Donaldson retired to his room, and without undressing threw up his window and stared at the hedge and the dark that lay beyond. Then he tried to work out some solution to the problem which confronted him. There was no use for him to try to blind himself to the fact that he loved this girl—that was but to shirk the question. She stood out as the supreme passion of his life and forced upon him a future that had a meaning beyond anything of which he had ever dreamed. She quickened in him new hopes, new aspirations, new ambitions. She made him see the triviality of all that he had most hoped to enjoy during this week; she opened his eyes to all that he had tried to make Arsdale see. With her by his side every day would be like that first afternoon; every hour thrilling with opportunities. The barren future which he had so feared, even though it offered no greater opportunities than had always lain before him, would tingle with possibilities. Wait? He could wait an eternity with her by his side and every waiting minute would be a golden minute. He could go back to that little office now and find a thousand things to do. He could hew out a career that would honor her. He saw numberless chances for reform work into which he could throw himself, heart and soul, while waiting. But there would be no waiting; life would begin from the first hour. What more did he need than her? He shuddered back from his luxurious room at the hotel as from something cheap.
A loaf of bread without even so much as a jug of wine would be paradise enow. Just the opportunity to live and breathe and have his being in this big pregnant universe was all he craved. He needed nothing else. So the universe would be his.
He dared not try to read her thoughts. He had no right to do this. It did n't matter. Her love was not essential. If he deserved it, that would come. It was enough that she had given him back his dreams, that she had taken him back to those fragrant days when his uncrusted soul had known without knowing. It was enough that the sweetness of her had become an inseparable part of him for evermore. She was his now, even though he should never again lay eyes upon her. The only relief he had was in the thought that she had accomplished this without committing herself. At least he did not have the burden of her tender love upon his soul further to complicate matters.
So much he admitted frankly; so much was fact. The problem which now confronted him was how he could best escape from involving her at all in the inevitable climax—how he could make his escape without destroying in her the ideals with which she had surrounded him and which she had a right to keep. He owed this to her, to Arsdale, and to the world of men.
A dozen times he was upon the point of pushing out into the dark. If he had followed his own impulse he would have taken some broad road and footed it hour after hour, through the night, through the next day, through the next night, and so till the end overtook him, striking him down in his tracks. He would get as far away as possible, keeping out under the broad expanse of the sky above. He could find rest only by taking a course straight on over the hills, turning aside for nothing, tearing a path through the tangle.
But he still had his work to do. He must lend his strength to the boy so long as any strength was left. He must pound into him again and again the realization of life which he himself had been tempted to shirk. He must make him see,—must make him know. In recalling that scene in the room by the window, in recalling his own words to Arsdale, he felt strangely enough the force of his own thoughts entering into himself with new life. He listened as it were to himself. Even for him there were the Others. Down to the last arrow-sped minute there would still be the Others. Who knew what remained for him to do—charged with what influence might be even the manner in which he drew his last breath? If he stood up to it sturdily, if he faced death with his head high, his shoulders back, even though he might be cornered in his room like a rat in its hole, so the message might be wired silently into the heart of some poor devil struggling hard against his death throes and lend him courage.
At the end of two hours he undressed and tumbled upon the bed.
His room was next to Arsdale's room and during the night the latter came in.
"I 've had bad dreams about you," the boy exclaimed. "Is anything the matter?"
"I 'm not sleeping very well," Donaldson answered.
"You haven't a fever or anything?"
"No. Just restless."
"I have n't slept very well myself. I 've been doing so much thinking. That keeps a fellow awake."
"Yes—thinking does. You 'd better let your brain close up shop and get some rest."
"I can't. I 've been chewing over what you said, and the more I think of it, the more I see that you have the right idea. The secret of keeping happy is to fight for others. It's the only thing that will make a man put up a good fight, isn't it?"
"The only thing," answered Donaldson.
"I don't understand why I did n't realize that before—with Elaine here. You 'd think she would make a man realize that."
Donaldson did not answer.
"I think one reason is," continued the boy, "that until now, until lately, she's been so nervy herself that she did n't seem to need any one. She 's been stronger than I. But last night she looked like a little girl. And now, I'd like to die fighting for her."
Donaldson found the boy's hand.
"Never lose that spirit," he said earnestly. "But remember, she 's worth more than dying for, she 's worth living for."
"That's so. You put things right every time. She is worth living for. You are n't much good to people after you 're dead, are you?"
"Not as far as we know."
The boy hesitated a moment, a bit confused, and then blurted out,
"I 'm going to take up some sort of work. Perhaps you can help me get after something. We have loads of money, you know. I don't think much of giving it out as cash,—the charity idea. I 've a hunch that I 'd like to study law and then give my services free to the poor devils who need a man to look after their interests. They are darned small interests to men who are only after their fee, but they are big to the poor devils themselves. And generally they get done. Do you think I have it in me to study law?"
"You have it in you to study law with that idea back of you. You 'd make a great lawyer with that idea."
"Do you think so?" asked the boy eagerly.
"I know it."
"Then perhaps—perhaps—say, would you be willing to take me in with you?"
Donaldson moved uneasily.
"It sounds sort of kiddish, but I know that I 'd do better alongside of you. I 'd help you around the office. I 'd feel better, just to see you. Anyway, would you be willing to try me for a while until I sort of get my bearings?"
"I like the idea," answered Donaldson. "Let 's talk it over later. You see there's a chance that I may give up law."
"Give it up?"
"I may have to leave this part of the country—for good."
"Why, man," burst out Arsdale, "you wouldn't leave Elaine?"
The silence grew ominous. The fighting spirit rose in Arsdale at the suggestion.
"You would n't leave Elaine?" he demanded again, turning towards the form on the bed which looked strangely huddled up.
"I must leave her with you," answered Donaldson unsteadily. The boy scarcely recognized the voice, but it roused him to a danger which he felt without understanding.
"Why, man dear," he exclaimed, "what would I count to Elaine with you gone? Don't you know? Have n't you seen?"
They were the identical words Donaldson had used in trying to open Arsdale's eyes to another great truth. And Donaldson knew that if they cut half as deep into the boy as they now cut into him they had left their mark. He found no answer. He listened with his breath coming as heavily as the boy's breath had come when they had stood before the open window.
Arsdale faltered for words.
"Why—why Elaine loves you!" he blurted out.
"Don't!"
So, too, the boy had exclaimed.
"Don't you know? I thought you knew everything, Donaldson! I don't see how you help seeing that. But I suppose it's because you 're so thoughtful of others that you can't see your own joys. But it's true, Donaldson. I don't suppose I ought to tell you about it, but man, man, she loves you! Give me your hand, Donaldson."
He found it in the dark, hot and dry.
"I want to tell you how glad I am. I suppose I must be a sort of father to her now, and I tell you that I would n't give her to another man in the world but you. You 're the only one worthy of her."
He pressed the big hand.
"You 're the one man who can make her happy," he ran on. "You can give her some of the things she 's been cheated out of. Why, when I was talking to her last night, her face looked like an angel's as I spoke of you. It is you who makes it easier for her to forget all the past—even—even the blow. I knew what it was when I came home—that you 'd done even that for me—though she couldn't see it. You 've blotted out of her mind every dark day in her life!"
"That is something, is n't it?" asked Donaldson almost pleadingly.
"Something? Something? It's everything. Don't you see now that you can't go away?"
"I see," he answered.
"Well, then, give me your hand again. Sort of trembly, eh? But I 'll bet you sleep better the rest of the night. And don't you on your life let her know I told you. She 's proud as the devil. But she would have done the same for me. They say love is blind," he laughed excitedly, "but, Holy Smoke, this is the worst case of it I ever saw!"
Donaldson lay passive.
"Now," concluded Arsdale, "I 'll go back and see if I can sleep. Good night."
Donaldson again lay flat on his back after Arsdale had gone. So he lay, not sleeping, merely enduring, until, almost imperceptibly at first, the dark about him began to dissolve. Then he rose, partly dressed, and sitting by the open window watched the East as the dawn stole in upon the sleeping city. It came to the attack upon the grim alleys, the shadows around buildings, the stealthy figures, like a royal host. A few gray outriders reconnoitred over the horizon line and sent scurrying to their hovels those who looked up at them from shifty eyes. Then came a vanguard in brighter colors with crimson penants who attacked the fields and broad thoroughfares; then the King's Own in scarlet jackets and wide sweeping banners, bronze tinted, who charged the smaller streets and factory roofs, and finally the brave array of all the dazzling host itself, who hurled their golden, sun-tipped lances into every nook and cranny, awaking to life all save those whose souls were dark within.
In watching it Donaldson found the first relief in the long night. His own mind cleared with the dawn. The day broke so clean and fresh, so bathed in morning dew, that once again his mind, grown perhaps less active, clung in some last spasm to the present as when he had sat with Elaine at breakfast, part of the little Dutch picture. Without reasoning into the to-morrow, he felt as though this day belonged to him. As the sun rose higher and stronger, enveloping the world in its catholic rays, the night seemed only an evil dream. He was both stronger and weaker. He was swept on, unresisting, by the high flood of the new day. This world now before his eyes acknowledged nothing of his agony but came mother-like to ease his fretting. She would have nothing of the heavy tossings inspired by her sinister sister, the Night. She was all for clean glad spirits, all for new hopes. So he who had first frowned at it, who had then watched passively, now rose to its call.
He was entitled to this day, sang the tempter sun,—one big day out of all his life. The crisis would be no more acute upon the morrow and he might be stronger to meet it. This day was his and hers, and even the boy's. To accept it would be to shirk nothing; it would be only to postpone—to weave into the sombre grave vestments be was making for himself one golden thread. Arsdale's talk had removed the last vestige of hope. The worst had happened. Surely one gay interlude could add no burden. A day was always a day, and joys once lived could never be lost. Always in her life and in his this would remain, and since he had shouldered the other days as they had come to him, it seemed no more than right that he should take this. Not to do so would be but sorry self-imposed martyrdom.
Arsdale came in, still in his bathrobe, with brisk step and his face a-beaming.
"Well," he demanded, "how do you feel now?"
"Better," answered Donaldson, unhesitatingly.
"Better! You ought to feel great! Look at the sun out there! Smell that air! Have you had your tub?"
"Not yet," smiled Donaldson.
Arsdale led the way to the shower, and a few minutes later Donaldson felt his skin tingle to new life beneath the cold spray.
When he came down-stairs he found her dressed in white and looking like a nun. Her hair was brushed back from her forehead and the silk-figured Japanese shawl was over her shoulders. He recalled the shawl and with it the picture she had made that first night.
At the door he called her name and she looked up quickly, swiftly scanning his face. He crossed to her side.
"You should n't stay in here," he said. "Come outdoors a moment before breakfast. It's bright and warm out there."
She arose, and they went out together to the lawn. Each blade of grass was wearing its morning jewels. The sun petted them and bestowed opals, amethysts, and rubies upon them. The hedge was as fresh as if newly created; the neighboring houses appeared as though a Dutch housewife had washed them down and sanded them; the sky was a perfect jewel cut by the Master hand. The peeping and chattering of the swallows was music, while a robin or two added a longer note to the sharp staccatos.
They stood in the deep porch looking out at it, while the sun showered them with warmth.
"You 've seen Ben?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, turning her face up to his with momentary brightness. "Yes. And he was like this out here! The change is wonderful! It is as though he had risen from the dead!"
Donaldson lifted his head toward the stark blue of the sky.
"The dead? There are no dead," he exclaimed passionately. "Even those we bury are ever ready to open their silent lips to us if only we give them life again. We owe it to them to do that, through our own lives to continue as best we can their lives here on earth. But we can't do that as long as we have them dead, can we? And that is true of dead hopes, of dead loves. We have to face the sun with all those things and through it breathe into them a new spirit. Do you see, Miss Arsdale?"
He did not look at her, but as her voice answered him it seemed to be stronger.
"I think—I think I do."
"Nothing can die, unless we let it die," he ran on, paving the way for what he realized she must in the end know. "Some of it can disappear from our sight. But not much. We can bury our dead, but we need n't bury their glad smiles, we need n't bury the feel of their hands or the brush of their lips, we need n't bury their songs or the brave spirit of them. We can keep all that, the living part of them, so long as our own spirit lives. It is when that dies in us that we truly bury them. And this is even truer of our loves—intangible spirit things as they are at best."
He did not wish that part of him to die utterly in her with his doomed frame.
"But—" she shivered, "all this talk of graves and the dead?"
"It is all of the sun and the living," he replied earnestly. "You must face the sun with me to-day. Will you?"
"Yes! Yes! But last night you made me afraid. Was it the dark,—did you get afraid of the dark? I know what that means."
"Perhaps," he answered gently. "But if so, it was because I was foolish enough to let it be dark. And you yourself must never do it again. If things get bad at night you must wait until morning and then come out here. So, if you remember what I have said, it will get light again. Will you promise to do that?"
"Yes."
"I 'd like to make this day one that we 'll both remember forever. I 'd like to make it one that we can always turn back to."
"Yes."
"Perhaps after to-day we 'll neither of us be afraid of the dark again."
"I 'm not afraid now."
"Nor I," he smiled.
The voice of Arsdale came to them,
"Oh, Elaine! Oh, Donaldson!"
She led the way into the house with a lighter step and Arsdale met them with a beaming face which covered a broad grin.
"I suppose you two can do without food," he exclaimed, "but I can't. Breakfast has been waiting ten minutes."
"It's my fault," apologized Donaldson.
"You can't see stars in the morning, can you?" chuckled Arsdale.
"Maybe," answered Donaldson.
Elaine checked the boy's further comments with a frightened pressure as she took his arm and passed into the white and green breakfast room.
There stood the table by the big warm window again, and as she took her place it seemed as though they were stepping into the same picture framed by the hedge. She caught Donaldson's eye with a little smile and saw that he understood.
Arsdale broke in with renewed enthusiasm for his philanthropic project and outlined his ambitions to Elaine.
"You see," he concluded, "some day, little sister, you may see the law sign 'Donaldson & Arsdale, Counsellors at Law.' Not a bad sounding firm name, eh?"
"I think it is great—just great, Ben!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "It's almost worth being a man to make your life count for something like that."
"I want you to make out a list of books for me to get and I 'll go down-town this afternoon. I suppose you 've a pretty good law library yourself?"
"I had the beginning of one. I sold it."
"What did you do that for?"
"My practice was n't big enough to support it. But you—you 'll not be bothered with lack of clients."
With school-boy eagerness Arsdale was anxious to plunge into the scheme at once.
"And say," he ran on, "I 'm going to look up some offices. I 'll stake the firm to some good imposing rooms in one of the big law buildings. Nothing like looking prosperous at the start. Guess I 'll drop down-town right after breakfast and see what can be had."
Donaldson didn't have the heart to check him. Later on he would write him a letter sustaining him in his project and recommending him to a classmate of his, to whom this partnership would be a godsend, as, a week ago, it would have been to himself. That was the best he could think of at the moment and so he let him rattle on.
As soon as they had finished breakfast Arsdale was off.
"I 'll leave you two to hunt out new stars as long as that occupation does n't seem to bore you. I 'll be back for dinner."
Miss Arsdale looked a bit worried and questioned Donaldson with her eyes.
"He 'll be all right," the latter assured her. "Good Lord, a man with an idea like that is safe anywhere. It's the best thing in the world for him."
A little later Donaldson went up-stairs to his room. He took out his wallet and counted his money. He had over four hundred dollars. At noon forty-eight hours would be remaining to him. He still had the ample means of a millionaire for his few needs.
He was as cool as a man computing what he could spend on a summer vacation. He was not affected in the slightest by the details of death or by the mere act of dying itself. He was of the stuff which in a righteous cause leads a man to face a rifle with a smile. He would have made a good soldier. The end meant nothing horrible in itself. It meant only the relinquishing of this bright sky and that still choicer gift below.
He rose abruptly and came down-stairs again to the girl, impatient at being away from her a minute. She was waiting for him.
"This," he said, "is to be our holiday. I think we had better go into the country. I should like to go back to Cranton. Is it too far?"
"Not too far," she answered. "But the memories of the bungalow—"
"I had forgotten about that. It does n't count with the green fields, does it? We can avoid the house, but I should like to visit the orchard and ride behind the old white horse again."
"I am willing," she replied.
"Then you will have to get ready quickly."
They had just time to catch the train and before they knew it they were there.
The old white horse was at the little land-office station to meet them for all the world as though he had been expecting them, and so, for that matter, were the winding white road, the stile by the lane, and the orchard itself. It was as though they had been waiting for them ever since their last visit and were out ready to greet them.
The driver nodded to them as if they were old friends.
"Guess ye did n't find no spooks there after all," he remarked.
"Not a spook. Any more been seen there since?"
"H'ain't heern of none. Maybe ye took off the cuss."
"I hope so."
They dismissed the driver at the lane and then went back a little way so as to avoid the bungalow. Donaldson was in the best of spirits, for at the end of the first hour he had solaced himself with the belief that Arsdale had been mistaken in his statement. She was nothing but a glad hearted companion in look and speech. They sat down a moment in the orchard and he was very tender of her, very careful into what trend he let their thoughts run. But soon he moved on again. He needed to be active. It was the walk back through the fields to which he had looked forward.
They brushed through the ankle-deep grass, pausing here and there to admire a clump of trees, a striking sky line, or a pretty slope.
To Donaldson it did not seem possible that this could ever end, that any act of nature could blot this from his mind as though it had never been. It was unthinkable that through an eternity he should never know again the meaning of blue sky, of blossoms, of such profligate pictures as now met his eye at every step, but above all, that he should be blind to the girl herself and all for which she stood. No matter how long the journey he was about to take, no matter through what new spheres, these things must remain if anything at all of him remained. So his one thought was to fill himself as full of this day as possible, to crowd into his flagging brain the many pictures of her and this setting which so harmonized with her. The deeper joys of love he might not know, save as his silent heart conjured them, but all that he could see with his eyes should be his. He would fill his soul so full of light that the unknown trail would be less dark to him. He would carry with him for torches the sun and her bright eyes.
"Let's go back as the crow flies," he suggested. "'Cross country—over hill and dale. We must n't turn out for anything," he explained, "we must go crashing through things—trampling them down."
"My," she cried, mocking his fierceness—little realizing the emotion to which they gave vent, "my, things had better look out!"
He paused, caught his breath, and turned to her, an almost terrified smile about his tense mouth.
"Oh, little comrade, you 'd best let me be serious."
"No, no. Not to-day. Let us be as glad as we can,—let us celebrate."
"Celebrate what?" he demanded, lest she might think that he had confessed his thoughts to her.
"Spring," she answered, with a laugh that came from deep within her big happy heart. "Just spring."
"Then we must n't trample down anything?" he queried.
"Nothing that we can help. But we can take the straight course just the same. We 'll turn aside for the flowers and little trees."
"And nothing else."
"Nothing else," she agreed.
He led the way, his shoulders drooping a trifle and his step not so light as her step. She could have trodden upon violets without harm to them. Still, he marched with a sturdiness that was commendable considering the load he carried. They made their way down through the orchard and over the sun-flecked grass until they encountered their first obstacle. It was a stone wall made out of gray field rocks. He gave her his hand. The fingers clung to his like a child's fingers. Their warm, soft caress went to his head like wine so that for a moment, as she stood near him, it was a question whether or not he could resist drawing her into his arms which throbbed for her. He spoke nothing; she spoke nothing. There was no boldness in her, nor any struggle either. With her head thrown back a little, she waited. So for ten seconds they stood, neither moving. Then he motioned and she jumped lightly to the ground. He led the way and they took up their march again, though once behind him she found it difficult to catch her breath again.
They moved on down the green hill, across a field, ankle deep in new grass, into the heavier green of the low lands. So they came to a meadow brook running shallow over a pebbly bottom but some five yards wide. There were no stepping stones, but a hundred rods to the right a small foot bridge crossed.
Again she waited to see what he would do, while he waited to see what he would dare. With his heart aching in his throat he challenged himself. It was asking superhuman strength of him to venture his lips so near the velvet sheen of her cheeks—he who so soon was going out with a hungry heart. Her arms would be about his neck—that would be something to remember at the end—her arms about his neck. He knew that she expected him in even so slight a thing as this to keep true to his undertaking and march straight ahead. She realized nothing of the struggle which checked him. Tragic triviality—the problem of how to cross a brook with a maid! There was but one way even when it involved the mauling of a man's heart.
He held out his arms to her and she came to them quite as simply as she had taken his proffered hand at the wall. He placed one arm about her waist and another about her skirts. She clasped her fingers behind his neck and sat up with as little embarrassment as though riding upon a ferry.
He lifted her and the act to him was as though he had condensed a thousand kisses into one. He walked slowly. This was a brief span into which to crowd a lifetime of love. In the middle of the brook he stopped—just a second, to mark the beginning of the end—and then went on again. When he set her down he was breathing heavily. She had become a bit self-conscious. Her cheeks were aflame.
Her low black shoes with their big silk bows tied pertly below her trim ankles were a goodly sight to see against the green grass as he might have observed had he looked at them at all. But he did n't. He wiped his moist forehead as though, instead of a dainty armful, she had been a burden.
She shook the wrinkles from her skirt and looked up at him laughing. Then she frowned.
"Mr. Donaldson," she scolded, "you walked across there with your shoes and stockings on."
"Why, that's so," he exclaimed, looking down at his water-logged shoes as though in as great surprise as she herself.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know," he answered helplessly.
"You ought to spread them out in the sun to dry."
"You can't spread out shoes, can you? Besides we have n't time. We must hurry right on. Right on, this minute," he added as the motherly concern in her face set his throat to aching again.
With the stride of a pioneer he led off, praying that they might not find in their path another brook. For a stretch of a mile, he pressed on without once looking around, taking a faster pace than he realized. The course was a fairly smooth one over an acre or so of pasture, through a strip of oak woods, and up a stiff slope. It was not until he reached the top of this that he paused. He looked around and saw her about halfway up the hill, climbing heavily, her eyes upon the ground. Even as he watched her, he saw her sway, catch herself, and push on again without even looking up. It was the act of a woman almost exhausted. He reached her side in a couple of strides. He tried to take her arm but she broke free of him and in a final spurt reached the top of the hill and threw herself upon the ground to catch her breath.
"I did n't realize how fast I was going," he apologized kneeling by her side. "That was unpardonable, but why did n't you call to me?"
She removed her hat. Then she leaned back upon her hands until she could speak evenly. A light breeze loosened a brown curl and played with it.
"Why did n't you call to me?"
"Because I wished to keep pace with you." He turned away from her.
"When you are rested we will start again," he said.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Then I am ready."
"You will take my arm?"
"No," she answered.
"Then you must keep by my side where I can watch you."
They took the remaining distance in more leisurely fashion, now realizing that they were nearing the outskirts of this fairy kingdom. With this thought he relaxed a little and instantly the sun and burgeoning nature claimed him, making light of every problem save the supreme one of bringing together a man and his mate.
They crossed a field or two and so came again into the road which they had left three miles back. Walking a short distance along this, they found themselves on a sharp hill overlooking the station a few hundred yards below. With the same impulse they turned back far enough to be out of sight of this. Twenty minutes still remained to them. They sat down by the side of the road where they had rested before. A light breeze pushing through the top of a big pine made a sound as of running water in the distance.
With her chin in one hand, elbow on knee, she studied him a moment as though endowed with sudden inspiration. A quick frown which had shadowed his face at sight of the railroad had driven home a suspicion which she had long held. Now she dared to voice it.
"Have things been mixed up for you—back there?"
The question startled him. He gave her a swift look as though to divine the reason for it. It was so direct that it was hard to evade. And he would not lie directly to her. So he replied bluntly,
"Yes."
She waited. He saw her expectant eyes, but he went no further. Part of the price he paid for being here was renunciation of the balm he might have in the sharing of his trouble with her. He knew that she would take his silence for a rebuff, but he could not help that. He said nothing more, the silence eating into him.
But something stronger than her pride drove her on.
"Mr. Donaldson," she said, "you have given a great deal of time to me and mine—if there is anything I may do in return, you will give me the privilege?"
"There is nothing," he answered.
He saw the puzzled hurt in her eyes.
"I know all that you with your big heart would do for me," he declared earnestly, "but honestly there is nothing possible. My worry will cure itself. I can see the end of it even now."
"Will the end of it come within a month?"
"Within a week."
"Perhaps," she said, "I could hasten the end to a day."
"No," he smiled, "I 'd rather you would n't. I 'd rather you would prolong it if you could."
"Is that a riddle?"
"To you."
"Then I can't answer it for I never guessed one in my life."
So with his knuckles kneading the grass by his side, he made light of it until she turned away from the subject to admire the blue seen through the pine needles above their heads.
Soon he heard the distant low whistle of the engine which was coming for them like a sheriff with a warrant.
He was not conscious of very much more until they were back again in the house and he heard Arsdale's voice,
"I 've rented the offices, old man! Swellest in the city. To-morrow you must come down and see them!"
Arsdale was somewhere about the house and Elaine had gone up-stairs when Donaldson, who had come out-doors to smoke, saw a man with broad shoulders and a round unshaven face step from a cab, push through the hedge gate, and come quickly up the path. He watched him with indifferent interest, until in the dusk he recognized the stubborn mouth which gripped a cigar as a bull-dog hangs to a rag. Then he hurried forward with hand extended.
"Good Lord, Saul," he exclaimed, "where did you drop from?"
"Hello, Don. I rather hoped that I might run across you here."
"I 'm ashamed of myself," answered Donaldson guiltily. "I did n't notify you that we had found him. But the last I heard of you, you were out of town."
"Oh, that's all right. Tung gave me the whole story."
"The rat! He made a lot of trouble for us."
"And for me, too."
"Still working on the Riverside robberies?"
Saul glanced up quickly. Then looking steadily into Donaldson's eyes as though the reply had some significance he answered,
"Yes."
"I wish you luck. And say, old man, I 've worried since for fear lest you lost a good opportunity for a hot scent the time I kept you out."
"I did. But I picked it up again by chance."
"You did? Have you caught the man?"
"No," answered Saul abstractedly. "Not yet."
He chewed the stub of his cigar a moment, glancing frequently at the house.
"Say," he asked abruptly, "come down the road here a piece with me, will you?"
Saul led him to the street and far enough away from the cab so that their conversation could not be overheard, yet near enough to the electric light for him to see Donaldson's face clearly.
"I want you to tell me something about young Arsdale," he began. "Is he in the house there now?"
"Yes. And happy as a clam at high water."
"Has he talked any since he came back?"
"Talked? He's clear-headed enough, if that is what you mean?"
"Has he appeared at all worried—as though he had something on his mind?"
"Not in the slightest He's taken such a new grip on himself that the last few days are almost blotted out. You 'd never know him for the same boy, Saul. He's quit the dope for good."
"So? Remorse!"
"Not the kind of remorse you mean, Beefy. This is the real thing."
Saul thought a moment. Then he asked,
"You told me, did n't you, that he had no money with him that night?"
"Not more than a dollar or so."
"He spent a lot at Tung's."
"The heathen probably robbed him of it!"
"Yes, but where did Arsdale get it?"
Donaldson started. There was something ominous in the question. But he could n't recount to Saul that disgraceful attack the boy had made upon his sister when returning for funds. It wouldn't be fair to the present Arsdale.
"I don't know," he answered. "What have you up your sleeve, Beefy?"
"Something bad," replied Saul bluntly. He lowered his voice: "It is beginning to look as though your young friend might know something about the robberies that have been taking place around here."
"What!"
If an earthquake had suddenly shattered the stone house behind the hedge, it would have left him no more dazed.
"I won't say that we 've got him nailed," Saul hastened to explain, "but it begins to look bad for him."
"But, man dear," gasped Donaldson, "he is n't a thug! He isn't—"
"If he 's like the others he 's anything when he wants his smoke. I 've seen more of them than you."
"Saul," he said, "you 're dead wrong about this! You 've made a horrible mistake!"
"Perhaps. But he 'll have to explain some things."
Donaldson took a grip on himself.
"What's the nature of your evidence?"
"There 's the question of where he got his funds, first; then the fact that all the attacks took place within a small radius of this house; then the motive, and finally the fact, that in a general way he answers to the description given by four witnesses. He 'll have to take the third degree on that, anyway."
The third degree would undoubtedly kill the boy, or, worse, break his spirit and drive him either to a mad-house or the solace of his drug. It was a cruel thing to confront him with this at such a point in his life. It was fiendish, devilish. It was possible that they might even make the boy believe that in his blind madness he actually did commit these crimes. Then, as in a lurid moving picture, Donaldson recalled the uneasiness of the girl; the morning papers with their glaring headlines of the Riverside robberies, which he had found that morning scattered about the floor; her fear of the police, and the mystery of the untold story at which she had hinted. Take these, and the fact that in his madness Arsdale had actually made an attack upon the girl and upon himself, similar to those outside the house, and the chain was a strong one. The pity of it—coming now!
Yes, it was in this that the cruel injustice lay. Even admitting the boy to be guilty, it was still an injustice. The man who had done those things was outside the pale of the law; he was no more. Arsdale himself, Arsdale the clean-minded young man with a useful life before him, Arsdale with his new soul, had no more to do with those black deeds than he himself had. Yet that lumbering Juggernaut, the Law, could not take this into account. The Law did not deal with souls, but bodies.
To this day—what a hideous climax!
Saul detected the fear in Donaldson's eyes,
"You know something about this, Don!" he asked eagerly.
He was no longer a friend; he was scarcely a man; he was a hound who has picked up his trail. His eyes had narrowed; his round face seemed to grow almost pointed. He chewed his cigar end viciously. He was alert in every nerve.
"You'd better loosen up," he warned, "it's all right to protect a friend, but it can't be done in a case of this sort. You as a lawyer ought to know that. It can't be done."
"Yes, I know, I know. But I want to tell you again that you 're dead wrong about this. You haven't guessed right, Beefy."
"That's for others to decide," he returned somewhat sharply. "It 's up to you to tell what you know."
"It's hard to do it—it's hard to do it to you."
Donaldson's face had suddenly grown blank—impassive. The mouth had hardened and his whole body stiffened almost as it does after death. When he spoke it was without emotion and in the voice of one who has repeated a phrase until it no longer has meaning.
"I realize how you feel," Saul encouraged him, "but there's no way out of it."
"No, there's no way out of it. So I give myself up!"
"But it is n't you I want,—it's Arsdale."
"No, I guess it's I. See how your descriptions fit me."
Saul pressed closer.
"What the devil do you mean?" he demanded.
"Just this," answered Donaldson dully, "I can't see an innocent man go to jail."
To his mind Arsdale was as innocent to-day as though not a shadow of suspicion rested upon him.
"Are you mad?"
"Not yet," answered Donaldson.
Saul waited a moment. In all his professional career he had never received a greater surprise than this. He would not have believed enough of it to react had it not been for Donaldson's expression. Back of the impassiveness he read guilt, read it in the restless shifting of the eyes and in the voice dead to hope. Then he said deliberately,
"I don't believe you, Don."
"No? Yet you 've got as much evidence against me as against Arsdale."
"But, God A'mighty, Donaldson, why should you do such a thing?"
"Why should the boy?"
Saul seized his arm.
"You don't tell me that you've fallen into that habit?"
"Sit in a law-office and do nothing for three years, then—then, perhaps, you 'll understand."
Saul threw away his cigar. He studied again the thin face, the haggardness that comes of opium, the nervous fingers, the vacant shifty gaze of those on the sharp edge of sanity. Then he lighted a fresh cigar and declared quietly,
"I don't believe you!"
"You 'll have to for the sake of those in the house. They 've been good to me in there."
His voice was as hard as black ice and as cold. He looked more like a magnetized corpse than he did a man.
"I wish," he continued evenly, "I wish I might have been knocked over the head before it came to this. If I had known I had to face you, I would have let it come to that. But I didn't expect this, Beefy."
"If this story is on the level, you 'd better shut up," warned Saul. "What you say will be used against you."
"Thanks for reminding me, but things have come out so wrong that I can't even shut up. If you should go inside that house with the dream you sprang on me, you 'd drive the boy crazy and kill the girl. The boy has been in a bad way, but he's all straight again now, and yet you might make him believe he did these jobs when out of his head. And then—and then—why, it would kill them both! That's why I could n't let you do it. That's why youmust n'tdo anything like that."
Saul did not answer. He waited.
"So I might as well make a clean breast of it. Do you remember when the last job was?"
"Last Saturday morning."
"Remember where you were at that time?"
"Why—that was the morning I went out with you!"
"Just so," answered Donaldson, his eyes leveled over Saul's head. "I hate to tell you, but—but it was necessary to do that in order to keep you away from headquarters."
Saul reached for his throat, pushing him back a step.
"You played me traitor like that?" he demanded.
"It was part of the game," answered Donaldson indifferently. Saul, fearful of himself, drew back.
The latter tried to reason it out. A man can change a good deal in a year, but even with opium it seemed impossible for Donaldson so to abuse a friendship. But he was checked in his recollection of the man as he had known him by the memory of that very morning. He had been suspicious even then that something was wrong. Donaldson had appeared nervous and altered.
"Donaldson," he burst out, "I 'd give up my rank to be out of this mess."
He added impulsively,
"Tell me it's all a damned lie, Don!"
"No," replied Donaldson, "the sooner it's over the better. I 'm all through now."
Still Saul hesitated. But there seemed nothing left.
"Come on," he growled.
Donaldson followed him to the cab. He was like a man too tired to care.
"Had n't you better make up some sort of a story for them in there?" asked Saul, with a jerk of his head towards the house.
"That's so," answered Donaldson. "Will you trust me for a few minutes?"
"Take your time," said Saul.
Donaldson went back up the path and found both Arsdale and his sister in the library.
"I 'll have to ask you to excuse me for to-night," he said. "I 've just had word from a friend who wishes me to spend the night with him."
They both looked disappointed.
"He 's waiting out there for me now."
"Perhaps you will come back later," suggested Arsdale.
"Not to-night. Perhaps in the morning. I 'll drop you a word if I 'm kept longer."
He spoke lightly, with no trace of anything abnormal in his bearing.
"All right, but we 'll miss you," answered Arsdale.
The girl said nothing but her face grew suddenly sober.
They went to the door with him and watched him step into the cab.
Saul had prayed that he would not return, and now looked more as though it were he that was being led off. He chewed his unlighted cigar in silence while the other sat back in his corner with his eyes closed.
Once on his way to headquarters he leaned forward, and clutching Donaldson's knee, repeated his cry,
"Tell me it's all a lie," he begged. "There's time yet. I 'll hustle you to the train and stake you to Canada. Just give me your word for it."
Donaldson shook his head.
"It would only come back on Arsdale, and that is n't square."
"Then God help you," murmured Saul.
The cab stopped before headquarters and Saul, with lagging steps, led his man in. The Chief listened to the story he told with his keen eyes kindling like a fire through shavings. He saw the end to the bitter invective heaped upon him during the last three weeks by the press. Then he began his gruelling cross-examination.
The story Donaldson told was simple and convincing. He had come to New York full of hope, had waited month after month, and had finally become discouraged. In this extremity he had taken to a drug. His relations with the Arsdales began less than a week ago and they knew nothing of him save that he had been of some assistance in helping young Arsdale straighten out. Arsdale had borrowed money of him, although doubtless he could not remember it, and had taken it to go down to Tung's. Feeling a sense of responsibility for the use the boy had made of this money and out of regard to the sister, he had done his best to help him pull out.
When pressed for further details of the crimes themselves, Donaldson admitted that his memory was very much clouded. He had committed the assaults when in a mental condition that left them in his memory only as evil dreams. The substantiation of this must come through his identification by the witnesses. He could remember nothing of what he had done with the purses, or the jewels and papers which they contained. He had used only the money.
An officer was sent to search his rooms at the hotel, and in the meanwhile men were sent out to bring in the victims of the assaults. It was for this test that Donaldson held in check all the reserve power he had within him. If his story was weak up to this point, he realized that this identification would substantiate it beyond the shadow of a doubt. This he knew must be done in order to offset Arsdale's possible attempt to give himself up when he should hear of this. As a student he had been impressed with the unreliability of direct evidence, and here would be an opportunity to test his theory that much of the evidence to the senses is worthless. From the moment he had determined upon this course he had based his hopes upon this test. Saul had made it clear that the descriptions given by the witnesses were vague, and now in the excitement of confronting their assailant they were apt to be still more unsubstantial. If he could succeed in terrifying them, he could convince them to a point where they would make all their excited visions fit him to a hair.
And so as each man was brought before him, Donaldson looked at him from beneath lowering brows with his mind fixed so fiercely upon the determination to force them to see him as the shadowy brute who had attacked them that he in reality looked the part. Two of the men withdrew, wiping their foreheads, after making the identification absolute.
The third witness, a woman, promptly fainted. When she revived she said she was willing to take her oath that this was the man. Not only was she sure of his height, weight, and complexion, but she recognized the same malicious gleam which flashed from the demon's eyes as he had stood over her. She shivered in fright.
The fourth victim was a man of fifty. He was slower to decide, but the longer he stood in front of Donaldson, the surer he became. Donaldson, with his arms folded, never allowed his eyes to move from the honest eyes of this other. And as he looked he made a mental picture of the act of creeping up behind this man, of lifting his weapon, finally of striking. With the act of striking, his shoulders lifted, so intense was his determination.
The man drew back from him.
"Yes," he said, "I am sure. This is the brute."
It was two hours later before Donaldson was finally handed over to the officers of the Tombs, and Saul turned back reluctantly to give to the eager reporters as meagre an outline of the story as he could.