_The Greater Master_
In the fifteen minutes that Donaldson waited in the library, he fought
out with himself the question as to whether he had the strength to
remain here in the house on this the day before the end.
In his decision he took into account his duty towards the boy, the
possible danger to the girl, and his own growing passion. There was
but one answer: he owed it to them all to pull free while there was yet
time. It would be foolhardy to risk here a full day and an evening.
He felt the approaching crisis more than he had at any time during the
week.
At times he became panic-stricken at his powerlessness to check for
even one brief pendulum-swing this steady tread of time. Time was such
an intangible thing, and yet what a Juggernaut! There was nothing of
it which he could get hold of to wrestle, and yet it was more powerful
than Samson to throw him in the end. Sly, subtle, bodiless, soulless,
impersonal; expressed in the big clock above the city, and in milady's
dainty watch rising and falling upon her breast; sweeping away cities
and nursing to life violets; tearing down and building up; killing and
begetting; bringing laughter and tears, it is consistent in one thing
alone,--that it never ceases. There is but one word big enough to
express it, and that is God. Without beginning, without end, and never
ceasing. At times he grew breathless, so individualized did every
second become, so fraught with haste. Where was he being dragged, and
in the end would the seconds rest? No, they would go on just the same,
and he might hear them even in his grave.
With his decision came the even more vital question as to what he
should tell this girl. With the strength of his whole nature he craved
the privilege of standing white before her. He longed to tell her the
whole pitiful complication that he might stand before her without
shadow of hypocrisy. He could then leave with his head up to meet his
doom. But even this crumb of relief was refused him. To do this might
break down the boy and would leave her, if only as a friend, to bear
something of the ensuing hours. He must, then, leave her in darkness,
suffering the lesser stings of doubt and suspicion and bewilderment.
He must leave her in false colors to whatever she might imagine.
She came back again with her lips quivering.
"Poor Marie," she gasped. "She lies there broken hearted, praying to
die."
"I am sorry for her," he said gently.
"I feel the blame of it," she answered. "Why must the curse of the
house have fallen upon her?"
"It is difficult to work out such matters," he replied. "But I don't
think you should shoulder the responsibility. We each of us must bear
the burden of our own acts. It makes it even harder when another tries
to relieve us of this."
"But I can't relieve her. That is the pity of it. She turns away her
head from me for she has taken upon herself all the responsibility for
Jacques."
"That is the mother in her. There is nothing you can do."
"She will die of grief."
"Then she will be dead. So her relief will come."
The girl drew back a little.
"She must not die. I must not let her die."
She looked up at him as though she expected him even in this emergency
to suggest some way out of it. But he was speechless.
"I must go back to her," she said after a minute. "I must go and
comfort her."
"Yes," he said, "that is the best you can do. Take her hand and hold
it. That is all you can do. Ben is upstairs?"
"Yes. I have n't told him yet."
"Tell him," he advised. "It will help him to have an opportunity to
help another."
"Then you will excuse me?"
"Of course. But there is something that I must tell you before you go.
I must leave you both now."
"You will come back to dinner with us?"
"I 'm afraid I shall be unable. I start on a long journey. I must say
good bye."
She fixed her eyes upon him in a new alarm, waiting for what he should
say next. But that was all. That was all he had to say. In those two
words, "Good bye," he bounded all that was in the past, all that was in
the future.
"You have had some sudden call?"
"Yes."
"But you will come back again. Don't--don't make it sound so final."
"I have no hope of coming back."
"Oh," she cried, "I thought that now you might find a little rest."
"Perhaps I shall. I do not know. But before I go I wish to insist
again that you and Ben leave this house and get back into the country
somewhere. Don't think I am presuming, but I should feel better if I
knew you had this in mind. I see so clearly that it is the thing for
you to do."
"Don't speak as though you were going so far," she shuddered. "What
will Ben do without you?"
"Get him away from these old surroundings. Let him make
friends--clean, wholesome friends. Let him pursue his hobby. There
are other places besides New York where he is needed. If he is kept
busy I do not fear for him."
She tried to pierce the white mask he wore. It was quite useless. She
knew that there was something in him now that she could not reach. Yet
she felt that there was need of it. She felt that there was need that
she of all women in the world should force her way into his soul and
there comfort him as he had bidden her comfort Marie. She felt this
with an insurge of passion that left her girlhood behind forever. It
swept away all thoughts of Ben, all thoughts of Marie, all thoughts of
herself. She heard his voice as though in the distance.
"It is better," he was saying, "to be direct--to be as honest as
possible at such a time as this. We can't say some things very gently,
try as we may, because they are brutal facts in themselves. But I am
going to tell you all I can as simply as I can. I must leave you. It
is n't of my own free will that I go, though at the beginning it was.
Now I go because I must. Perhaps you will never again hear of me. If
you don't you must remember me as you know me now. Do you understand
that, Miss Arsdale? You know me now as I am--as no other human being
knows me. Will you cling to this?"
"You are to me as you are. So you always will be."
She met his eyes unflinchingly, feeling a new strength growing within
her. He went on:
"If we cling to what we ourselves know of our friends--if we cling to
that through thick and thin, nothing that happens to them can matter
much. It is that confidence which lifts our friendships beyond the
reach of the cur snappings of circumstance. So you, whatever you may
hear afterwards, whatever things you find yourself unable to
understand, must hold fast to this week. You must say to yourself,"
his voice grew husky, "you must say this,--'If it had been possible for
him to do so, he would have lived out his life as I wished him to live
it out.'"
As he spoke on, it seemed to him that she, in some subtle way, was
rising superior to him. Instead of losing strength as she stood there
before him, he felt her growing in power. He had been talking to her
as to a child, and now he suddenly found himself confronting a woman.
She was now the dominant personality. When she spoke to him her voice
was firmer and possessed of a new richness.
"I have heard you," she said. "All the things you spoke are true. Why
are you going?"
He hesitated at the direct question.
"Because I must."
"Why must you?"
"I cannot tell you."
She placed a steady hand upon his arm.
"Yes. You must tell me."
"Don't tempt me like that!"
He felt himself weakening. If only he might stand before her with his
mask off. It meant freedom, it meant peace. That was all he
asked--just the privilege of standing stark white before this one woman.
He turned away. The burden was his and he must bear it, if it crushed
his very soul into the clay. Away from those eyes, he might be able to
write some poor explanation. But to put it into cold words would be
only to force upon her the torture of the next few hours. It was
better for her to believe as she now saw him, as she might guess, than
to suffer the ghastly truth and then shiver at the mud idol that was
left.
He moved back a step.
"You must not look at me," he cried. "You must keep your eyes away
from me and--and let me go."
But she followed, pressing him to the wall as they all had done. The
color leaped to her cheeks. Her eyes grew big and tender.
"I do not think you understand me," she said.
He stood awed before what he now saw. It was as though he were looking
at a naked soul.
"I do not think you understand," she continued, lifting her head a
little. "You will not go, because there can be no call so great as
that which bids you stay."
He answered, "My master is the master of us all."
"Then," she returned, "I too must go to meet your master. He must
claim us both."
"God forbid," he exclaimed.
"You talk of masters," she ran on more excitedly, "and you are only a
man. We women have a master greater than any you know. You taught me
a moment ago to be direct--to be honest. It is so I must be with you
now. I must be brave," her voice trembled a little, "I must stand face
to face with you. Oh, if you were not so unselfish--so unseeing, you
would not make me do this!"
He stood speechless--his throat aching the length of it.
"You treat me like a child, when you have made me a woman! You treat
me like a weakling, when you have given me strength! You tell me you
have some great trouble and then you refuse to allow me to share it!
Don't you see?"
Her face was transfigured by pure white courage. He trembled before
it. Yet he only gripped himself the firmer and stood before her
immovable, every word she spoke leaving a red welt upon his soul.
"Peter," she trembled, not in fright but because of her overflowing
heart, "you have shown me the wonder of life during this last week.
You have taken me by the hand and have led me out of the gray barren
land into the flowers and perfume of the orchard. You have done for me
as you did for Ben. Why should I be ashamed to say this? I would not
measure up to you if I kept silent now and let you go alone. I am not
ashamed."
To himself he said,
"God give me courage to stand firm."
"You make it harder for me when you say nothing."
"I must not listen!"
"Don't keep me in the dark," she pleaded. "Don't send me back alone
into the dark. It's being alone that hurts."
To himself he said,
"God keep me from telling her. God keep me from letting her know of my
love. So it is best."
"Don't you see now?"
Again that phrase of his which had come back through Arsdale's lips to
scorch him.
All he could say aloud was,
"I must go, and if I can, I will come back."
"I mean nothing to you if I cannot help you now," she said steadily.
"If the road were smooth to you do you think I could tell you what I
have? It is your need--it is your need that has given me the strength."
To himself he said,
"God keep my lips sealed."
To her he said,
"I must go."
She was startled.
"You remember the orchard, Peter?"
"As long as I remember anything, I shall remember that."
"You remember the walk straight through things?"
"Yes--you at my side."
"I have just taken it again--alone. I have pressed straight through."
There was a pause of a few seconds. Then,
"That is a hard thing for a woman to do."
There was a longer silence. Then she said tenderly,
"You look very tired. This day has been heavy to you. Go up-stairs to
your room and rest. Then in the morning--why, in the morning we may
both see clearer."
"I can rest nowhere. There is no rest left to me."
"Ah, you look so tired," she repeated.
He seized her hand and pressed it. Then he turned abruptly towards the
hall. She watched him with a new fright. He paused at the door, his
eyes drawn back to her against his will. She was standing there quite
helpless, a growing pallor sweeping over her cheeks that so lately had
been as richly red as rose leaves.
"God help me hard now," he moaned.
She stood before him like a marble statue. There were no tears.
"I have been very bold," she murmured. "I can never forgive myself
that."
"You have been wonderful!" he cried.
"Perhaps you had better go at once, Peter Donaldson," she said.
He saw her in a blinding white light.
"God keep you," he managed to say. "God keep you forever and ever."
He stumbled to the hall, found his hat, and staggered through the door.
At the hedge a shadow stole out to meet him. It was an ambitious young
reporter.
"Is this Mr. Donaldson?" he asked.
"Damn you, no!" shouted Donaldson. "Donaldson is dead!"