_Outside the Hedge_
She came down the stairs, a vision of young womanhood, dressed in
white, with a wide turn-down collar fastened at the throat by a
generous tie of black. Her hat was a girlish affair of black straw
with a cluster of red roses gathered at the brim. She was drawing on
her black gloves as she neared him--with the background of the broad
Colonial staircase--a study for a master. She approached with the
grace of a princess and the poise of a woman twice her years. He now
could have no more bade her remain behind than he could have stopped
the progress of time. There was something almost inevitable in her
movements, as though it had been foreordained that they two should have
this day in the country, no matter under what evil auspices. Without a
word he held open the door for her to pass through and followed her
into the cab.
Into the Drive they were whirled and so towards the station, the
throbbing heart of the city. The ant-like throng was going and coming,
and now he was one of them. It was as though the strand of his life,
hanging loose, had been caught up, forced into the shuttle, and taken
again into the pattern. At her side he made his way into the depot at
the side of a hundred others; at her side he took his turn in line at
the ticket window; at her side he made his way towards the gates, a
score of others jostling him in criticism of his more moderate pace.
An old client, one of his few, bowed to him. He returned the salute as
though his position were the most matter-of-fact one in the world. Yet
he was still confused. He had been thrust upon the stage but he was
uncertain of his cue. What was the meaning of this figure by his side?
In his old part, she had not been there.
When at last they were seated side by side in the car and the train
began slowly to pull out, her presence there seemed even more unreal
than ever. But soon he gave himself up comfortably to the illusion.
She was within arm's length of him and they were steaming through the
green country. That was enough for him to know at present. She looked
very trim as compared to the other women who passed in and took their
places in the dusty, red-cushioned seats. She looked more alive--less
a type. She gave tone to the whole car.
Up to now, she had given her attention to scanning the faces of the
multitude they had passed in the faint hope that by some chance her
brother might be among them, but once the train started she surrendered
herself fully to the new hope which lay ahead of her in the bungalow.
This gave her an opportunity to study more closely this man who so
suddenly had become her chief reliance in this intimate detail of her
life. His kindly good nature furnished her a sharp contrast to the
sober seriousness of the older man with whom so much of her youth had
been lived. He had thrown open the doors and windows of the gloomy
house in which she had so long been pent up. And yet as he rambled on
in an evident attempt to lighten her burden, she caught a note that
piqued her curiosity. It was as though below the surface he was
fretted by some problem which lent a touch of sadness to his hearty
courageous outlook. She felt it, when once on the journey he broke out,
"Don't ever look below the surface of anything I say. Don't ever try
to look beyond the next step I take. I'm here to-day; gone to-morrow."
"Like the grass of the field?" she asked with a smile at his
earnestness, which was so at odds with his light eager comments upon
the bits of color which shot by them.
"Worse--because the grass is helpless."
"And we? We boast a little more, but are n't we at the mercy of
chance?"
"Not if we are worthy of our souls."
She frowned.
"There is Ben, surely he is not altogether to blame," she objected.
"Less to blame than some others, perhaps."
"Then there is the chance that helps us willy nilly," she urged. "You,
to me, are such a chance. Surely it was not within my power to bring
about this good fortune any more than it is within the power of some
others to ward off bad fortune."
"The mere episode does n't count. The handling of it is always within
our power."
"And we can turn it to ill or good, as we wish?"
"Precisely."
"Providing we are wise enough," she returned.
"Yes, always providing that. That is the test of us."
"If we do poorly because of lack of wisdom?" she pressed him further.
"The cost is the same," he answered bitterly.
"That is a man's view. I don't like to feel so responsible."
"It would n't be necessary for women to be responsible for anything if
men lived up to their best."
She laughed comfortably. He was one who would. She liked the
uncompromising way in which his lips closed below his quick imaginative
eyes.
It seemed but a matter of minutes before the train drew up at a toy
station which looked like the suburban office of a real estate
development company. Here they learned that the summer schedule was
not yet in force, which meant that they would be unable to find a train
back until four o'clock.
"I should have inquired at the other end. That oversight is either
chance or stupidity," he exclaimed.
She met his eyes frankly, apparently not at all disconcerted.
"We can't decide which until we learn how it turns out, can we?" she
laughed.
"No," he replied seriously, "it will depend upon that."
"Then," she said, "we need n't worry until the end. I have a feeling,
grown strong now that we are here, that we shall need the extra time.
I think we shall find him."
"That result alone will excuse my carelessness."
She appeared a bit worried over a new thought.
"I forgot. This will delay you further on your vacation."
"No. Nothing can do that," he interrupted her. "Every day, every hour
I live is my vacation."
"That," she said, "is a fine way to take life."
He looked startled, but hastened to find a vehicle to carry them the
three miles which lay between the station and the bungalow. He found
an old white horse attached to the dusty skeleton of a depot wagon
waiting for chance passengers. They clambered into this and were soon
jogging at an easy pace over the fragrant bordered road which wandered
with apparent aimlessness between the green fields. The driver turned
half way in his seat with easy familiarity as they started up the first
long hill. "Ben't ye afeered to go inter th' house?" he inquired.
"Afraid of what?" demanded Donaldson.
"Spooks."
"They don't come out in the daytime, do they?"
"I dunno. But they do say as how th' house is ha'nted these times."
"How did that story start?"
"Some allows they has seen queer lights there at night. An' there 's
been shadders seen among the trees."
The girl leaned forward excitedly.
"Old wives' tales," Donaldson reassured her in an undertone.
"This has been lately?" he inquired of the driver.
"Off an' on in th' last few weeks."
Donaldson turned to the girl whose features had grown fixed again in
that same old gloom of haunting fear.
"They circulate such yarns as those about every closed house," he said.
"Those lights and shadows are n't made by ghosts," she whispered.
"Then--that's so," he answered with sudden understanding. "It's the
boy himself!"
At the barred lane which swept in a curve out of sight from the road he
dismissed the driver. Even if they were successful in their quest, it
would probably be necessary to straighten out Arsdale before allowing
him to be seen. But as an afterthought he turned back and ordered the
man to call here for them in time to make the afternoon train.
He lowered the rails, and Miss Arsdale led the way without hesitation
along a grass-grown road and through an old orchard. The trees were
scraggly and untrimmed, littered with dead branches, but Spring, the
mother, had decked them with green leaves and buds until they looked as
jaunty as old people going to a fair. The sun sifted through the
tender sprigs to the sprouting soil beneath, making there the semblance
of a choice rug of a green and gold pattern. The bungalow stood upon
the top of a small hill, concealed from the road. It was of rather
attractive appearance, though sadly in need of repair. All the windows
were curtained and there was no sign of life. The broad piazza which
ran around three sides of it was cluttered with dead leaves.
[Illustration: _He lowered the rails, and Miss Arsdale led the way_]
She took the key to the front door from her purse and he inserted it in
the lock.
"You wait out here," he commanded, "until I take a look around."
"I would rather go in with you. I know the house."
"I will open it up first," he said calmly, and stepping in before she
had time to protest further, he closed the door behind him. He heard
her clenched fists pounding excitedly on the panels.
"Mr. Donaldson," she pleaded, "it isn't safe. You don't know--"
"Don't do that," he shouted back. "I'll be out in a few moments."
"But you don't know him," she cried; "he might strike you!"
"I 'll be on guard," he answered.
The lower floor was one big room and showed no sign of having been
occupied for years. It was scantily furnished and smelled damp and
musty. At one side a big stone fireplace looked as dead as a tomb. He
pushed through a door into the kitchen which led off this. The
cast-iron stove was rusted and the covers cracked. He glanced into it.
It was free of ashes and the wood-box was empty.
He came back and slowly mounted the stairs leading to the next floor.
Stopping at the top, he listened. There was no sound. He entered the
sleeping rooms one after another. The beds were stripped of blankets
and the striped canvas of the mattresses was dusty and forbidding.
There were six of these rooms but the farther one alone was habitable.
Here a few blankets covered the bed and in the small fireplace there
were ashes. They were cold, but he detected several bits of charred
paper which were dry and crisp. Some old clothes were scattered about
the floor and several minor articles which he scarcely noticed. He
listened again. There was not a sound, and yet he had a feeling, born
of what he did not know, that he was not alone here. The effect was to
startle him. If he had been just a passing stranger looking for a
place to lodge for the night it would have been sufficient to drive him
outdoors again.
He came out into the hall which divided the rooms, and there saw a
ladder which led into an unlighted attic. He paused. He heard her
calling to him, but he did not answer. He would soon be down again.
He mounted the ladder quickly, and peered into the dark of the
unlighted recess. He could make out nothing, and so clambered over a
beam to the unfinished floor to wait until his eyes had become more
accustomed to the shadows. His feet had scarcely touched a firm
foundation before he was conscious of a slight noise behind him. He
turned, and at the same moment a form hurled itself upon him. In the
frenzied movement of the hands for his throat, in the spasmodic clutch
of the arms which clung animal-like about him he recognized the same
mad, unreasoning passion with which young Arsdale had before attacked
him. He could not see his face, and the man uttered no cry. The
fellow's arms seemed stronger than before and even longer. But he
himself was stronger also, and so while the madman from behind clasped
his hands below Donaldson's throat, the latter managed to get his own
arms behind him and secure a firm grip on his assailant's trousers.
Then he threw himself sideways and back as much as possible. They both
fell, and Donaldson in the scramble got to his side and shifted one arm
higher up. The fall, too, loosened the man's strangle hold though he
still remained on top. Donaldson then fought to throw him off, but the
fellow clung so close to his body that he was unable to secure a
purchase.
The fight now settled down to a trial of strength and endurance between
them. He strained his free arm as though to crush in this demon's
ribs. He kicked out with his feet and knees; he dug his head into the
fellow's chest. The latter clung without cry or word like a living
nightmare. His hand was creeping towards Donaldson's throat again. He
felt it stealing up inch by inch and was powerless to check it. He
rolled and tumbled and pushed. Then his head came down sharply on a
beam and he lost consciousness.
In the meanwhile Miss Arsdale had waited at the front door, her ears to
the panels. For a few moments she heard Donaldson's footsteps moving
about the house, but soon the walls swallowed him up completely. She
ran back a little and strained her eyes towards the upper windows.
They were darkened with shades. She felt a keen sense of
responsibility for not having told him, from the start, of what a demon
Arsdale became when cornered in this condition. She had half concealed
the fact because of shame and because--she shuddered back from the mere
thought of another possibility so terrible that she could not yet even
admit it to herself. She comforted herself with the memory that at the
last moment she had feebly warned. But twice before she had refused to
admit to him the worst.
She waited as long as she was able to endure the strain and then
skirted the house to the rear. The kitchen door was wide open. She
pushed forward into the middle of the house, calling his name.
Receiving no response, she mounted the stairs to the second floor. She
glanced into each room. In the farther one an article on the floor,
which had escaped Donaldson's notice, riveted her eyes. It was an
empty pocket-book. It was neither her own nor Arsdale's. Instead of
finding relief in this, it drove her back trembling against the wall.
Then with swift resolution she gathered herself together, picked up the
wallet and hid it in her waist. As she did so, she turned as though
fearful that some one might be observing her act.
She made her way out into the hall again and there found herself
confronting Donaldson--dusty, bruised, and dishevelled.
He was leaning against the ladder.