_The End of the Beginning_
When Donaldson appeared at the door of the Arsdale house he was
confronted by Ben whose eyes were afire as though he had been drinking.
Before he could speak a word the latter squared off before him
aggressively.
"What the devil have you done to my sister?" he demanded.
Donaldson drew back, frightened by the question.
"What do you mean?" he demanded, the dog dropping from his arms to the
floor.
"She 's in bed, and half out of her mind," returned the other fiercely.
"She said you 'd gone! Donaldson, if you 've hurt her--"
The boy's fists were clenched as though he were about to strike.
Donaldson stood with his arms hanging limply by his side. He felt
Arsdale's right to strike if he wished.
"I have n't gone," he answered.
"I don't know what has happened," Arsdale ran on heatedly, "but I want
to tell you this--that as much as you 've done for me, I won't stand
for your hurting her."
"Let me see her," demanded Donaldson, coming to himself.
"She won't see any one! She 's locked up in her room. She may be
dead. If she is, you 've killed her!"
Arsdale half choked upon the words. It was with difficulty that he
restrained himself. He was blind to everything, save that in some way
this man was responsible for the girl's suffering.
"Perhaps she 'll see me. Where is she?"
Donaldson without waiting for an answer pushed past Arsdale and the
latter allowed it, but followed at his heels. Donaldson knew where she
was without being told. She was in the big front room where the
balcony led outdoors. He went up the stairs heavily, for he knew that
more depended on the next half hour than had anything so far in all
this harrowing week. Though there was plenty of light he groped his
way close to the wall like a blind man. At the closed door he paused
to catch his breath. In the meanwhile the boy, half frantic, pounded
on the panels, shouting over his shoulder,
"She won't let us in, I tell you! She won't let us in! She may be
dead!"
At this, Donaldson forced Arsdale back. He put his mouth close to the
insensate wood and called her name.
"Elaine."
There was no answer.
He knocked lightly and called again. Again the silence, the boy
stumbling up against him with an inarticulate cry. The nurse joined
them, and the three stood there in shivering terror. Donaldson felt
panic clutching at his own heart. Before throwing his weight against
the door, he tried once more.
"Elaine," he cried, "it is I--Donaldson."
There was the sound of movement within, and then came the stricken plea,
"Go away. Please go away."
Arsdale answered,
"Let me in, Elaine. Nothing shall hurt you. I'll--"
Donaldson turned upon him and the nurse.
"Go down-stairs," he commanded.
His voice made them both shudder back.
"Go down-stairs," he repeated. "Do you hear! Leave her to me!"
Arsdale started a protest, but the nurse, in fright, took his arm and
half dragged him towards the stairs. Donaldson followed threateningly.
His face was terrible. He stood at the head of the stairs until they
reached the hall below. Then he returned to the door.
"Elaine," he said, "I have come back. Do you hear me, Elaine? I have
come back."
He heard within the sound as of muffled sobbing. He himself was
breathing as though a great weight were on his chest.
"Elaine," he cried, "won't you open the door to me?"
The sobbing was broken by a tremulous voice.
"Is that you, Peter Donaldson?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Then go away and leave me, Peter Donaldson."
"Elaine, can you hear me clearly?"
There was the pause of a moment, and than the broken voice.
"Go away."
"No," he answered steadily, "I can't. I can't go away again until I
see you. You must tell me face to face to go. I 've come back to you."
She did not answer.
"Elaine," he cried, "open the door to me. Let me see you."
"I don't want to see you."
He waited a moment. Then he said more soberly,
"Elaine, I can't go away. I must stay right here until I see you. I
sha'n't move from here until my soul goes. Whether you hear me or not,
you will know that I am right here by the door. At the end of one
hour, at the end of two hours, at the end of a day, I shall still be
here. If they try to drag me away, they 'll have to fight--they 'll
have to fight hard."
There was no answer. He leaned back against the wall. Below, he heard
a whispered conversation between Arsdale and the nurse; within, he
heard nothing. So five minutes passed, and to Donaldson the world was
chaos. He felt as though he were locked up in a tomb. There was the
same feeling of dead weight upon the shoulders; the same sensation of
stifling. Then he heard her voice,
"Are you still there, Peter Donaldson?"
"Yes," he answered.
"Won't you please go away?"
"I shall not go away until I have seen you."
Then another long suspense began, but it was shorter than the first.
"If I let you come in for a minute, will you go then?"
"Yes," he answered, "I will go then."
It seemed an eternity before he heard the key turn in the lock and saw
the door swing open a little. He stepped in. She had taken a position
in a far corner. She had drawn the Japanese shawl tightly about her,
and was standing very erect, her white face like chiseled marble. He
started towards her, but she checked him.
"Do not come any nearer," she commanded.
He steadied himself.
"I told you," he began abruptly, "that I was going because I must.
That was true; I went thinking I was to meet Death."
She took a step towards him.
"You were ill? You are ill now?"
"No."
He paused. Now that the time had come when he could tell her all, it
was a harder thing to do than he had thought. If she withdrew from him
now--what would she do after she had learned? Yet he must do this to
be a free man, to be even a free spirit. There must be no more shadows
between them, not even shadows of the past.
"I told you," he said, "of my life up to the time I came to New York,
of the daily grind it was to get that far. That was only the
beginning--after that came the real struggle. It was easy to fight
with the enemy in front--with something for your fists to strike
against. But then came the waiting years. I was too blind to see all
the work that lay around me. I was too selfish to see what I might
have fought for. I saw nothing except the wasting months. I lost my
grip. I played the coward."
He took a quick, sharp breath at the word. It was like plunging a
knife into his own heart to stand before her and say that.
"One day in the laboratory," he struggled on, "Barstow told me of a
poison which would not kill until the end of seven days. Because I was
not--the best kind of fighter--I--stole it and swallowed it. That was
a week ago. I am here now only because the poison did n't work."
"You--you tried to kill yourself?" she cried in amazement.
"Yes," he answered unflinchingly, "I tried to quit. There were many
things I wanted--cheap, trivial things, and at the time I did n't see
my course clear to getting them in any other way. The other
things--the things worth while were around me all the time, but I could
n't see them."
He paused. She drew away from him.
"So you see I did not do bravely. I wanted you to know this from the
first, but there didn't seem to be any way. I did n't want to stand
before you as a liar--as a hypocrite, and yet I did n't want to balk
myself in the little good I found myself able to do. That silence was
part of the penalty. I left you yesterday without telling, for the
same reason. That and one other: because I did n't want you to think
me a coward when death might cut off all opportunity for ever proving
otherwise."
Again he paused, hoping against a dead hope. But she stood there,
cringing away from him, her frightened lips dumb.
"That is all," he concluded. "Now I will go. But don't you see that I
had to intrude long enough to tell you this? I stand absolutely honest
before you. There isn't a lie in me. Now I am going to work."
He made an odd looking picture as he stood there. Haggard, hot-eyed,
with a touch of color above his unshaven cheeks, he was like a
victorious general at the end of a hard week's campaign.
He turned away from her and went out of the room. At the foot of the
stairs he passed in silence Arsdale and the nurse. He turned back.
"Sandy! Sandy! Where are you?"
The dog came scrambling over the smooth floor with a joyous yelp. He
picked him up and passing out the door went down the street. The few
remaining dollars he had left burned in his pocket. He tossed them
into the first sewer. He was now free--free to begin clean handed.
A little farther along he came to a gang of men at work upon the
excavation for a new house. He needed money for food and a night's
lodging. He went to the foreman.
"Want an extra hand?"
"Wot th' devil ye 're givin' us?"
"I 'm in earnest. I have n't a cent. I need work. Try me."
The burly foreman looked him over with a grin. Then as though he saw a
good joke in it, he gave him a shovel and sent him into the cellar.
Donaldson removed his coat and rolling up his sleeves took his place
beside the others. Sandy found a comfortable nest in the discarded
garment and settled down contentedly.