In the fifteen minutes that Donaldson
waited in the library, he fought out with himself
the question as to whether he had the strength to
remain here in the house on this the day before the
end.
In his decision he took into account
his duty towards the boy, the possible danger to the
girl, and his own growing passion. There was
but one answer: he owed it to them all to pull
free while there was yet time. It would be foolhardy
to risk here a full day and an evening.
He felt the approaching crisis more
than he had at any time during the week.
At times he became panic-stricken
at his powerlessness to check for even one brief pendulum-swing
this steady tread of time. Time was such an
intangible thing, and yet what a Juggernaut!
There was nothing of it which he could get hold of
to wrestle, and yet it was more powerful than Samson
to throw him in the end. Sly, subtle, bodiless,
soulless, impersonal; expressed in the big clock above
the city, and in milady’s dainty watch rising
and falling upon her breast; sweeping away cities
and nursing to life violets; tearing down and building
up; killing and begetting; bringing laughter and tears,
it is consistent in one thing alone, that
it never ceases. There is but one word big enough
to express it, and that is God. Without beginning,
without end, and never ceasing. At times he
grew breathless, so individualized did every second
become, so fraught with haste. Where was he being
dragged, and in the end would the seconds rest?
No, they would go on just the same, and he might
hear them even in his grave.
With his decision came the even more
vital question as to what he should tell this girl.
With the strength of his whole nature he craved the
privilege of standing white before her. He longed
to tell her the whole pitiful complication that he
might stand before her without shadow of hypocrisy.
He could then leave with his head up to meet his
doom. But even this crumb of relief was refused
him. To do this might break down the boy and
would leave her, if only as a friend, to bear something
of the ensuing hours. He must, then, leave her
in darkness, suffering the lesser stings of doubt
and suspicion and bewilderment. He must leave
her in false colors to whatever she might imagine.
She came back again with her lips quivering.
“Poor Marie,” she gasped.
“She lies there broken hearted, praying to
die.”
“I am sorry for her,” he said gently.
“I feel the blame of it,”
she answered. “Why must the curse of the
house have fallen upon her?”
“It is difficult to work out
such matters,” he replied. “But I
don’t think you should shoulder the responsibility.
We each of us must bear the burden of our own acts.
It makes it even harder when another tries to relieve
us of this.”
“But I can’t relieve her.
That is the pity of it. She turns away her
head from me for she has taken upon herself all the
responsibility for Jacques.”
“That is the mother in her.
There is nothing you can do.”
“She will die of grief.”
“Then she will be dead. So her relief
will come.”
The girl drew back a little.
“She must not die. I must not let her
die.”
She looked up at him as though she
expected him even in this emergency to suggest some
way out of it. But he was speechless.
“I must go back to her,”
she said after a minute. “I must go and
comfort her.”
“Yes,” he said, “that
is the best you can do. Take her hand and hold
it. That is all you can do. Ben is upstairs?”
“Yes. I have n’t told him yet.”
“Tell him,” he advised.
“It will help him to have an opportunity to
help another.”
“Then you will excuse me?”
“Of course. But there
is something that I must tell you before you go.
I must leave you both now.”
“You will come back to dinner with us?”
“I ’m afraid I shall be
unable. I start on a long journey. I must
say good bye.”
She fixed her eyes upon him in a new
alarm, waiting for what he should say next.
But that was all. That was all he had to say.
In those two words, “Good bye,” he bounded
all that was in the past, all that was in the future.
“You have had some sudden call?”
“Yes.”
“But you will come back again. Don’t don’t
make it sound so final.”
“I have no hope of coming back.”
“Oh,” she cried, “I thought that
now you might find a little rest.”
“Perhaps I shall. I do
not know. But before I go I wish to insist again
that you and Ben leave this house and get back into
the country somewhere. Don’t think I am
presuming, but I should feel better if I knew you
had this in mind. I see so clearly that it is
the thing for you to do.”
“Don’t speak as though
you were going so far,” she shuddered.
“What will Ben do without you?”
“Get him away from these old
surroundings. Let him make friends clean,
wholesome friends. Let him pursue his hobby.
There are other places besides New York where he
is needed. If he is kept busy I do not fear
for him.”
She tried to pierce the white mask
he wore. It was quite useless. She knew
that there was something in him now that she could
not reach. Yet she felt that there was need
of it. She felt that there was need that she
of all women in the world should force her way into
his soul and there comfort him as he had bidden her
comfort Marie. She felt this with an insurge
of passion that left her girlhood behind forever.
It swept away all thoughts of Ben, all thoughts of
Marie, all thoughts of herself. She heard his
voice as though in the distance.
“It is better,” he was
saying, “to be direct to be as honest
as possible at such a time as this. We can’t
say some things very gently, try as we may, because
they are brutal facts in themselves. But I am
going to tell you all I can as simply as I can.
I must leave you. It is n’t of my own
free will that I go, though at the beginning it was.
Now I go because I must. Perhaps you will never
again hear of me. If you don’t you must
remember me as you know me now. Do you understand
that, Miss Arsdale? You know me now as I am as
no other human being knows me. Will you cling
to this?”
“You are to me as you are. So you always
will be.”
She met his eyes unflinchingly, feeling
a new strength growing within her. He went on:
“If we cling to what we ourselves
know of our friends if we cling to that
through thick and thin, nothing that happens to them
can matter much. It is that confidence which
lifts our friendships beyond the reach of the cur
snappings of circumstance. So you, whatever you
may hear afterwards, whatever things you find yourself
unable to understand, must hold fast to this week.
You must say to yourself,” his voice grew husky,
“you must say this, ’If it had
been possible for him to do so, he would have lived
out his life as I wished him to live it out.’”
As he spoke on, it seemed to him that
she, in some subtle way, was rising superior to him.
Instead of losing strength as she stood there before
him, he felt her growing in power. He had been
talking to her as to a child, and now he suddenly
found himself confronting a woman. She was now
the dominant personality. When she spoke to him
her voice was firmer and possessed of a new richness.
“I have heard you,” she
said. “All the things you spoke are true.
Why are you going?”
He hesitated at the direct question.
“Because I must.”
“Why must you?”
“I cannot tell you.”
She placed a steady hand upon his arm.
“Yes. You must tell me.”
“Don’t tempt me like that!”
He felt himself weakening. If
only he might stand before her with his mask off.
It meant freedom, it meant peace. That was all
he asked just the privilege of standing
stark white before this one woman.
He turned away. The burden was
his and he must bear it, if it crushed his very soul
into the clay. Away from those eyes, he might
be able to write some poor explanation. But
to put it into cold words would be only to force upon
her the torture of the next few hours. It was
better for her to believe as she now saw him, as she
might guess, than to suffer the ghastly truth and
then shiver at the mud idol that was left.
He moved back a step.
“You must not look at me,”
he cried. “You must keep your eyes away
from me and and let me go.”
But she followed, pressing him to
the wall as they all had done. The color leaped
to her cheeks. Her eyes grew big and tender.
“I do not think you understand me,” she
said.
He stood awed before what he now saw.
It was as though he were looking at a naked soul.
“I do not think you understand,”
she continued, lifting her head a little. “You
will not go, because there can be no call so great
as that which bids you stay.”
He answered, “My master is the master of us
all.”
“Then,” she returned,
“I too must go to meet your master. He
must claim us both.”
“God forbid,” he exclaimed.
“You talk of masters,”
she ran on more excitedly, “and you are only
a man. We women have a master greater than any
you know. You taught me a moment ago to be direct to
be honest. It is so I must be with you now.
I must be brave,” her voice trembled a little,
“I must stand face to face with you. Oh,
if you were not so unselfish so unseeing,
you would not make me do this!”
He stood speechless his throat aching the
length of it.
“You treat me like a child,
when you have made me a woman! You treat me
like a weakling, when you have given me strength!
You tell me you have some great trouble and then
you refuse to allow me to share it! Don’t
you see?”
Her face was transfigured by pure
white courage. He trembled before it.
Yet he only gripped himself the firmer and stood before
her immovable, every word she spoke leaving a red
welt upon his soul.
“Peter,” she trembled,
not in fright but because of her overflowing heart,
“you have shown me the wonder of life during
this last week. You have taken me by the hand
and have led me out of the gray barren land into the
flowers and perfume of the orchard. You have
done for me as you did for Ben. Why should I
be ashamed to say this? I would not measure
up to you if I kept silent now and let you go alone.
I am not ashamed.”
To himself he said,
“God give me courage to stand firm.”
“You make it harder for me when you say nothing.”
“I must not listen!”
“Don’t keep me in the
dark,” she pleaded. “Don’t
send me back alone into the dark. It’s
being alone that hurts.”
To himself he said,
“God keep me from telling her.
God keep me from letting her know of my love.
So it is best.”
“Don’t you see now?”
Again that phrase of his which had
come back through Arsdale’s lips to scorch him.
All he could say aloud was,
“I must go, and if I can, I will come back.”
“I mean nothing to you if I
cannot help you now,” she said steadily.
“If the road were smooth to you do you think
I could tell you what I have? It is your need it
is your need that has given me the strength.”
To himself he said,
“God keep my lips sealed.”
To her he said,
“I must go.”
She was startled.
“You remember the orchard, Peter?”
“As long as I remember anything, I shall remember
that.”
“You remember the walk straight through things?”
“Yes you at my side.”
“I have just taken it again alone.
I have pressed straight through.”
There was a pause of a few seconds. Then,
“That is a hard thing for a woman to do.”
There was a longer silence. Then she said tenderly,
“You look very tired.
This day has been heavy to you. Go up-stairs
to your room and rest. Then in the morning why,
in the morning we may both see clearer.”
“I can rest nowhere. There is no rest
left to me.”
“Ah, you look so tired,” she repeated.
He seized her hand and pressed it.
Then he turned abruptly towards the hall. She
watched him with a new fright. He paused at the
door, his eyes drawn back to her against his will.
She was standing there quite helpless, a growing
pallor sweeping over her cheeks that so lately had
been as richly red as rose leaves.
“God help me hard now,” he moaned.
She stood before him like a marble statue. There
were no tears.
“I have been very bold,”
she murmured. “I can never forgive myself
that.”
“You have been wonderful!” he cried.
“Perhaps you had better go at once, Peter Donaldson,”
she said.
He saw her in a blinding white light.
“God keep you,” he managed to say.
“God keep you forever and ever.”
He stumbled to the hall, found his hat, and staggered
through the door.
At the hedge a shadow stole out to
meet him. It was an ambitious young reporter.
“Is this Mr. Donaldson?” he asked.
“Damn you, no!” shouted Donaldson.
“Donaldson is dead!”