or tell only a part of the truth, since he had already been fool enough to say that something had occurred back in Jericho. The angel bade him lay the whole story bare; this was the only honourable course. John was aware that the outcome of this fight must be decided by his attitude. The combatant to which he lent his aid would overcome the other. And while he knew perfectly well what he should do, the devil pulled steadily the other way, whispering all the time that to speak the truth would mean total loss, and that a partial falsehood, at least, would be excusable, considering all that was at stake.
The new doctor's leisure hours were getting less frequent now. His remarkable success in treating the Scribbenses had all at once lifted him on a wave of popularity. Then, too, the story of how he had whipped Devil Marston in fair fight had gone abroad some way, and this, coupled to his defense of the jail, had thrown him in the full glare of the lime-light, and had also raised him on a sort of pedestal for the good people of Macon. They had never had anyone in their quiet community who could "do things" before. They began to hold him in a kind of awe, and to honour him in every way they could. Some of the most substantial recognition came from the wealthy population, who sent for him when illness required the presence of a physician. Glenning began to realize that his position was secure and his future assured.
One day Dillard joined him on the street, and accompanied him to his office. He was worried, as usual. He preceded his opening remark by shaking his head solemnly.
"It's no use, Glenning; it's no use."