The Seventh Noon

F >> Frederick Orin Bartlett >> The Seventh Noon

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

"Peter," he burst out, "you ought to have been with me. If I 'd known
about the trip I 'd have taken you. It was just what you needed--a
week of lolling around a deck in the hot sun with the sea winds blowing
over your face. That's what you want to do--get out under the blue sky
and soak it in. If you don't believe it, look at me. Fit as a fiddle;
strong as a moose. You said you wanted to sprawl in the sunshine,--why
the devil don't you take a week off and do it?"

"Perhaps I will."

"That's the stuff. You must do it. You were in bad shape when I left,
but, man dear, you 're on the verge of a serious breakdown now. Do you
realize it?"

"Yes, I realize it. That 's a good dog of yours, Barstow."

"What's the matter with the pup? Seems to me you 're taking a deuce of
a lot of interest in him," he returned suspiciously.

"Dogs seem sort of human when you 're alone with them."

"This one looks more human than you do. See here, Don, Lindsey said
that he might start off again to-morrow on a short cruise to Newport.
I think I can get you a berth with him. Will you go?"

"It's good of you, Barstow," answered Donaldson uneasily, "but I don't
like to promise."

Would Barstow never call the dog by name? He could n't ask him
directly; it would throw too much suspicion upon himself. If Barstow
had left his laboratory that night for his trip, the chances were that
the bottle was not yet missed. He must be cautious. It would be
taking an unfair advantage of Barstow's friendship to allow him to feel
that indirectly he had been responsible for the death of a human being.
Donaldson glanced at his watch.

It had stopped.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Half past nine."

Two hours and a half longer! He determined to remain here until
eleven. If, up to that time, Barstow had not called the dog by name he
would leave. He must write that letter and he must put himself as far
out of reach of these friends as possible before the end. If he died
on the train, his body would be put off at the next station and a local
inquest held. The verdict would be heart disease; enough money would
be found in his pocket to bury him; and so the matter would be dropped.

"I want you to promise, Don," ran on Barstow, "for I tell you that it's
either a rest or the hospital for you. You have nervous prostration
written big all over your face. I know how hard it is to make the
initial effort to pull out when your brain is all wound up, but you 'll
regret it if you don't. And you 'll like the crowd, Don. Lindsey is a
hearty fellow, who hasn't anything to do but live--but he does that
well. He's clean and square as a granite corner-stone. It will do you
good to mix in with him.

"And his boat is a corker! He spent a quarter of a million on it, and
he 's got a French cook that would make a dead man eat. He 'll put fat
on your bones, Don, and Lindsey will make you laugh. You don't laugh
enough, Don. You 're too serious. And if you have such weather as we
've had this week you 'll come back with a spirit that will boost your
law practice double."

He felt of Donaldson's arm. It was thin and flabby.

"Good Heavens--here, feel of mine!"

Donaldson grasped it with his weak fingers. It was beastly thick and
firm.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"It is twenty minutes of ten. Is time so important to you?"

"I must get down-town before long."

"Rot! Why don't you drop your business here and now. Let things rip."

"Where 's the dog?" demanded Donaldson. The pup was out of sight. He
felt strangely frightened. He got up and looked all about the room.

"Where 's he gone?" he demanded again.

Barstow grasped him by the shoulder.

"You must pull yourself together," he said seriously. "You 're heading
for a worse place than the hospital."

"But where the devil has he gone? He was here a minute ago, was n't
he?"

"Easy, easy," soothed Barstow. "Hold tight!"

"Find him, won't you, Barstow? Won't you find him?"

To quiet him Barstow whistled. The dog pounded his tail on the floor
under the lounge.

"He 's under there," said Barstow.

"Get him out--get him out where I can see him, won't you?"

Barstow stooped.

"Come, Sandy, come," he called.

Donaldson leaped forward.

"What did you call him?" he demanded as Barstow staggered back.

"Have you gone mad?" shouted Barstow.

"What did you call him?" repeated Donaldson fiercely. "Tell me what
you called him?"

"I called him Sandy. Control yourself, Don. If you let yourself go
this way--it's the end."

"The end?" shouted Donaldson. "Man, it 's the beginning! It's just
the beginning! Sandy--Sandy did n't die after all!"

"Oh, that's what's troubling you," returned Barstow with an air of
relief. "Why did n't you tell me? You thought the dead had risen, eh?
No, the stuff didn't work. The dog only had an attack of acute
indigestion from overeating. But Gad, the coincidence _was_ queer,
when you stop to think of it. I 'd forgotten you left before he came
to."

"Then," cried Donaldson excitedly, "you did n't have any poison after
all!"

"No. I was so busy on more important work that my experiments with
that stuff must all of them have been slipshod. But it did look for a
minute as though Sandy here had proven it. But, Lord,--it was n't the
poison that did for him--it was his week. His week was too much for
him!"

"Give me your hand, Barstow. Give me your hand. I 'm limp as a rag."

"That's your nerves again. If you were normal, the mere fact that you
thought you saw a spook dog would n't leave you in this shape. Come
over here and sit down."

"Get me some water, old man--get me a long, long drink."

When Barstow handed him the glass, which must have held a pint,
Donaldson trembled so that he could hold it to his lips only by using
both hands, as those with palsy do. He swallowed it in great gulps.
He felt as though he were burning up inside. The room began to swim
around him, but with his hands kneading into the old sofa he warded off
unconsciousness. He must not lose a single minute in blankness. He
must get back to her--get back to her as soon as he could stand. She
was suffering, too, though in another way. He must not let another
burning minute scorch her.

"Perhaps you 'll take my advice now," Barstow was saying, "perhaps you
were near enough the brink that time to listen to me. Tell me I may
ring up Lindsey--tell me now that you 'll go with him."

"Go--away? Go--out to sea?" cried Donaldson.

"Yes. To-morrow morning."

"Why, Lord, man! Lord, man!" he panted, "I--would n't leave New
York--I would n't go out there--for--for a million dollars."

"You damned ass!" growled Barstow.

"I--I would n't--go, if the royal yacht--of the King of England were
waiting for me."

"Some one ought to have the authority to put you in a strait-jacket and
carry you off. I tell you you 're headed for the madhouse, Don!"

Donaldson staggered to his feet. He put his trembling hands on
Barstow's shoulders.

"No," he faltered, "no, I 'm headed for life, for life, Barstow! You
hear me? I 'm headed for a paradise right here in New York."

Barstow felt baffled. The man was in as bad a way as he had ever seen
a man, but he realized the uselessness of combatting that stubborn
will. There was nothing to do but let him go on until he was struck
down helpless. From the bottom of his heart be pitied him. This was
the result of too much brooding alone.

"Peter," he said, "the loneliest place in this world is New York. Are
you going to let it kill you?"

"No! It came near it, but I 've beaten it. I 'm bigger now than the
dear old merciless city. It's mine--down to every dark alley. I 've
got it at my feet, Barstow. It is n't going to kill me, it's going to
make me grow. It is n't any longer my master--it's a good-natured,
obedient servant. New York?" he laughed excitedly. "What is New York
but a little strip of ground underneath the stars?"

"That would sound better if your eyes were clearer and your hand
steadier."

"You 'd expect a man to be battered up a little, would n't you, after a
hard fight? I 've fought the hardest thing in the world there is to
fight--shadows, Barstow, shadows--with the King Shadow itself at their
head."

Was the man raving? It sounded so, but Donaldson's eyes, in spite of
their heaviness, were not so near those of madness as they had been a
moment ago. The startled look had left his face. Every feature stood
out brightly, as though lighted from within. His voice was fuller, and
his language, though obscure, more like that of the old Donaldson.
Barstow was mystified.

"Had n't you better lie down here again?" he suggested.

"I must go, now. What--what time is it, old man?"

"Five minutes past ten."

Donaldson took a deep breath. Time--how it stretched before him like a
flower-strewn path without end. He heard the friendly tick-tock at his
wrists. The minutes were so many jewel boxes, each containing the
choice gift of so many breaths, so many chances to look into her eyes,
so many chances to fulfil duties, so many quaffs of life.

"My watch has run down," he said, with curious seriousness. "I 'm
going to wind it up again. I 'm going to wind it up again, Barstow."

He proceeded to do this as though engaged in some mystic rite.

"May I set it by your watch? I 'd like to set it by your watch,
Barstow."

He adjusted the hands tenderly, again as though it were the act of a
high priest.

"Now," he said, "it's going straight. I shall never let the old thing
run down again. I think it hurts a watch, don't you, Barstow?"

"Yes," answered the latter, amazed at his emphasis upon such
trivialities.

"Now," he said, "I must hurry. Where's my hat? Oh, there it is. And
Sandy--where's Sandy?"

The dog crawled out at once at the sound of his name, and he stooped to
pet him a moment.

"I don't suppose you 'd sell Sandy, would you, Barstow?"

"I 'll give him to you, if you 'll take him off. I have n't a fit
place to keep him."

"May I take him now? May I take him with me?"

"Yes--if you'll come back to me to-morrow and report how you are."

"I 'll do it. I 'll be here to-morrow."

He cuddled the dog into his arm and held out his hand.

"Don't worry about me, old man. Just a little rattled that's all. But
fit as a fiddle; strong as a moose, even if I don't look it as you do!"

Barstow took his hand, and when Donaldson left, stood at the head of
the stairs anxiously watching him make his way to the street, hugging
the dog tightly to his side.

CHAPTER XXVII

_The End of the Beginning_

When Donaldson appeared at the door of the Arsdale house he was
confronted by Ben whose eyes were afire as though he had been drinking.
Before he could speak a word the latter squared off before him
aggressively.

"What the devil have you done to my sister?" he demanded.

Donaldson drew back, frightened by the question.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, the dog dropping from his arms to the
floor.

"She 's in bed, and half out of her mind," returned the other fiercely.
"She said you 'd gone! Donaldson, if you 've hurt her--"

The boy's fists were clenched as though he were about to strike.
Donaldson stood with his arms hanging limply by his side. He felt
Arsdale's right to strike if he wished.

"I have n't gone," he answered.

"I don't know what has happened," Arsdale ran on heatedly, "but I want
to tell you this--that as much as you 've done for me, I won't stand
for your hurting her."

"Let me see her," demanded Donaldson, coming to himself.

"She won't see any one! She 's locked up in her room. She may be
dead. If she is, you 've killed her!"

Arsdale half choked upon the words. It was with difficulty that he
restrained himself. He was blind to everything, save that in some way
this man was responsible for the girl's suffering.

"Perhaps she 'll see me. Where is she?"

Donaldson without waiting for an answer pushed past Arsdale and the
latter allowed it, but followed at his heels. Donaldson knew where she
was without being told. She was in the big front room where the
balcony led outdoors. He went up the stairs heavily, for he knew that
more depended on the next half hour than had anything so far in all
this harrowing week. Though there was plenty of light he groped his
way close to the wall like a blind man. At the closed door he paused
to catch his breath. In the meanwhile the boy, half frantic, pounded
on the panels, shouting over his shoulder,

"She won't let us in, I tell you! She won't let us in! She may be
dead!"

At this, Donaldson forced Arsdale back. He put his mouth close to the
insensate wood and called her name.

"Elaine."

There was no answer.

He knocked lightly and called again. Again the silence, the boy
stumbling up against him with an inarticulate cry. The nurse joined
them, and the three stood there in shivering terror. Donaldson felt
panic clutching at his own heart. Before throwing his weight against
the door, he tried once more.

"Elaine," he cried, "it is I--Donaldson."

There was the sound of movement within, and then came the stricken plea,

"Go away. Please go away."

Arsdale answered,

"Let me in, Elaine. Nothing shall hurt you. I'll--"

Donaldson turned upon him and the nurse.

"Go down-stairs," he commanded.

His voice made them both shudder back.

"Go down-stairs," he repeated. "Do you hear! Leave her to me!"

Arsdale started a protest, but the nurse, in fright, took his arm and
half dragged him towards the stairs. Donaldson followed threateningly.
His face was terrible. He stood at the head of the stairs until they
reached the hall below. Then he returned to the door.

"Elaine," he said, "I have come back. Do you hear me, Elaine? I have
come back."

He heard within the sound as of muffled sobbing. He himself was
breathing as though a great weight were on his chest.

"Elaine," he cried, "won't you open the door to me?"

The sobbing was broken by a tremulous voice.

"Is that you, Peter Donaldson?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Then go away and leave me, Peter Donaldson."

"Elaine, can you hear me clearly?"

There was the pause of a moment, and than the broken voice.

"Go away."

"No," he answered steadily, "I can't. I can't go away again until I
see you. You must tell me face to face to go. I 've come back to you."

She did not answer.

"Elaine," he cried, "open the door to me. Let me see you."

"I don't want to see you."

He waited a moment. Then he said more soberly,

"Elaine, I can't go away. I must stay right here until I see you. I
sha'n't move from here until my soul goes. Whether you hear me or not,
you will know that I am right here by the door. At the end of one
hour, at the end of two hours, at the end of a day, I shall still be
here. If they try to drag me away, they 'll have to fight--they 'll
have to fight hard."

There was no answer. He leaned back against the wall. Below, he heard
a whispered conversation between Arsdale and the nurse; within, he
heard nothing. So five minutes passed, and to Donaldson the world was
chaos. He felt as though he were locked up in a tomb. There was the
same feeling of dead weight upon the shoulders; the same sensation of
stifling. Then he heard her voice,

"Are you still there, Peter Donaldson?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Won't you please go away?"

"I shall not go away until I have seen you."

Then another long suspense began, but it was shorter than the first.

"If I let you come in for a minute, will you go then?"

"Yes," he answered, "I will go then."

It seemed an eternity before he heard the key turn in the lock and saw
the door swing open a little. He stepped in. She had taken a position
in a far corner. She had drawn the Japanese shawl tightly about her,
and was standing very erect, her white face like chiseled marble. He
started towards her, but she checked him.

"Do not come any nearer," she commanded.

He steadied himself.

"I told you," he began abruptly, "that I was going because I must.
That was true; I went thinking I was to meet Death."

She took a step towards him.

"You were ill? You are ill now?"

"No."

He paused. Now that the time had come when he could tell her all, it
was a harder thing to do than he had thought. If she withdrew from him
now--what would she do after she had learned? Yet he must do this to
be a free man, to be even a free spirit. There must be no more shadows
between them, not even shadows of the past.

"I told you," he said, "of my life up to the time I came to New York,
of the daily grind it was to get that far. That was only the
beginning--after that came the real struggle. It was easy to fight
with the enemy in front--with something for your fists to strike
against. But then came the waiting years. I was too blind to see all
the work that lay around me. I was too selfish to see what I might
have fought for. I saw nothing except the wasting months. I lost my
grip. I played the coward."

He took a quick, sharp breath at the word. It was like plunging a
knife into his own heart to stand before her and say that.

"One day in the laboratory," he struggled on, "Barstow told me of a
poison which would not kill until the end of seven days. Because I was
not--the best kind of fighter--I--stole it and swallowed it. That was
a week ago. I am here now only because the poison did n't work."

"You--you tried to kill yourself?" she cried in amazement.

"Yes," he answered unflinchingly, "I tried to quit. There were many
things I wanted--cheap, trivial things, and at the time I did n't see
my course clear to getting them in any other way. The other
things--the things worth while were around me all the time, but I could
n't see them."

He paused. She drew away from him.

"So you see I did not do bravely. I wanted you to know this from the
first, but there didn't seem to be any way. I did n't want to stand
before you as a liar--as a hypocrite, and yet I did n't want to balk
myself in the little good I found myself able to do. That silence was
part of the penalty. I left you yesterday without telling, for the
same reason. That and one other: because I did n't want you to think
me a coward when death might cut off all opportunity for ever proving
otherwise."

Again he paused, hoping against a dead hope. But she stood there,
cringing away from him, her frightened lips dumb.

"That is all," he concluded. "Now I will go. But don't you see that I
had to intrude long enough to tell you this? I stand absolutely honest
before you. There isn't a lie in me. Now I am going to work."

He made an odd looking picture as he stood there. Haggard, hot-eyed,
with a touch of color above his unshaven cheeks, he was like a
victorious general at the end of a hard week's campaign.

He turned away from her and went out of the room. At the foot of the
stairs he passed in silence Arsdale and the nurse. He turned back.

"Sandy! Sandy! Where are you?"

The dog came scrambling over the smooth floor with a joyous yelp. He
picked him up and passing out the door went down the street. The few
remaining dollars he had left burned in his pocket. He tossed them
into the first sewer. He was now free--free to begin clean handed.

A little farther along he came to a gang of men at work upon the
excavation for a new house. He needed money for food and a night's
lodging. He went to the foreman.

"Want an extra hand?"

"Wot th' devil ye 're givin' us?"

"I 'm in earnest. I have n't a cent. I need work. Try me."

The burly foreman looked him over with a grin. Then as though he saw a
good joke in it, he gave him a shovel and sent him into the cellar.

Donaldson removed his coat and rolling up his sleeves took his place
beside the others. Sandy found a comfortable nest in the discarded
garment and settled down contentedly.

CHAPTER XXVIII

_The Seventh Noon_

When Arsdale with the nurse at his heels rushed up-stairs, he found his
sister before the mirror combing her hair. There was nothing
hysterical about her, but her white calmness in itself was ominous.

"What is it, Elaine?" he panted, "has Donaldson gone mad?"

"No," she answered, "I should say that he is quite sane now."

"But what the deuce was the trouble with him? He looked as though he
had lost his senses."

"Perhaps he has just found them."

The nurse interrupted him, in an aside,

"I would n't agitate her further." To the girl, she said, "Don't you
think you had better lie down for a little, Miss Arsdale?"

"Please don't worry about me," she replied calmly, "I am going to
change my dress and then I shall come down-stairs. I wish you would go
to Marie--both of you. It is she who needs attention."

"But--" broke in Arsdale.

"There's a good boy. Do what you can to make her comfortable. I will
join you in a few minutes."

Uncomprehending, Arsdale reluctantly led the way out. She closed the
door behind them and turned to her mirror again.

"Well," demanded her reflection, "what are you going to do now?"

"Do? I shall go on as I have always done."

"Shall you?"

"Why not? There is Ben. Perhaps we shall go out into the country to
live--perhaps we shall travel."

"Shall you?"

"That is certainly the sensible thing to do."

"Shall you?"

She smoothed back the hair from her throbbing temples.

"He looked very much in need of help," suggested the mirror.

"Who?"

"Peter Donaldson."

"Oh," gasped Elaine, "why did he do it? Why did he do it?"

The mirror recognized the question as one which every woman has asked
at least once in her lifetime. But somehow this did not swerve her
from her insistence.

"You must judge him from what you yourself have seen of him," the
mirror harped back to Donaldson's own words.

"He acted bravely before me--before Ben. He did do bravely," cried the
girl.

"And yet below these acts he had a craven heart?" hinted she of the
mirror.

"No. No. It isn't possible! It isn't possible!"

"But he admitted the dreadful thing he tried to do."

"That was the folly of a moment. He has grown through it. He asked no
mercy--asked no pardon. Did n't you see the expression upon his
haggard face as he left the room?"

"Were you looking?" queried she of the mirror in surprise. "Your eyes
were away from him."

"But one couldn't help but see that!"

The woman in the mirror found herself suddenly put upon the defensive.

"Where has he gone?" cried the girl. "What is he going to do now?"

"Will he do bravely whatever lies before him?"

"Yes. He will! He will!"

"How do you know?"

"I know. That is enough."

"Then why do you not call him back?"

The girl's cheeks grew scarlet.

"The shame of what I told him yesterday!"

"Was it not a bit brave of him to turn away from you?"

"He should have explained to me at that time why he was going. He
needed me then."

"Do you not suppose that he knew it? Do you not suppose that it took
the strength of a dozen men to go alone to what he thought was waiting
for him?"

"I know nothing."

"And yet you saw his eyes as he stood before you then? And you saw his
eyes as he left you five minutes ago?"

"I won't see. I can't risk--again!"

"Yet you love him?"

Once again the flaming scarlet in her cheeks. Her lips trembled. She
turned away from the mirror.

"I said nothing of love," she insisted.

"Yet you love him?"

"Why did he do it?" she moaned.

"Yet you love him?"

"He did so bravely--he spoke so bravely, yet--"

"He learned. If, of all the world of men, you were to choose one to
stand by your side when hardest pressed, whom would you choose?"

"I would choose him," answered the girl without hesitation.

"Why?"

"Because--"

"After all, is n't that enough? You would trust him to fight an
eternity as he has fought for you these few days. Twice he staked his
life for you--once his good name."

"But he thought he was soon to die."

"All the more precious the time that was left."

Her eyes brightened.

"Yes. Yes. I had not thought of that."

"Yet he did this and further risked what was left to save an unknown
messenger boy."

"Oh, he did well!"

"Then he came to you like a man and told what you might never have
discovered, just because he wished to stand clean before you."

"Yes," she breathed.

"Why did he do that?" demanded her reflection.

"I--I don't know."

"Why did he do that?"

"Because--"

"After all, isn't that enough?"

"But he said nothing. If only he had turned back!"

"What right had he to say the thing you wish? If he had been less a
man he _would_ have turned back."

"Where has he gone? What is he going to do?"

"Why don't you find out?"

"It would be unmaidenly."

"Yes, and very womanly. Do you owe him nothing?"

"I owe him everything."

"Then--"

"I must send Ben to find him. I must--oh, but I need n't do anything
more?"

"No. Nothing more."

Her heart pounded in her throat in her eagerness to finish her toilet.
Her fingers were so light that she could scarcely hold her comb. She
hurried into a fresh gown and then down-stairs where she found Ben
anxiously pacing the library. He appeared greatly agitated--anchorless.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16