_Dawn_
Donaldson took a cold dip and then carefully dressed himself in fresh
clothes. Sleep was out of the question. He had never in his life felt
more alert in mind and body. He felt as though he could walk farther,
hear farther, see farther than ever before. He was more keenly
responsive to the perfume of the roses which were now drooping a bit
languidly near the window; he was more alive to the delicate traceries
of the ferns which banked one corner of the room; more appreciative of
the little marine which he had hung near his dresser and--more alive to
her into whose life Fate had picked him up and hurled him. He felt the
warm pressure of her fingers as though they still rested within his;
saw the marvelous quiet beauty of her eyes which had led him so far
back into his past. Again out of this past they led him on--on to--he
was checked as in his picture of her the ticking clock behind her
intruded itself. There stood the sentinel to whom he must give heed.
There stood the warning finger pointing to the seventh noon.
Good Lord, he must have more room. He must get out into the dawn--out
where he could share these emotions which now surged in upon him with
some virginal passion as big and fresh as the new-born day. He crossed
to the window and looked out upon the dormant city. The morning light
was just beginning to wash out the dark and to sketch in the outlines
of buildings and the gray path of the road between them. He watched
the new creation of a world. Around him lay a million souls ready to
people it--ready to seize it and make it a part of themselves. In a
few hours that dim street would be a bridge over which tens of
thousands of people would pass to sorrow, to joy; to poverty, to
riches; to hate, to love; to death, to life. That was a drama worth
looking at. He must get out and rub shoulders with those who were
playing their parts. He, too, must play his part in it.
He descended to the office and left instructions with the night clerk
to insist upon a message from whoever might call him up. He would be
back, he said, in an hour. He had not walked long before he found the
city gently astir with life. Passing cars were soon well filled,
traffic fretted the streets lately so quiet, while yawning pedestrians
reminded him that there were still those who slept. At the end of
thirty minutes more of brisk walking, the sky had melted through the
entire gamut of colors, and finally settled into a blinding golden
blue. A newsboy clicking out of space like a locust, shouted "Extra!"
Donaldson gave little heed to the cry until he heard the word
"Riverside," and caught the blatant headlines, "Another robbery." With
an interest growing out of Saul's connection with the case, he skimmed
through the story.
Then he tossed his paper away and took his course back to the hotel,
glad to forget that sordid bit of drama, in the movement of the crowd
now forcing its way to work. But something was lacking in the
spectacle this morning. The play of light and color he still saw, the
vibrancy of it he still felt, the dramatic quality of it he still
appreciated, but still with the consciousness that it lacked
something--that it had gone a bit flat. He no longer felt that
princely sense of superiority to it--as though it were a gorgeous
pageant upon which he was a mere onlooker. He felt now a harrying
sense of responsibility towards it. It was as though they called him
to join them. He quickened his pace. He must get back to the hotel
and see if any message awaited him.
He caught his breath--he must get back to her. That was it. That was
what the hurrying passers-by had called to him. Get back to her--what
did the morning count until she became a part of it? It was because
she had placed the red-blooded actuality of life before his eyes in
contrast to the superficial picturesqueness of its expression as he had
viewed it yesterday that the show had lost its vividness. She was
making him see it again with eyes as they were at twenty. He recoiled.
That way lay danger. He must put himself on guard. But from that
moment he had but one object in mind--to get back to her as soon as
possible.
A telephone message waiting him from Chung reported that no trace could
be found of the boy.
He jumped into a cab and went at once to the Arsdale house. Miss
Arsdale herself came to the door, her eyes heavy from lack of sleep but
her face lighting instantly at sight of him.
"You have news?" she exclaimed.
"No," he answered directly.
She was a woman with whom one might be direct.
"No news may be good news," he added. "They have n't been able to
locate him in Chinatown. I don't think there is a nook there in which
he could hide from those people."
"Then," she exclaimed, "he has gone to Cranton."
"Then," he answered deliberately, "I will follow him there."
"No, I could n't allow you. It is two hours from town. You have
already given generously of your time."
"Miss Arsdale," he said gently, "we of the inner woods must stand by
each other. This week is a sort of vacation for me. I am quite free."
Yes, she was she he had seen through the tops of the whispering pines
when he had thought it nothing but the blue sky; she was she who had
brushed close to him when he had thought it only the rustling of dry
leaves. Now that she stood beside him, his heart cried out, "Why did
you not come before? Why did you not come a week ago?" If she could
have stood for one brief second in that dingy office which had slowly
closed in upon him until it squeezed the soul out of him, then he would
have forced back the walls again. If only once she had walked by his
side through the crowds, then he would have caught their cry in time.
The world had narrowed down to a pin prick, but if only she had come a
scant two days ago, she would have bent his eye to this tiny aperture
as to the small end of a telescope as she did now and made him see big
enough to grasp the meaning of life.
Well, the past was dead--even with her eyes magnifying the days to
eternities; the past was dead, even with the delicate poise of her lips
ready to utter prophecies. He must not forget that, and in remembering
this he must choose this opportunity for exiling himself from her for
the day. This mission would consume some six hours. It would take him
out of the city where he would be able to think more clearly. This was
well.
"Have you any idea how the trains run?" he inquired.
"I looked them up. There is one at 9.32."
"I can make it easily," he answered, glancing at the big clock. He had
left his own watch at the hotel. He refused to carry so grim a
reminder. "I suppose I 'll have no trouble in finding the place."
"You would ask for the Arsdale bungalow," she answered. "Every one
there knows it. But the chances are so slight--it is only that his
father went out there once. After several days Jacques, Marie's boy
and father's servant, found him hidden in the unused cottage. I
thought that possibly Ben might remember this."
"I should say that it was more than probable that he would go there if
his object is to keep in hiding."
"It is three miles from the station and quite secluded."
"That will make a good walk for me."
He rose to leave at once. But she, too, rose.
"If you think it best to go," she said firmly, "then I must go, too. I
could not remain here passive another day. And, besides, if he is
there, it is better that I should be with you. I know how to handle
him. He is always gentle with me."
Donaldson caught his breath. This was an emergency that he had not
foreseen. Manifestly, she could not go. She must not go. It would be
to take her back to the blue sky beneath which she was born. It would
be to give her a setting that would intensify every wild thought he was
trying so hard to throttle.
"No," he exclaimed. "You had better permit me to go alone."
"I should not think of it," she answered decisively.
"But he may not be there. He might come back here while you were gone."
"He will be quite safe if he returns here."
"But--"
"I will see Marie and come down at once."
She hurried upstairs.
"Marie," she asked, "is it quite safe to leave you here alone until
afternoon?"
"Safe? Why not?"
"I was going out to the bungalow."
The old servant looked up shrewdly.
"Is anything the matter?"
"Nothing that you can help," the girl answered.
She had not yet told her of Ben's last disappearance. There was no use
in worrying those who could give no help.
"Bien. Go on. It will do you both good."
"The telephone is at your bed--you can summon Dr. Abbot if you need
anything."
"Bien."
"And perhaps while I am gone Jacques may come for a visit."
"Perhaps. Run along. The air will do you good."
The girl kissed the wrinkled forehead and hurried to her own room.
There, before the mirror, she was forced to ask herself the question
which she had tried to escape: "Why are you going?"
"Because if Ben were there and sick, he might need me!"
"Why are you going?"
The woman in the mirror was relentless.
"Because the house here is so full of shadows."
"Why are you going?"
"Because the sun will give me strength."
"Why are you going?"
"Because," she flushed guiltily,--"because it will be very much
pleasanter than remaining here alone."
Whereupon the woman in the mirror ceased her questioning.
And, in the meanwhile, the relentless old clock was goading Donaldson.
Its methodical, interminable ticking sounded like the approaching
footsteps of a jailer towards the death cell.
"Don't you know better than to risk yourself out there one whole
spring-time day with her?" it demanded.
"But with a full realization of the danger I can guard myself," he
answered uneasily.
"Can you guard _her_?"
"That is unpardonable presumption," replied Donaldson heatedly.
"The mellow sun and the birthing flowers are ever presumptuous,"
answered the wise old clock.
"But a man may fight them off."
"I have ticked here many years and seen many things that man has prided
himself upon having the power to do and yet has failed of doing."
"I cannot help myself. I should offend her unwarrantedly if I made
further objection."
"Then you are not all-powerful."
"I have power over myself. And you are insulting her."
"Tick-tock. Tick-tock," answered the clock, jeeringly.
And Donaldson was saved from his impulse to kick the inanimate thing
into splinters by the sound of her footsteps.