Donaldson retired to his room, and
without undressing threw up his window and stared
at the hedge and the dark that lay beyond. Then
he tried to work out some solution to the problem
which confronted him. There was no use for him
to try to blind himself to the fact that he loved
this girl that was but to shirk the question.
She stood out as the supreme passion of his life
and forced upon him a future that had a meaning beyond
anything of which he had ever dreamed. She quickened
in him new hopes, new aspirations, new ambitions.
She made him see the triviality of all that he had
most hoped to enjoy during this week; she opened his
eyes to all that he had tried to make Arsdale see.
With her by his side every day would be like that
first afternoon; every hour thrilling with opportunities.
The barren future which he had so feared, even though
it offered no greater opportunities than had always
lain before him, would tingle with possibilities.
Wait? He could wait an eternity with her by
his side and every waiting minute would be a golden
minute. He could go back to that little office
now and find a thousand things to do. He could
hew out a career that would honor her. He saw
numberless chances for reform work into which he could
throw himself, heart and soul, while waiting.
But there would be no waiting; life would begin from
the first hour. What more did he need than her?
He shuddered back from his luxurious room at the hotel
as from something cheap.
A loaf of bread without even so much
as a jug of wine would be paradise enow. Just
the opportunity to live and breathe and have his being
in this big pregnant universe was all he craved.
He needed nothing else. So the universe would
be his.
He dared not try to read her thoughts.
He had no right to do this. It did n’t
matter. Her love was not essential. If
he deserved it, that would come. It was enough
that she had given him back his dreams, that she had
taken him back to those fragrant days when his uncrusted
soul had known without knowing. It was enough
that the sweetness of her had become an inseparable
part of him for evermore. She was his now, even
though he should never again lay eyes upon her.
The only relief he had was in the thought that she
had accomplished this without committing herself.
At least he did not have the burden of her tender
love upon his soul further to complicate matters.
So much he admitted frankly; so much
was fact. The problem which now confronted him
was how he could best escape from involving her at
all in the inevitable climax how he could
make his escape without destroying in her the ideals
with which she had surrounded him and which she had
a right to keep. He owed this to her, to Arsdale,
and to the world of men.
A dozen times he was upon the point
of pushing out into the dark. If he had followed
his own impulse he would have taken some broad road
and footed it hour after hour, through the night,
through the next day, through the next night, and
so till the end overtook him, striking him down in
his tracks. He would get as far away as possible,
keeping out under the broad expanse of the sky above.
He could find rest only by taking a course straight
on over the hills, turning aside for nothing, tearing
a path through the tangle.
But he still had his work to do.
He must lend his strength to the boy so long as any
strength was left. He must pound into him again
and again the realization of life which he himself
had been tempted to shirk. He must make him
see, must make him know. In recalling
that scene in the room by the window, in recalling
his own words to Arsdale, he felt strangely enough
the force of his own thoughts entering into himself
with new life. He listened as it were to himself.
Even for him there were the Others. Down to
the last arrow-sped minute there would still be the
Others. Who knew what remained for him to do charged
with what influence might be even the manner in which
he drew his last breath? If he stood up to it
sturdily, if he faced death with his head high, his
shoulders back, even though he might be cornered in
his room like a rat in its hole, so the message might
be wired silently into the heart of some poor devil
struggling hard against his death throes and lend
him courage.
At the end of two hours he undressed
and tumbled upon the bed.
His room was next to Arsdale’s
room and during the night the latter came in.
“I ’ve had bad dreams
about you,” the boy exclaimed. “Is
anything the matter?”
“I ’m not sleeping very well,” Donaldson
answered.
“You haven’t a fever or anything?”
“No. Just restless.”
“I have n’t slept very
well myself. I ’ve been doing so much
thinking. That keeps a fellow awake.”
“Yes thinking does.
You ’d better let your brain close up shop and
get some rest.”
“I can’t. I ’ve
been chewing over what you said, and the more I think
of it, the more I see that you have the right idea.
The secret of keeping happy is to fight for others.
It’s the only thing that will make a man put
up a good fight, isn’t it?”
“The only thing,” answered Donaldson.
“I don’t understand why
I did n’t realize that before with
Elaine here. You ’d think she would make
a man realize that.”
Donaldson did not answer.
“I think one reason is,”
continued the boy, “that until now, until lately,
she’s been so nervy herself that she did n’t
seem to need any one. She ’s been stronger
than I. But last night she looked like a little girl.
And now, I’d like to die fighting for her.”
Donaldson found the boy’s hand.
“Never lose that spirit,”
he said earnestly. “But remember, she ’s
worth more than dying for, she ’s worth living
for.”
“That’s so. You
put things right every time. She is worth living
for. You are n’t much good to people after
you ’re dead, are you?”
“Not as far as we know.”
The boy hesitated a moment, a bit confused, and then
blurted out,
“I ’m going to take up
some sort of work. Perhaps you can help me get
after something. We have loads of money, you
know. I don’t think much of giving it
out as cash, the charity idea. I ’ve
a hunch that I ’d like to study law and then
give my services free to the poor devils who need
a man to look after their interests. They are
darned small interests to men who are only after their
fee, but they are big to the poor devils themselves.
And generally they get done. Do you think I
have it in me to study law?”
“You have it in you to study
law with that idea back of you. You ’d
make a great lawyer with that idea.”
“Do you think so?” asked the boy eagerly.
“I know it.”
“Then perhaps perhaps say,
would you be willing to take me in with you?”
Donaldson moved uneasily.
“It sounds sort of kiddish,
but I know that I ’d do better alongside of
you. I ’d help you around the office.
I ’d feel better, just to see you. Anyway,
would you be willing to try me for a while until I
sort of get my bearings?”
“I like the idea,” answered
Donaldson. “Let ’s talk it over later.
You see there’s a chance that I may give up law.”
“Give it up?”
“I may have to leave this part of the country for
good.”
“Why, man,” burst out Arsdale, “you
wouldn’t leave Elaine?”
The silence grew ominous. The
fighting spirit rose in Arsdale at the suggestion.
“You would n’t leave Elaine?”
he demanded again, turning towards the form on the
bed which looked strangely huddled up.
“I must leave her with you,”
answered Donaldson unsteadily. The boy scarcely
recognized the voice, but it roused him to a danger
which he felt without understanding.
“Why, man dear,” he exclaimed,
“what would I count to Elaine with you gone?
Don’t you know? Have n’t you seen?”
They were the identical words Donaldson
had used in trying to open Arsdale’s eyes to
another great truth. And Donaldson knew that
if they cut half as deep into the boy as they now
cut into him they had left their mark. He found
no answer. He listened with his breath coming
as heavily as the boy’s breath had come when
they had stood before the open window.
Arsdale faltered for words.
“Why why Elaine loves you!”
he blurted out.
“Don’t!”
So, too, the boy had exclaimed.
“Don’t you know?
I thought you knew everything, Donaldson! I
don’t see how you help seeing that. But
I suppose it’s because you ’re so thoughtful
of others that you can’t see your own joys.
But it’s true, Donaldson. I don’t
suppose I ought to tell you about it, but man, man,
she loves you! Give me your hand, Donaldson.”
He found it in the dark, hot and dry.
“I want to tell you how glad
I am. I suppose I must be a sort of father to
her now, and I tell you that I would n’t give
her to another man in the world but you. You
’re the only one worthy of her.”
He pressed the big hand.
“You ’re the one man who
can make her happy,” he ran on. “You
can give her some of the things she ’s been
cheated out of. Why, when I was talking to her
last night, her face looked like an angel’s as
I spoke of you. It is you who makes it easier
for her to forget all the past even even
the blow. I knew what it was when I came home that
you ’d done even that for me though
she couldn’t see it. You ’ve
blotted out of her mind every dark day in her life!”
“That is something, is n’t it?”
asked Donaldson almost pleadingly.
“Something? Something?
It’s everything. Don’t you see now
that you can’t go away?”
“I see,” he answered.
“Well, then, give me your hand
again. Sort of trembly, eh? But I ’ll
bet you sleep better the rest of the night. And
don’t you on your life let her know I told you.
She ’s proud as the devil. But she would
have done the same for me. They say love is blind,”
he laughed excitedly, “but, Holy Smoke, this
is the worst case of it I ever saw!”
Donaldson lay passive.
“Now,” concluded Arsdale,
“I ’ll go back and see if I can sleep.
Good night.”
Donaldson again lay flat on his back
after Arsdale had gone. So he lay, not sleeping,
merely enduring, until, almost imperceptibly at first,
the dark about him began to dissolve. Then he
rose, partly dressed, and sitting by the open window
watched the East as the dawn stole in upon the sleeping
city. It came to the attack upon the grim alleys,
the shadows around buildings, the stealthy figures,
like a royal host. A few gray outriders reconnoitred
over the horizon line and sent scurrying to their
hovels those who looked up at them from shifty eyes.
Then came a vanguard in brighter colors with crimson
penants who attacked the fields and broad thoroughfares;
then the King’s Own in scarlet jackets and wide
sweeping banners, bronze tinted, who charged the smaller
streets and factory roofs, and finally the brave array
of all the dazzling host itself, who hurled their golden,
sun-tipped lances into every nook and cranny, awaking
to life all save those whose souls were dark within.
In watching it Donaldson found the
first relief in the long night. His own mind
cleared with the dawn. The day broke so clean
and fresh, so bathed in morning dew, that once again
his mind, grown perhaps less active, clung in some
last spasm to the present as when he had sat with
Elaine at breakfast, part of the little Dutch picture.
Without reasoning into the to-morrow, he felt as
though this day belonged to him. As the sun
rose higher and stronger, enveloping the world in its
catholic rays, the night seemed only an evil dream.
He was both stronger and weaker. He was swept
on, unresisting, by the high flood of the new day.
This world now before his eyes acknowledged nothing
of his agony but came mother-like to ease his fretting.
She would have nothing of the heavy tossings inspired
by her sinister sister, the Night. She was all
for clean glad spirits, all for new hopes. So
he who had first frowned at it, who had then watched
passively, now rose to its call.
He was entitled to this day, sang
the tempter sun, one big day out of all
his life. The crisis would be no more acute upon
the morrow and he might be stronger to meet it.
This day was his and hers, and even the boy’s.
To accept it would be to shirk nothing; it would be
only to postpone to weave into the sombre
grave vestments be was making for himself one golden
thread. Arsdale’s talk had removed the
last vestige of hope. The worst had happened.
Surely one gay interlude could add no burden.
A day was always a day, and joys once lived could
never be lost. Always in her life and in his
this would remain, and since he had shouldered the
other days as they had come to him, it seemed no more
than right that he should take this. Not to do
so would be but sorry self-imposed martyrdom.
Arsdale came in, still in his bathrobe,
with brisk step and his face a-beaming.
“Well,” he demanded, “how do you
feel now?”
“Better,” answered Donaldson, unhesitatingly.
“Better! You ought to
feel great! Look at the sun out there!
Smell that air! Have you had your tub?”
“Not yet,” smiled Donaldson.
Arsdale led the way to the shower,
and a few minutes later Donaldson felt his skin tingle
to new life beneath the cold spray.