_A Miracle_
Elaine, her pale face tense, heard the steps of Arsdale coming up the
stairs to meet her. Donaldson had telephoned at nine that if she had
not yet retired he was going to bring her brother home. She dreaded
the ordeal for herself and for him. She dreaded lest the aversion she
felt for him with the horror of that night still upon her might
overcome her sense of duty; she dreaded the renewed protestations, the
self abasement, the sight of the maudlin shame of the man. She had
gone through the hysterical scenes so many times that it was growing
difficult, especially in her present condition of weakness, to arouse
the necessary spirit to undergo it. Not only this, but she found
herself inevitably pitting him against the strong self-reliant
character of Donaldson. It had been easier for her to condone when she
had seen Arsdale only as the loved son of the big-hearted elder, but
now that this other unyielding personality had come into her life it
was difficult to avoid comparison. Arsdale when standing beside a man
was only pitiable.
He faltered at the door and then crossed the room with a poise that
reminded her of the father who to the end had never shown evidence of
any physical weakness in his bearing. In fact in look and carriage,
even in the spotless freshness of his dress which was a characteristic
of the elder, he appeared like his father. She could hardly believe.
She sat as silent as though this were some illusion.
There was color in the ordinarily yellow cheeks, there was life in the
usually dull eyes, though the spasmodic twitching testified to nerves
still unsteady. When he held out his trembling hand, she took it as
though in a trance. She saw that it was difficult for him to speak.
It was impossible for her. The suggested metamorphosis was too
striking.
He broke the strained, glad silence.
"Elaine, can you forget?"
She uttered his name but could go no further.
"I can't apologize," he stammered, "it's too ghastly. But if we could
start fresh from to-day, if you could wait a little before judging, and
watch. Perhaps then--"
She drew him quickly towards her.
"Can I believe what I see?" she asked.
"I--I don't know what you see," he answered unsteadily.
"I see your father. I see the man who was the only father I myself
knew."
He bent over her. He kissed her forehead.
"Dear Elaine," he said hoarsely, "you see a man who is going to be a
better man to you."
"To yourself, Ben,--be better to yourself! Are you going to be that?"
"That is the way,--by being a man to you and to the others."
"The others?"
"The unseen others. You must get Donaldson to tell you about the
others."
She grasped his wrist with both her hands, looking up at him intently.
Where was the change? A photograph would not have shown all the
change. Yet it was there. Nor was this a temporal reformation based
upon cowardly remorse. It showed too calm, too big an impulse for
that. It was so sincere, so deep, that it did not need words to
express it.
"I believe you, Ben," she said, "I believe you with all my heart and
soul."
In the words he realized the divine that is in all women, the eagerness
that is Christ-like in its eternal hunger to seize upon the good in
man. He stooped again and with religious reverence kissed the white
space above her eyes.
"We 'll not talk about it much, shall we?" he said. "I want you to
believe only as I go on from day to day. I 've some big plans that I
thought up on the way home. Some day we 'll talk those over, but not
now. Donaldson is downstairs."
He saw the color sweep her face. It suggested to him something that he
had not yet suspected. It came to him like a new revelation of
sunlight.
He smiled. It was the smile of the father which she had so long
missed, the smile that always greeted her when his sad heart was
fullest of hope and gladness. It was so he used to smile when at
twilight he stood at her side, his long thin arm over her shoulder and
talked of Ben with a new hope born of his own victory.
"I was going to tell you," he said tenderly, "I was going to tell you
of what a big fine fellow this Donaldson is. But--perhaps you know."
She refused not to meet her brother's eyes.
"Yes, Ben," she said, "I know that."
He took her hand, seating himself on the arm of her chair, the other
arm resting affectionately across her shoulders. So the father had
sometimes sat.
"Is there more?" he asked softly.
"So," she answered, starting a little, "not as you mean. But tell me
about him--tell me all about him, Ben."
He felt her hand throb as he held it.
"It's just this; that I owe everything in the world to him. I owe my
life to him; I owe," his voice lowered, "I owe my soul to him. You
ought to have heard him talk. But it was n't talking, it wasn't
preaching. I don't know what it was, unless--unless it was praying.
Yet it was n't like that either. He got inside me and made me talk to
myself. It was the first time words ever meant anything to me--that
they ever got a hold on me. You 've talked, little sister, Lord knows
how often, and how deep from the heart, but somehow, dear, nothing of
it sank in below the brain. I understood as in a sort of dream.
Sometimes I even remembered it for a little, but that was all.
"But he was different, Elaine! If I forgot every word he spoke, the
meaning of it would still be left. I 'd still feel his hand upon my
shoulder, the hand that sank through my shoulder and got a grip on
something inside me. I 'd still feel his eyes burning into mine. I 'd
still see that street out the window and know what it meant. I 'd even
see the little old lady picking her way to the other side,--see the
blind beggar on the corner and the Others. Oh, the Others, Elaine!"
He had risen from beside her and pressed towards the window as though
once again he wished to taste the air that came down to him from the
star-country to sweeten the decaying soul of him.
"What was it, Elaine?" he demanded.
"You heard," she answered, "because every fibre of him is true. Tell
me more."
"He showed me the sun on the windows!" he ran on eagerly. "He showed
me the people passing on the streets! He showed me what I--even I--had
to do among them. Did you know that we are n't just ourselves--that we
're a part of a thousand other lives? Did you know that?"
"It takes a seer really to know that," she answered, "but it's true."
"That's it," he broke in. "He _knows_! He doesn't guess, he doesn't
reason, he _knows_!"
She was leaning forward, her head a little back, her eyes half-closed.
He saw the veins in her neck--the light purple penciling of them--as
they throbbed. He was held a moment by the sight. Then he laughed
gently.
"Little sister," he said, "you know him even better than I."
She started back.
He was surprised at the shy beauty he perceived. She had always seemed
to him such a sober body.
The nurse rapped at the door.
"It is bedtime," she announced,
"Yes, nurse," she answered quickly.
"He asked if he might come to say good night. He 's going to stay here
with me a day or so. Shall I bring him up?"
She hesitated a moment and then meeting her brother's eyes steadily,
answered,
"Yes, Ben."
When Donaldson came into the room she was shocked at the change in his
appearance. It was almost as though what Arsdale had gained Donaldson
had lost. He was colorless, wan, and haggard. His eyes seemed more
deeply imbedded in the dark recesses below his brows. Even his hair at
the temples looked grayer. But neither his voice nor his manner
betrayed the change. The grip of his hand was just as sure; there was
the same certainty in gesture and speech, save perhaps for some
abstraction.
"They tell me I may stay but a minute," he said, "but it is good to see
you even that long."
"You brought him back home," she cried. "But it has cost you heavy.
You look tired."
"I am not tired," he answered shortly. Then turning the talk away from
himself, as he was ever eager to do, he continued,
"I brought him home, but the burden is still on you."
"Not a burden any longer. You have removed the burden."
"I 'm afraid not. There still remains the fight to make him stay.
This is only a beginning."
His face grew worried.
"He will stay," she answered confidently, "he will stay because you
reached the father in him and the father was a fighter. I saw the
father in his eyes--I heard his father's voice. It is a miracle!"
"No. The miracle is how we men keep blind."
"I feel blind myself when I think how you see."
"I am no psychic," he exclaimed impatiently. "I see nothing that is
n't before me. You can't help seeing unless you close your eyes. The
world presses in upon you from every side. It is insistent. Even now
the stars outside there are demanding recognition."
He drew back the crimson curtains draping the big French windows, which
opened upon a balcony. The silver stiletto rays darted a greeting to
him. He swung open the windows.
"Come out with me and see my friends," he said.
She rose instantly and followed him.
He stood there a moment in silence, his head back as he seemed to lead
her into the limitless fragrant purple above. She caught his profile
and saw him like some prophet. It was as though a people were at his
back and he trying to pierce the road ahead for them. The thin face
and erect head seemed to dominate the night. He looked down at her, a
sad smile about his mouth.
"Out here," he said, "out here with a million miles over our heads we
are freer."
In her eyes he saw now just what he saw in the stars, the same freedom
of unpathed universes. He saw the same limitlessness. Here there were
no boundaries. A man could go on forever and forever in those eyes--in
their marvelous unfolding. More! More! He would go beyond the
cognate universe, straight into the golden heart of universes beyond.
Eternity was written there. The beacon of her eyes flamed a path that
reached beyond the stars!
She seemed like nothing but a trusting child. So, she was one with the
great poets. So, she was a great poem. He listened to the same music
which had moved Isaiah.
"The stars,--they seem to be dancing!" she exclaimed.
It was to the music of the spheres they were dancing.
"You!" he commanded, "you must get away from this house. You must take
Ben and get away from here. You must go into a new country. You must
begin your life anew and forget all this, forget everything."
He paused.
"Everything," he repeated. "They tell us that the road is straight and
narrow. It's narrow, but it is n't straight. It's crooked and it's
winding and it goes through brake and brush. It's a hard road to find
and a hard road to keep, even with the polestar over our heads. Maybe,
if we were a little above earth--maybe for those who are winged--the
road is straight, but we are n't all winged. Some of us have n't even
sturdy legs and have to creep. Some of us find our legs only after we
are helplessly lost. For down below there is a terrible tangle with
things to be gone around, with things to beat down, and always the
tangle above our heads. So what wonder that we get lost? What wonder?"
"But I am not lost--you are not lost!"
"I! I do not matter," he answered slowly. "You must n't let me
matter. I come into your life and I go out of your life and I pray
that I have done no harm."
His words to her were like words caught in a wind. She heard snatches
of them, but she was unable to piece them together.
"In your new life you must forget even me. We have met in the brush
and gone on a little way together. We have helped each other in
finding each his true road again. Whether the paths will meet
again--whether the paths will meet again--" he repeated as though deep
in some new and grander reflection, "why, God knows. If we go on
forever, perhaps they will in an aeon or two."
He paused to give her an opportunity to say something which he might
use as a subject for proceeding farther. His thoughts did n't go very
far along any one line. Always he seemed checked by a wall of
darkness. But she said nothing. The silence lengthened into a minute.
"Do you understand?" he asked gently.
"No," she answered frankly.
"Then--then perhaps we had better go in," he said, fearing for himself.
He led the way through the swinging windows and closed them behind him.
In the light he saw that she was shivering.
"I 'm afraid I kept you out there too long," he said anxiously. He
reached her shawl and placed it about her shoulders. His throat ached.
"I haven't hurt you?"
"I think you have hurt yourself, somehow."
She raised her head a little.
Marie was calling.
"Good night," he said quickly.
"Good night."