"Wall," faltered the deacon rather feebly, "I thought mebbe ye wanted the farm fer a summer place. It's wuth more fer that."

"It is n't worth a cent more. You simply tried to steal two hundred dollars."

"Ye mean ter say—"

"Exactly that; I 've prevented you from going to bed within two hours of the Lord's day with the theft of two hundred dollars on your soul."

"If ye think I 'm gonter stand up here in th' cold and listen to sech talk as thet—"

"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars cash for the place," interrupted Donaldson. "And remember that I know you through and through. I even know how much you stole from old man Burnham."

This was a chance shot, but it evidently went home from the sound of uneasy coughing and spluttering that came to him over the telephone. Donaldson found considerable amusement in grilling this country Shylock.

"Why, the house 'n' barn is wuth more 'n thet," the deacon exploded.

"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars, and mail the money to you to-night."

"See here, I don't know who ye be, but ye 're darned sassy. I won't trade with ye afore Monday an'—"

"Then you won't trade at all."

"I 'll split th'—"

"You 'll take that price or leave it."

"I'll take it, but—"

"Good," broke in Donaldson sharply. "The operator here is a witness. I 'll send the money to-night, and have a tenant in the house Tuesday. Good night, Deacon."

"If yer—"

The rest of the sentence faded into the jangle of the line, but Donaldson broke in again.

"Say, Deacon, were you really in bed at this time of night?"

"Gol darn—"

"Careful! Careful!"

"Wall, ye need n't think cause ye 're in N' York ye can be so all-fired smart."

A sharp click told him that the deacon had hung up the receiver in something of a temper. Donaldson came out of the booth, hesitated, and then put in another call. He found relaxation in the vaudeville picture he had of the spindle-shanked hypocrite fretting in the cold so many miles distant. He was morally certain that the old fellow had robbed the dying Burnham of half his scant property. If he had had the time he would have started a lawyer upon an investigation. As he did n't, and he saw nothing more entertaining ahead of him until morning, he took satisfaction in pestering him as much as possible in this somewhat childish way.

"Keep at him until he answers," he ordered the girl.

It took ten minutes to rouse the deacon again.

"Is this Deacon Staples?" he inquired.

"Consarn ye—"

"I was n't sure you said good night. I should hate to think you went to sleep in a temper."

"It's none of your business how I go to sleep. If you ring me up again I 'll have the law on ye."

"So? I 'll return good for evil. I 'll give you a warning; look out for the ghost of old Burnham to-night."

"For what?"

There was fear in the voice. Donaldson smiled. This suggested a new cue.

"He's coming sure, because his daughter is a widow, and needs that money."

"I held his notes," the deacon explained, as though really anxious to offer an excuse. "I can prove it."

"Prove it to Burnham's ghost. He may go back."

"B—back where?"

"To his grave. He sleeps uneasy to-night."

"Be you crazy?"

"Look behind you—quick!"

The receiver dropped. Donaldson could hear it swinging against the wall. Without giving the deacon an opportunity to express his wrath and fears, Donaldson hung up his own receiver and cheerfully paid the cost of his twenty-minute talk.

In spite of the fact that on Thursday night he had slept only three hours, that on Friday night he had not even lain down, his mind was still alert. He did not have the slightest sense of weariness. It was rest enough for him to know that the girl was asleep, relaxation enough to recall the maiden joy that had freshened the eyes of Mrs. Wentworth.

It was too late to get a money-order, but he secured a check from the hotel manager for the amount, and finding in the Berringdon paper the name of a local lawyer whom he remembered as a boy, he mailed it to him with a letter of explanation. The deed was to be made out to Mrs. Alice E. Wentworth, and was to be held until she called for it. In case of any difficulty—for it occurred to him that the deacon might at the last moment sacrifice a good trade out of spite—the lawyer was to telegraph him at once at the Waldorf.

Then he looked up the time the Berringdon train left and wrote a note giving Mrs. Wentworth final detailed instructions.

Then still unwilling to trust himself alone with his thoughts, Donaldson remained about the lobby. He felt in touch here with all the wide world which lay spread out below the night sky. He studied with interest the weary travellers who were dropped here by steamers which had throbbed across so many turbulent watery miles, by locomotives hot from their steel-held course. The ever-changing figures absorbed him until, with her big shouldered husband, a woman entered who remotely resembled her he had been forced to leave to the protection of one old serving maid. Then in spite of himself, his thoughts ran wild again.

He hungered to get back to his old office, where, if he could find nothing else to do for her, he could at least bury himself in his law books. This unknown man strode across the lobby so confidently—every sturdy line of him suggesting blowsy strength. The unknown woman tripped along at his heels in absolute trust of it. And he, Donaldson, sat here, a helpless spectator, with a worthier woman trusting him as though he were such a man.

In rebellion he argued that it was absurd that such a passion as his towards a woman of whom he had seen so little should be genuine. His condition had made him mawkishly sentimental. He had been fascinated like a callow youngster by her delicate, pretty features; by her deep gray eyes, her budding lips, her gentle voice. He would be writing verse next. He was free—free, and in one stroke he had placed the world at his feet. He was above it—beyond it, and every living human soul in it. He rose as though to challenge the hotel itself, which represented the crude active part of this world.

But with the memory of his afternoon, his declaration of independence lasted but a moment. He was back in the green fields with her—back in the blazing sunshine with her, and the knowledge that from there, not here, the road began along which lay everything his eager nature craved.

Well, even so, was he going to cower back into a corner? There still remained to him five days. To use them decently he must keep to the present. The big future—the true future was dead. Admit it. There still remained a little future. Let him see what he could do with that.

A porter came in with a mop and swabbed up the deserted floors. Donaldson watched every movement of his strong arms and felt sorry, when, his part played, he retired to the wings. Then he went to his room. He partly undressed and threw himself upon the bed. It was then ten minutes of four on Sunday morning, May twenty-sixth.

In spite of his apparent wakefulness he napped, for when he came to himself again it was broad daylight. An anxious looking hotel clerk stood at the foot of his bed, while a pop-eyed bell-boy pressed close behind him. Donaldson rose to his elbow.

"What the devil are you doing in here?" he demanded.

The clerk appeared relieved by the sound of his voice.

"Why, sir, we got a bit worried about you. We weren't able to raise you all day yesterday."

"Could n't what? I sat up until two o'clock this morning in the lobby. I was awake in my room here two hours after that!"

"You must be mistaken, sir. We rang your room telephone several times yesterday, and pounded at your door without getting an answer."

"I was away during the day, but I was here all last night. I asked you particularly if any call had been received for me."

The clerk smiled tentatively.

"The chamber-maid found you in bed at eleven o'clock in the morning, sir."

"The chamber-maid must have come into the wrong room," answered Donaldson, beginning to suspect that he had caught the two men in the act of thieving. "I was n't in bed at all yesterday, and left the city at nine o'clock."

The clerk hitched uneasily. It was evident to him that Donaldson had been drinking, and had the usual morning-after reluctance about admitting it. The night telephone operator had said that he had acted queer. However, as long as the man was n't dead this did n't concern him.

"Sorry the mistake was made, sir," he replied, anxious now to conciliate the guest. "I would n't have bothered you only the lady said the call was urgent."

"Good lord, man, what call?"

"It is to ring up Miss Arsdale's house at once, sir."

"When did you get that?" demanded Donaldson, as he sprang from his bed.

"This morning, sir, at one o'clock."

In three strides Donaldson was across the room. The hotel attendants crowded one another in their efforts to get out.

Donaldson gave the number and waited, every pulse beat of time throbbing hot through his temples. She had called and been unable to rouse him, while he lay there like a yokel and dreamed of her! He conjured up visions of all sorts of disaster. The boy might have returned and—he shuddered and drew back from the suggestion. He refused to imagine. He beat a tattoo with the inane hook which summons Central.

"Number does n't answer, sir," came the reply.

"They must answer! You must make them answer."

Again the interminable wait; again the dead reply. He hung up the receiver. The hallucinations which swarmed through his brain taken in connection with the meaningless talk of the hotel employees made him fear an instant for his sanity.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and devoted five minutes to the concentration of his mind upon the fact that he must be cool, must be steady. Else he would be of no use to any one. He must be deliberate. Then he dressed himself with complete self-possession.

When he came down into the lobby he noticed with some astonishment the business-like appearance of the place for Sunday morning. The clerk glanced at him curiously as he approached. Donaldson spoke with exaggerated slowness and precision.

"I wish," he said, "that you would kindly make a careful note of any messages which may come to me to-day. Your error of this morning—"

He stopped as his eye caught the calendar, and its big black numeral. It read Monday, May 27. He looked from the calendar to the clerk.

"Have n't you made a mistake?" Donaldson asked.

"No, sir. Shall I send a boy with you to the Turkish baths, sir?"

Then the truth dawned upon him; he had lost in sleep one whole precious day!

And the girl—



CHAPTER XIV

Consequences

The driver threw on his high speed after a promise that his fine would be paid and ten dollars over should they be stopped. He made the house in fifteen minutes and was lucky enough not to pass a policeman. Donaldson jumping out bade him wait for further orders.

Donaldson received no response to his ring. He tried the latch and found the door locked. On a run he skirted the house to the rear. The back door was open. He pushed through into the cold kitchen, through this into the dining room, and so into the hall. There was no sign either of the servant or of the girl herself. He was now thoroughly alarmed.

As he ran up the stairs he was confronted by what he took to be an old witch in a purple wrapper. She barred his way in a decidedly militant manner, her sunken black eyes flashing anger. She seemed about to spring at him.

"Bien," she croaked, "qui diable are you?"

He paused.

"You are Marie?" he demanded.

"Bien, and you?"

A voice came from a room leading from the hall. "Marie, who is it? Is it Ben?"

"I know not who it is," Marie shouted back; "but if he comes up another step I will tear out his eyes."

"Miss Arsdale," called Donaldson, "is anything the trouble? It is I—Donaldson."

"You!"

Her voice, which had at first sounded weary, as the voice of one who has waited a long while, gathered strength.

"It is all right, Marie," she called. "This—this is my friend."

Marie relaxed and gripped the banister for support. She was weak.

"I have never seen him before," she challenged.

There was a movement at the door.

"No, you have never seen him. Come here a moment, Marie."

With difficulty the old woman hobbled back into the room to her mistress, and for a few moments Donaldson waited impatiently for the next development. It came when he heard her voice asking him to come in. He was in the room in three strides. She was sitting in her chair with her head bandaged, Marie sitting by her side as though liking but little his intrusion. At sight of the white strip across her forehead, he caught his breath.

"What does this mean?" he demanded with quick assumption of authority.

"You must n't think it is anything serious," she hastened to explain, awed by the fierceness of his manner. "It is only that—that he came back."

"Arsdale?"

"Yes."

"Where is he now?"

"He went away again. Marie and I tried to hold him, but we weren't strong enough."

"It would be easier to hold the devil," interpolated Marie.

"But you," asked the girl,—"I was afraid you had met with an accident."

"I?" he cried. "I was asleep—asleep like a drunken lout."

"All yesterday—all last night?" she asked in astonishment.

"Yes," he admitted, as though it were an accusation.

"Ah, that is good," she replied. "You needed the rest."

"Needed rest, and you in this danger?" he exclaimed contemptuously. "It was unpardonable of me."

"No! No! Don't say that. You could have done nothing had you been here."

"If ever I get my hands on him again," he cried below his breath.

"Mon Dieu," broke in Marie. "If I, too—"

"Hush," interrupted the girl. "It is quite useless for any of us to attempt more until his money gives out. He came back and found a few dollars in my purse."

She had fought this madman, she and this rheumatic old woman, while he had slept! She had called to him and he had not answered! The blood went hot to his cheeks. It was enough to make a man feel craven.

The wounded girl rested her bandaged head on the back of the chair. At the light in Donaldson's eyes, Marie straightened herself aggressively.

"Are you badly hurt?" he asked quietly.

"Only a bump," she laughed, remembering how he had stood by the ladder. "Marie insisted upon this," she added, lightly touching the cloth about her forehead.

"A bump?" snorted Marie. "It is a miracle that she was not altogether killed. She—"

But a hand upon the old servant's arm checked her indignation.

"You two women cannot remain here any longer alone," he said authoritatively. "Either you must allow me to take you to the shelter of some friend or—"

"There is no one," she interrupted quickly. "No one to whom I would go in this condition. They would not understand."

"Then," he said, "I must secure a nurse for you."

"Am I not able to care for the p'tite?" demanded Marie. "A nurse!"

"A nurse is needed to care for you both. I am going downstairs now to summon one."

She protested feebly, and Marie vigorously, but he was insistent.

"I ought to call your family physician—"

"No, Mr. Donaldson, you must not do that."

She was firm upon this point, so he went below to do what else he might.

At the telephone he found the explanation of his inability to get the house in the fact that the receiver was hanging loose. It was another accusation. Doubtless in her weakened condition she had dropped it from her hand and turned away, too dazed to replace it. The hot shame of it dried his tongue so that he could scarcely make himself understood. In spite of this he accomplished many things in a very few minutes. The operator gave him the number of a near-by reliable nurse, and finding her in, he sent off the cab for her. Then through an employment bureau he secured a cook who agreed to reach the house within an hour. He then telephoned the nearest market and ordered everything he could think of from beefsteak to fruit, and to this added everything the marketman could think of. He had no sooner finished than the nurse arrived.

By the greatest good luck Miss Colson proved to be young, cheerful, and capable. She followed Donaldson upstairs and succeeded in winning the confidence of both the girl and Marie at once. Donaldson left them together. A little while later he was allowed to come up again.

"I feel like an unfaithful knight," he said, as he entered. "I deserve to be dismissed without a word."

"Because you slept? It was not your fault. I fear I have left you little time for rest."

"Why did n't you tell them to break down the doors—to get me!"

Her face clouded for a moment.

She saw how chagrined he still felt.

"Don't blame yourself," she pleaded. "It's all over anyway and you 've done everything possible. You 've been very thoughtful."

"I was a fool to leave you here. I should have stayed."

"That was impossible."

Donaldson marveled that she could pass off the whole episode so generously. He refrained from questioning her further as to what had happened. It was unnecessary, for he knew well enough.

"Let us choose a pleasanter subject," she said. "Tell me how you became a great hero."

"A sorry hero," he answered, not understanding what she meant.

"No. No. It was fine! It was fine!"

He was bewildered.

"You don't mean to say you have n't seen the papers—but then, of course, you have n't, if you were asleep all day Sunday. Please bring me that pile in the corner."

He handed them to her and she unfolded the first page of the uppermost paper. He found himself confronting a picture of himself as he had stood, the centre of an admiring crowd, in front of the big machine which had so nearly killed Bobby.

He shared the first page with the latest guesses concerning the Riverside robberies.

"Well," he stammered, "I 'd forgotten all about that!"

"Forgotten such an act! You don't half realize what a hero you are. Listen to the headlines, 'Heroic Rescue,' 'Young Lawyer Gives Remarkable Exhibition of Nerve,' 'The Name of Lawyer Donaldson Mentioned for Carnegie Medal,' 'Bravest Deed of the Year,' 'Faced Death Unflinchingly.'"

And the pitiful feature of it was that he must sit and listen to this undeserved praise from her lips. That, knowing deep in his heart his own unworthiness, he must face her and see her respond to those things as though he really had been worthy. He, who had done the act under oath, was receiving the reward of a man who would have done it with no false stimulus. He, who had been unconsciously braced to it by the fact that he had so little to lose, was receiving the praise due only a man who risks all the happiness of a long life. He had faced death after flinching from life. He was sick of his hypocrisy; he would be frank with himself. He would be frank with her; he had a right to it this once. He pressed down the paper she was reading.

"Don't repeat it," he commanded. "It is n't true! It's all wrong!"

"What do you mean?"

"That it's all a lie!"

"But here 's your picture. And that 's you."

"Oh, the naked facts are true. But the rest about,—" it was hard to do this with her eyes upon him, "the rest about being a hero—about nerve and bravery. It's rot! It is n't so!"

She threw back her head, resting it upon the top of her chair, and laughed gently. The color had come back into her cheeks and even the dark below her eyes seemed to fade.

"Of course," she returned, "you would n't be a truly hero if you knew you were one."

"But I know I 'm not."

"Of course and so you are!"

The impulse was strong within him to pour out to her the whole bitter story. Better to stand shorn and true before her than garbed in such false colors as these. But as before, he realized that her own welfare forbade even this relief.

The nurse approached with a cheery smile, but with an unmistakable air of authority.

"You will pardon me," she interrupted, "but we must keep Miss Arsdale as quiet as possible. I think she ought to try to sleep a little now."

Sorry as he was to go, Donaldson was relieved to know that he was leaving her in such good hands.

The ringing of the front door-bell startled her. She shrank back in her chair. The nurse was at her side instantly.

"You had better leave at once," she whispered to Donaldson.

"It's only the new cook," he answered.

He went downstairs and ushered her in, and led her to the kitchen.

"The place is yours," he said, waving his hands about the room, "and all you 've got to do is to cook quickly and properly whatever order is sent down to you. Get that?"

The woman nodded, but glanced suspiciously about the deserted quarters. The place looked as when first opened in the Fall, after the return from the summer vacation.

"The family," Donaldson went on to explain, "consists of three. If you succeed in satisfying this group I 'll give you an extra ten at the end of the week."

"I 'll do it, sor."

She looked as though she was able.

"Anything more you want to know?"

"The rist of the help, sor,—"

"You 're all of it," he answered briefly.

Before leaving the house he did one thing more to allay his fears. He called up a private detective bureau and ordered them to keep watch of the house night and day until further notice. They were to keep their eyes open for any slightly deranged person who might seek an entrance. In the event of capturing him, they were to take him into the house and put him to bed, remaining at his side until he, Donaldson, arrived.

Then he ordered his cab to the restaurant of Wun Chung.



CHAPTER XV

The Derelict

Chung had news for him; he had not yet found Arsdale, but his men reported that yesterday the boy had been concealed at Hop Tung's, where Saul had first suspected him to be. The evil-eyed proprietor had hidden him, half in terror of Arsdale himself and half through lust of his money. Finally, however, fearing for the young man's sanity he had thrown him out upon the street. It would go hard with the yellow rat, Chung declared, for such treachery as this to the Lieutenant.

"It may go hard with all of you," replied Donaldson significantly. "But you 've another chance yet; the boy is back here somewhere. Find him within twenty-four hours and I'll help you with Saul."

"He clome black?" exclaimed Chung.

"Sometime early this morning."

If the boy was in the neighborhood, Chung asserted eagerly, he would find him within an hour or hang the cursed-of-his-ancestors, Tung, by his pigtail from his own window.

"Which is better than being locked up in jail. Are you children," Donaldson exploded, "that you can be duped like that?"

Chung appeared worried. But his slant eyes contracted until scarcely more than the eye-lashes were revealed. However inactive he may have been up to now, Donaldson knew that an end had come to his sluggishness. When Chung left the room there was determination in every wrinkle of his loose embroidered blouse.

So there were some nooks in Chinatown, mused Donaldson, that even Saul did not know. The longer he sat there, the more indignant he became at the treachery of this moon-faced traitor who was indirectly responsible for the nightmare through which the girl had passed. Yet, as he realized, no more responsible than he himself. He had been a thousand times more unfaithful to the girl than Tung had been to Saul.

Chung returned with a brew of his finest tea. He was loquacious. He tried one subject after another, interjecting protestations of his friendship for Saul. Donaldson heard nothing but the even voice and the sibilant dialect. He seemed chained to that one torturing picture. Even the prospect of finding the boy and so ending the suspense which had battered Miss Arsdale's nerves for so long brought little relief. He never could be needed again as he had been needed then. He might even have been able to detain Arsdale and so have avoided this present crisis. He felt all the pangs of an honest sentry who, asleep at his post, awakes to the fact that the enemy has slipped by him in the night.

It was well within the hour when Chung's lieutenant glided in with a message that brought a suave smile to the face of his master.

"Allee light," he announced, beaming upon Donaldson. "Gellelum dlownslairs."

"You've found him!"

"In callage," nodded Chung, with the genial air of a clergyman after completing a marriage ceremony.

Donaldson reached the carriage before Chung had descended the first half-dozen steps. He opened the door and saw a limp, unkempt form sprawled upon the seat. He recognized it instantly as Arsdale. But the man was in no condition to be carried home. He must take him somewhere and watch over him until he was in a more presentable shape. But one place suggested itself,—his own apartments.

Donaldson paused. He must take this bedraggled, disheveled remnant of a man to the rooms which stood for rich cleanliness. He must soil the nice spotlessness of the retreat for which he had paid so dearly. In view of the little he had so far enjoyed of his costly privileges, this last imposition seemed like a grim joke.

"To the Waldorf," he ordered the driver with a smile.

He himself climbed up on the box where he could find fresh air. At the hotel he bribed a bellboy to help him with the man to his room by way of the servant's entrance. Then he telephoned for the hotel physician, Dr. Seton.

Before the doctor arrived Donaldson managed to strip the clothes from the senseless man and to roll him into bed. Then he sat down in a chair and stared at him.

"It's an opium jag," he explained, as soon as Dr. Seton came in, "but that is n't the worst feature of it. I 'm tied here to him until he comes to. I can't tell you how valuable my time is to me. I want you to take the most heroic measures to get him out of it as soon as possible."

"Very well, we 'll clear his system of the poison. But we can't be too violent. We must save his nerves."

"Damn his nerves," Donaldson exclaimed. "He doesn't deserve nerves."

The doctor glanced sharply from his patient to Donaldson himself. He noted the latter's pupils, his tense lips, his tightened fingers. He had jumped at the word poison, like a murderer at the word police.

"See here," he demanded, "you have n't any of this stuff in you, have you?"

"No," answered Donaldson, calmly.

"Anything else the matter with you?"

"Nothing but nervousness, I guess. I 've been under something of a strain recently."

Donaldson turned away. He was afraid of the keen eyes of this man. Barstow had not experimented very long with the stuff; perhaps, after all, it did produce symptoms. But he reassured himself the next minute, remembering that the drug was unknown. Barstow had not revealed his discovery to any one. If he showed a dozen symptoms they would be unrecognizable.

The doctor dropped his questioning and turned to his patient. He subjected the man to the stomach-pump and hot baths. Donaldson assisted and watched every detail of the vigorous treatment with increasing interest. At the end of two hours Arsdale was allowed to sleep.

Seton put on his coat and wrote out instructions for the further care of the man. But before leaving he again turned his shrewd eyes upon Donaldson himself.

"My boy," he said kindly, "you ought to pay some attention to your own health. I hate to see a man of your age go to pieces."

He squinted curiously at Donaldson's eyes. The latter withdrew a little.

"What makes you think there is anything wrong with me?" he asked.

"Your eyes for one thing," he answered.

"Nonsense. If I need anything, its only a good sweating, such as you gave Arsdale."

"There are some poisons not so easily sweated out."

Donaldson hesitated. While watching this man at work upon the boy, he had felt a temptation which was now burning hot within him. It was possible that it was not too late even now to clean his own system of the drug he had swallowed. This man, he knew, would bring to his aid all the wisdom of medical science. Barstow may have been mistaken, although he knew the careful chemist well enough to realize this was well nigh an impossibility. The next second he held out his hand. It was steady. He smiled as he saw Seton pause a moment to note if it trembled.

"Thanks for all you 've done, doctor," he said. "Do you think I can take him home tomorrow?"

"If you follow my instructions. The boy really has a sound physique. He ought to pull out quickly."

As the door closed upon the doctor, Donaldson drew a breath of relief. Thank God he had resisted his impulse. He would keep true to his compact. He must remain true to himself. That was all that was now left. There must be no shirking—no flinching. If he had played the fool, he must not play the coward. The subtle tempter had suggested the girl, but he realized that he had better not come to her at all than to come as one who had played unfairly with himself. To be unfaithful to the spirit of his undertaking would be as weak a thing as not to fulfill the letter of his oath. His shadowy duty to the girl would not justify himself in evading a crisis demanding his life for the life of another, nor would it vindicate the greater evasion. It was a matter of honor to remain true to that which at the start had justified the whole hazard to him. It was this which restrained him even from learning whether or not Barstow was in town.

The man on the bed was breathing heavily, his lips moving at every breath in a way to form a grimace. He made in this condition the whole room as tawdry as a tavern tap. And at the feet of this thing he was tossing his meager store of golden minutes.

Yet it was through this inert medium alone that Miss Arsdale could pay the debt to the father who had been so good to her; and it was only through this same unsightly shell that he, Donaldson, could in his turn repay his debt for the dreams she had quickened in him.

He stepped to the telephone to tell her what he could of that which he had found and done. The mere sound of her voice as it came over the wire brightened the room like a flood of light. The joy in it as she listened to what he had accomplished was payment enough for all he had sacrificed. He told her that the doctor had advised keeping the boy in for at least another day.

"Oh, but you are good!" she exclaimed. "And you will not leave him—you will guard him against running off again?"

"I shall stay here at his side until it is absolutely safe to go."

"If I could only come down!"

"But you must n't. You must stay where you are and do as you 're told."

"It will be only for to-day and to-night, won't it?"

"Probably that is all."

"That is n't very long."

"Not as time goes."

"But it will seem long."

"Will it—to you?"

He regretted the question the moment it had been uttered. But it came to his lips unbidden.

"Of course," she answered.

"It will seem very long to me," he returned slowly. "Almost a lifetime."

"Perhaps you will telephone now and then."

"Very often, if I may."

"The nurse says she 'll not allow me to answer the telephone after nine at night."

"Nine to-night is a long way off yet."

"It's only half a day."

"But that's twelve hours!"

"Do you think that long?"

"Yes. That seems a very long while to me."

"It is soon gone."

"Too soon."

"Then comes the night and then the morning and then you 'll bring him home."

"Then I 'll bring him home."

What a new meaning that word home had when it fell from her lips. What a new meaning everything had.

She turned aside to address some one in the room and then her voice came in complaint.

"The nurse is here with my medicine."

"Then close your eyes and swallow it quickly. I 'll telephone you later and inquire how it tasted."

"Thank you. Good bye."

"Good bye."

He hung up the receiver and settled down to the grim task of counting the passing minutes which were draining his life as though each minute were a drop of blood let from an artery. And all the company he had for it was this poor devil on the bed who grimaced as he breathed.

He folded his arms. If this, too, was a part of the cost he must pay it like a man.



CHAPTER XVI

The Fourth Day

The morning of Tuesday, May twenty-eighth, found Donaldson still sitting in the chair, facing the form upon the bed. He had not undressed, and had slept less than an hour. He was now waiting for eight o'clock, when he had received permission from the nurse to ring up Miss Arsdale again.

With some tossing Arsdale had slept on without awaking fully enough to be conscious of his surroundings. Now, however, Donaldson became aware that the fellow's brain was clearing. He watched the process with some interest. It was an hour later before the man began to realize that he was in a strange room, and that another was in the room with him. It was evident that he was trying hard, and yet with fear of whither the road might lead him, to trace himself back. He had singled out Donaldson for some time, observing him through half-closed eyes, before he ventured to speak.

"Where am I?" he finally faltered huskily.

"In my charge."

"Who are you?"

"One Donaldson."

"I never heard of you."

"That is not improbable."

Arsdale reflected upon this for some time before he gained courage to proceed further.

"I 'm going to get up," he announced, at the end of some five minutes.

"No, you 're not. You are going to stay right where you are."

"What right have you to keep me here?" he demanded.

"The right of being stronger than you."

Arsdale struggled feebly to his elbow, but Donaldson pushed him back with a pressure that would not have made a child waver. He stood beside him wondering just how much the dulled brain was able to grasp. The long night had left him with little sympathy. The more he had thought of that blow, the greater the aversion he felt towards Arsdale. If the boy had n't struck her he would feel some pity for him, but that blow given in the dark against a defenseless woman—the one woman who had been faithful and kind to him—that was too much. It had raised dark thoughts there in the night.

Arsdale, his pupils contracted to a pin-point, stared back at him. Yet his questions proved that he was now possessed of a certain amount of intelligence. If he was able to realize that he was in a strange place, he might be able to realize some other things that Donaldson was determined he should.

"You are n't very clear-headed yet, but can you understand what I am saying to you now?"

Arsdale nodded weakly.

"Do you remember anything of what you did yesterday?" he demanded, in a vibrant voice that engraved each word upon the sluggish brain.

"No," answered the man quailing.

"No? Then I'll tell you. You came back to the house and you struck your sister."

"No! No! Not that! I didn't do that."

Donaldson responded to a new hope. This seemed to prove that the conscience of the man was not dead. It came to him as a relief. He was relentless, not out of hate, but because so much depended upon establishing the fact that the fellow still had a soul.

"Yes. You did," he repeated, his fingers unconsciously closing into his palms. "You struck her down."

"Good God!"

"Think of that a while and then I 'll tell you more."

"Is she hurt, is she badly hurt?"

Without replying Donaldson returned to his chair on the opposite side of the bed and watched him as a physician might after injecting a medicine. Arsdale stared back at him in dumb terror. Donaldson could almost see the gruesome pictures which danced witch-like through his disordered brain. He did n't enjoy the torture, but he must know just how much he had upon which to work.

It was in the early hours of the morning that Donaldson had become conscious of the new and tremendous responsibility which rested upon him. To leave Arsdale behind him alive in such a condition as this would be to leave the curse upon the girl,—would be to desert her to handle this mad-man alone. He had seen red at the thought of it. It would be to brand his own act with unpardonable cowardice; it would be to go down into his grave with the helpless cries of this woman ringing in his ears; it would be to shirk the greatest and most sacred duty that can come to a man. The cold sweat had started upon his forehead at the thought of it.

The inexorable alternative was scarcely less ghastly. Yet in the face of this other the alternative had come as a relief. If it cost him his immortal soul, this other should not be left behind to mar a fair and unstained life. He would throttle him as he lay there upon the bed before he would leave him behind to this. He would go to his doom a murderer before he would leave Arsdale alive to do a fouler murder. That should be his final sacrifice,—his ultimate renunciation. In its first conception he had been appalled by the idea, but slowly its inevitability had paralyzed thought. It had made him feel almost impersonal. Considering the manner in which he had been thrust into it, it seemed, as it were, an ordinance of Fate.

Though this had now become fixed in his mind, there was still the scant hope that he had grasped from what he had observed in Arsdale's manner. Given the morsel of a man, and there was still hope. Therefore it was with considerable interest that he watched for some evidence of the higher nature, even if only expressed in the crude form of shame. At times Arsdale looked like a craven cornered to his death—at times like a man struggling with a great grief—at times like a man dazed and uncomprehending.

To himself he moaned continuously. Frequently he rose to his elbow with the cry, "Is she hurt?"

Still in silence Donaldson watched him. Once Arsdale fell forward on his chin, where he lay motionless, his eyes still upon Donaldson. The latter helped him back to the pillow, but Arsdale shrank from his touch.

"Your eyes!" he gasped, covering his own with his trembling hand. "They are the eyes of a devil. Take them off me—take them off!"

But Arsdale could not endure his blindness long. It made the ugly visions worse. So, he saw the girl with red blood streaming down her cheeks.

The sight of this writhing soul raised many new speculations in Donaldson's mind especially in connection with its possible outcome. In the matter of religion he was negative, neither believing any professed creed nor denying any. He had received no early impetus, and had up to now been too preoccupied with his earthly interests, with no great grief or happiness to arouse him, to formulate any theory in his own mind. Even at the moment he had swallowed the poison the motive prompting him to it had been so intensely material that it had started but the most momentary questions. It was the thought of Mrs. Wentworth, the sight of the baby, the indefinable boundaries of his own love—it was love that pressed the question in upon him. Now the other extreme embodied in the sight of the man before him, capped by the acute query of what the sin of murder might mean, sharpened it to a real concern. If such love as the mother and the girl connoted forbade the conception that love expired with life, the torture of this other stunted soul seemed prophetic of what might be awaiting his own future, dwarfed by the shifty expedient he had adopted to check its development. If punishment counted for anything, he was, to be sure, receiving his full portion right here on earth. The realization of what he was leaving was an inquisition of the most exquisite order. But would this be the end? His consciousness, as he sat there, refused to allow the hope,—refused even to allow the hope to be desired.

So, face to face, each of these two struggled with the problem of his next step. To each of them life had a new and terrible significance. From a calm sea it had changed to wind-rent chaos. It was revealing its potentialities,—lamb-like when asleep, lion-like when roused. Tangle-haired Tragedy had stalked forth into the midst of men going about their business.

The man on the bed broke out again,

"Why did n't I die before that? Why did n't I die before?"

Then he turned upon Donaldson with a new horror in his eyes.

"I did n't kill her?" he gasped.

The answer to his cry came—though he could not interpret it—in the ringing of the telephone. Donaldson crossed to it, while Arsdale cowered back in bed as though fearing this were news of some fresh disaster. To him the broken conversation meant nothing; to Donaldson it brought a relief that saved him almost from madness.

"Is that you, Mr. Donaldson?" she asked.

"Yes. And you—you are well?"

There was a pause, and then came the query again,

"Is that you?"

"Yes, can't you hear my voice?"

"It does n't sound like your voice. Is anything the matter?"

"No, nothing. I don't understand what you mean."

She hesitated again and then answered,

"It—it made me almost afraid."

"It's your nerves. Did you sleep well?"

"Yea. And is Ben all right?"

"Yes."

"There it is again," she broke in. "Your voice sounds harsh."

"That must be your imagination."

"Perhaps," she faltered. "Are you going to bring him home to-day?"

"Probably not until this evening. But," he broke in, "I shall come sooner myself. I shall come this morning. Will you tell that gentleman waiting near the gate to come down here?"

"What gentleman?"

"You probably have n't seen him. I put him there on guard."

"You are thoughtful. Your voice is natural again. Is Ben awake now?"

"Yes."

"And does he know?"

"Some things."

"Mr. Donaldson," she said, and he caught the shuddering fear in her voice, "are you keeping anything from me?"

"I don't know what you mean, but I will come up so that you may see there has been no change."

"I still think you are concealing something."

"Nothing that is not better concealed; nothing that you could help."

"I should rather know. I do not like being guarded in that way."

"We all have to guard one another. You in your turn guard me."

"From what?"

"Many things. You are doing it now—this minute."

"From what?" she insisted.

"From myself."

"Oh, I don't know what you mean. I think you had better come up here at once—if it is safe to leave Ben."

"I shall make it safe. Don't forget to send down my man."

He hung up the receiver and turned to Arsdale. The latter must have noticed instantly the change in Donaldson's expression, for he rose to his elbow with eager face.

"You'll tell me before you go! You'll tell before—"

"You didn't kill," answered Donaldson.

"Thank God!"

"She is n't even wounded seriously."

"She knows that it was I?"

"Yes. She knows."

"How she must hate me, gentle Elaine."

"It is hard for her to hate any one."

"You think she—she might forgive?"

"I don't know. That remains to be seen."

The man buried his face in his arms and wept. This was not maudlin sentimentality; it struck deeper.

"Are you ready to do anything more than regret?" demanded Donaldson. "Are you ready to make a fight to quit that stuff?"

"So help me as long as I live—"

"Don't tell me that. I want you to think it over a while. I 'm going to have some one stay here with you until I get back this afternoon. Will you remain quiet?"

"Yes."

"And remember that even if by chance you did n't do much harm, still you struck. You struck a woman; you struck your sister."

Arsdale cringed. Each word was a harder blow than he, even in his madness, could strike.

"It's a—terrible thing to remember. But—but it will be always with me. It will never leave me."

As soon as the detective arrived Donaldson gave him his instructions, adding,

"Look out for tricks, and be ready to tell me all he says to you."

"I 've had 'em before," answered the man.



CHAPTER XVII

An Interlude

She was waiting for him in the library with an expression both eager and worried. She crossed the room to meet him, but paused half-way as though really fearful of some change. But she saw only the same kind, tense face, looking perhaps a bit heavy from weariness, the same dark eyes with their strange fires, the same slight droop of the shoulders. There was certainly nothing to fear in him as he stood before her with a tender, quizzical smile about his large mouth. He looked to her now more like a big boy than the cold, stern man she had half expected.

"Are you afraid?" he asked.

"No, not standing here where I can see you. But over the telephone with your strange voice and your half meanings—what did you mean?"

"Nothing you need worry about."

She became suddenly serious.

"I want to tell you now that there is no need of your trying to hide anything at all from me about Ben."

"I am hiding nothing. But," he asked with quick intuition, "are you?"

She hesitated, met his eyes, and dropped her voice.

"I can tell you nothing—not even you—unless you have learned it."

"I, in my turn, don't know what you mean," he answered. "I have learned nothing new about him. And it is too fair a morning," he concluded abruptly, "to bother over puzzles. Things have happened so rapidly that we are probably both muddled, and if we could spend the time in explanations we should doubtless find that neither of us means anything."

She was clearly relieved, but it raised a new question in Donaldson's mind. Of course she understood nothing of what had taken place last night unless by mental telepathy. But in these days of psychic revelations a man could n't feel secure even in his thoughts. There was apparently some inner secret—she had touched upon it before—relating to the Arsdale curse. Doubtless if one pried carefully enough many another skeleton could be found in the closets of the house of this family half-poisoned now through three generations.

It was early and it suddenly occurred to her that he had probably not yet breakfasted.

She struggled a moment with a conflicting sense of hospitality and propriety, but finally said resolutely, "I should be glad if you would breakfast with me. You ought to try your new cook."

The picture he had of her sitting opposite him at the coffee brought the warm blood to his cheeks.

"I—why—"

"Will you have your chop well done?" she broke in, without giving him time to frame an excuse.

"Yes," he answered.

She left him.

Within a very short time she announced the meal with pretty grace, which concealed all trace of nervousness, save for the heightened color of her cheeks, which, he noted, were as scarlet as though she herself had been bending over a hot stove. She led the way into an exquisite little dining room, which he at once took to be the expression of her own taste. It was in white and apple green, with a large trellised window opening upon the lawn. A small table had been placed in the sun near the window, and was covered with dazzling white linen, polished silver, and cut glass, which, catching the morning beams, reflected a prismatic riot of colors. The chops, lettuce, bread and butter, and coffee were already served. As he seated her, he felt as though he were living out a dream—one of the dreams that as a very young man he had sometimes dreamed when, lying flat upon his back in the sun, he had watched the big cotton clouds wafted, like thistledown, across the blue.

It might have been Italy for the blue of the sky and the caressing warmth of the sun. They threw open the big window and in flooded the perfume of lilacs and the twitter of sparrows, which is the nearest to a bird song one can expect in New York. But after all, this was n't New York; nor Spain; nor even the inner woods; it was just Here. And Here is where the eyes of a man and a woman meet with spring in their blood.

Griefs of loss, bitter, poignant; sorrows of mistakes, bruising, numbing; the ache of disappointments, ingratitudes, betrayals,—Nature surging on to her fulfillment sweeps them away, like fences before a flood, allowing no obstructions to Youth's kinship with Spring. So the young may not mourn long; so, if they do, they become no longer young.

The man and the woman might have been two care-free children for all they were able to resist the magic of this fair morning or the subtler magic of their own emotions.

To the man it suggested more than to the woman because he gave more thought to it, but the woman absorbed more the spirit of it because she more fully surrendered herself.

Donaldson found himself with a good appetite. There was nothing neurotic about him. He was fundamentally normal—fundamentally wholesome—with no trace of mawkishness in his nature. As he sipped the hot golden-brown coffee, he tried to get at just what it was that he felt when he now looked at her. It came to him suddenly and he spoke it aloud,

"I seem to have, this minute, a fresher vision of life than I have known since I was twenty."

It was something different from anything he had experienced up to now. It was saner, clearer.

"It is the morning," she hazarded. "I never saw the grass so green as it is this morning; I never felt the sun so warm."

"It is like the peace of the inner woods,—only brighter," he declared.

"You said such peace never came to any one unless alone."

"Did I?"

She nodded.

"But it is like that," he insisted. "Only more joyous. I think it is the extra joy in it that makes us not want it alone. Queer, too, it seems to be born altogether of this spot, of this moment. Understand what I mean? It does n't seem to go back of the moment we entered this room and—," he hesitated, "it does n't seem to go forward."

"It is as though coming in here we had stepped into a beautiful picture and were living inside the frame for a little," she suggested.

"Exactly. The frame is the hedge; the picture is the sky, the sun, and you."

She laughed, frankly pleased in a childish way, at his conceit.

"Then for me," she answered, "it must be the sun, the sky, and you."

"We are n't trying to compliment each other, are we?"

"No," she answered seriously. "I hope not."

She went on after a moment's reflection,

"I have been puzzling over the strange chance that brought you into my life at so opportune a time."

"I came because you believed in me and because you needed me. You believed in me because—," he paused, his blood seeming suddenly to run faster, "because I needed you."

"You needed me?"

"Yes," he answered, "I needed you. I needed you long ago."

"But how—why?"

"To show me the joy there is in the sunlight wherever it strikes; to take me with you into this picture."

Their eyes met.

"Have I done that?" she asked.

"Yes."

She shook her head.

"I 'm afraid not," she disclaimed, "because the joy has n't been in my own heart."

"Nor was it in mine—then."

Her eyes turned back to his. The silver in them came to the top like the moon reflection on dark waters through fading clouds. He was leaning a little towards her.

"It seems to be something that we can't get alone," he explained.

"Perhaps it is," she pondered, "perhaps."

She started back a little, as one who, lost in a sunset, leans too far over the balcony. Then she smiled. Donaldson's heart answered the smile.

"Your coffee is cooling," she said. "May I pour you some fresh?"

He passed his cup automatically. But the act was enough to bring him back. A moment gone the room had grown misty. Something had made his throat ache. He felt taut with a great unexpressed yearning. He became conscious of his breakfast again. He sipped his hot coffee.

"I suppose," he reflected, "you ought to know something about me."

"I am interested," she answered, "but I don't think it matters much."

Again he saw in her marvelous eyes that look of complete confidence that had thrilled him first on that mad ride. Again he realized that there is nothing finer in the world. For a moment the room swam before him at the memory of his doom. But her calm gaze steadied him at once. He must cling to the Now.

"I have n't much I can tell you," he resumed. "My parents died when I was young. They were New England farm-folk and poor. After I was left alone, I started in to get an education without a cent to my name. It took me fifteen years. I graduated from college and then from the law school. I came here to New York and opened an office. That is all."

He waved his hand deprecatingly as though ashamed that it was so slight and undramatic a tale. But she leaned towards him with sudden access of interest.

"Fifteen years, and you did it all alone! You must have had to fight."

"In a way," he answered.

"Will you tell me more about it?" she asked eagerly.

"It's not very interesting," he laughed. "It was mostly a grind—just a plain, unceasing grind. It was n't very exciting—just getting any old job I could and then studying what time was left."

"And growing stronger every day—feeling your increasing power!"

"And my hunger, too, sometimes."

He tried to make light of it because he didn't wish her to become so serious over it. He did n't like playing the part of hero.

"You did n't have enough to eat?" she asked in astonishment.

"You should have seen me watch Barstow's cake-box."

He told her the story, making it as humorous as he could. But when he had finished, she wasn't laughing. For a moment his impulse was to lay before her the whole story—the bitter climax, the ashen climax, which lately he had thought so beautiful. She had said that nothing in the past would matter—but this was of the future, too. Even if she ought to know, he had no right to force upon her the burden of what was to come. He found now that he had even cut himself off from the privilege of being utterly honest with her. To tell her the whole truth might be to destroy his usefulness to her. She might then scorn his help. He must not allow that. Nothing could justify that.

"You are looking very serious," she commented.

Her own face had in the meanwhile grown brighter.

"It is all from within," he answered, "all from within. And—now presto!—it is gone."

Truly the problem did seem to vanish as he allowed himself to become conscious of the picture she made there in the sunshine. With her hair down her back she could have worn short dresses and passed for sixteen. The smooth white forehead, the exquisite velvet skin with the first bloom still upon it, the fragile pink ears were all of unfolding womanhood.

"Since my mother died," he said, "you are the first woman who has ever made me serious."

"Have you been such a recluse then?"

"Not from principle. I have been a sort of office hermit by necessity."

"You should not have allowed an office to imprison you," she scolded. "You should have gone out more."

"I have—lately."

"And has it not done you good?" she challenged, not realizing his narrow application of the statement.

"A world of good."

"It brightens one up."

"Wonderfully."

"If we stay too much by ourselves we get selfish, don't we?"

"Intensely. And narrow-minded, and morbid, and petty and—," the words came charged with bitterness, "and intensely foolish."

"I 'm glad you crawled out before you became all those things."

"You gave me a hand or I should n't."

"I gave you a hand?"

"Yea," he answered, soberly.

"Perhaps—perhaps this is another of the things that could n't have happened to either of us alone."

"I think you are right," he answered.

He did not dare to look at her.

"Perhaps that is true of all the good things in the world," she hazarded.

"Perhaps."

Once again the golden mist—once again the aching yearning.

The telephone jangled harshly. It was a warning from the world beyond the hedge, the world they had forgotten.

The sound of it was to him like the savage clang of barbaric war-gongs.

With her permission he answered it himself. It was a message from his man at the Waldorf.

"He's making an awful fuss, sir. He says as how he wants to go home. I can hold him all right, only I thought I 'd let you know."

"Thanks, I 'll be right down."

"I 'd better go back to your brother," he said to her as he hung up the receiver. "I want to have a talk with him before bringing him home."

Her eyes grew moist.

"How am I ever going to repay you for all you 've done?"

"You 've repaid me already," he answered briefly and left at once.



CHAPTER XVIII

The Making of a Man

Donaldson with hands in his pockets stood in front of Arsdale, who had slumped down into a big leather chair, and admired his work. There was much still to be done, but, comparing the man before him with the thing he had brought in here some thirty hours before, the improvement was most satisfactory. Arsdale, with trimmed hair and clean, shaven face, in a new outfit from shoes to collar, and sane even if depressed, began to look a good deal of a man.

"How do you feel now?" inquired Donaldson.

Arsdale hitched forward and resting his chin in his hands, elbows on knees, stared at the floor.

"Like hell," he answered.

Donaldson frowned.

"You deserve to, but you oughtn't," he said.

"Oh, I deserve it all right. I deserve it—and more!"

"Yes, you do. But that does n't help any."

Arsdale groaned.

"There is n't any help. I 've made a beastly mess out of my life, out of myself."

"I wish I could disagree, but I can't," answered Donaldson.

He walked up and down a moment before the fellow studying him. He was worried and perplexed. The task before him was an unpleasant one. He had to overcome a natural repugnance to interference in the life of another. Under ordinary circumstances he would have watched Arsdale go to his doom with a feeling of nothing but indifference. In his own passion for individual liberty he neither demanded nor accepted sympathy for personal misfortunes or mistakes, and in turn was loath to trespass either upon the rights or duties of another, but his own life, through the medium of the boy's sister, was so inextricably entangled with this other that now he recognized the inevitability of such interference. On his success or failure to arouse Arsdale largely depended the happiness of the girl.

"No," he reflected aloud, "the question is n't how much punishment you deserve, for the pain you suffer personally does n't, unfortunately, remedy matters in the slightest. It wouldn't do you any good for me to kick you about the room or I 'd do it. It would n't do you any good for me to turn you over to the police or I 'd do that. You 're hard to get hold of because there's so little left of you."

Arsdale made no reply. He remained motionless.

"But," continued Donaldson with emphasis, "that does n't make it any the less necessary. You 've got to pull what is left together—you 've got to play the man with what remains. You can't get all the punishment you deserve and so you 've got to deserve less. This, not for your own sake, but for the sake of the girl,—for the sake of the girl you struck."

"Don't!"

Arsdale quailed. He glanced up at Donaldson with a look that made the latter see again Barstow's dog Sandy as he had tottered in his death throes. But the mere fact that the man quivered back from this shameful thing was encouraging. It was upon this alone that Donaldson based his hope, upon this single drop of uncorrupted Arsdale blood which still nourished some tiny spot in the burned out brain.

"You must make such reparation as you can," continued Donaldson. "Your life is n't long enough to do it fully, but you can accomplish something towards it if you start at once."

Arsdale shook his head.

"It's all a beastly mess. It 's too late!"

Donaldson's lips tightened.

"Well," he asked, "if you are n't going to do what you can, what do you propose?"

Thickly Arsdale answered,

"I know a way; I 'm going to pull out for the sake of Elaine!"

Donaldson started as at the cut of a whip-lash. Then he straightened to meet face to face this new development. Somehow this contingency had never occurred to him. Now for the moment it disarmed him, for it brought him down, like a wounded bird, to the level of Arsdale himself. As voiced by the latter the act expressed the climax of simpering cowardice. Donaldson, in the first shock of finding himself included in the same indictment with the very man for whom he had had so little mercy, felt the same powerlessness that had paralyzed this other. He was shorn of his strength. He blinked as stupidly at Arsdale as Arsdale had blinked at him.

But even as he stood with loose lips before the infirm features of the younger man, he realized that Arsdale's talk had been the chatter of a child. He had used the phrase idly and, although it was possible he might in just as idle a mood commit the act itself, Donaldson was convinced that it was not yet a fixed idea. With this came the inspiration which gave him a fresh grip upon himself, that revealed his great opportunity; he would make Arsdale see all that he himself had learned in these few days. So in reality he would be giving the best of his life to another.

It was like oxygen to one struggling for breath through congested lungs. He went to the window and in great deep-chested inhalations stood for a moment drinking in not only the fresh air but with it the spirit of the eager, turbulent world which was bathed in it, the world that he now saw so clearly. The sun flashing from the neighboring windows glinted its glad message of life; the rumbling of the passing traffic roared it to him in a thundering message, like that of shattered sea waves; the deep cello-like undernote of the city itself sang it to him. And the message of all the voices was just, "It is good to live! It is good to be!"

He turned back, seeing a new man in the chair before him. Here was a brother—a brother in a truer sense than a better man could have been. Coming from different directions, along different roads, through different temptations, they had reached at last the crumbling edge of the same dark chasm. They faced the same eternal problem. That made them brothers. But Donaldson had already seen, already learned; that made him the stronger brother.

His face was alight, his body alert, as he came to Arsdale's side. The latter looked up at him in surprise, feeling his presence before he saw. Donaldson's first words stirred him,

"You can't pull out," he said, "because you 're out already. You must pull in. Don't you see,—you must pull back!"

"You don't understand what I mean."

"A great deal better than you yourself do. And in the light of that understanding I tell you that you can't do it,—that it is n't the way."

"I 'm no good to any one," Arsdale complained dully. "I don't see why it would n't be better for everyone if I just quit."

The word quit was a biting gnome to Donaldson.

"I know," he answered. "But it is n't right—all because you don't know and you can't know what you 're quitting. You can't just look around you and see. You wouldn't just be quitting the girl who perhaps does n't need you, though you can't even tell that; you would n't be quitting just your friends who can get along without you—though even that is n't sure; you 'd be quitting the others, the unseen others, the unknown others, who are waiting for you, perhaps a year from now, perhaps twenty years from now, but in their need waiting for you. They are waiting for you, understand, and for no one else. Just you, no matter how weak you are, or how poor you are, or how worthless you are, because it is you and no one else who will fit into their lives to help complete them."

"I 'd bring nothing but trouble. I 've been no good to any one."

"You can't help being good to some one. Queer it sounds, but I believe that's true. A man never lived, so mean that he didn't do good to some one."

"You believe that?" demanded Arsdale.

"Yes. I know that. I know that, Arsdale!" he answered, his lips tremulous, a deep-seated light in his eyes. "I know that you can't possibly be so useless, so cowardly, so utterly bad, but what you 're still more useless, still more of a coward, still worse when you quit! Maybe we can't see how—maybe at the time we can't realize it, but it's so. Some one will get at the good in us if we just fight along, no matter how we may cover it up."

Arsdale straightened in his chair. His shaking fingers clutched the chair arms. But the next second his face clouded.

"Tell me what good I 've done," he demanded aggressively.

Donaldson smiled. He could n't very well tell the man the details of these last few days and what they meant to him, but they proved his claim. Arsdale had been, if nothing else, a connecting link. It was he, even this self-indulgent weakling, who had brought Donaldson to his own, who had led Donaldson, through a series of self-revealing incidents, to where he could stand quivering with the truth of life, and give of his strength back to this man to pay the debt. Yes, he knew what Arsdale had accomplished, and before he was through the latter should feel its effect.

"Man," answered Donaldson almost solemnly, "you have done your good—even you, in spite of yourself."

"But not to Elaine where I should have done most!"

Donaldson's hand rested a moment on Arsdale's shoulder.

"Yes," he said, "I like to think you have been of some service even to her."

Arsdale rose to his feet.

"If I could think that—if I could look her in the eyes again!"

"Look her in the eyes! Keep those eyes before you! Never get where those eyes can't follow you! And as you look take my word for it that even there by a strange chance you 've done your good."

The man in Arsdale was at the top. For a second he faced Donaldson as one man should face another. Then he tottered and fell back in his chair, covering his face with his hands.

"It's too late," he groaned, "God, it's too late!"

Donaldson seized him by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet—not in anger, not in contempt, but in his naked eagerness to make the man see. Half supporting him, he drew him to the window. He threw it wide open.

"Too late!" he cried, waving his hand at the brisk scene upon the street. "Too late! It is n't too late so long as there's a living world out there, so long as there's a man or a woman out there! It isn't too late because there's work for you to do, work for others that you 've shirked. What is it? I don't know, but it's there. Dig around until you find it. Maybe to-day it was only to give a nickel to the blind beggar at the corner, maybe it was only to help an old lady across the street, maybe it was to do some kindness to your sister. I don't know what it was, but I know it was something, and went undone because of you."

Arsdale, leaning against the window-sill, strained towards Donaldson.

"That's a queer idea," he whispered hoarsely.

"And another thing," continued Donaldson, "tangled up with those duties are all the joys of the world. You 've been looking for them somewhere else—I 've been looking for them somewhere else—but it is n't any use. They are right there with your duties—in the keeping of other people, the unseen others. And they couldn't be bought, not with all the gold in the world. They must be given if you get them at all."

Arsdale was listening eagerly. It was as much the spirit back of the words as the words themselves that made him feel the stirring of a new power which was a new hope.

"You!" he exclaimed. "You make a man feel that you know! But the hellish smoke-hunger—you don't know anything of that."

"It's a part of the same hellish selfishness which eats the vitals out of everything. Get out of yourself, get into the lives of others, and the smoke-hunger will quit you. You could n't go down where you 've been and made a beast of yourself if you cared more about others than yourself. The power that drove you down there would n't mean anything if a stronger power held you back. The point is, Arsdale, the point is, that all by himself a man is n't worth much. He does n't count. Either he dries up or he rots."

"That's true! That's true!" answered Arsdale. "And I 've rotted. If only I had found you a year ago!"

"A year ago is dead and buried. Let it alone. Think of the live things; think of the Now! There 's a big, strong world all around you, pulsating with life; there 's sunshine in the morning and stars at night—and they are alive; there are flowers, and birds, and grasses—all alive; there are live men and women, live questions, and there is your sister. The world would be alive—would be worth while if you had only her. She 's a world in herself."

"You are right. Man, how you know!"

"Can't you see it yourself? Can't you feel the thrill of it all?"

"Yes," answered Arsdale, his eyes as alive as Donaldson's, "I see. I feel. And if I had your strength—"

"You have the strength! You have everything you need in just your beating heart and the days ahead of you. Buck up to it!—Go and meet life half-way. Throw yourself at life! The trouble with you and me is that we stand still, all curled up in ourselves as in a chrysalis. You must give yourself room, you must break free from your own selfish conceit, you must reach a point where you don't give a damn about yourself! Do you hear—where all the worrying you do is about others? Then don't worry."

Arsdale was breathing through his nostrils, his lips closed.

"It's going to be a hard fight," he said. "It 's going to be a hard fight, but you make me feel as though I could do it."

"A hard fight," cried Donaldson. "Why, man, I 'd strip myself down to you—I 'd go back to where you stand to-day for the fighting chance you have."

"You'd—what?"

Donaldson caught his breath. For a moment he was silent, staring at the eager life upon the street. Then he turned again to Arsdale.

"I 'd like to swap places with you—that's all," he said.



CHAPTER XIX

A Miracle

Elaine, her pale face tense, heard the steps of Arsdale coming up the stairs to meet her. Donaldson had telephoned at nine that if she had not yet retired he was going to bring her brother home. She dreaded the ordeal for herself and for him. She dreaded lest the aversion she felt for him with the horror of that night still upon her might overcome her sense of duty; she dreaded the renewed protestations, the self abasement, the sight of the maudlin shame of the man. She had gone through the hysterical scenes so many times that it was growing difficult, especially in her present condition of weakness, to arouse the necessary spirit to undergo it. Not only this, but she found herself inevitably pitting him against the strong self-reliant character of Donaldson. It had been easier for her to condone when she had seen Arsdale only as the loved son of the big-hearted elder, but now that this other unyielding personality had come into her life it was difficult to avoid comparison. Arsdale when standing beside a man was only pitiable.

He faltered at the door and then crossed the room with a poise that reminded her of the father who to the end had never shown evidence of any physical weakness in his bearing. In fact in look and carriage, even in the spotless freshness of his dress which was a characteristic of the elder, he appeared like his father. She could hardly believe. She sat as silent as though this were some illusion.

There was color in the ordinarily yellow cheeks, there was life in the usually dull eyes, though the spasmodic twitching testified to nerves still unsteady. When he held out his trembling hand, she took it as though in a trance. She saw that it was difficult for him to speak. It was impossible for her. The suggested metamorphosis was too striking.

He broke the strained, glad silence.

"Elaine, can you forget?"

She uttered his name but could go no further.

"I can't apologize," he stammered, "it's too ghastly. But if we could start fresh from to-day, if you could wait a little before judging, and watch. Perhaps then—"

She drew him quickly towards her.

"Can I believe what I see?" she asked.

"I—I don't know what you see," he answered unsteadily.

"I see your father. I see the man who was the only father I myself knew."

He bent over her. He kissed her forehead.

"Dear Elaine," he said hoarsely, "you see a man who is going to be a better man to you."

"To yourself, Ben,—be better to yourself! Are you going to be that?"

"That is the way,—by being a man to you and to the others."

"The others?"

"The unseen others. You must get Donaldson to tell you about the others."

She grasped his wrist with both her hands, looking up at him intently. Where was the change? A photograph would not have shown all the change. Yet it was there. Nor was this a temporal reformation based upon cowardly remorse. It showed too calm, too big an impulse for that. It was so sincere, so deep, that it did not need words to express it.

"I believe you, Ben," she said, "I believe you with all my heart and soul."

In the words he realized the divine that is in all women, the eagerness that is Christ-like in its eternal hunger to seize upon the good in man. He stooped again and with religious reverence kissed the white space above her eyes.

"We 'll not talk about it much, shall we?" he said. "I want you to believe only as I go on from day to day. I 've some big plans that I thought up on the way home. Some day we 'll talk those over, but not now. Donaldson is downstairs."

He saw the color sweep her face. It suggested to him something that he had not yet suspected. It came to him like a new revelation of sunlight.

He smiled. It was the smile of the father which she had so long missed, the smile that always greeted her when his sad heart was fullest of hope and gladness. It was so he used to smile when at twilight he stood at her side, his long thin arm over her shoulder and talked of Ben with a new hope born of his own victory.

"I was going to tell you," he said tenderly, "I was going to tell you of what a big fine fellow this Donaldson is. But—perhaps you know."

She refused not to meet her brother's eyes.

"Yes, Ben," she said, "I know that."

He took her hand, seating himself on the arm of her chair, the other arm resting affectionately across her shoulders. So the father had sometimes sat.

"Is there more?" he asked softly.

"So," she answered, starting a little, "not as you mean. But tell me about him—tell me all about him, Ben."

He felt her hand throb as he held it.

"It's just this; that I owe everything in the world to him. I owe my life to him; I owe," his voice lowered, "I owe my soul to him. You ought to have heard him talk. But it was n't talking, it wasn't preaching. I don't know what it was, unless—unless it was praying. Yet it was n't like that either. He got inside me and made me talk to myself. It was the first time words ever meant anything to me—that they ever got a hold on me. You 've talked, little sister, Lord knows how often, and how deep from the heart, but somehow, dear, nothing of it sank in below the brain. I understood as in a sort of dream. Sometimes I even remembered it for a little, but that was all.

"But he was different, Elaine! If I forgot every word he spoke, the meaning of it would still be left. I 'd still feel his hand upon my shoulder, the hand that sank through my shoulder and got a grip on something inside me. I 'd still feel his eyes burning into mine. I 'd still see that street out the window and know what it meant. I 'd even see the little old lady picking her way to the other side,—see the blind beggar on the corner and the Others. Oh, the Others, Elaine!"

He had risen from beside her and pressed towards the window as though once again he wished to taste the air that came down to him from the star-country to sweeten the decaying soul of him.

"What was it, Elaine?" he demanded.

"You heard," she answered, "because every fibre of him is true. Tell me more."

"He showed me the sun on the windows!" he ran on eagerly. "He showed me the people passing on the streets! He showed me what I—even I—had to do among them. Did you know that we are n't just ourselves—that we 're a part of a thousand other lives? Did you know that?"

"It takes a seer really to know that," she answered, "but it's true."

"That's it," he broke in. "He knows! He doesn't guess, he doesn't reason, he knows!"

She was leaning forward, her head a little back, her eyes half-closed. He saw the veins in her neck—the light purple penciling of them—as they throbbed. He was held a moment by the sight. Then he laughed gently.

"Little sister," he said, "you know him even better than I."

She started back.

He was surprised at the shy beauty he perceived. She had always seemed to him such a sober body.

The nurse rapped at the door.

"It is bedtime," she announced,

"Yes, nurse," she answered quickly.

"He asked if he might come to say good night. He 's going to stay here with me a day or so. Shall I bring him up?"

She hesitated a moment and then meeting her brother's eyes steadily, answered,

"Yes, Ben."

When Donaldson came into the room she was shocked at the change in his appearance. It was almost as though what Arsdale had gained Donaldson had lost. He was colorless, wan, and haggard. His eyes seemed more deeply imbedded in the dark recesses below his brows. Even his hair at the temples looked grayer. But neither his voice nor his manner betrayed the change. The grip of his hand was just as sure; there was the same certainty in gesture and speech, save perhaps for some abstraction.

"They tell me I may stay but a minute," he said, "but it is good to see you even that long."

"You brought him back home," she cried. "But it has cost you heavy. You look tired."

"I am not tired," he answered shortly. Then turning the talk away from himself, as he was ever eager to do, he continued,

"I brought him home, but the burden is still on you."

"Not a burden any longer. You have removed the burden."

"I 'm afraid not. There still remains the fight to make him stay. This is only a beginning."

His face grew worried.

"He will stay," she answered confidently, "he will stay because you reached the father in him and the father was a fighter. I saw the father in his eyes—I heard his father's voice. It is a miracle!"

"No. The miracle is how we men keep blind."

"I feel blind myself when I think how you see."

"I am no psychic," he exclaimed impatiently. "I see nothing that is n't before me. You can't help seeing unless you close your eyes. The world presses in upon you from every side. It is insistent. Even now the stars outside there are demanding recognition."

He drew back the crimson curtains draping the big French windows, which opened upon a balcony. The silver stiletto rays darted a greeting to him. He swung open the windows.

"Come out with me and see my friends," he said.

She rose instantly and followed him.

He stood there a moment in silence, his head back as he seemed to lead her into the limitless fragrant purple above. She caught his profile and saw him like some prophet. It was as though a people were at his back and he trying to pierce the road ahead for them. The thin face and erect head seemed to dominate the night. He looked down at her, a sad smile about his mouth.

"Out here," he said, "out here with a million miles over our heads we are freer."

In her eyes he saw now just what he saw in the stars, the same freedom of unpathed universes. He saw the same limitlessness. Here there were no boundaries. A man could go on forever and forever in those eyes—in their marvelous unfolding. More! More! He would go beyond the cognate universe, straight into the golden heart of universes beyond. Eternity was written there. The beacon of her eyes flamed a path that reached beyond the stars!

She seemed like nothing but a trusting child. So, she was one with the great poets. So, she was a great poem. He listened to the same music which had moved Isaiah.

"The stars,—they seem to be dancing!" she exclaimed.

It was to the music of the spheres they were dancing.

"You!" he commanded, "you must get away from this house. You must take Ben and get away from here. You must go into a new country. You must begin your life anew and forget all this, forget everything."

He paused.

"Everything," he repeated. "They tell us that the road is straight and narrow. It's narrow, but it is n't straight. It's crooked and it's winding and it goes through brake and brush. It's a hard road to find and a hard road to keep, even with the polestar over our heads. Maybe, if we were a little above earth—maybe for those who are winged—the road is straight, but we are n't all winged. Some of us have n't even sturdy legs and have to creep. Some of us find our legs only after we are helplessly lost. For down below there is a terrible tangle with things to be gone around, with things to beat down, and always the tangle above our heads. So what wonder that we get lost? What wonder?"

"But I am not lost—you are not lost!"

"I! I do not matter," he answered slowly. "You must n't let me matter. I come into your life and I go out of your life and I pray that I have done no harm."

His words to her were like words caught in a wind. She heard snatches of them, but she was unable to piece them together.

"In your new life you must forget even me. We have met in the brush and gone on a little way together. We have helped each other in finding each his true road again. Whether the paths will meet again—whether the paths will meet again—" he repeated as though deep in some new and grander reflection, "why, God knows. If we go on forever, perhaps they will in an aeon or two."

He paused to give her an opportunity to say something which he might use as a subject for proceeding farther. His thoughts did n't go very far along any one line. Always he seemed checked by a wall of darkness. But she said nothing. The silence lengthened into a minute.

"Do you understand?" he asked gently.

"No," she answered frankly.

"Then—then perhaps we had better go in," he said, fearing for himself.

He led the way through the swinging windows and closed them behind him. In the light he saw that she was shivering.

"I 'm afraid I kept you out there too long," he said anxiously. He reached her shawl and placed it about her shoulders. His throat ached.

"I haven't hurt you?"

"I think you have hurt yourself, somehow."

She raised her head a little.

Marie was calling.

"Good night," he said quickly.

"Good night."



CHAPTER XX

A Long Night

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!"