The Seventh Noon

F >> Frederick Orin Bartlett >> The Seventh Noon

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"Yes! Yes! Oh, Marie, what does it all mean?"

"Ta, ta, cherie. Rest your head here."

She drew the young woman down beside her.

"You went out there all alone. You are brave, but you should not have
done that. You should have taken me with you. See, now, I shall get
well. I shall arise at once. I never knew the black horses to fail
me."

Marie struggled to her elbow and threw off the clothes. But Elaine
covered her up tight again, forcing her to lie still.

"Stay here quietly until I come back," she insisted. "I shall not be
gone but a minute."

She hurried to her own room, trying to understand what the meaning of
this impossible situation might be. Ben was here and Ben was in the
bungalow and--there was the purse. There was the chance, of course,
that Marie was mistaken, but Marie did not make such mistakes as this.
Then one of the two men was not Ben. She took out again the
pocket-book she had found and stared at it as though in hope that she
might receive her answer through this. Then with a perplexed gasp, she
threw it into one of the upset drawers, as though it burned her fingers.

She went downstairs to Donaldson. For reasons of her own she did not
dare to tell him of this fresh complication, but she insisted that he
should bother himself no more to-night with the matter.

"You should go straight back home and get some sleep," she told him.

Home? The word was flat again.

"And you?" he inquired.

"I shall try to sleep, too."

"You have a bolt on your door?"

"Yes."

"Will you promise to slide it before you retire?"

She nodded.

"If you only had a telephone in your room."

"There is one in the hall."

"Then you can call me in a moment if you should get frightened or need
me?"

"You are good."

"You will not hesitate?"

"No."

"Then I shall feel that I am still near you. I will have a cab in
waiting and on an emergency can reach here in twenty minutes. You
could keep yourself barricaded until then?"

"Yes. But really there is no need. I--"

"You have n't wrestled with him. He is strong and--mad."

Still he hesitated. If it had been possible without compromise to her
he would have remained downstairs. He could roll up in a rug and find
all the sleep that he needed.

"See here," he exclaimed, as the sane solution to the whole difficulty,
"why don't you let me take you and Marie to the Martha Washington?"

She placed her hand lightly upon his sleeve.

"I shall be all right here. You 'd best go at once and get some sleep.
Your eyes look heavy."

Every minute that he stood near her he grew more reluctant to leave.
It seemed like desertion. As he still stood irresolute, she decided
for him.

"You must go now," she insisted.

"Will you call me if you are even so much as worried--even if it is
only a blind making a noise?"

"Yes, and that will make me feel quite safe."

The booming of a distant clock--jailer of civilization--warned him that
he must delay no longer. He took her hand a moment and then turned
back into his free barren world.

He determined to dine somewhere down town and then spend the evening at
a theatre. It was not what he wished, but he did not dare to go back
to his room. He did not crave the movement of the crowds as he had
last night, and yet he felt the need of something that would keep him
from thinking. He jumped into the waiting cab and was driven to Park
Row, where he got out. He had not eaten anything all day and felt
faint.

Instead, however, of seeking one of the more pretentious dining rooms
he dropped into a quiet restaurant and ate a simple meal. Then he came
out and started to walk leisurely towards the Belasco.

He had not proceeded a hundred yards before his plan was very
materially changed. He heard a cry, turned quickly, and saw a
messenger boy sprawling in the street. The boy, in darting across, had
tripped over a rope attached to an automobile having a second large
machine in tow. The latter, the driver unable to turn because of
vehicles which had crowded in on both sides of it, was bearing down
upon the boy, who was either stunned or too frightened to move. This
Donaldson took in at a glance as he dived under the belly of a horse,
seized the boy and, having time for nothing else, held him above his
head, dropping him upon the radiator of the approaching machine as it
bore him to the ground. The chauffeur had shoved on his brakes, but
they were weak. The momentum threw Donaldson hard enough to stun him
for a moment and was undoubtedly sufficient to have killed the boy.

When Donaldson rose to his feet he found himself uninjured but
something of a hero. Several newspaper photographers who happened to
be passing (as newspaper photographers have a way of doing) snapped
him. A reporter friend of Saul's recognized him and asked for a
statement.

"A statement be hanged," snorted Donaldson. "Where's the kid?"

"Well," returned the newspaper man, "I 'm darned if I don't make a
statement to you then; that was the quickest and nerviest stunt I 've
ever seen pulled off in New York city."

"Thanks. Where 's the kid?"

The kid, with a grin from ear to ear, had kindly assumed a pose upon
the radiator of the machine which had so nearly killed him for the
benefit of the insatiate photographers. It was 3457.

"You!" exclaimed Donaldson, as he found himself looking into the
familiar face. He lifted the boy to the ground.

"Let's get out of the crowd, kid," he whispered. "I want to see you."

He pushed his way through to the sidewalk, followed by the admiring
throng, and hurried along to the nearest cab. He shoved the boy
quickly into this and followed after as the photographers gave one last
despairing snap.

"Drive anywhere," he ordered the driver. "Only get out of this."

He turned to the boy.

"Are you hurt?"

"No. Are youse?"

"Not a mite. Where were you bound?"

"Home."

"Where is that?"

The boy gave an address and Donaldson repeated it to the driver.

"I 'll go along with you and see that you don't block any more traffic."

"Gee. I never saw the rope."

"That's because you were in a hurry. It does n't pay to hurry life at
all. Not a second."

"But the comp'ny can fire yer in a hurry if you don't hurry."

"A company can hurry because it hasn't a soul. You have. Keep it."

Donaldson felt as though he had found an old friend. It seemed now a
month ago since he had wandered through the stores with this boy. The
latter recalled again something of the spirit of those hours.

"Say," asked Bobby, "h'ain't yuh spent all yer coin yet?"

"No. I have n't had time to spend more than a few dollars since I left
you. I ought to have hung on to you as a mascot."

"It's a cinch. I c'u'd a-helped yuh if yer 'd follered me. Me ten
spot's gone."

"How'd you do it?"

"Huh? Yuh talks as though a feller'd have to hunt round an' find a
hole to drop it inter. Dere 's allers one that's handy, 'n' that's th'
rent hole."

"That does n't come on you, does it? Where's your Daddy?"

"Dead," answered the boy laconically.

The word had a new meaning to Donaldson as it fell from the lips of the
boy. Dead. It was a terrible word.

"Guess th' ol' gent must ha' thought I was comin' to join him a minute
ago. Would ha' been sort of rough on Mumsy."

"And on you, too," returned Donaldson fiercely. "You have been cheated
out of a lot of life. Don't let that happen. Cling to every minute
you can get. Die hard, boy. Die hard."

Bobby yawned.

CHAPTER XII

_District Messenger 3457_

The home of District Messenger 3457, who was known in private life as
Bobby Wentworth, was what is technically called a basement kitchen.

Take it between four and five in the afternoon, which was a couple of
hours before Bobby was expected home, and in consequence, at least an
hour and a half before anything was astir in the way of supper, things
got sort of lonesome looking and dull to Sis, daughter of the house.
Ten to one that the baby--the tow-headed youngest--was a bit fussy; ten
to one the mother gave you a sharp answer if you spoke to her, though,
considering everything, she was remarkably patient; ten to one that
every torn and cracked thing in the room became so conspicuous that you
felt like a poor lone orphan girl and wanted to cry. If you did n't
live below the sidewalk this was apt to go on until it was time to get
supper, but here, in order to see to do the mending, the lamp was
lighted, even in May, an hour or so earlier than the fire.

Then what a change! Instantly it was as though every one was tucked in
from the night as children get tucked into bed. Not being able to see
out of the windows any longer it was possible to imagine out there what
one wished,--a big field, for instance, sprinkled over with flowers.
The dull grays on wall and ceiling became brightened as though mixed
with gold fire paint. Everything snuggled in closer; the kitchen table
covered with a red table-cloth, the mirror with putty in the centre of
the crack to keep the pieces from falling out, the kitchen stove, the
wooden chairs, the iron sink with the tin dishes hanging over it, and
the shelf on the wall with the wooden clock ticking cheerfully away,
all closed in noiselessly nearer to the lamp. Ten to one that now
mother glanced up with a smile; ten to one that the baby chuckled and
fell to playing with his toes if he could n't find anything better
within reach; ten to one there was nothing in the room that did n't
look almost new. One thing was certain,--the light did n't reveal any
dirt that would come off for there was n't any. Mrs. Wentworth's New
England ancestry and training had survived even the blows of a hard
luck which had n't fought her fair.

On this particular night Sis had just lost herself in her thumbworn
volume of Grimm's Fairy Tales when--there came a kick on the outside
door and the sound of two voices coming down the short hall. The next
minute Bobby entered with his clothes all mud and behind him a strange
gentleman.

It was evident that something had happened to the boy, but the mother
did not scream. She was not that kind. Her lips tightened as she
braced herself for whatever this new decree of Fate might be. In a
jiffy Bobby, who recognized that look as the same he had seen when they
had brought Daddy home, was at her side.

"Cheer up, Mumsy," he exclaimed. "Nothin' doin' in caskits this time."

She lifted her thin, angular face from the boy to Donaldson. The
latter explained,

"He got tangled up a bit with an automobile, but I guess the machine
got the worst of it. At any rate your boy is all right."

The mother passed her hand over the lad's head, expressing a world of
tenderness in the act.

"It was kind of you to bring him home," she said.

The directness of the woman, her self control, her simplicity, enlisted
Donaldson's interest at once. He had expected hysterics. He would
have staked his last dollar that the woman came from Vermont. His
observant eyes had in these few minutes covered everything in the room,
including the long-handled dipper by the faucet used for dipping into
pails sweating silver mist, the wooden clock upon the mantelpiece, and
the Hicks Almanac hanging below it. He felt as though he were standing
in a Berringdon kitchen with acres of green outside the windows
sweeping in a circle off to the little hills, the acres of forest
green, and the big hills beyond.

The mother stepped forward and brushed the mud from Bobby's coat. The
baby screwed up his face for a howl to call attention to his neglect in
the midst of all this excitement.

"What's this?" exclaimed Bobby, picking him up with as substantial an
air of paternity as though he were forty. "What's this? Goneter cry
afore a stranger?"

He held the child up to Donaldson.

"The kid," he announced laconically. "What yuh think of him?"

[Illustration: _"The kid," he announced laconically. "What yuh think
of him?"_]

"Corker," answered Donaldson. "Let me hold him."

"Sure. Get a chair for the gent, Sis."

In another minute Donaldson found himself sitting by the kitchen stove
with a chuckling youngster on his knee. No one paid any attention to
him; just took him for granted as a friend until he felt as though he
had been one of the family all his life. Besides, the centre of the
stage rightly belonged to Bobby, who was occupying it with something of
a swagger in his walk.

"Well, I hope this will teach you a lesson, Bobby Wentworth," scolded
the mother, now that after various proddings she had determined to her
satisfaction that none of the boy's bones were broken. "I wish to the
Lord you was back where the hills are so steep there ain't no
automobiles."

Donaldson broke in.

"You were brought up in the country, Mrs. Wentworth?"

"Laws, yes, and lived there most of my life."

"In New England?"

"Berringdon, Vermont."

"Berringdon? Your husband was n't one of the Wentworth boys?"

"He was Jim Wentworth, the oldest"

"Well, well! Then _you_ are Sally Burnham."

"And you," she hesitated, "I do b'lieve you 're Peter Donaldson."

"Yes," he said, "I 'm Peter Donaldson."

The name from her lips took on its boyhood meaning. He shifted the
youngster to his arms and crossing the room held out his hand to her.

"We did n't know each other very well in those days, but from now
on--from now on we 're old friends, are n't we?"

The steel blue eyes grew moist.

"It's a long time," she said, "since I 've seen any one from there."

"Or I. You left--"

"When I was married. Jim came here because his cousin got him a job as
motorman. He done well,--but he was killed by his car just after the
baby was born."

"Killed? That's tough. And it left you all alone with the children?"

"Yes. The road paid us a little, but I was sick and the children were
sick, so it did n't last long."

She was not complaining. It was a bare recital of facts. But it
raised a series of keen incisive thoughts in Donaldson's brain.

Wentworth had been killed. Chance had deprived this woman of her man;
Chance had grabbed at her boy; Chance had sent Donaldson to save the
latter; Chance--Donaldson caught his breath at the possibility the
sequence suggested--Chance may have sent him to offset as far as
possible the husband's death. It was too late, although he felt the
obligation in a new light, for him to give his life for the life of
that other, but there was one other thing he could do. He could play
the father with what he had left of himself. So that when he came to
face Wentworth--he smiled gently at the approaching possibility--he
could hold his head high as he went to meet him.

He had argued to Barstow that he was shirking no responsibilities,--but
what of such unseen responsibilities as this? What of the thousand
others that he should die too soon to realize? It was possible that
countless other such opportunities as this must be wasted because he
should not be there to play his part. But there was still time to do
something; he need not see, as with the girl and with love, the fine
possibilities go utterly to waste.

The mother had noticed a warm light steal over his face, not realizing
how closely his thoughts concerned her own future; she had seen the
sabre cut of pain which had followed his thought of the girl and what
she might have meant, knowing nothing of that grim tragedy. Now she
saw his eyes clear as with their inspired light they were lifted to
her. Yet the talk went on uninterruptedly on the same commonplace
level.

"How old was Jim?"

"He was within a week of thirty."

That was within a few days of his own age. At thirty, Jim Wentworth,
clinging to life, had been wrenched from it; at thirty, he himself had
thrown it away. Wentworth had shouldered his duties manfully; he had
been blind to them. But it was not too late to do something. He was
being led as by Marley's ghost to one new vision of life after another.
He saw love--with death grinning over love's shoulder; he was to be
given a taste of fatherhood,--the grave at his feet.

"Do you ever hear from the people back home?" he asked abruptly.

"Not very often," she answered. "After the old folks went I sorter got
out of tech with the others."

"What became of the homestead?"

"It was sold little by little when father was sick. When he died there
was n't much left. That went to pay the debts."

"Who lives there now?"

"Let me see--I don't think any one is there now. Last I heard, it was
fer sale."

"Who holds it?"

"Deacon Staples. Leastways it was him who held the notes."

"That old pirate? No wonder there was n't anything left."

"He _was_ a leetle hard," she admitted. "I wanted Jim to go back an'
take it after father died, but he couldn't seem to make a deal with the
deacon."

"I s'pose not. No one this side of the devil himself will ever make a
square deal with him. He 's still as strong in the church as ever?"

She smiled.

"I see by the Berringdon paper that he begun some revival meetin's in
town."

"Which means he 's just put through some particularly thievish deal and
wants to ease his conscience. Have you the paper? Perhaps the sale is
advertised there."

She found the paper and ran a finger down the columns until she came to
the item.

"Makes you feel sort of queer," she said, "to see the old place for
sale. Almost like slaves must ha' felt to see their own in the market."

She read slowly,

"'Nice farm for sale cheap; story and a half frame house, good barn,
ten acres of land, and a twenty-acre pasture lot. $1800. Apply to A.
F. Staples, Berringdon, Vermont.'

"I 'm glad the old pasture is going with the house. Somehow the two
seem to belong together. It was right in front across the road, an'
all us children used to play there. There 's a clump of oak trees at
th' end of it. Hope they have n't cut them down."

"Eighteen hundred dollars, was it?" asked Donaldson.

"Eighteen hundred dollars," she repeated slowly. "My, thet 's a lot of
money!"

"That depends," he said, "on many things. Should you like to go back
there?"

The answer came before her lips could utter the words, in the awakening
of every dormant hope in her nature--in every suppressed dream. Some
younger creature was freed in the hardening eyes. The strain of the
lips was loosened. Even the passive worn hands became alert.

"I 'd sell my soul a'most to get back there--to get the children back
there," she answered.

"It 's the place for them."

"Thet's the way _I 've_ felt," she ran on. "Mine don't belong here.
It's not 'cause they 're any better, but because they've got the
country in their blood. They was meant to grow up in thet very pasture
just like I did. I 've ben oneasy ever since the boys was born, and so
was Jim. Both of us hankered after the old sights and sounds--the
garden with its mixed up colors an' the smell of lilac an' the tinkle
of the cow bells. Funny how you miss sech little things as those."

"Little things?" Donaldson returned. "Little things? They are the
really big things; they are the things you remember, the things that
hang by you and sweeten your life to the end!"

"Then it ain't just my own notions? But I have wanted the children to
grow up in the garden instead of the gutters. If Jim had lived it
would have be'n. We 'd planned to save a little every year until we
had enough ahead to take a mortgage. But you can't do it with nothin'.
There ain't no way, is there?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps," he said.

She leaned toward him, in her face the strength of a man.

"I 'd work," she said, "I 'd work my fingers to the bone if I had a
chance to get back there. I 'm strong 'nuff to take care of a place.
If I only had just a tiny strip of land--just 'nuff fer a garden. I
could get some chickens an' pay off little by little. I 'm good for
ten years yet an' by thet time Bobby would be old 'nough to take hold.
If I only had a chance I could do it!"

Her cheeks had taken on color. She looked like one inspired.
Donaldson sat dumb in admiration of her splendid courage.

"How long," he asked, "how long would it take you to get ready to leave
here?"

She scarcely understood. She didn't dare to understand for fear it
might be a mistake.

"I mean," he said, "if you had a chance to go back to the farm how long
would it take you to pack up?"

"You don't mean if--if I _really_ had the chance?"

He nodded.

"Lord, if I had the chance--if I _really_ had the chance, I 'd leave
afore to-morrer night."

"To-morrow is Sunday. But it seems as though you might get ready to
take the noon train on Tuesday."

She thought he was merely carrying her dream a little farther than she
had ever ventured to carry it herself. So she looked at him with a
smile checked half-way by the beauty of the fantasy.

"It's too good a'most to dream about," she sighed.

"It is n't a dream," he answered, "unless it is a dream come true.
Pack up such things as you wish to take with you and be ready to leave
at noon Tuesday."

"Peter Donaldson!"

"I 'm in earnest," he assured her.

"Peter, Peter, it _can't_ be true! I can't believe it!"

There were tears in her eyes.

"Hush," he pleaded. "Don't--don't do that. Sit down. Had n't you
better sit down?"

She obeyed as meekly as a child, her hands clasped in her lap.

"Now," he said, "I 'll tell you what I want to do; I 'm going to buy
the farm for you and I 'm going to get a couple of cows or so, a yard
full of chickens, a horse and a porker, and start you fair."

"But why should _you_ do this?" she demanded.

"I don't exactly know," he answered. "But I 'm going to do for you so
far as I can what Jim would have done if he had lived."

"But you did n't know Jim!"

"I did n't, but I know him now. The kids introduced me."

"He was a good man--a very good man, Peter."

"Yes, he must have been that. I am glad that I can do something to
finish a good man's work."

"You are rich? You can afford this?"

"Yes, I can afford it. But I don't feel that I 'm giving,--I 'm
getting. It would not be possible for me to use my money with greater
satisfaction to myself."

"Oh, you are generous!"

"No, not I. I can't claim that. I 've been selfish--intensely,
cowardly selfish."

He meant to stand squarely before this woman. He would not soil his
act by any hypocrisy. But she only smiled back at him unbelieving.

He glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He was ready now to
return to the hotel. He wished to leave at once, for he shrank from
the undeserved gratitude he saw welling up in her eyes.

"You must listen carefully to what I tell you," he said, "for I may not
be able to see you again before you leave. Do you think you can get
ready without any help?"

"Yes," she answered excitedly; "there is n't much here to pack up."

"If I were you I would n't pack up anything but what I could put in a
trunk. Sell off these things for what you can get and start fresh.
I'll send you enough to furnish the house."

"I ought to do that much myself," she objected feebly.

"No, I want to do this thing right up chuck. As soon as I reach the
hotel I will telephone the Deacon. If I can't buy that house, I 'll
get another, and in either case, I will drop you a note to-night. I
'll arrange to have the deed left with some one up there, and I 'll
also deposit in the local bank enough for the other things. So all you
've to do is to get ready and start on Tuesday. Do you understand?"

"Yes! Yes!" she gasped. "But it doesn't sound true--it sounds like a
dream."

"Are you going to have faith enough to act on it?"

"Oh, I did n't mean that I doubted! I trust you, Peter Donaldson."

He reached in his pocket and took out five ten-dollar bills.

"This is for your fare and to settle up any little accounts you may
have."

She took the money with trembling fingers while Bobby and Sis crowded
around to gape at it.

"There," exclaimed Donaldson in relief. "Now you 're all fixed up, and
on Monday morning Bobby can throw up his job. He can fire the company."

"Gee!" he gasped.

And almost before any of them could catch their breath he had kissed
the baby, gripped Mrs. Wentworth's hand a second, and with a "S'long"
to the others disappeared as though, Sis declared, a magician had waved
his wand over him.

It was after nine before he finally reached the Waldorf. No message
was waiting for him from either the girl or Saul. He hunted up the
telephone operator at once.

"Call up Berringdon, Vermont, for me, please."

"With whom do you wish to talk?"

"With Deacon Staples."

He smiled as he saw the hands of the clock pointing to nine-thirty. It
was long after the Deacon's bedtime.

CHAPTER XIII

_The Sleepers_

It was twenty minutes of ten before a sleepy and decidedly irritable
voice responded in answer to Donaldson's cheery hello. There was
little of Christian spirit to be detected in it.

"Is this Deacon Staples?"

"Yes. But I 'd like t' know what ye mean by gettin' a man outern bed
at this time of night?"

"Why, you were n't in bed, Deacon!"

"In bed? See here, is this some confounded joke?"

"What kind of a joke, Deacon?"

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