_Consequences_
The driver threw on his high speed after a promise that his fine would
be paid and ten dollars over should they be stopped. He made the house
in fifteen minutes and was lucky enough not to pass a policeman.
Donaldson jumping out bade him wait for further orders.
Donaldson received no response to his ring. He tried the latch and
found the door locked. On a run he skirted the house to the rear. The
back door was open. He pushed through into the cold kitchen, through
this into the dining room, and so into the hall. There was no sign
either of the servant or of the girl herself. He was now thoroughly
alarmed.
As he ran up the stairs he was confronted by what he took to be an old
witch in a purple wrapper. She barred his way in a decidedly militant
manner, her sunken black eyes flashing anger. She seemed about to
spring at him.
"Bien," she croaked, "qui diable are you?"
He paused.
"You are Marie?" he demanded.
"Bien, and you?"
A voice came from a room leading from the hall. "Marie, who is it? Is
it Ben?"
"I know not who it is," Marie shouted back; "but if he comes up another
step I will tear out his eyes."
"Miss Arsdale," called Donaldson, "is anything the trouble? It is
I--Donaldson."
"You!"
Her voice, which had at first sounded weary, as the voice of one who
has waited a long while, gathered strength.
"It is all right, Marie," she called. "This--this is my friend."
Marie relaxed and gripped the banister for support. She was weak.
"I have never seen him before," she challenged.
There was a movement at the door.
"No, you have never seen him. Come here a moment, Marie."
With difficulty the old woman hobbled back into the room to her
mistress, and for a few moments Donaldson waited impatiently for the
next development. It came when he heard her voice asking him to come
in. He was in the room in three strides. She was sitting in her chair
with her head bandaged, Marie sitting by her side as though liking but
little his intrusion. At sight of the white strip across her forehead,
he caught his breath.
"What does this mean?" he demanded with quick assumption of authority.
"You must n't think it is anything serious," she hastened to explain,
awed by the fierceness of his manner. "It is only that--that he came
back."
"Arsdale?"
"Yes."
"Where is he now?"
"He went away again. Marie and I tried to hold him, but we weren't
strong enough."
"It would be easier to hold the devil," interpolated Marie.
"But you," asked the girl,--"I was afraid you had met with an accident."
"I?" he cried. "I was asleep--asleep like a drunken lout."
"All yesterday--all last night?" she asked in astonishment.
"Yes," he admitted, as though it were an accusation.
"Ah, that is good," she replied. "You needed the rest."
"Needed rest, and you in this danger?" he exclaimed contemptuously.
"It was unpardonable of me."
"No! No! Don't say that. You could have done nothing had you been
here."
"If ever I get my hands on him again," he cried below his breath.
"Mon Dieu," broke in Marie. "If I, too--"
"Hush," interrupted the girl. "It is quite useless for any of us to
attempt more until his money gives out. He came back and found a few
dollars in my purse."
She had fought this madman, she and this rheumatic old woman, while he
had slept! She had called to him and he had not answered! The blood
went hot to his cheeks. It was enough to make a man feel craven.
The wounded girl rested her bandaged head on the back of the chair. At
the light in Donaldson's eyes, Marie straightened herself aggressively.
"Are you badly hurt?" he asked quietly.
"Only a bump," she laughed, remembering how he had stood by the ladder.
"Marie insisted upon this," she added, lightly touching the cloth about
her forehead.
"A bump?" snorted Marie. "It is a miracle that she was not altogether
killed. She--"
But a hand upon the old servant's arm checked her indignation.
"You two women cannot remain here any longer alone," he said
authoritatively. "Either you must allow me to take you to the shelter
of some friend or--"
"There is no one," she interrupted quickly. "No one to whom I would go
in this condition. They would not understand."
"Then," he said, "I must secure a nurse for you."
"Am I not able to care for the p'tite?" demanded Marie. "A nurse!"
"A nurse is needed to care for you both. I am going downstairs now to
summon one."
She protested feebly, and Marie vigorously, but he was insistent.
"I ought to call your family physician--"
"No, Mr. Donaldson, you must not do that."
She was firm upon this point, so he went below to do what else he might.
At the telephone he found the explanation of his inability to get the
house in the fact that the receiver was hanging loose. It was another
accusation. Doubtless in her weakened condition she had dropped it
from her hand and turned away, too dazed to replace it. The hot shame
of it dried his tongue so that he could scarcely make himself
understood. In spite of this he accomplished many things in a very few
minutes. The operator gave him the number of a near-by reliable nurse,
and finding her in, he sent off the cab for her. Then through an
employment bureau he secured a cook who agreed to reach the house
within an hour. He then telephoned the nearest market and ordered
everything he could think of from beefsteak to fruit, and to this added
everything the marketman could think of. He had no sooner finished
than the nurse arrived.
By the greatest good luck Miss Colson proved to be young, cheerful, and
capable. She followed Donaldson upstairs and succeeded in winning the
confidence of both the girl and Marie at once. Donaldson left them
together. A little while later he was allowed to come up again.
"I feel like an unfaithful knight," he said, as he entered. "I deserve
to be dismissed without a word."
"Because you slept? It was not your fault. I fear I have left you
little time for rest."
"Why did n't you tell them to break down the doors--to _get_ me!"
Her face clouded for a moment.
She saw how chagrined he still felt.
"Don't blame yourself," she pleaded. "It's all over anyway and you 've
done everything possible. You 've been very thoughtful."
"I was a fool to leave you here. I should have stayed."
"That was impossible."
Donaldson marveled that she could pass off the whole episode so
generously. He refrained from questioning her further as to what had
happened. It was unnecessary, for he knew well enough.
"Let us choose a pleasanter subject," she said. "Tell me how you
became a great hero."
"A sorry hero," he answered, not understanding what she meant.
"No. No. It was fine! It was fine!"
He was bewildered.
"You don't mean to say you have n't seen the papers--but then, of
course, you have n't, if you were asleep all day Sunday. Please bring
me that pile in the corner."
He handed them to her and she unfolded the first page of the uppermost
paper. He found himself confronting a picture of himself as he had
stood, the centre of an admiring crowd, in front of the big machine
which had so nearly killed Bobby.
He shared the first page with the latest guesses concerning the
Riverside robberies.
"Well," he stammered, "I 'd forgotten all about that!"
"Forgotten such an act! You don't half realize what a hero you are.
Listen to the headlines, 'Heroic Rescue,' 'Young Lawyer Gives
Remarkable Exhibition of Nerve,' 'The Name of Lawyer Donaldson
Mentioned for Carnegie Medal,' 'Bravest Deed of the Year,' 'Faced Death
Unflinchingly.'"
And the pitiful feature of it was that he must sit and listen to this
undeserved praise from her lips. That, knowing deep in his heart his
own unworthiness, he must face her and see her respond to those things
as though he really had been worthy. He, who had done the act under
oath, was receiving the reward of a man who would have done it with no
false stimulus. He, who had been unconsciously braced to it by the
fact that he had so little to lose, was receiving the praise due only a
man who risks all the happiness of a long life. He had faced death
after flinching from life. He was sick of his hypocrisy; he would be
frank with himself. He would be frank with her; he had a right to it
this once. He pressed down the paper she was reading.
"Don't repeat it," he commanded. "It is n't true! It's all wrong!"
"What do you mean?"
"That it's all a lie!"
"But here 's your picture. And _that 's_ you."
"Oh, the naked facts are true. But the rest about,--" it was hard to
do this with her eyes upon him, "the rest about being a hero--about
nerve and bravery. It's rot! It is n't so!"
She threw back her head, resting it upon the top of her chair, and
laughed gently. The color had come back into her cheeks and even the
dark below her eyes seemed to fade.
"Of course," she returned, "you would n't be a truly hero if you knew
you were one."
"But I know I 'm not."
"Of course and so you are!"
The impulse was strong within him to pour out to her the whole bitter
story. Better to stand shorn and true before her than garbed in such
false colors as these. But as before, he realized that her own welfare
forbade even this relief.
The nurse approached with a cheery smile, but with an unmistakable air
of authority.
"You will pardon me," she interrupted, "but we must keep Miss Arsdale
as quiet as possible. I think she ought to try to sleep a little now."
Sorry as he was to go, Donaldson was relieved to know that he was
leaving her in such good hands.
The ringing of the front door-bell startled her. She shrank back in
her chair. The nurse was at her side instantly.
"You had better leave at once," she whispered to Donaldson.
"It's only the new cook," he answered.
He went downstairs and ushered her in, and led her to the kitchen.
"The place is yours," he said, waving his hands about the room, "and
all you 've got to do is to cook quickly and properly whatever order is
sent down to you. Get that?"
The woman nodded, but glanced suspiciously about the deserted quarters.
The place looked as when first opened in the Fall, after the return
from the summer vacation.
"The family," Donaldson went on to explain, "consists of three. If you
succeed in satisfying this group I 'll give you an extra ten at the end
of the week."
"I 'll do it, sor."
She looked as though she was able.
"Anything more you want to know?"
"The rist of the help, sor,--"
"You 're all of it," he answered briefly.
Before leaving the house he did one thing more to allay his fears. He
called up a private detective bureau and ordered them to keep watch of
the house night and day until further notice. They were to keep their
eyes open for any slightly deranged person who might seek an entrance.
In the event of capturing him, they were to take him into the house and
put him to bed, remaining at his side until he, Donaldson, arrived.
Then he ordered his cab to the restaurant of Wun Chung.