The Seventh Noon Part 44

"It is better," he was saying, "to be direct--to be as honest as possible at such a time as this. We can't say some things very gently, try as we may, because they are brutal facts in themselves. But I am going to tell you all I can as simply as I can. I must leave you. It is n't of my own free will that I go, though at the beginning it was.

Now I go because I must. Perhaps you will never again hear of me. If you don't you must remember me as you know me now. Do you understand that, Miss Arsdale? You know me now as I am--as no other human being knows me. Will you cling to this?"

"You are to me as you are. So you always will be."

She met his eyes unflinchingly, feeling a new strength growing within her. He went on:

"If we cling to what we ourselves know of our friends--if we cling to that through thick and thin, nothing that happens to them can matter much. It is that confidence which lifts our friends.h.i.+ps beyond the reach of the cur snappings of circ.u.mstance. So you, whatever you may hear afterwards, whatever things you find yourself unable to understand, must hold fast to this week. You must say to yourself,"

his voice grew husky, "you must say this,--'If it had been possible for him to do so, he would have lived out his life as I wished him to live it out.'"

As he spoke on, it seemed to him that she, in some subtle way, was rising superior to him. Instead of losing strength as she stood there before him, he felt her growing in power. He had been talking to her as to a child, and now he suddenly found himself confronting a woman.

She was now the dominant personality. When she spoke to him her voice was firmer and possessed of a new richness.

"I have heard you," she said. "All the things you spoke are true. Why are you going?"

He hesitated at the direct question.

"Because I must."

"Why must you?"

"I cannot tell you."

She placed a steady hand upon his arm.

"Yes. You must tell me."

"Don't tempt me like that!"

He felt himself weakening. If only he might stand before her with his mask off. It meant freedom, it meant peace. That was all he asked--just the privilege of standing stark white before this one woman.

He turned away. The burden was his and he must bear it, if it crushed his very soul into the clay. Away from those eyes, he might be able to write some poor explanation. But to put it into cold words would be only to force upon her the torture of the next few hours. It was better for her to believe as she now saw him, as she might guess, than to suffer the ghastly truth and then s.h.i.+ver at the mud idol that was left.

He moved back a step.

"You must not look at me," he cried. "You must keep your eyes away from me and--and let me go."

But she followed, pressing him to the wall as they all had done. The color leaped to her cheeks. Her eyes grew big and tender.

"I do not think you understand me," she said.

He stood awed before what he now saw. It was as though he were looking at a naked soul.

"I do not think you understand," she continued, lifting her head a little. "You will not go, because there can be no call so great as that which bids you stay."

He answered, "My master is the master of us all."

"Then," she returned, "I too must go to meet your master. He must claim us both."

"G.o.d forbid," he exclaimed.

"You talk of masters," she ran on more excitedly, "and you are only a man. We women have a master greater than any you know. You taught me a moment ago to be direct--to be honest. It is so I must be with you now. I must be brave," her voice trembled a little, "I must stand face to face with you. Oh, if you were not so unselfish--so unseeing, you would not make me do this!"

He stood speechless--his throat aching the length of it.

"You treat me like a child, when you have made me a woman! You treat me like a weakling, when you have given me strength! You tell me you have some great trouble and then you refuse to allow me to share it!

Don't you see?"

Her face was transfigured by pure white courage. He trembled before it. Yet he only gripped himself the firmer and stood before her immovable, every word she spoke leaving a red welt upon his soul.

"Peter," she trembled, not in fright but because of her overflowing heart, "you have shown me the wonder of life during this last week.

You have taken me by the hand and have led me out of the gray barren land into the flowers and perfume of the orchard. You have done for me as you did for Ben. Why should I be ashamed to say this? I would not measure up to you if I kept silent now and let you go alone. I am not ashamed."

To himself he said,

"G.o.d give me courage to stand firm."

"You make it harder for me when you say nothing."

"I must not listen!"

"Don't keep me in the dark," she pleaded. "Don't send me back alone into the dark. It's being alone that hurts."

To himself he said,

"G.o.d keep me from telling her. G.o.d keep me from letting her know of my love. So it is best."

"Don't you see now?"

Again that phrase of his which had come back through Arsdale's lips to scorch him.

All he could say aloud was,

"I must go, and if I can, I will come back."

"I mean nothing to you if I cannot help you now," she said steadily.

"If the road were smooth to you do you think I could tell you what I have? It is your need--it is your need that has given me the strength."

To himself he said,

"G.o.d keep my lips sealed."

To her he said,

"I must go."

She was startled.

"You remember the orchard, Peter?"