_ CHAPTER X. Outside the Hedge
She came down the stairs, a vision of young womanhood, dressed in white, with a wide turn-down collar fastened at the throat by a generous tie of black. Her hat was a girlish affair of black straw with a cluster of red roses gathered at the brim. She was drawing on her black gloves as she neared him--with the background of the broad Colonial staircase--a study for a master. She approached with the grace of a princess and the poise of a woman twice her years. He now could have no more bade her remain behind than he could have stopped the progress of time. There was something almost inevitable in her movements, as though it had been foreordained that they two should have this day in the country, no matter under what evil auspices. Without a word he held open the door for her to pass through and followed her into the cab.
Into the Drive they were whirled and so towards the station, the throbbing heart of the city. The ant-like throng was going and coming, and now he was one of them. It was as though the strand of his life, hanging loose, had been caught up, forced into the shuttle, and taken again into the pattern. At her side he made his way into the depot at the side of a hundred others; at her side he took his turn in line at the ticket window; at her side he made his way towards the gates, a score of others jostling him in criticism of his more moderate pace. An old client, one of his few, bowed to him. He returned the salute as though his position were the most matter-of-fact one in the world. Yet he was still confused. He had been thrust upon the stage but he was uncertain of his cue. What was the meaning of this figure by his side? In his old part, she had not been there.
When at last they were seated side by side in the car and the train began slowly to pull out, her presence there seemed even more unreal than ever. But soon he gave himself up comfortably to the illusion. She was within arm's length of him and they were steaming through the green country. That was enough for him to know at present. She looked very trim as compared to the other women who passed in and took their places in the dusty, red-cushioned seats. She looked more alive--less a type. She gave tone to the whole car.
Up to now, she had given her attention to scanning the faces of the multitude they had passed in the faint hope that by some chance her brother might be among them, but once the train started she surrendered herself fully to the new hope which lay ahead of her in the bungalow. This gave her an opportunity to study more closely this man who so suddenly had become her chief reliance in this intimate detail of her life. His kindly good nature furnished her a sharp contrast to the sober seriousness of the older man with whom so much of her youth had been lived. He had thrown open the doors and windows of the gloomy house in which she had so long been pent up. And yet as he rambled on in an evident attempt to lighten her burden, she caught a note that piqued her curiosity. It was as though below the surface he was fretted by some problem which lent a touch of sadness to his hearty courageous outlook. She felt it, when once on the journey he broke out,
"Don't ever look below the surface of anything I say. Don't ever try to look beyond the next step I take. I'm here to-day; gone to-morrow."
"Like the grass 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 grass 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 willy 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 passengers. 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 reassured 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 grass-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.
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."
"I would rather go in with you. I know the house."
"I will open it up first," he said calmly, and stepping in before she had time to protest further, he closed the door behind him. He heard her clenched fists pounding excitedly on the panels.
"Mr. Donaldson," she pleaded, "it isn't safe. You don't know--"
"Don't do that," he shouted back. "I'll be out in a few moments."
"But you don't know him," she cried; "he might strike you!"
"I 'll be on guard," he answered.
The lower floor was one big room and showed no sign of having been occupied for years. It was scantily furnished and smelled damp and musty. At one side a big stone fireplace looked as dead as a tomb. He pushed through a door into the kitchen which led off this. The cast-iron stove was rusted and the covers cracked. He glanced into it. It was free of ashes and the wood-box was empty.
He came back and slowly mounted the stairs leading to the next floor. Stopping at the top, he listened. There was no sound. He entered the sleeping rooms one after another. The beds were stripped of blankets and the striped canvas of the mattresses was dusty and forbidding. There were six of these rooms but the farther one alone was habitable. Here a few blankets covered the bed and in the small fireplace there were ashes. They were cold, but he detected several bits of charred paper which were dry and crisp. Some old clothes were scattered about the floor and several minor articles which he scarcely noticed. He listened again. There was not a sound, and yet he had a feeling, born of what he did not know, that he was not alone here. The effect was to startle him. If he had been just a passing stranger looking for a place to lodge for the night it would have been sufficient to drive him outdoors again.
He came out into the hall which divided the rooms, and there saw a ladder which led into an unlighted attic. He paused. He heard her calling to him, but he did not answer. He would soon be down again.
He mounted the ladder quickly, and peered into the dark of the unlighted recess. He could make out nothing, and so clambered over a beam to the unfinished floor to wait until his eyes had become more accustomed to the shadows. His feet had scarcely touched a firm foundation before he was conscious of a slight noise behind him. He turned, and at the same moment a form hurled itself upon him. In the frenzied movement of the hands for his throat, in the spasmodic clutch of the arms which clung animal-like about him he recognized the same mad, unreasoning passion with which young Arsdale had before attacked him. He could not see his face, and the man uttered no cry. The fellow's arms seemed stronger than before and even longer. But he himself was stronger also, and so while the madman from behind clasped his hands below Donaldson's throat, the latter managed to get his own arms behind him and secure a firm grip on his assailant's trousers. Then he threw himself sideways and back as much as possible. They both fell, and Donaldson in the scramble got to his side and shifted one arm higher up. The fall, too, loosened the man's strangle hold though he still remained on top. Donaldson then fought to throw him off, but the fellow clung so close to his body that he was unable to secure a purchase.
The fight now settled down to a trial of strength and endurance between them. He strained his free arm as though to crush in this demon's ribs. He kicked out with his feet and knees; he dug his head into the fellow's chest. The latter clung without cry or word like a living nightmare. His hand was creeping towards Donaldson's throat again. He felt it stealing up inch by inch and was powerless to check it. He rolled and tumbled and pushed. Then his head came down sharply on a beam and he lost consciousness.
In the meanwhile Miss Arsdale had waited at the front door, her ears to the panels. For a few moments she heard Donaldson's footsteps moving about the house, but soon the walls swallowed him up completely. She ran back a little and strained her eyes towards the upper windows. They were darkened with shades. She felt a keen sense of responsibility for not having told him, from the start, of what a demon Arsdale became when cornered in this condition. She had half concealed the fact because of shame and because--she shuddered back from the mere thought of another possibility so terrible that she could not yet even admit it to herself. She comforted herself with the memory that at the last moment she had feebly warned. But twice before she had refused to admit to him the worst.
She waited as long as she was able to endure the strain and then skirted the house to the rear. The kitchen door was wide open. She pushed forward into the middle of the house, calling his name. Receiving no response, she mounted the stairs to the second floor. She glanced into each room. In the farther one an article on the floor, which had escaped Donaldson's notice, riveted her eyes. It was an empty pocket-book. It was neither her own nor Arsdale's. Instead of finding relief in this, it drove her back trembling against the wall. Then with swift resolution she gathered herself together, picked up the wallet and hid it in her waist. As she did so, she turned as though fearful that some one might be observing her act.
She made her way out into the hall again and there found herself confronting Donaldson--dusty, bruised, and dishevelled.
He was leaning against the ladder. _