The Seventh Noon Part 27

Though this had now become fixed in his mind, there was still the scant hope that he had grasped from what he had observed in Arsdale's manner.

Given the morsel of a man, and there was still hope. Therefore it was with considerable interest that he watched for some evidence of the higher nature, even if only expressed in the crude form of shame. At times Arsdale looked like a craven cornered to his death--at times like a man struggling with a great grief--at times like a man dazed and uncomprehending.

To himself he moaned continuously. Frequently he rose to his elbow with the cry, "Is she hurt?"

Still in silence Donaldson watched him. Once Arsdale fell forward on his chin, where he lay motionless, his eyes still upon Donaldson. The latter helped him back to the pillow, but Arsdale shrank from his touch.

"Your eyes!" he gasped, covering his own with his trembling hand.

"They are the eyes of a devil. Take them off me--take them off!"

But Arsdale could not endure his blindness long. It made the ugly visions worse. So, he saw the girl with red blood streaming down her cheeks.

The sight of this writhing soul raised many new speculations in Donaldson's mind especially in connection with its possible outcome.

In the matter of religion he was negative, neither believing any professed creed nor denying any. He had received no early impetus, and had up to now been too preoccupied with his earthly interests, with no great grief or happiness to arouse him, to formulate any theory in his own mind. Even at the moment he had swallowed the poison the motive prompting him to it had been so intensely material that it had started but the most momentary questions. It was the thought of Mrs.

Wentworth, the sight of the baby, the indefinable boundaries of his own love--it was love that pressed the question in upon him. Now the other extreme embodied in the sight of the man before him, capped by the acute query of what the sin of murder might mean, sharpened it to a real concern. If such love as the mother and the girl connoted forbade the conception that love expired with life, the torture of this other stunted soul seemed prophetic of what might be awaiting his own future, dwarfed by the shifty expedient he had adopted to check its development. If punishment counted for anything, he was, to be sure, receiving his full portion right here on earth. The realization of what he was leaving was an inquisition of the most exquisite order.

But would this be the end? His consciousness, as he sat there, refused to allow the hope,--refused even to allow the hope to be desired.

So, face to face, each of these two struggled with the problem of his next step. To each of them life had a new and terrible significance.

From a calm sea it had changed to wind-rent chaos. It was revealing its potentialities,--lamb-like when asleep, lion-like when roused.

Tangle-haired Tragedy had stalked forth into the midst of men going about their business.

The man on the bed broke out again,

"Why did n't I die before that? Why did n't I die before?"

Then he turned upon Donaldson with a new horror in his eyes.

"I did n't kill her?" he gasped.

The answer to his cry came--though he could not interpret it--in the ringing of the telephone. Donaldson crossed to it, while Arsdale cowered back in bed as though fearing this were news of some fresh disaster. To him the broken conversation meant nothing; to Donaldson it brought a relief that saved him almost from madness.

"Is that you, Mr. Donaldson?" she asked.

"Yes. And you--you are well?"

There was a pause, and then came the query again,

"Is that you?"

"Yes, can't you hear my voice?"

"It does n't sound like your voice. Is anything the matter?"

"No, nothing. I don't understand what you mean."

She hesitated again and then answered,

"It--it made me almost afraid."

"It's your nerves. Did you sleep well?"

"Yea. And is Ben all right?"

"Yes."

"There it is again," she broke in. "Your voice sounds harsh."

"That must be your imagination."

"Perhaps," she faltered. "Are you going to bring him home to-day?"

"Probably not until this evening. But," he broke in, "I shall come sooner myself. I shall come this morning. Will you tell that gentleman waiting near the gate to come down here?"

"What gentleman?"

"You probably have n't seen him. I put him there on guard."

"You are thoughtful. Your voice is natural again. Is Ben awake now?"

"Yes."

"And does he know?"

"Some things."

"Mr. Donaldson," she said, and he caught the shuddering fear in her voice, "are you keeping anything from me?"

"I don't know what you mean, but I will come up so that you may see there has been no change."

"I still think you are concealing something."

"Nothing that is not better concealed; nothing that you could help."

"I should rather know. I do not like being guarded in that way."

"We all have to guard one another. You in your turn guard me."

"From what?"

"Many things. You are doing it now--this minute."

"From what?" she insisted.

"From myself."

"Oh, I don't know what you mean. I think you had better come up here at once--if it is safe to leave Ben."

"I shall make it safe. Don't forget to send down my man."

He hung up the receiver and turned to Arsdale. The latter must have noticed instantly the change in Donaldson's expression, for he rose to his elbow with eager face.