XVII
LARRY FORGETS
For once Mr. Reed was alone, after Mr. Tully had taken Jocelyn off to show her his efforts at floriculture, and we had a nice comfortable chat. I think he was glad to see me. He said so, anyway. But he seemed unusually absent-minded and several times stopped squarely in the middle of whatever he was saying, and just lay there, and looked at me in a far-away manner that was quite absurd. But after I had made fun of him once or twice, he got over it. But, just the same, I could see that he had something on his mind and I was dying to ask him whether Mr. Tully had told him about being married to Jocelyn.
“I don't believe,” I said once, “that you have the least idea what I've been saying.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because you look as though you were thinking hard about something else. You've got a secret, Mr. Reed, and I don't think that's very nice.”
“A secret? Where would I ever find a secret, Miss Marjorie? I'm sorry if I seem inattentive, but I assure you that I've heard every word you've said to me. Perhaps I was thinking about the doctor, though. He's coming a little later.”
“To-day? But this isn't his day to come, is it?”
“No, but I'm doing so well that he's trying to get me off his hands in a hurry, I guess.”
“Then,” I said, with a sudden frightened pang at my heart, “then I suppose he will want to—to operate pretty soon.”
“I wouldn't be surprised if he said something about it to-day,” he answered casually. “The sooner the better now, Miss Marjorie.”
“Yes, but”
“But what?” he asked with a smile.
“I shall be awfully frightened.”
“Oh, but you mustn't be. It's quite an ordinary operation and really of no consequence. Still, I shall be glad to know that”
“That what?” I asked when he didn't finish, looking intently at Fairfax.
“That you care,” he said softly.
“Oh!” I murmured.
“That's so, isn't it?”
“Of course it is,” I replied, meeting his eyes a trifle defiantly. “It would be very strange if I didn't care. We'll all be very anxious, Mr. Reed.”
“Well, you've all been very good and kind to me,” he said gravely. “I never expected to find such dear friends when I decided to hide myself in this corner. And if—and I want you to realize that I appreciate your kindness, Miss Marjorie, more than I can tell you. And now there comes my court chamberlain to shoo you away. Would you mind shaking hands this time?”
“Of course not,” I answered.
So we shook hands, but somehow it seemed different to-day. He held my hand as though he didn't want to let it go, and I felt my cheeks getting warm, and when I looked down and met his eyes, it seemed as though he was going to say something; but he didn't; only “Good-bye, Miss Marjorie.”
“Good-bye,” I answered and he let my hand go. Jocelyn was waiting for me at the gate and we went back to the house together. And all the way I was haunted by something in Mr. Reed's look that I couldn't understand, and that troubled me.
“We're going to 'fess up,” said Jocelyn as we went up the drive. “Jeff thinks it's best to. Poor boy, he's terribly worried about it. He's afraid papa and mamma will be angry with me. Just as though that mattered—now! Just as though anything mattered! I'm going to write my letter at once and have Frank take it over to the station, if he may. And Jeff is going to put a letter in with mine.”
“I'm so glad, Jocelyn,” I said. “But aren't you—aren't you a little bit scared?”
She shook her head.
“No,” she said frankly, “not a bit. We're married, you see, dear, and nothing that anyone can do can change that, can it?”
“I suppose not,” I replied doubtfully.
While Jocelyn was writing I sat on the porch and thought. I was glad of a minute alone. Things had been happening pretty fast all day and I felt sort of breathless. I reflected with satisfaction, however, that it was Friday! Once more events had indicated my superstition regarding that day of the week. Then I thought about Jocelyn and Jeff—that is, Mr. Tully—and wondered if anything as remarkable and romantic as that would ever happen to me. And somehow that brought my thoughts around to Mr. Reed and the talk we had had, and I got to puzzling again about the expression on his face when we had shaken hands. It seemed almost as though he had been asking for—for more than just a handshake. Of course that was perfectly absurd, but—well, I wondered how it would seem to have him kiss me! Then I found that I was blushing, and the idea of blushing all to one's self seemed so absurd that I began to laugh and was getting quite hysterical when Mr. Tully came up the drive.
He looked at me shyly as he joined me on the porch.
“Miss Hare has—er—told you, Miss Pryde?”
“Yes, and I'm just as glad as I can be,” I cried softly, and we shook hands quite like old friends.
“Thank you,” he said. “I fear we have acted mistakenly, but it is very hard to—to always see one's duty, Miss Pryde. At least, we are doing what is best now, I think.”
“Yes, indeed you are. It's the only thing to do, Mr. Tully. And I'm certain it will all turn out right.”
“I hope so. For myself, I am not worried. Even if her parents should—er—refuse to sanction the marriage, it would make no difference as far as I am alone concerned. We would have to live simply for a while, but eventually my works will bring in a modest income, sufficient for our needs. I hope, however, that Mr. and Mrs. Hare will be reasonable. I have,” he produced some folded sheets of note-paper from his pocket—“I have taken as much of the blame as possible, Miss Pryde, but I fear they will hold her somewhat responsible.”
“Oh, do you think so?” I asked innocently. “But surely that isn't fair; Jocelyn would never have consented to the marriage if you hadn't just insisted, as you did!”
“I know,” he answered with a queer mixture of complacency and remorse, “and I have informed her parents of that in my—er—letter, but I fear they won't make sufficient allowance for my—er—impulsion.”
And, do you know, to this day, dear Mr. Tully is convinced that the marriage was all due to his headstrong and unreasoning ardor!
Jocelyn came down with her letter, looking a little bit red about the eyes, and I went in and telephoned Frank to call for it and take it to the post-office on his way for Larry and Ned. They didn't get home until just before dinner, and when they did come, they brought two friends with them. I'm afraid neither Jocelyn nor I was particularly brilliant that evening and I'm sure we were both secretly relieved when the visitors left shortly after eight o'clock to go on to a hop at Hamilton. Almost as soon as they were gone, Larry went over to the House in the Hedge to sit with Mr. Reed a while, leaving Jocelyn and Ned and me on the porch. We were all rather silent. A little before nine, Jocelyn announced that she couldn't sit still any longer, and was going for a stroll down the road.
“I'll go along,” said Ned, looking for his hat, which had fallen over onto the flower bed.
“And leave me here all alone?” I asked indignantly. “You'll do nothing of the sort, Ned. Besides, Jocelyn doesn't need you; she has the moon.”
I was pretty certain that she'd have more than the moon before she had gone very far, and perhaps the same idea occurred to Ned, for, when she had gone, he asked:
“I say, Marjorie, do you suppose there's anything up between Jocelyn and that fellow Tully?”
“Anything up?” I asked. “Why, what do you mean?”
“Well, they seem rather fond of each other's society, don't they?”
“Do they? Perhaps, but you don't suppose, do you, that Mr. Tully would ever do anything so—so flippant as to fall in love, Ned?”
“I guess it's just as likely to take with Tully as any of us,” answered Ned sadly. And after a moment he went on: “I—I sort of wish I weren't going away to-morrow, Marjorie.”
“Then why not stay?” I asked pleasantly.
“Do you want me to?”
“Of course, if you'd like to. But I thought you and Larry were due at the Locketts'.”
“I'd cut it out in a minute if I thought you cared a hang whether I went or stayed,” answered Ned gloomily. “You ought to know by this time, Marjorie, that there's just one person that counts for anything with me, and that's you. Look here, now, why don't you be good to me, Marjorie? Honest, I think a pile of you. I suppose I'm not a wonder in any way, but I'm not a bad sort and I sure do think the world of you Why”
“Ned, is this another proposal?” I asked.
“I suppose so” he muttered.
“Then it makes the fourth, doesn't it? Ned dear, sometimes I think that I ought to accept you, if only because of your perseverance”
“Do it!”
“No, because I don't care for you that way, Ned. I do think you're awfully nice; one of the very nicest boys I know, but”
“Boy!” objected Ned. “I'm twenty!”
“And I'm nineteen—almost. Don't you think it would be better if there was more difference in our ages, Ned?”
“That doesn't amount to a row of pins if you love a person, Marjorie.”
”Well, there's the difficulty, Ned; I don't love you. So please forget all this nonsense and let's be friends.”
“I'll bet there's someone else,” he grumbled.
“I hope there will be some day. You wouldn't want me to die an old maid, Ned, just because I couldn't fall in love with you?”
“Honestly, Marjorie, isn't there any chance at all for me?”
“Honestly, Ned, there isn't.”
“If I waited a year or so?”
“It wouldn't do a bit of good. I'm sorry, Ned.”
He didn't say anything for a while. Then:
“All right,” he sighed. “I know when I'm beaten, I guess. Don't bother about me, Marjorie. It isn't your fault. And I suppose”—he laughed ironically—“I suppose I'll get over it in time and marry some cheerful idiot of a girl.”
“If she should be an idiot, Ned, you wouldn't know it,” I answered. “But I hope she won't be. I hope she'll be as nice as—as you deserve, and if she's that, Ned, she'll have to be pretty nice.”
“Thanks,” he muttered. “Guess I'll turn in, if you don't mind. Good-night, Marjorie dear. I—I wonder if you'd let me kiss you—just once.”
“Please, Ned, I—don't think me silly, but I'd so much rather you didn't. Does it make much difference?”
“I dare say you're right. I hope—whoever he is will be mighty sweet and good to you, Marjorie. If he isn't—you and I are going to stay friends, aren't we? And when you want anyone to do anything for you, Marjorie, you tell me! Good-night. See you in the morning.”
Poor Ned! I thought after he'd gone, Of course he would get all over it very quickly, but I knew it was hurting now, and I was very sorry for him. I sat on there alone and waited for Jocelyn to return, and looked up at the big round moon and was rather sad and lonesome. It was Larry who came back first. He was surprised to find me still up, but seemed rather glad. He sat down on the top step and lighted his pipe.
“Where's Jocelyn?” he asked presently.
“She's gone for a stroll down the road.”
He was silent a moment, puffing on his pipe. Then:
“Guess I made a bit of an ass of myself, old girl,” he said.
“I'm so sorry, dear.”
“It'll work around. This chap Tully isn't a bad sort, sis. I suppose they're—engaged?
“Worse than that, Larry.”
“What do you mean?”
“They're married.” Then I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh, I shouldn't have told you! I promised not to!”
“Married! You're crazy, sis!”
“No, I'm not. And it will be all out in a day or two, so I might as well tell you.” And I did. And when Larry had heard the last of it he sighed and knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
“I'm glad you told me, old girl,” he said. “It makes it a bit easier. You see, I thought I'd had a chance and had let it slip. Now I know that I never did have one. Only—I wish I could have known it before. I've been kind of up in the air since that night we—hunted the cat.”
“Larry, did you see the light in the window?”
“Of course!” he answered simply.
“Why didn't you—say something then?”
“What was there to say? There was no use making a howl, was there? I knew a girl like Jocelyn wouldn't be prowling around, meeting chaps, unless there was good reason. So I—cut it out.”
“You poor boy!” I said softly.
“Well, it's hurt a little, but—I'll get over it. At first I thought I was in hard luck, but seeing that poor devil over there has made me realize that I haven't got much to kick about in comparison. Has Ned gone up?”
“Yes, he went to bed early.”
“Well, I'll see him in the morning. I wanted to tell him that I'd decided not to go until Sunday. I can't go until I know how it's going to be with him.”
“With him? With whom, Larry?”
“Why, Reed Harrington.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“By Jove!” Larry looked across at me for a moment in silence. “I forgot,” he muttered.
“Larry, you've got to tell me,” I cried. “There's something going on, something about Mr. Reed, and you must tell me!”
“I'm breaking my promise, old girl, but I don't see why you shouldn't know. Harrington was afraid you'd worry, that was all. They're going to operate on him in the morning at ten.”
It just seemed for a moment as though everything had gone black, and I wanted to scream, but knew I mustn't. So I closed my eyes and clenched my hands, and presently Larry's voice reached me again.
“seem to mind it very much. I never saw a chap much more cheerful under the conditions. He says he knows he's going through all right and that he'll be as fit as a fiddle when they're through with him. Wish I felt as certain about it. I've heard something about operations on the spine, and I tell you, sis, they aren't what they're cracked up to be. The spine's a bad thing to monkey with, there are so many nerves there, you know. I knew of a case of this sort”
“Larry!” I whispered.
“What's the matter, sis?”
“Don't! I—I can't stand it!”
In the silence he got up and came across to me. Then he put one hand under my chin and raised my face until the moonlight was on it. I closed my eyes, trembling.
“Marjie,” he whispered, “is it true?”
After a moment I nodded and then I felt his arms around me.
“You poor little kid,” he said softly and kindly. “I didn't understand.” I began to cry then.
They'll kill him,” I wailed. “And I'll never see him again, Larry!”
“Nonsense! It's all going to be as easy as you like. Why, you ought to hear him talk about it, sis; he doesn't mind it a bit! Come, now, buck up, like a good, sensible little sis.”
“Oh, Larry dear, if—if he dies I shan't want to live!”
“He's not going to die; honest, he isn't, old girl! Give you my word of honor!”
“But you said”
“A lot of tommyrot; I know I did. I was just talking like a rabbit Why, the doctor says he hasn't the slightest doubt about the operation; says Harrington will be up and around with nothing more than an impediment in his walk inside of two weeks; think of that!”
“Honest, Larry?” I sniffed.
“Honest injun, sis.”
“Where's—where's my handkerchief?”
“Search me; here's mine, though. That's it, old girl; sop up the spill and we'll talk it over calmly and sensibly.”
“What—what did he say to you this evening?” I asked, holding very tight to his hand.
“Why, lots of things. We had a bully time talking about polo and tennis. He's a dandy polo player, you know, sis. And a little bit of a limp never shows when you're in the saddle.”
“But about—to-morrow, I mean.”
“Oh, he said he wasn't going to mind it a bit. Said he'd be jolly glad when it was over with and he could be thinking of getting on his feet again. He said he'd rather the rest of you folks didn't know about it, because it was always unpleasant having anything like this happen almost under your eyes, and he especially didn't want you to know. Said you had a horror of surgery and sickness and such things. And I said I wouldn't mention it. But I forgot.”
“Is it to be there? Isn't he going to a hospital?”
“No, they're going to do it right there in the room on the other side of the hall, all nice and comfortable.”
“Will they give him ether?”
“Rather! Why, he won't have a bit of pain; won't know anything about it until it's all over. It's a cinch!”
“You're a dear to lie like that, Larry,” I sobbed, “but I know it will be terrible.”
“I'm not lying, sis, hope to die if I am! Now, come, old girl; cut out the drip. Gee, look at my handkerchief! I can wring water out of it!”
“Let's sit down there,” I said. So he pulled me up and we sat together on the step with our arms about each other.
“I wish I'd choked before I told you,” muttered Larry.
“No, I'd rather know,” I said. “If—if anything happened”
“Nothing's going to happen, so put that out of your silly little head. How long has this been going on, sis?”
“I don't know. I didn't know that it had been been going on until you told me about—to-morrow.”
“It's the real thing, though, isn't it? I mean you're not just sorry for him because he's down and out, eh?”
“I love him with all my heart and soul, Larry,” I whispered. “But oh, I oughtn't to say that, even to you, for he's never—I don't believes he cares”
“Don't you? Well, I know he does,” laughed Larry. “Why, the old rascal's as transparent as a pane of glass. He's always trying to switch the talk over to you and asks enough questions to fill a book. Don't you worry about his not caring, old girl; he's crazy about you!”
“Honest, Larry? You're not just saying that to—to make me feel good?”
“No, I'm not. It's gospel truth, sis. I wanted to punch his head when I first got onto it, but afterwards I got so darned fond of him that I almost forgave him.”
“You do like him, don't you, Larry dear?” I whispered with a hug.
“You bet I do. He's a mighty nice, straight, plucky cuss, that's what he is! And I'll tell you another thing, old girl; if there's one thing that's going to help more than all else to get him through with flying colors to-morrow, it's his love for you. I guess that's what he meant to-night when he said he couldn't afford to take the count to-morrow; said he had too much to live for. He was thinking of you, I guess, sis, and— By Jove!”
“What, Larry?” I asked anxiously.
He didn't answer for a moment. When he did it was in a troubled voice.
“You'd better know, I suppose, sis,” he said. “I made a darned fool of myself this evening, and and I'm sorry clean through. You've got to forgive me, old girl. You see, I didn't know that you cared, and when he said something about Ned, I sort of let him understand that—that things between you and Ned were just about fixed. I'm sorry.”
“Oh, Larry, you never!” I cried.
“Yes, I did, sis. And I don't believe he liked it. What time is it, I wonder?” He pulled his watch out and held it to the light. “Twenty of eleven. I wonder if he's asleep. The light's still there, but sometimes that burns all night.”
“Larry, how could you?” I moaned. “What will he think?”
“Oh, it won't matter for now. I'll see him in the morning and tell him I was lying.”
“But why did you, dear?”
“Oh, because I didn't want him to get up his hopes, I suppose. I thought you didn't care and I saw that he did—or was getting to. It seemed to me that a good stiff jab now was better than a knock-out blow later.”
“Do you think he—was unhappy, Larry?”
“Why, n-no, I don't believe so. He seemed pretty cheerful afterwards. Of course, I don't believe he liked the idea, but”
Larry jumped to his feet.
“Marjie, I'm scared!” he whispered. “Good God, do you suppose He wouldn't do that! He isn't a coward!”
“Larry! What do you mean!” I cried.
“The revolver; he asked me to get it for him; said he wanted to show it to me”
“Larry!”
“We were talking about guns. It was in his trunk and I dug it out for him. He said he wanted me to see it, because it was one he bought in London. It was loaded, for he warned me about it. When I came away—he had it; it was there on the bed with him. But he wouldn't do such a fool trick as that, would he? Marjie! Where are you going?”
“Over there!” I called as I few down the drive.