The Seventh Noon Part 13

"Like the gra.s.s of the field?" she asked with a smile at his earnestness, which was so at odds with his light eager comments upon the bits of color which shot by them.

"Worse--because the gra.s.s is helpless."

"And we? We boast a little more, but are n't we at the mercy of chance?"

"Not if we are worthy of our souls."

She frowned.

"There is Ben, surely he is not altogether to blame," she objected.

"Less to blame than some others, perhaps."

"Then there is the chance that helps us w.i.l.l.y nilly," she urged. "You, to me, are such a chance. Surely it was not within my power to bring about this good fortune any more than it is within the power of some others to ward off bad fortune."

"The mere episode does n't count. The handling of it is always within our power."

"And we can turn it to ill or good, as we wish?"

"Precisely."

"Providing we are wise enough," she returned.

"Yes, always providing that. That is the test of us."

"If we do poorly because of lack of wisdom?" she pressed him further.

"The cost is the same," he answered bitterly.

"That is a man's view. I don't like to feel so responsible."

"It would n't be necessary for women to be responsible for anything if men lived up to their best."

She laughed comfortably. He was one who would. She liked the uncompromising way in which his lips closed below his quick imaginative eyes.

It seemed but a matter of minutes before the train drew up at a toy station which looked like the suburban office of a real estate development company. Here they learned that the summer schedule was not yet in force, which meant that they would be unable to find a train back until four o'clock.

"I should have inquired at the other end. That oversight is either chance or stupidity," he exclaimed.

She met his eyes frankly, apparently not at all disconcerted.

"We can't decide which until we learn how it turns out, can we?" she laughed.

"No," he replied seriously, "it will depend upon that."

"Then," she said, "we need n't worry until the end. I have a feeling, grown strong now that we are here, that we shall need the extra time.

I think we shall find him."

"That result alone will excuse my carelessness."

She appeared a bit worried over a new thought.

"I forgot. This will delay you further on your vacation."

"No. Nothing can do that," he interrupted her. "Every day, every hour I live is my vacation."

"That," she said, "is a fine way to take life."

He looked startled, but hastened to find a vehicle to carry them the three miles which lay between the station and the bungalow. He found an old white horse attached to the dusty skeleton of a depot wagon waiting for chance pa.s.sengers. They clambered into this and were soon jogging at an easy pace over the fragrant bordered road which wandered with apparent aimlessness between the green fields. The driver turned half way in his seat with easy familiarity as they started up the first long hill. "Ben't ye afeered to go inter th' house?" he inquired.

"Afraid of what?" demanded Donaldson.

"Spooks."

"They don't come out in the daytime, do they?"

"I dunno. But they do say as how th' house is ha'nted these times."

"How did that story start?"

"Some allows they has seen queer lights there at night. An' there 's been shadders seen among the trees."

The girl leaned forward excitedly.

"Old wives' tales," Donaldson rea.s.sured her in an undertone.

"This has been lately?" he inquired of the driver.

"Off an' on in th' last few weeks."

Donaldson turned to the girl whose features had grown fixed again in that same old gloom of haunting fear.

"They circulate such yarns as those about every closed house," he said.

"Those lights and shadows are n't made by ghosts," she whispered.

"Then--that's so," he answered with sudden understanding. "It's the boy himself!"

At the barred lane which swept in a curve out of sight from the road he dismissed the driver. Even if they were successful in their quest, it would probably be necessary to straighten out Arsdale before allowing him to be seen. But as an afterthought he turned back and ordered the man to call here for them in time to make the afternoon train.

He lowered the rails, and Miss Arsdale led the way without hesitation along a gra.s.s-grown road and through an old orchard. The trees were scraggly and untrimmed, littered with dead branches, but Spring, the mother, had decked them with green leaves and buds until they looked as jaunty as old people going to a fair. The sun sifted through the tender sprigs to the sprouting soil beneath, making there the semblance of a choice rug of a green and gold pattern. The bungalow stood upon the top of a small hill, concealed from the road. It was of rather attractive appearance, though sadly in need of repair. All the windows were curtained and there was no sign of life. The broad piazza which ran around three sides of it was cluttered with dead leaves.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _He lowered the rails, and Miss Arsdale led the way_]

She took the key to the front door from her purse and he inserted it in the lock.

"You wait out here," he commanded, "until I take a look around."