CHAPTER XIV

THE WHIRLWIND

Frank plunged wildly into the night, and rushed he knew not where. Without umbrella or coat, with straw hat jammed down over his forehead, with jacket flapping in the wind and head bent low, and fists clenched, he flew through the empty streets like a Fury, alone with the storm. For miles he flew, callous to the rain that soaked and drenched him, that splashed his face and closed his eyes. The whole city huddled under the loosened elements, but this human being laughed at the might of the heavens. What if the lightning struck him down? He himself was death flying through the city.

Death! Death of all things! Death of all that made life. What is life without the things dearest to us? What is life without love or hope or joy or vision? Mockery of the Fates! They drive a free man into sweet bondage, and then rob him of the sweet. The bondage remains; the prisoner writhes and struggles in the coils; he cannot escape; he is alone; he cries out; he lifts his hands; the heavens? They send lightning and storm upon him, beat him down, ruin him.

When the mad passion of sex-love seizes a man, has he not for the time a sweet insanity? He cannot see things sensibly; he cannot reason. _This night_ he must have the woman! To wait a day even is torture unendurable. The moments separate; each one is a trial and a durance. Wait for Edith? Wait months? Wait years? As well never marry, as well die at once.

What a world! At first a playground; then a pleasure palace; then an Enchanted Garden--but now? Even as the lightning revealed vivid stretches of avenue, so the world stood naked this night. A mad hell of struggling souls, whipped by the whirlwind, stung and lashed by a rain of fire, split through the heart by the lightnings of pain and hate and failure, drowned in the mocking thunder! Could there be a god in such a mad-house? No--save a mad God, a merciless God, a divine cynic playing with puppets.

What had he done that he merited this? Had he not gone the way of the world? Had he not followed the teachings of the street? Had he not been ignorant? To punish ignorance is to punish innocence. How can we help what we don’t know? No one had ever taught him, no one warned him. Why, they had patted him on the back and told him to go out and be a man. They had told him that until he had made the rounds he had not reached manhood. And so he had gone.

Women of old arose and danced through the night at his side. The golden-haired one was there, laughing like a waterfall, loosing her harsh, sweet music. These had taught him life, these had taught him _Woman_.

Why, it was wildly absurd. The Doctor was wrong. Men like the Doctor are fanatics. They go too far. And they are ignorant. What do they know of the world?

Was he sick? Did he carry a peril in his body? Was he a danger? Mad! mad! who could believe such a thing! Wouldn’t he feel pain if there was a real trouble? Wouldn’t he be weak and crippled? He knew. He had been through it long ago. He was all right. He was well and strong.

Who can go against Nature? It was Nature all these years that had driven him into vice. Who can go against her? And what is natural is right. Now Nature was driving him into marriage; Nature with her fatal hands was drawing a man and woman together; they had to serve her purposes; they could not resist; they could not push off a finger; slowly, surely, inevitably closer and closer they came. Now they were at the very verge of marriage. What could stop them? Who could go against Nature? And what is natural is right.

Came a vivid vision of the three little rooms, the new furniture, the sunlight streaming on Edith’s head. Oh, the overrunning happiness! Oh, the cup trembling at the very lips! The gates, the golden gates of happiness within reach of the hand!

Edith had said:

“I didn’t dream it would be so lovely.”

He had answered:

“It’s ours--it would be beautiful no matter what it was!”

He felt the pressure of her lips, the passionate hug of her arms in the train. Again those last wild words--the good-by.

She had cried in his ear:

“I don’t want to go away! I was so happy!”

“Hush!” he had said; “think of how much happier we will be to have each other!”

“You’ll still love me? Surely?”

“Love you!”

“And you’ll miss me?”

“Every moment!”

“And write every day?”

“Every day!”

Oh, the wild-rose, the sweet face, the trust in him. She was coming back in a week; they were to be married; they were to go into the little home; _their_ home. Every evening he would come home to her; they would sit opposite at table; their lives would be woven and woven into one another, and go trailing beautifully down the years. Who could stop them? Who could withhold the glory promised? Who would hold the wild cup to their lips and then dash it to the ground as they reached trembling to taste of it?

But now? Hideous was the world! Hidden in it were poisons and death-dealing drugs. Terrors lurked behind the beautiful face of Nature. Under the skin lay earthquake and volcano. Hideous!

He was caught in a trap. He had ignorantly sown the wind, and now the whirlwind was sweeping him to ruin. But not only him. The wild-rose! The wild-rose torn from the sunny soil and blown away into the dark, deathly gorge.

“This will kill her,” he cried. “This will kill her!”

He had no excuse to offer her. Tell her the truth? Never! She would shrink from him, as from a thing tainted. She would shudder in his presence, a girl so pure and sweet and innocent. She would learn to hate him. That would end all.

He racked his brain. What could he tell her? Had he lost his position? He could get another. Was he sick? That was absurd; she knew he was well. Could he withhold the reason, and tell her to trust to him? She would demand the truth; she would think he had ceased to love her. What reason was there after taking the little home and furnishing it?

“Go to her,” cried his heart; “go to her, and trust to your instincts to explain!”

Wild advice! He knew that if he saw her face, that if he touched her lips with his, that if once her arms were about him, all was lost. He had not the strength to look on her and depart.

The Doctor’s words flew back to his mind. He tried to shut them out. They persisted in coming. They stormed upon him, they cried out, they were heard--heard loudly. Edith an invalid--Edith a broken woman--and the baby!

Could it be blind--their baby? Horrible! That surely would break Edith’s heart! Come! he must be a man! He must swallow the bitter medicine! How dared he think of passion?

So then--it was all over! He would tell Edith--and Edith would plead with him to tell all. And all he couldn’t tell. That would break it all up. Yes, he must renounce Edith. He must release her utterly. He must go his own way. This then is the end of the wild enchantment and the golden days! This is the end of it.

He saw the black and bitter years ahead--he saw Edith growing old alone, her love for him turned to hate, her dreams shattered--a withered and dried single woman! He saw himself plunging again into vice, drowning his sorrow--a long, empty, cynical life.

Impossible! Why must this be?

Because a fanatic had told him he was a peril. It was a lie! a lie! He knew better. There was Julius Neuman, he remembered, who had had the same trouble and married. Why, he had three children--three lusty children--and his wife was strong and happy.

Frank laughed. The Doctor was crazy! He was making a mountain of a mole-hill. Who can go against Nature? Nature is always right. Go with her, not against her.

Laughing harshly he turned homeward. He thought he had solved the trouble. He thought it was all over.

But then with redoubled fury the whirlwind awoke again. Try as he would he could not drown out the downright sense of the Doctor. His mind told him that he didn’t know all about Julius Neuman. His mind told him that the Doctor handled such facts every day, and knew.

Wild was his heart again! He saw the wild-rose torn and trampled in the mud. He saw his own life crashing about him. But he had to have her; he was crazy for her. Waiting even a week was nearly unendurable.

He clenched his fists again; he raged; he drove like a demon. Vivid lightnings struck open the heavens and tore night out of the streets; thunder boomed through the rushing air. Up the stairs of the Henry Street tenement he dashed, flung open the door of his home, and slammed it to.

His mother cried out:

“Frank? Is it you?”

He did not answer. He slammed the door of his own room. He sat down on the bed in the blackness. Water poured from him, splashing the floor. He was almost insane. He could not bear the fire in his breast, the fever on his forehead and cheeks.

“Good God!” he cried hoarsely. “Good God!”

The door opened gently; someone entered.

“O God! God!” he cried; “I’m going crazy!”

A gentle hand touched him; a gentle voice spoke:

“Frank.”

He did not answer.

“Has something happened to Edith?”

He laughed harshly. His mother began to cry, with soft sobs:

“Frank, Frank!”

She drew his head to her heart, she patted his cheek. Something broke down within him; he was very weak. He did not resist.

“Oh, Mother,” he moaned, “what shall I do?”

“What is it, Frank?”

“I can’t tell you!”

They were silent. His mother stooped and kissed him.

“Do what is right, dear. My poor boy! my poor boy!”

She was gone. He grew calm, as in a trance. He arose and lit the gas; sat down at his little table, and took pen and paper.

“My darling,” he began writing, “never doubt that I love you with my very soul, and would rather die than harm you. We cannot marry yet. You mustn’t ask for the reason--I am not allowed to tell. You must trust to me--trust absolutely. Perhaps it will only be for a short time----”

He paused, pen in air. He saw the wild-rose reading these strange words; he saw her pale, perhaps swooning away. It was like stabbing her with a knife. No, no, no! Darling Edith! He could not hurt her! He could not harm her!

“No,” he said quietly, “I will go to her. She is wise and good. I will tell her like a child; she will forgive me like a mother!”

Long and long he lay, even until the dawn broke white and clear--lay in a strange peace; knowing that Edith was wise and good.

And that next day he took train and went to her, with forewarning of a telegram. She met him at the station--and how brown she was--how beautiful with the sun and the wind! How fresh and girlish again! She was wildly happy. He had come, she knew, because he could not stay away from her. Glorious was that evening. He could not bring himself to break into her wonderful happiness. Calm and quiet, he let her walk him under the stars.

And then that night she whispered:

“Let’s climb the mountain in the morning! See the sunrise from the mountain top!”

That was his chance. Up there in the clear dawn he could speak. So they planned to meet before the house at four in the morning, and they parted, kissing passionately, drowsy with the glory of their love.