CHAPTER XXVIII
IN DARK PLACES
The House on the Hill was a strange place to Tony and Ted those Novemberdays, stranger than to the others who had walked day by day with thesense of the approaching shadow always with them. Death itself was anawesome and unaccustomed thing to them. They did not see how the othersbore it so well, took it all so calmly. To make matters worse, Uncle Philwho never failed any one was stricken down with a bad case of influenzaand was unable to leave his bed. This of course made Margery alsopractically _hors de combat_. The little folks spent most of their timeacross the street in motherly Mrs. Lambert's care. Upon Ned Holiday'schildren rested the chief burden of the hour.
Granny was rarely conscious and all three of her grandchildren covetedthe sad privilege of being near her when these brief moments of luciditycame though Tony and Ted could not stand long periods of watching besidethe still form as Larry could and did. It was Larry that she most oftenrecognized. Sometimes though he was his father to her and she called him"Ned" in such tones of yearning tenderness that it nearly broke down hisself control. Sometimes too he was Philip to her and this also wasbitterly hard for Larry missed his uncle's support woefully in this darkhour. Ruth, Granny seemed to know, oftener indeed, than she did Tony tothe latter's keen grief though she acknowledged the justice of the stab.For she had gone her selfish way leaving the stranger to play the lovinggranddaughter's part.
One night when the nurse was resting and Larry too had flung himself uponthe couch in the living room to snatch a little much needed relaxation,leaving Ruth in charge of the sickroom, Ted drifted in and demanded totake his turn at the watch, giving Ruth a chance to sleep. She demurredat first, knowing how hard these vigils were for the restless, unhappylad. But seeing he was really in earnest she yielded. As she passed outof the room her hand rested for a moment on the boy's bowed head. She hadcome to care a great deal for sunny, kind-hearted Teddy, loved him forhimself and because she knew he loved Larry with deep devotion.
He looked up with a faint smile and gave her hand a squeeze.
"You are a darling, Ruthie," he murmured. "Don't know what we would everdo without you."
And then he was alone with death and his own somber thoughts. He couldnot get away from the memory of Madeline, could not help feeling with aterrible weight of responsibility that he was more than a little to blamefor her plight. Whether he liked to think it or not he couldn't helpknowing that the whole thing had started with that foolish joy ride withhimself. Madeline had never risked her grandfather's displeasure till sherisked it for him. She had never gone anywhere with Hubbard till she wentbecause she was bitterly angry with himself because he had not kept hispromise--a promise which never should have been made in the first place.And if he had not gone to Holyoke, hadn't behaved like an idiot that lastnight, hadn't deserted her like a selfish cad to save his own preciousself--if none of these things had happened would Madeline still havegone to Hubbard? Perhaps. But in his heart Ted Holiday had a hatefulconviction that she would not, that her wretchedness now was indirectlyif not directly chargeable to his own folly. It was terrible that suchlittle things should have such tremendous consequences but there it was.
All his life Ted Holiday had evaded responsibility and had found selfextenuation the easiest thing in the world. But somehow all at once heseemed to have lost the power of letting himself off. He had no plea tooffer even to himself except "guilty." Was he going to do as DoctorHendricks commanded and let Madeline pay the price of her own folly aloneor was he going to pay with her? The night was full of the question.
The quiet figure on the bed stirred. Instantly the boy had forgottenhimself, remembered only Granny.
He bent over her.
"Granny, don't you know me? It's Teddy," he pleaded.
The white lips quivered into a faint smile. The frail hand on the coverlid groped vaguely for his.
"I know--Teddy," the lips formed slowly with an effort.
Ted kissed her, tears in his eyes.
"Be--a man, dear," the lips breathed softly. "Be--" and Granny was offagain to a world of unconsciousness from which she had returned a momentto give her message to the grief stricken lad by her side.
To Ted in his overwrought condition the words were almost like a voicefrom heaven, a sacred command. To be a man meant to face the hardestthing he had ever had to face in his life. It meant marrying MadelineTaylor, not leaving her like a coward to pay by herself for somethingwhich he himself had helped to start. He rose softly and went to thewindow, staring out into the night. A few moments later he turned backwearing a strange uplifted sort of look, a look perhaps such, as Percivalbore when he beheld the Grail.
Strange forces were at work in the House on the Hill that night. Ruthhad gone to her room to rest as Ted bade her but she had not slept inspite of her intense weariness. She had almost lost the way of sleeplatterly. She was always so afraid of not being near when Larry neededher. The night watches they had shared so often now had brought themvery, very close to each other, made their love a very sacred as well asvery strong thing.
Ruth knew that the time was near now when she would have to go away fromthe Hill. After Granny went there would be no excuse for staying on. Ifshe did not go Larry would. Ruth knew that very well and did not intendthe latter should happen.
She had laid her plans well. She would go and take a secretarial coursesomewhere. She had made inquiries and found that there was always demandfor secretaries and that the training did not take so long as otherprofessional education did. She could sell her rings and live on themoney they brought her until she was self supporting. She did not want todispose of her pearls if she could help it. She wanted to hold on to themas the link to her lost past. Yes, she would leave the Hill. It was quitethe right thing to do.
But oh, what a hard thing it was! She did not see how she was ever goingto face life alone under such hard, queer conditions without DoctorPhilip, without dear Mrs. Margery and the children, without Larry,especially without Larry. For that matter what would Larry do withouther? He needed her so, loved her so much. Poor Larry!
And suddenly Ruth sat up in bed. As clearly as if he had been in theroom with her she heard Larry's voice calling to her. She sprang upand threw a dark blue satin negligee around her, went out of the room,down the stairs, seeming to know by an infallible instinct where herlover was.
On the threshold of the living room she paused. Larry was pacing thefloor nervously, his face drawn and gray in the dim light of theflickering gas. Seeing her he made a swift stride in her direction, tookboth her hands in his.
"Ruth, why did you come?" There was an odd tension in his voice.
"You called me, didn't you? I thought you did." Her eyes were wondering."I heard you say 'Ruth' as plain as anything."
He shook his head.
"No, I didn't call you out loud. Maybe I did with my heart though. Iwanted you so."
He dropped her hands as abruptly as he had taken them.
"Ruth, I've got to marry you. I can't go on like this. I've tried tofight it, to be patient and hang on to myself as Uncle Phil wanted me to.But I can't go on. I'm done."
He flung himself into a chair. His head went down on the table. The clockticked quietly on the mantel. What was Death upstairs to Time? What wereYouth and Love and Grief down here? These things were merely eddies inthe great tide of Eternity.
For a moment Ruth stood very still. Then she went over and laid a hand onthe bowed head, the hand that wore the wedding ring.
"Larry, Larry dear," she said softly. "Don't give up like that. Itbreaks my heart." There was a faint tremor in her voice, a hint of tearsnot far off.
He lifted his head, the strain of his long self mastering wearing thinalmost to the breaking point at last, for once all but at the mercy ofthe dominant emotion which possessed him, his love for the girl at hisside who stood so close he could feel her breathing, got the faint violetfragrance of her. And yet he must not so much as touch her hand.
The clock
struck three, solemn, inexorable strokes. Ruth and Larry andthe clock seemed the only living things in the quiet house. Larry brushedhis hand over his eyes, got to his feet.
"Ruth, will you marry me?"
"Yes, Larry."
The shock of her quiet consent brought Larry back a little to realities.
"Wait, Ruth. Don't agree too soon. Do you realize what it means to marryme? You may be married already. Your husband may return and find youliving--illegally--with me."
"I know," said Ruth steadily. "There must be something wrong with me,Larry. I can't seem to care. I can't seem to make myself feel as if Ibelonged to any one else except to you. I don't think I do belong to anyone else. I was born over in the wreck. I was born yours. You saved me. Iwould have died if you hadn't gotten me out from under the beams andworked over and brought me back to life when everybody else gave me up asdead. I wouldn't have been alive for my husband if you hadn't saved me. Iam yours, Larry. If you want me to marry you I will. If you want me--anyway--I am yours. I love you."
"Ruth!"
Larry drew her into his arms and kissed her--the first time he had everkissed any girl in his life except his sister. She lay in his arms, herfragrant pale gold hair brushing his cheek. He kissed her over and overpassionately, almostly roughly in the storm of his emotion suddenlyunpent. Then he was Larry Holiday again. He pushed her gently from him,remorse in his gray eyes.
"Forgive me, Ruth. It's all wrong. I'm all wrong. We can't do it. Ishouldn't have kissed you. I shouldn't have touched you--shouldn't havelet you come to me like this. You must go now, dear. I am sorry."
Ruth faced him in silence a moment then bowed her head, turned and walkedaway to the door meekly like a chidden child. Her loosened hair fell likea golden shower over her shoulders. It was all Larry could do to keepfrom going after her, taking her in his arms again. But he stood grimlyplanted by the table, gripping its edge as if to keep himself anchored.He dared not stir one inch toward that childish figure in the dark robe.
On the threshold Ruth turned, flung back her hair and looked back at him.There was a kind of fearless exaltation and pride on her lovely youngface and in her shining eyes.
"I don't know whether you are right or wrong, Larry, or rather when youare right and when you are wrong. It is all mixed up. It seems as if itmust be right to care or we wouldn't be doing it so hard, as if Godcouldn't let us love like this if he didn't mean we should be happytogether, belong to each other. Why should He make love if He didn't wantlovers to be happy?"
It was an argument as old as the garden of Eden but to Ruth and Larry itwas as if it were being pronounced for the first time for themselves,here in the dead of night, in the old House on the Hill, as they feltthemselves drawn to each other by the all but irresistible impulse oftheir mutual love.
"Maybe," went on Ruth, "I forgot my morals along with the rest I forgot.I don't seem to care very much about right and wrong to-night. Youcalled me. I heard you and I came. I am here." Her lovely, proud littlehead was thrown back, her eyes still shining with that fearless elation.
"Ruth! Don't, dear. You don't know what you are saying. I've got to careabout right and wrong for both of us. Please go. I--I can't stand it."
He left his post by the table then came forward and held open the doorfor her. She passed out, went up the stairs, her hair falling in a waveof gold down to her waist. She did not turn back.
Larry waited at the foot of the stairs until he heard the door of herroom close upon her and then he too went up, to Granny's room. Ted methim at the threshold in a panic of fear and grief.
"Larry--I think--oh--" and Ted bolted unable to finish what he had begunto say or to linger on that threshold of death.
The nurse was bending over Madame Holiday forcing some brandy between theblue lips. Larry was by the bedside in an instant. The nurse stepped backwith a sad little shake of the head. There was nothing she could do andshe knew it, knew also there was nothing the young doctor could doprofessionally. He knelt, chafed the cold hands. The pale lips quivered alittle, the glazed eyes opened for a second.
"Ned--Larry--give Philip love--" That was all. The eyes closed. There wasa little flutter of passing breath. Granny was gone.
It was two days after Granny's funeral. Ted had gone back to college.Tony would leave for New York on the morrow. Life cannot wait ondeath. It must go on its course as inevitably as a river must go itsway to the sea.
Yet to Tony it seemed sad and heartless that it should be so. She wastroubled by her selfishness, first to Granny living and now to Grannydead. She said as much to her uncle sorrowfully.
"It isn't really heartless or unkind," he comforted her. "We have to goon with our work. We can't lay it down or scamp it just because dearGranny's work is done. It is no more wrong for you to go back to yourplay than it is for me to go back to my doctoring."
"I know," sighed Tony. "But I can't help feeling remorseful. I had somuch time and Granny had so little and yet I wasn't willing to give hereven a little of mine. I would have if I had known though. I knew I wasselfish but I didn't know how selfish. I wish you had told me, UnclePhil. Why didn't you? You told Ruth. You let her help. Why wouldn't youlet me?" she half reproached.
"I tried to do what was best for us all. I wanted to find a reason forkeeping Ruth with us and I did not think then and I don't think now thatit was right or necessary to keep you back for the little comfort itcould have brought to Granny. You must not worry, dear child. The blameif there is any is mine. I know you would have stayed if I had let you."
Back in college Ted sorted out his personal letters from the sheaf ofbills. Among them was one from Madeline Taylor, presumably the answer tothe one Ted had written her from the House on the Hill. He stared at theenvelope, dreading to open it. He was too horribly afraid of what itmight contain. Suddenly he threw the letter down on the table and hishead went down on top of it.
"I can't do it," he groaned. "I can't. I won't. It's too hard."
But in a moment his head popped up again fiercely.
"Confound you!" he muttered. "You can and you will. You've got to.You've made your bed. Now lie on it." And he opened the letter.
"I can't tell you," wrote the girl, "how your letter touched me. Don'tthink I don't understand that it isn't because you love me or really wantto marry me that you are asking me to do it. It is all the finer and morewonderful because you don't and couldn't, ever. You had nothing togain--everything to lose. Yet you offered it all as if it were the mostordinary gift in the world instead of the biggest.
"Of course, I can't let you sacrifice yourself like that for me. Did youreally think I would? I wouldn't let you be dragged down into my lifeeven if you loved me which you don't. Some day you will want to marry agirl--not somebody like me--but your own kind and you can go to her cleanbecause you never hurt me, never did me anything but good ever. Youlifted me up always. But there must have been something still strongerthat pulled me down. I couldn't stay up. I was never your kind though Iloved you just as much as if I were. Forgive my saying it just this once.It will be the last time. This is really good-by. Thank you over and overfor everything,
"Madeline."
A mist blurred Ted Holiday's eyes as he finished the letter. He was free.The black winged vulture thing which had hovered over him for days wasgone. By and by he would be thankful for his deliverance but just nowthere was room only in his chivalrous boy's heart for one overmasteringemotion, pity for the girl and her needlessly wrecked life. What ahopeless mess the whole thing was! And what could he do to help her sinceshe would not take what he had offered in all sincerity? He must thinkout a way somehow.