The Seventh Noon Part 21

"Exactly that; I 've prevented you from going to bed within two hours of the Lord's day with the theft of two hundred dollars on your soul."

"If ye think I 'm gonter stand up here in th' cold and listen to sech talk as thet--"

"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars cash for the place,"

interrupted Donaldson. "And remember that I know you through and through. I even know how much you stole from old man Burnham."

This was a chance shot, but it evidently went home from the sound of uneasy coughing and spluttering that came to him over the telephone.

Donaldson found considerable amus.e.m.e.nt in grilling this country Shylock.

"Why, the house 'n' barn is wuth more 'n thet," the deacon exploded.

"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars, and mail the money to you to-night."

"See here, I don't know who ye be, but ye 're darned sa.s.sy. I won't trade with ye afore Monday an'--"

"Then you won't trade at all."

"I 'll split th'--"

"You 'll take that price or leave it."

"I'll take it, but--"

"Good," broke in Donaldson sharply. "The operator here is a witness.

I 'll send the money to-night, and have a tenant in the house Tuesday.

Good night, Deacon."

"If yer--"

The rest of the sentence faded into the jangle of the line, but Donaldson broke in again.

"Say, Deacon, were you really in bed at this time of night?"

"Gol darn--"

"Careful! Careful!"

"Wall, ye need n't think cause ye 're in N' York ye can be so all-fired smart."

A sharp click told him that the deacon had hung up the receiver in something of a temper. Donaldson came out of the booth, hesitated, and then put in another call. He found relaxation in the vaudeville picture he had of the spindle-shanked hypocrite fretting in the cold so many miles distant. He was morally certain that the old fellow had robbed the dying Burnham of half his scant property. If he had had the time he would have started a lawyer upon an investigation. As he did n't, and he saw nothing more entertaining ahead of him until morning, he took satisfaction in pestering him as much as possible in this somewhat childish way.

"Keep at him until he answers," he ordered the girl.

It took ten minutes to rouse the deacon again.

"Is this Deacon Staples?" he inquired.

"Consarn ye--"

"I was n't sure you said good night. I should hate to think you went to sleep in a temper."

"It's none of your business how I go to sleep. If you ring me up again I 'll have the law on ye."

"So? I 'll return good for evil. I 'll give you a warning; look out for the ghost of old Burnham to-night."

"For what?"

There was fear in the voice. Donaldson smiled. This suggested a new cue.

"He's coming sure, because his daughter is a widow, and needs that money."

"I held his notes," the deacon explained, as though really anxious to offer an excuse. "I can prove it."

"Prove it to Burnham's ghost. He may go back."

"B--back where?"

"To his grave. He sleeps uneasy to-night."

"Be you crazy?"

"Look behind you--quick!"

The receiver dropped. Donaldson could hear it swinging against the wall. Without giving the deacon an opportunity to express his wrath and fears, Donaldson hung up his own receiver and cheerfully paid the cost of his twenty-minute talk.

In spite of the fact that on Thursday night he had slept only three hours, that on Friday night he had not even lain down, his mind was still alert. He did not have the slightest sense of weariness. It was rest enough for him to know that the girl was asleep, relaxation enough to recall the maiden joy that had freshened the eyes of Mrs. Wentworth.

It was too late to get a money-order, but he secured a check from the hotel manager for the amount, and finding in the Berringdon paper the name of a local lawyer whom he remembered as a boy, he mailed it to him with a letter of explanation. The deed was to be made out to Mrs.

Alice E. Wentworth, and was to be held until she called for it. In case of any difficulty--for it occurred to him that the deacon might at the last moment sacrifice a good trade out of spite--the lawyer was to telegraph him at once at the Waldorf.

Then he looked up the time the Berringdon train left and wrote a note giving Mrs. Wentworth final detailed instructions.

Then still unwilling to trust himself alone with his thoughts, Donaldson remained about the lobby. He felt in touch here with all the wide world which lay spread out below the night sky. He studied with interest the weary travellers who were dropped here by steamers which had throbbed across so many turbulent watery miles, by locomotives hot from their steel-held course. The ever-changing figures absorbed him until, with her big shouldered husband, a woman entered who remotely resembled her he had been forced to leave to the protection of one old serving maid. Then in spite of himself, his thoughts ran wild again.

He hungered to get back to his old office, where, if he could find nothing else to do for her, he could at least bury himself in his law books. This unknown man strode across the lobby so confidently--every st.u.r.dy line of him suggesting blowsy strength. The unknown woman tripped along at his heels in absolute trust of it. And he, Donaldson, sat here, a helpless spectator, with a worthier woman trusting him as though he were such a man.

In rebellion he argued that it was absurd that such a pa.s.sion as his towards a woman of whom he had seen so little should be genuine. His condition had made him mawkishly sentimental. He had been fascinated like a callow youngster by her delicate, pretty features; by her deep gray eyes, her budding lips, her gentle voice. He would be writing verse next. He was free--free, and in one stroke he had placed the world at his feet. He was above it--beyond it, and every living human soul in it. He rose as though to challenge the hotel itself, which represented the crude active part of this world.

But with the memory of his afternoon, his declaration of independence lasted but a moment. He was back in the green fields with her--back in the blazing suns.h.i.+ne with her, and the knowledge that from there, not here, the road began along which lay everything his eager nature craved.

Well, even so, was he going to cower back into a corner? There still remained to him five days. To use them decently he must keep to the present. The big future--the true future was dead. Admit it. There still remained a little future. Let him see what he could do with that.

A porter came in with a mop and swabbed up the deserted floors.

Donaldson watched every movement of his strong arms and felt sorry, when, his part played, he retired to the wings. Then he went to his room. He partly undressed and threw himself upon the bed. It was then ten minutes of four on Sunday morning, May twenty-sixth.

In spite of his apparent wakefulness he napped, for when he came to himself again it was broad daylight. An anxious looking hotel clerk stood at the foot of his bed, while a pop-eyed bell-boy pressed close behind him. Donaldson rose to his elbow.

"What the devil are you doing in here?" he demanded.