In the gallery, the instinct of self-preservation helped him to turn
back and sign to young Rainer not to follow. He stammered out something
about a touch of dizziness, and joining them presently; and the boy
nodded sympathetically and drew back.
At the foot of the stairs Faxon ran against a servant. “I should like to
telephone to Weymore,” he said with dry lips.
“Sorry, sir; wires all down. We’ve been trying the last hour to get New
York again for Mr. Lavington.”
Faxon shot on to his room, burst into it, and bolted the door. The
lamplight lay on furniture, flowers, books; in the ashes a log still
glimmered. He dropped down on the sofa and hid his face. The room was
profoundly silent, the whole house was still: nothing about him gave a
hint of what was going on, darkly and dumbly, in the room he had flown
from, and with the covering of his eyes oblivion and reassurance seemed
to fall on him. But they fell for a moment only; then his lids opened
again to the monstrous vision. There it was, stamped on his pupils, a
part of him forever, an indelible horror burnt into his body and brain.
But why into his--just his? Why had he alone been chosen to see what he
had seen? What business was it of _his_, in God’s name? Any one of the
others, thus enlightened, might have exposed the horror and defeated
it; but _he_, the one weaponless and defenceless spectator, the one whom
none of the others would believe or understand if he attempted to reveal
what he knew--_he_ alone had been singled out as the victim of this
dreadful initiation!
Suddenly he sat up, listening: he had heard a step on the stairs. Some
one, no doubt, was coming to see how he was--to urge him, if he felt
better, to go down and join the smokers. Cautiously he opened his
door; yes, it was young Rainer’s step. Faxon looked down the passage,
remembered the other stairway and darted to it. All he wanted was to get
out of the house. Not another instant would he breathe its abominable
air! What business was it of _his_, in God’s name?
He reached the opposite end of the lower gallery, and beyond it saw
the hall by which he had entered. It was empty, and on a long table he
recognized his coat and cap. He got into his coat, unbolted the door,
and plunged into the purifying night.
The darkness was deep, and the cold so intense that for an instant
it stopped his breathing. Then he perceived that only a thin snow was
falling, and resolutely he set his face for flight. The trees along the
avenue marked his way as he hastened with long strides over the beaten
snow. Gradually, while he walked, the tumult in his brain subsided. The
impulse to fly still drove him forward, but he began feel that he was
flying from a terror of his own creating, and that the most urgent
reason for escape was the need of hiding his state, of shunning other
eyes till he should regain his balance.
He had spent the long hours in the train in fruitless broodings on a
discouraging situation, and he remembered how his bitterness had turned
to exasperation when he found that the Weymore sleigh was not awaiting
him. It was absurd, of course; but, though he had joked with Rainer over
Mrs. Culme’s forgetfulness, to confess it had cost a pang. That was what
his rootless life had brought him to: for lack of a personal stake in
things his sensibility was at the mercy of such trifles.... Yes; that,
and the cold and fatigue, the absence of hope and the haunting sense of
starved aptitudes, all these had brought him to the perilous verge over
which, once or twice before, his terrified brain had hung.
Why else, in the name of any imaginable logic, human or devilish,
should he, a stranger, be singled out for this experience? What could
it mean to him, how was he related to it, what bearing had it on his
case?... Unless, indeed, it was just because he was a stranger--a
stranger everywhere--because he had no personal life, no warm screen of
private egotisms to shield him from exposure, that he had developed this
abnormal sensitiveness to the vicissitudes of others. The thought pulled
him up with a shudder. No! Such a fate was too abominable; all that
was strong and sound in him rejected it. A thousand times better regard
himself as ill, disorganized, deluded, than as the predestined victim of
such warnings!
He reached the gates and paused before the darkened lodge. The wind had
risen and was sweeping the snow into his race. The cold had him in its
grasp again, and he stood uncertain. Should he put his sanity to the
test and go back? He turned and looked down the dark drive to the house.
A single ray shone through the trees, evoking a picture of the lights,
the flowers, the faces grouped about that fatal room. He turned and
plunged out into the road....
He remembered that, about a mile from Overdale, the coachman had pointed
out the road to Northridge; and he began to walk in that direction.
Once in the road he had the gale in his face, and the wet snow on his
moustache and eye-lashes instantly hardened to ice. The same ice seemed
to be driving a million blades into his throat and lungs, but he pushed
on, the vision of the warm room pursuing him.
The snow in the road was deep and uneven. He stumbled across ruts and
sank into drifts, and the wind drove against him like a granite cliff.
Now and then he stopped, gasping, as if an invisible hand had tightened
an iron band about his body; then he started again, stiffening himself
against the stealthy penetration of the cold. The snow continued to
descend out of a pall of inscrutable darkness, and once or twice he
paused, fearing he had missed the road to Northridge; but, seeing no
sign of a turn, he ploughed on.
At last, feeling sure that he had walked for more than a mile, he halted
and looked back. The act of turning brought immediate relief, first
because it put his back to the wind, and then because, far down the
road, it showed him the gleam of a lantern. A sleigh was coming--a
sleigh that might perhaps give him a lift to the village! Fortified by
the hope, he began to walk back toward the light. It came forward very
slowly, with unaccountable sigsags and waverings; and even when he was
within a few yards of it he could catch no sound of sleigh-bells. Then
it paused and became stationary by the roadside, as though carried by
a pedestrian who had stopped, exhausted by the cold. The thought made
Faxon hasten on, and a moment later he was stooping over a motionless
figure huddled against the snow-bank. The lantern had dropped from its
bearer’s hand, and Faxon, fearfully raising it, threw its light into the
face of Frank Rainer.
“Rainer! What on earth are you doing here?”
The boy smiled back through his pallour. “What are _you_, I’d like to
know?” he retorted; and, scrambling to his feet with a clutch oh Faxon’s
arm, he added gaily: “Well, I’ve run you down!”
Faxon stood confounded, his heart sinking. The lad’s face was grey.
“What madness--” he began.
“Yes, it _is_. What on earth did you do it for?”
“I? Do what?... Why I.... I was just taking a walk.... I often walk at
night....”
Frank Rainer burst into a laugh. “On such nights? Then you hadn’t
bolted?”
“Bolted?”
“Because I’d done something to offend you? My uncle thought you had.”
Faxon grasped his arm. “Did your uncle send you after me?”
“Well, he gave me an awful rowing for not going up to your room with
you when you said you were ill. And when we found you’d gone we were
frightened--and he was awfully upset--so I said I’d catch you.... You’re
_not_ ill, are you?”
“Ill? No. Never better.” Faxon picked up the lantern. “Come; let’s go
back. It was awfully hot in that dining-room.”
“Yes; I hoped it was only that.”
They trudged on in silence for a few minutes; then Faxon questioned:
“You’re not too done up?”
“Oh, no. It’s a lot easier with the wind behind us.”
“All right. Don’t talk any more.”
They pushed ahead, walking, in spite of the light that guided them,
more slowly than Faxon had walked alone into the gale. The fact of his
companion’s stumbling against a drift gave Faxon a pretext for saying:
“Take hold of my arm,” and Rainer obeying, gasped out: “I’m blown!”
“So am I. Who wouldn’t be?”
“What a dance you led me! If it hadn’t been for one of the servants
happening to see you--”
“Yes; all right. And now, won’t you kindly shut up?”
Rainer laughed and hung on him. “Oh, the cold doesn’t hurt me....”
For the first few minutes after Rainer had overtaken him, anxiety
for the lad had been Faxon’s only thought. But as each labouring step
carried them nearer to the spot he had been fleeing, the reasons for his
flight grew more ominous and more insistent. No, he was not ill, he was
not distraught and deluded--he was the instrument singled out to warn
and save; and here he was, irresistibly driven, dragging the victim back
to his doom!
The intensity of the conviction had almost checked his steps. But what
could he do or say? At all costs he must get Rainer out of the cold,
into the house and into his bed. After that he would act.
The snow-fall was thickening, and as they reached a stretch of the road
between open fields the wind took them at an angle, lashing their faces
with barbed thongs. Rainer stopped to take breath, and Faxon felt the
heavier pressure of his arm.
“When we get to the lodge, can’t we telephone to the stable for a
sleigh?”
“If they’re not all asleep at the lodge.”
“Oh, I’ll manage. Don’t talk!” Faxon ordered; and they plodded on....
At length the lantern ray showed ruts that curved away from the road
under tree-darkness.
Faxon’s spirits rose. “There’s the gate! We’ll be there in five
minutes.”
As he spoke he caught, above the boundary hedge, the gleam of a light at
the farther end of the dark avenue. It was the same light that had shone
on the scene of which every detail was burnt into his brain; and he felt
again its overpowering reality. No--he couldn’t let the boy go back!
They were at the lodge at last, and Faxon was hammering on the door. He
said to himself: “I’ll get him inside first, and make them give him a
hot drink. Then I’ll see--I’ll find an argument....”
There was no answer to his knocking, and after an interval Rainer said:
“Look here--we’d better go on.”
“No!”
“I can, perfectly--”
“You sha’n’t go to the house, I say!” Faxon redoubled his blows, and
at length steps sounded on the stairs. Rainer was leaning against the
lintel, and as the door opened the light from the hall flashed on his
pale face and fixed eyes. Faxon caught him by the arm and drew him in.
“It _was_ cold out there.” he sighed; and then, abruptly, as if
invisible shears at a single stroke had cut every muscle in his body, he
swerved, drooped on Faxon’s arm, and seemed to sink into nothing at his
feet.
The lodge-keeper and Faxon bent over him, and somehow, between them,
lifted him into the kitchen and laid him on a sofa by the stove.
The lodge-keeper, stammering: “I’ll ring up the house,” dashed out of
the room. But Faxon heard the words without heeding them: omens mattered
nothing now, beside this woe fulfilled. He knelt down to undo the fur
collar about Rainer’s throat, and as he did so he felt a warm moisture
on his hands. He held them up, and they were red....
V
The palms threaded their endless line along the yellow river. The little
steamer lay at the wharf, and George Faxon, sitting in the verandah of
the wooden hotel, idly watched the coolies carrying the freight across
the gang-plank.
He had been looking at such scenes for two months. Nearly five had
elapsed since he had descended from the train at Northridge and strained
his eyes for the sleigh that was to take him to Weymore: Weymore, which
he was never to behold!... Part of the interval--the first part--was
still a great grey blur. Even now he could not be quite sure how he
had got back to Boston, reached the house of a cousin, and been thence
transferred to a quiet room looking out on snow under bare trees. He
looked out a long time at the same scene, and finally one day a man
he had known at Harvard came to see him and invited him to go out on a
business trip to the Malay Peninsula.
“You’ve had a bad shake-up, and it’ll do you no end of good to get away
from things.”
When the doctor came the next day it turned out that he knew of the plan
and approved it. “You ought to be quiet for a year. Just loaf and look
at the landscape,” he advised.
Faxon felt the first faint stirrings of curiosity.
“What’s been the matter with me, anyway?”
“Well, over-work, I suppose. You must have been bottling up for a bad
breakdown before you started for New Hampshire last December. And the
shock of that poor boy’s death did the rest.”
Ah, yes--Rainer had died. He remembered....
He started for the East, and gradually, by imperceptible degrees, life
crept back into his weary bones and leaden brain. His friend was patient
and considerate, and they travelled slowly and talked little. At first
Faxon had felt a great shrinking from whatever touched on familiar
things. He seldom looked at a newspaper and he never opened a letter
without a contraction of the heart. It was not that he had any special
cause for apprehension, but merely that a great trail of darkness lay on
everything. He had looked too deep down into the abyss.... But little
by little health and energy returned to him, and with them the common
promptings of curiosity. He was beginning to wonder how the world was
going, and when, presently, the hotel-keeper told him there were no
letters for him in the steamer’s mail-bag, he felt a distinct sense of
disappointment. His friend had gone into the jungle on a long excursion,
and he was lonely, unoccupied and wholesomely bored. He got up and
strolled into the stuffy reading-room.
There he found a game of dominoes, a mutilated picture-puzzle, some
copies of _Zion’s Herald_ and a pile of New York and London newspapers.
He began to glance through the papers, and was disappointed to find that
they were less recent than he had hoped. Evidently the last numbers had
been carried off by luckier travellers. He continued to turn them over,
picking out the American ones first. These, as it happened, were the
oldest: they dated back to December and January. To Faxon, however, they
had all the flavour of novelty, since they covered the precise period
during which he had virtually ceased to exist. It had never before
occurred to him to wonder what had happened in the world during that
interval of obliteration; but now he felt a sudden desire to know.
To prolong the pleasure, he began by sorting the papers chronologically,
and as he found and spread out the earliest number, the date at the top
of the page entered into his consciousness like a key slipping into a
lock. It was the seventeenth of December: the date of the day after his
arrival at Northridge. He glanced at the first page and read in blazing
characters: “Reported Failure of Opal Cement Company. Lavington’s name
involved. Gigantic Exposure of Corruption Shakes Wall Street to Its
Foundations.”
He read on, and when he had finished the first paper he turned to the
next. There was a gap of three days, but the Opal Cement “Investigation”
still held the centre of the stage. From its complex revelations of
greed and ruin his eye wandered to the death notices, and he read:
“Rainer. Suddenly, at Northridge, New Hampshire, Francis John, only son
of the late....”
His eyes clouded, and he dropped the newspaper and sat for a long time
with his face in his hands. When he looked up again he noticed that his
gesture had pushed the other papers from the table and scattered them at
his feet. The uppermost lay spread out before him, and heavily his eyes
began their search again. “John Lavington comes forward with plan for
reconstructing Company. Offers to put in ten millions of his own--The
proposal under consideration by the District Attorney.”
Ten millions... ten millions of his own. But if John Lavington was
ruined?... Faxon stood up with a cry. That was it, then--that was what
the warning meant! And if he had not fled from it, dashed wildly away
from it into the night, he might have broken the spell of iniquity, the
powers of darkness might not have prevailed! He caught up the pile of
newspapers and began to glance through each in turn for the head-line:
“Wills Admitted to Probate.” In the last of all he found the paragraph
he sought, and it stared up at him as if with Rainer’s dying eyes.
That--_that_ was what he had done! The powers of pity had singled him
out to warn and save, and he had closed his ears to their call, and
washed his hands of it, and fled. Washed his hands of it! That was
the word. It caught him back to the dreadful moment in the lodge when,
raising himself up from Rainer’s side, he had looked at his hands and
seen that they were red....