_Facing the Sun_
When he came down-stairs he found her dressed in white and looking like
a nun. Her hair was brushed back from her forehead and the
silk-figured Japanese shawl was over her shoulders. He recalled the
shawl and with it the picture she had made that first night.
At the door he called her name and she looked up quickly, swiftly
scanning his face. He crossed to her side.
"You should n't stay in here," he said. "Come outdoors a moment before
breakfast. It's bright and warm out there."
She arose, and they went out together to the lawn. Each blade of grass
was wearing its morning jewels. The sun petted them and bestowed
opals, amethysts, and rubies upon them. The hedge was as fresh as if
newly created; the neighboring houses appeared as though a Dutch
housewife had washed them down and sanded them; the sky was a perfect
jewel cut by the Master hand. The peeping and chattering of the
swallows was music, while a robin or two added a longer note to the
sharp staccatos.
They stood in the deep porch looking out at it, while the sun showered
them with warmth.
"You 've seen Ben?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, turning her face up to his with momentary
brightness. "Yes. And he was like this out here! The change is
wonderful! It is as though he had risen from the dead!"
Donaldson lifted his head toward the stark blue of the sky.
"The dead? There are no dead," he exclaimed passionately. "Even those
we bury are ever ready to open their silent lips to us if only we give
them life again. We owe it to them to do that, through our own lives
to continue as best we can their lives here on earth. But we can't do
that as long as we have them dead, can we? And that is true of dead
hopes, of dead loves. We have to face the sun with all those things
and through it breathe into them a new spirit. Do you see, Miss
Arsdale?"
He did not look at her, but as her voice answered him it seemed to be
stronger.
"I think--I think I do."
"Nothing can die, unless we let it die," he ran on, paving the way for
what he realized she must in the end know. "Some of it can disappear
from our sight. But not much. We can bury our dead, but we need n't
bury their glad smiles, we need n't bury the feel of their hands or the
brush of their lips, we need n't bury their songs or the brave spirit
of them. We can keep all that, the living part of them, so long as our
own spirit lives. It is when that dies in us that we truly bury them.
And this is even truer of our loves--intangible spirit things as they
are at best."
He did not wish that part of him to die utterly in her with his doomed
frame.
"But--" she shivered, "all this talk of graves and the dead?"
"It is all of the sun and the living," he replied earnestly. "You must
face the sun with me to-day. Will you?"
"Yes! Yes! But last night you made me afraid. Was it the dark,--did
you get afraid of the dark? I know what that means."
"Perhaps," he answered gently. "But if so, it was because I was
foolish enough to let it be dark. And you yourself must never do it
again. If things get bad at night you must wait until morning and then
come out here. So, if you remember what I have said, it will get light
again. Will you promise to do that?"
"Yes."
"I 'd like to make this day one that we 'll both remember forever. I
'd like to make it one that we can always turn back to."
"Yes."
"Perhaps after to-day we 'll neither of us be afraid of the dark again."
"I 'm not afraid now."
"Nor I," he smiled.
The voice of Arsdale came to them,
"Oh, Elaine! Oh, Donaldson!"
She led the way into the house with a lighter step and Arsdale met them
with a beaming face which covered a broad grin.
"I suppose you two can do without food," he exclaimed, "but I can't.
Breakfast has been waiting ten minutes."
"It's my fault," apologized Donaldson.
"You can't see stars in the morning, can you?" chuckled Arsdale.
"Maybe," answered Donaldson.
Elaine checked the boy's further comments with a frightened pressure as
she took his arm and passed into the white and green breakfast room.
There stood the table by the big warm window again, and as she took her
place it seemed as though they were stepping into the same picture
framed by the hedge. She caught Donaldson's eye with a little smile
and saw that he understood.
Arsdale broke in with renewed enthusiasm for his philanthropic project
and outlined his ambitions to Elaine.
"You see," he concluded, "some day, little sister, you may see the law
sign 'Donaldson & Arsdale, Counsellors at Law.' Not a bad sounding
firm name, eh?"
"I think it is great--just great, Ben!" she exclaimed enthusiastically.
"It's almost worth being a man to make your life count for something
like that."
"I want you to make out a list of books for me to get and I 'll go
down-town this afternoon. I suppose you 've a pretty good law library
yourself?"
"I had the beginning of one. I sold it."
"What did you do that for?"
"My practice was n't big enough to support it. But you--you 'll not be
bothered with lack of clients."
With school-boy eagerness Arsdale was anxious to plunge into the scheme
at once.
"And say," he ran on, "I 'm going to look up some offices. I 'll stake
the firm to some good imposing rooms in one of the big law buildings.
Nothing like looking prosperous at the start. Guess I 'll drop
down-town right after breakfast and see what can be had."
Donaldson didn't have the heart to check him. Later on he would write
him a letter sustaining him in his project and recommending him to a
classmate of his, to whom this partnership would be a godsend, as, a
week ago, it would have been to himself. That was the best he could
think of at the moment and so he let him rattle on.
As soon as they had finished breakfast Arsdale was off.
"I 'll leave you two to hunt out new stars as long as that occupation
does n't seem to bore you. I 'll be back for dinner."
Miss Arsdale looked a bit worried and questioned Donaldson with her
eyes.
"He 'll be all right," the latter assured her. "Good Lord, a man with
an idea like that is safe anywhere. It's the best thing in the world
for him."
A little later Donaldson went up-stairs to his room. He took out his
wallet and counted his money. He had over four hundred dollars. At
noon forty-eight hours would be remaining to him. He still had the
ample means of a millionaire for his few needs.
He was as cool as a man computing what he could spend on a summer
vacation. He was not affected in the slightest by the details of death
or by the mere act of dying itself. He was of the stuff which in a
righteous cause leads a man to face a rifle with a smile. He would
have made a good soldier. The end meant nothing horrible in itself.
It meant only the relinquishing of this bright sky and that still
choicer gift below.
He rose abruptly and came down-stairs again to the girl, impatient at
being away from her a minute. She was waiting for him.
"This," he said, "is to be our holiday. I think we had better go into
the country. I should like to go back to Cranton. Is it too far?"
"Not too far," she answered. "But the memories of the bungalow--"
"I had forgotten about that. It does n't count with the green fields,
does it? We can avoid the house, but I should like to visit the
orchard and ride behind the old white horse again."
"I am willing," she replied.
"Then you will have to get ready quickly."
They had just time to catch the train and before they knew it they were
there.
The old white horse was at the little land-office station to meet them
for all the world as though he had been expecting them, and so, for
that matter, were the winding white road, the stile by the lane, and
the orchard itself. It was as though they had been waiting for them
ever since their last visit and were out ready to greet them.
The driver nodded to them as if they were old friends.
"Guess ye did n't find no spooks there after all," he remarked.
"Not a spook. Any more been seen there since?"
"H'ain't heern of none. Maybe ye took off the cuss."
"I hope so."
They dismissed the driver at the lane and then went back a little way
so as to avoid the bungalow. Donaldson was in the best of spirits, for
at the end of the first hour he had solaced himself with the belief
that Arsdale had been mistaken in his statement. She was nothing but a
glad hearted companion in look and speech. They sat down a moment in
the orchard and he was very tender of her, very careful into what trend
he let their thoughts run. But soon he moved on again. He needed to
be active. It was the walk back through the fields to which he had
looked forward.
They brushed through the ankle-deep grass, pausing here and there to
admire a clump of trees, a striking sky line, or a pretty slope.
To Donaldson it did not seem possible that this could ever end, that
any act of nature could blot this from his mind as though it had never
been. It was unthinkable that through an eternity he should never know
again the meaning of blue sky, of blossoms, of such profligate pictures
as now met his eye at every step, but above all, that he should be
blind to the girl herself and all for which she stood. No matter how
long the journey he was about to take, no matter through what new
spheres, these things must remain if anything at all of him remained.
So his one thought was to fill himself as full of this day as possible,
to crowd into his flagging brain the many pictures of her and this
setting which so harmonized with her. The deeper joys of love he might
not know, save as his silent heart conjured them, but all that he could
see with his eyes should be his. He would fill his soul so full of
light that the unknown trail would be less dark to him. He would carry
with him for torches the sun and her bright eyes.
"Let's go back as the crow flies," he suggested. "'Cross country--over
hill and dale. We must n't turn out for anything," he explained, "we
must go crashing through things--trampling them down."
"My," she cried, mocking his fierceness--little realizing the emotion
to which they gave vent, "my, things had better look out!"
He paused, caught his breath, and turned to her, an almost terrified
smile about his tense mouth.
"Oh, little comrade, you 'd best let me be serious."
"No, no. Not to-day. Let us be as glad as we can,--let us celebrate."
"Celebrate what?" he demanded, lest she might think that he had
confessed his thoughts to her.
"Spring," she answered, with a laugh that came from deep within her big
happy heart. "Just spring."
"Then we must n't trample down anything?" he queried.
"Nothing that we can help. But we can take the straight course just
the same. We 'll turn aside for the flowers and little trees."
"And nothing else."
"Nothing else," she agreed.
He led the way, his shoulders drooping a trifle and his step not so
light as her step. She could have trodden upon violets without harm to
them. Still, he marched with a sturdiness that was commendable
considering the load he carried. They made their way down through the
orchard and over the sun-flecked grass until they encountered their
first obstacle. It was a stone wall made out of gray field rocks. He
gave her his hand. The fingers clung to his like a child's fingers.
Their warm, soft caress went to his head like wine so that for a
moment, as she stood near him, it was a question whether or not he
could resist drawing her into his arms which throbbed for her. He
spoke nothing; she spoke nothing. There was no boldness in her, nor
any struggle either. With her head thrown back a little, she waited.
So for ten seconds they stood, neither moving. Then he motioned and
she jumped lightly to the ground. He led the way and they took up
their march again, though once behind him she found it difficult to
catch her breath again.
They moved on down the green hill, across a field, ankle deep in new
grass, into the heavier green of the low lands. So they came to a
meadow brook running shallow over a pebbly bottom but some five yards
wide. There were no stepping stones, but a hundred rods to the right a
small foot bridge crossed.
Again she waited to see what he would do, while he waited to see what
he would dare. With his heart aching in his throat he challenged
himself. It was asking superhuman strength of him to venture his lips
so near the velvet sheen of her cheeks--he who so soon was going out
with a hungry heart. Her arms would be about his neck--that would be
something to remember at the end--her arms about his neck. He knew
that she expected him in even so slight a thing as this to keep true to
his undertaking and march straight ahead. She realized nothing of the
struggle which checked him. Tragic triviality--the problem of how to
cross a brook with a maid! There was but one way even when it involved
the mauling of a man's heart.
He held out his arms to her and she came to them quite as simply as she
had taken his proffered hand at the wall. He placed one arm about her
waist and another about her skirts. She clasped her fingers behind his
neck and sat up with as little embarrassment as though riding upon a
ferry.
He lifted her and the act to him was as though he had condensed a
thousand kisses into one. He walked slowly. This was a brief span
into which to crowd a lifetime of love. In the middle of the brook he
stopped--just a second, to mark the beginning of the end--and then went
on again. When he set her down he was breathing heavily. She had
become a bit self-conscious. Her cheeks were aflame.
Her low black shoes with their big silk bows tied pertly below her trim
ankles were a goodly sight to see against the green grass as he might
have observed had he looked at them at all. But he did n't. He wiped
his moist forehead as though, instead of a dainty armful, she had been
a burden.
She shook the wrinkles from her skirt and looked up at him laughing.
Then she frowned.
"Mr. Donaldson," she scolded, "you walked across there with your shoes
and stockings on."
"Why, that's so," he exclaimed, looking down at his water-logged shoes
as though in as great surprise as she herself.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know," he answered helplessly.
"You ought to spread them out in the sun to dry."
"You can't spread out shoes, can you? Besides we have n't time. We
must hurry right on. Right on, this minute," he added as the motherly
concern in her face set his throat to aching again.
With the stride of a pioneer he led off, praying that they might not
find in their path another brook. For a stretch of a mile, he pressed
on without once looking around, taking a faster pace than he realized.
The course was a fairly smooth one over an acre or so of pasture,
through a strip of oak woods, and up a stiff slope. It was not until
he reached the top of this that he paused. He looked around and saw
her about halfway up the hill, climbing heavily, her eyes upon the
ground. Even as he watched her, he saw her sway, catch herself, and
push on again without even looking up. It was the act of a woman
almost exhausted. He reached her side in a couple of strides. He
tried to take her arm but she broke free of him and in a final spurt
reached the top of the hill and threw herself upon the ground to catch
her breath.
"I did n't realize how fast I was going," he apologized kneeling by her
side. "That was unpardonable, but why did n't you call to me?"
She removed her hat. Then she leaned back upon her hands until she
could speak evenly. A light breeze loosened a brown curl and played
with it.
"Why did n't you call to me?"
"Because I wished to keep pace with you." He turned away from her.
"When you are rested we will start again," he said.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Then I am ready."
"You will take my arm?"
"No," she answered.
"Then you must keep by my side where I can watch you."
They took the remaining distance in more leisurely fashion, now
realizing that they were nearing the outskirts of this fairy kingdom.
With this thought he relaxed a little and instantly the sun and
burgeoning nature claimed him, making light of every problem save the
supreme one of bringing together a man and his mate.
They crossed a field or two and so came again into the road which they
had left three miles back. Walking a short distance along this, they
found themselves on a sharp hill overlooking the station a few hundred
yards below. With the same impulse they turned back far enough to be
out of sight of this. Twenty minutes still remained to them. They sat
down by the side of the road where they had rested before. A light
breeze pushing through the top of a big pine made a sound as of running
water in the distance.
With her chin in one hand, elbow on knee, she studied him a moment as
though endowed with sudden inspiration. A quick frown which had
shadowed his face at sight of the railroad had driven home a suspicion
which she had long held. Now she dared to voice it.
"Have things been mixed up for you--back there?"
The question startled him. He gave her a swift look as though to
divine the reason for it. It was so direct that it was hard to evade.
And he would not lie directly to her. So he replied bluntly,
"Yes."
She waited. He saw her expectant eyes, but he went no further. Part
of the price he paid for being here was renunciation of the balm he
might have in the sharing of his trouble with her. He knew that she
would take his silence for a rebuff, but he could not help that. He
said nothing more, the silence eating into him.
But something stronger than her pride drove her on.
"Mr. Donaldson," she said, "you have given a great deal of time to me
and mine--if there is anything I may do in return, you will give me the
privilege?"
"There is nothing," he answered.
He saw the puzzled hurt in her eyes.
"I know all that you with your big heart would do for me," he declared
earnestly, "but honestly there is nothing possible. My worry will cure
itself. I can see the end of it even now."
"Will the end of it come within a month?"
"Within a week."
"Perhaps," she said, "I could hasten the end to a day."
"No," he smiled, "I 'd rather you would n't. I 'd rather you would
prolong it if you could."
"Is that a riddle?"
"To you."
"Then I can't answer it for I never guessed one in my life."
So with his knuckles kneading the grass by his side, he made light of
it until she turned away from the subject to admire the blue seen
through the pine needles above their heads.
Soon he heard the distant low whistle of the engine which was coming
for them like a sheriff with a warrant.
He was not conscious of very much more until they were back again in
the house and he heard Arsdale's voice,
"I 've rented the offices, old man! Swellest in the city. To-morrow
you must come down and see them!"