The Seventh Noon Part 33

He had risen from beside her and pressed towards the window as though once again he wished to taste the air that came down to him from the star-country to sweeten the decaying soul of him.

"What was it, Elaine?" he demanded.

"You heard," she answered, "because every fibre of him is true. Tell me more."

"He showed me the sun on the windows!" he ran on eagerly. "He showed me the people pa.s.sing on the streets! He showed me what I--even I--had to do among them. Did you know that we are n't just ourselves--that we 're a part of a thousand other lives? Did you know that?"

"It takes a seer really to know that," she answered, "but it's true."

"That's it," he broke in. "He _knows_! He doesn't guess, he doesn't reason, he _knows_!"

She was leaning forward, her head a little back, her eyes half-closed.

He saw the veins in her neck--the light purple penciling of them--as they throbbed. He was held a moment by the sight. Then he laughed gently.

"Little sister," he said, "you know him even better than I."

She started back.

He was surprised at the shy beauty he perceived. She had always seemed to him such a sober body.

The nurse rapped at the door.

"It is bedtime," she announced,

"Yes, nurse," she answered quickly.

"He asked if he might come to say good night. He 's going to stay here with me a day or so. Shall I bring him up?"

She hesitated a moment and then meeting her brother's eyes steadily, answered,

"Yes, Ben."

When Donaldson came into the room she was shocked at the change in his appearance. It was almost as though what Arsdale had gained Donaldson had lost. He was colorless, wan, and haggard. His eyes seemed more deeply imbedded in the dark recesses below his brows. Even his hair at the temples looked grayer. But neither his voice nor his manner betrayed the change. The grip of his hand was just as sure; there was the same certainty in gesture and speech, save perhaps for some abstraction.

"They tell me I may stay but a minute," he said, "but it is good to see you even that long."

"You brought him back home," she cried. "But it has cost you heavy.

You look tired."

"I am not tired," he answered shortly. Then turning the talk away from himself, as he was ever eager to do, he continued,

"I brought him home, but the burden is still on you."

"Not a burden any longer. You have removed the burden."

"I 'm afraid not. There still remains the fight to make him stay.

This is only a beginning."

His face grew worried.

"He will stay," she answered confidently, "he will stay because you reached the father in him and the father was a fighter. I saw the father in his eyes--I heard his father's voice. It is a miracle!"

"No. The miracle is how we men keep blind."

"I feel blind myself when I think how you see."

"I am no psychic," he exclaimed impatiently. "I see nothing that is n't before me. You can't help seeing unless you close your eyes. The world presses in upon you from every side. It is insistent. Even now the stars outside there are demanding recognition."

He drew back the crimson curtains draping the big French windows, which opened upon a balcony. The silver stiletto rays darted a greeting to him. He swung open the windows.

"Come out with me and see my friends," he said.

She rose instantly and followed him.

He stood there a moment in silence, his head back as he seemed to lead her into the limitless fragrant purple above. She caught his profile and saw him like some prophet. It was as though a people were at his back and he trying to pierce the road ahead for them. The thin face and erect head seemed to dominate the night. He looked down at her, a sad smile about his mouth.

"Out here," he said, "out here with a million miles over our heads we are freer."

In her eyes he saw now just what he saw in the stars, the same freedom of unpathed universes. He saw the same limitlessness. Here there were no boundaries. A man could go on forever and forever in those eyes--in their marvelous unfolding. More! More! He would go beyond the cognate universe, straight into the golden heart of universes beyond.

Eternity was written there. The beacon of her eyes flamed a path that reached beyond the stars!

She seemed like nothing but a trusting child. So, she was one with the great poets. So, she was a great poem. He listened to the same music which had moved Isaiah.

"The stars,--they seem to be dancing!" she exclaimed.

It was to the music of the spheres they were dancing.

"You!" he commanded, "you must get away from this house. You must take Ben and get away from here. You must go into a new country. You must begin your life anew and forget all this, forget everything."

He paused.

"Everything," he repeated. "They tell us that the road is straight and narrow. It's narrow, but it is n't straight. It's crooked and it's winding and it goes through brake and brush. It's a hard road to find and a hard road to keep, even with the polestar over our heads. Maybe, if we were a little above earth--maybe for those who are winged--the road is straight, but we are n't all winged. Some of us have n't even st.u.r.dy legs and have to creep. Some of us find our legs only after we are helplessly lost. For down below there is a terrible tangle with things to be gone around, with things to beat down, and always the tangle above our heads. So what wonder that we get lost? What wonder?"

"But I am not lost--you are not lost!"

"I! I do not matter," he answered slowly. "You must n't let me matter. I come into your life and I go out of your life and I pray that I have done no harm."

His words to her were like words caught in a wind. She heard s.n.a.t.c.hes of them, but she was unable to piece them together.

"In your new life you must forget even me. We have met in the brush and gone on a little way together. We have helped each other in finding each his true road again. Whether the paths will meet again--whether the paths will meet again--" he repeated as though deep in some new and grander reflection, "why, G.o.d knows. If we go on forever, perhaps they will in an aeon or two."

He paused to give her an opportunity to say something which he might use as a subject for proceeding farther. His thoughts did n't go very far along any one line. Always he seemed checked by a wall of darkness. But she said nothing. The silence lengthened into a minute.

"Do you understand?" he asked gently.

"No," she answered frankly.

"Then--then perhaps we had better go in," he said, fearing for himself.