Play the Game! by Ruth Comfort Mitchell
CHAPTER VIII
James King, greatly to the surprise of his physicians, did not die, buthe hovered on the brink of it for many thin weeks and his son gave uphis entire vacation to be with him. The letters he sent Honor were briefbulletins of his father's condition, explosive regrets at having to giveup his summer with her, but Jimsy was not a letter writer. In orderproperly to fill up more than a page it was necessary for him to be ableto say, "Had a bully practice to-day," or, "Saw old Duffy last night andhe told me all about--" He was not good at producing epistolary bulk outof empty and idle days. Stephen Lorimer, often beside Honor when sheopened and read these messages in English Cathedral towns or besideScotch lakes, ached with sympathy for these young lovers under hisbenevolent wing because of their inability to set themselves down onpaper. He knew that his stepdaughter was very nearly as limited as theboy.
"Ethel," he said to Miss Bruce-Drummond who had met up with them for aweek-end at Stirling, "those poor children are so pitifully what GelettBurgess calls 'the gagged and wordless folk'; it would be so mucheasier--and safer--for them if they belonged to his 'caste of thearticulate.'"
She nodded. "Yes. It's rather frightful, really, to separate people whohave no means of communication. Especially when--" she broke off,looking at Carter who was pointing out to Honor what he believed to bethe Field of Bannockburn.
Stephen Lorimer shook his head. "No danger there," he said comfortably."Top Step is sorry for him--a creature of another, paler world ...infinitely beneath her bright and beamish boy's. No, I feel a lot saferto have Carter with her than with Jimsy King."
The Englishwoman stared. "Really?"
"Yes. I daresay I exaggerate, but I've always seen something sinisterabout that youth."
Miss Bruce-Drummond looked at Carter Van Meter and observed the way inwhich he was looking at Honor. "He wants her frightfully, doesn't he,poor thing?"
"He wants her frightfully but he isn't a poor thing in the very least.He is an almost uncannily clever and subtle young person for his years,with a very large income and a fanatically devoted mother behind him,and he's had everything he ever wanted all his life except physicalperfection,--and my good Top Step."
"Ah, yes, but what can he do, after all?"
Honor's stepfather shrugged. "He knows that she would not be allowed tomarry the lad if he went the way of the other 'Wild Kings,'--that she istoo sound and sane to insist on it. And I think--I thought even in theirHigh School days--that he deliberately steers Jimsy into danger."
"My word!" said the novelist, hotly. "What are you going to do about it,Stephen?"
"Watch. Wait. Stand ready. I shall make it my business to drop in at thefraternity house once or twice next season, when I go north to SanFrancisco,--and into other fraternity houses, and put my ear to theground. And if I find what I fear to find I'll take it up with both thelads, face to face, and then I'll send for Honor."
"Right!" said Miss Bruce-Drummond, her fine, fresh-colored face glowing."And I'll run down to Florence at the Christmas holidays and take her toRome with me, shall I?"
"It will be corking of you, Ethel."
"I shall love doing it."
He looked at her appreciatively. She would love doing it; she lovedlife and people, Ethel Bruce-Drummond, and she was able therefore to putlife and people, warm and living, on to her pages. She was as fit andhardy as a splendid boy, her cheeks round and ruddy, her eyes bright,her fine bare hands brown and strong, her sturdy ankles sturdier thanever in her heavy knitted woolen hose and her stout Scotch brogues. Hehad known and counted on her for almost twenty years--and he had marriedMildred Carmody. "Ethel," he said, suddenly, "in that book of mine Imean to have----"
"Ah, yes, that book of yours, Stephen! Slothful creature! You know quitewell you'll never do it."
"Never do it! Why,"--he was indignant--"I've got tons of it donealready, in my head! It only wants writing down."
"Yes, yes," said his friend, penitently, "I make no doubt. It only wantswriting down. Well?"
"I'm going to have a chapter on friendship, and insert a really novelidea. Friendship has never been properly praised,--begging pardon inpassing of Mr. Emerson and his ilk. I'm going to suggest that it begiven dignity and weight by having licenses and ceremonies, just asmarriage has. It has a better right, you know, really. It's a much sanerand more probable vow--to remain friends all one's life, than in love.In genuine friendship there is indeed no variableness, neither shadow orturning. You and I, now, might quite safely have taken out ourfriendship license and plighted our troth,--twenty years, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Miss Bruce-Drummond, gently, "it's twenty years, Stephen,and that's a quite beautiful idea. You must surely put it in your book,old dear." Her keen eyes, looking away across the ancient battlefieldswere a little less keen than usual, but Stephen Lorimer did not noticethat because he was looking at his watch.
"Do you know it's nearly five, woman, and Mildred waiting tea for us atthe Stirling Arms?" So he called to the boy and girl and fell into stepbeside his friend and swung down the hill to his tea and his wife, alittle thrilled still, as he always would be to the day of his death, atbeing with her again after even the least considerable absence.
It seemed to Honor Carmody that three solid summers had been weldedtogether for her soul's discipline that year; there were assuredlyninety-three endless days in July. She was not quite sure whether havingCarter with them made it harder for her or easier. He was anaccomplished traveler; things moved more smoothly for his presence,and--as she wrote Jimsy--he knew everything about everywhere. On thewhole, it was pleasanter, more like home, more like the good days onSouth Figueroa Street, to have him about; she could sometimes almostcajole herself into thinking Jimsy must be there, too, in the next room,hurrying up the street, a little late for dinner, but there, near them.It was only when Carter talked to her of Jimsy that she grew anxious,even acutely unhappy. It wasn't, she would decide, thinking it overlater, lying awake in the dark, so much what Carter had said--it waswhat he hadn't said in words. It was the thing that sounded in hisvoice, that was far back in his eyes.
"Yes," he would say, smiling in reminiscence, "that was a party! Nothingever like it at Stanford before in the memory of the oldest inhabitant,they say. And old Jimsy--I wish you could have seen him! No, I don'treally, for you wouldn't have approved and the poor old scout would havebeen in for a lecture, but it was----"
"Carter," Honor would interrupt, "do you mean, can you possibly meanthat Jimsy--that he's--" She found she couldn't say it after all; shecouldn't put it into the ugly definite words.
"Oh, nothing serious, Honor! Nothing for you to worry about! He has todo more or less as others do, a man of his prominence in college. It'sunavoidable. Of course, it might be better if he could steer clear ofthat sort of thing altogether--" he would stop at a point like that andfrown into space for a moment, as if remembering, weighing, considering,and Honor's heart would sink coldly. Then he would brighten again andlay a reassuring hand on her sleeve. "But you mustn't worry. Jimsy's gota level head on his shoulders, and he has too much at stake to go toofar. He'll be all right in the end, Honor, I'm sure of that. And youknow I'll always keep an eye on him!".
And Honor twisting on her finger the ring with the clasped hands and thehidden blue stone of constancy which she always wore except when hermother was with her, would manage a smile and say, "I know how devotedyou are to him, Carter. You couldn't help it, could you?--Every one is.And you mean to help him; I know that. I _am_ grateful. It's next bestto being with him myself." Then, because she couldn't trust herself totalk very much about Jimsy, she would resolutely change the subject andCarter would write home to his hoping mother that Honor really seemed tobe having a happy summer and to enjoy everything, and that she was notvery keen to talk much about Jimsy.
He did not hear the talk she had with her stepfather the night beforethey were to sail for home. It came after her hour of fruitless pleadingwith her mother to be allowed to go back with them. Mildred Lorimer
"It really would be rather a shame, Honor,--much as we'd love having youwith us on the trip home. You're coming on so wonderfully with yourwork, the _Signorina_ says. She intends to have you in concert thiswinter, and coming home would spoil that, wouldn't it?" He was verysensible about it.
Honor had managed to ask Stephen to see her alone, after the rest hadgone to their rooms. They were sailing from Genoa because they hadwanted to bring Honor back to Italy and the _Signorina_ had joined themat the port and would take the girl back to Florence with her. Honorwent upstairs and came down again in fifteen minutes and found himwaiting for her in the lounge.
He got up and came to meet her and took her hands into his solid andreassuring clasp. "This is pretty rough, Top Step. You don't have totell me."
She did not, indeed. Her young face was drained of all its color thatnight and her eyes looked strained. It was mildly warm and the windowswere open, but she was shivering a little. "Stepper, dear, I don't wantto be a goose----"
"You're not, Top Step."
"But I'm anxious. When Jimsy gave me this ring, and told me what he hadtold his father--that he was not going to be another 'Wild King' andasked me if I believed him, I told him I'd never stop believing him, andI won't, Skipper. I won't!"
"Right, T. S."
"But--things Carter says,--things he doesn't say--Stepper, I think Jimsyneeds me _now_."
The man was silent for a long moment. He could, of course, assert hisauthority or at least his power, since the girl was Mildred's child andnot his, break with his good friend, the _Signorina_, and take Honorhome. But, after all, what would that accomplish, unless she went toStanford? He began to think aloud. "Even if you came home with us, TopStep, you wouldn't be near him, would you, unless you went to college?And you'd hardly care to do that now--to enter your Freshman year twoyears behind the boys."
"No."
"And if you stayed in Los Angeles--you might almost as well be here.The number of miles doesn't matter."
"But--perhaps Jimsy wouldn't stay at Stanford then. Oh, Stepper, dear,haven't we waited long enough?"
"He's only twenty, T. S."
She sighed. "Being young is the cruelest thing in the world!"
"You are blaspheming!" said her stepfather, sternly. "T. S., that's theonly stupid and wicked thing you've ever said in the years I've knownyou! Don't ever dare to say it--or think it--again! Being young is themost golden and glorious thing in the world! Being young--" he ran aworried hand over his thinning hair and sighed. "Ah, well, you'll know,some day. Meanwhile, girl, it looks as if you'd have to stick. That'syour part in 'playing the game!' But I promise you this. I shall keep aneye on things for you; keep in touch with the boy, see him, hear fromhim, hear _of_ him, and if the time comes when I believe that his needof you is instant and vital, I'll write--no, I'll cable you to come."
"Stepper!" The comfort in her eyes warmed him.
"It's a promise, Top Step"--he grinned,--"as you used to say when Ifirst knew you--'cross-my-heart,hope-never-to-see-the-back-of-my-neck!' Now, hop along to bed,--andtrust me!"
The lift in the little hotel put its head under its wing at ten-thirtyand it was now almost eleven, so Honor set out on foot to do the threeflights between her and her room. She ran lightly because she feltsuddenly eased of a crushing burden; Stepper, good old Stepper, was onguard; Stepper was standing watch for her. There was a littlewriting-room and sun parlor on the second floor, dim now, with only oneshaded light still burning, and as she crossed it a figure rose sostartlingly from a deep chair that she smothered a small cry.
"It's I," said Carter. He stepped between her and the stairway.
"Cartie! You did make me jump!" Honor smiled at him; she was so cozilyat peace for the moment that she had an increased tenderness for theirfrail friend. "It was so still in the hotel it might be the 'nightbefore Christmas,'--'not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.'You'd better go to bed," she added, maternally. "You look pale andtired."
"I'm not tired," he said shortly. He continued to stand between her andthe stairs.
"Well--_I'm_ sleepy," she said, moving to pass him. "Good----"
But Carter was quicker. He caught hold of her by her arms and held herin a tense grip. "Honor, Honor, _Honor_!" he said, choking.
"Why,--Cartie! You--please--" She tried to free herself.
"Honor, I can't help it. I've got to speak. I've got to know. Don'tyou--couldn't you--care at all for me, Honor?"
"Carter! Not--not the way you mean! Of course I'm fond of you, but----"
"I don't want that!" He shook her, roughly, and his voice was harsh. "Iwant you to care the way I care. And I'm going to make you!"
"Carter," she was not angry with him, only unhappy, "do you think thisis fair? Do you think you're being square with Jimsy?"
"No," he said, hotly, "and I don't care. I don't care for anything butyou. Honor, you don't love Jimsy King. I know it. It's just a silly,boy-and-girl thing--you must realize that, now you're away from him!Your mother doesn't want you to marry him. What can he give you or dofor you? And he'll go the way of his father and all his family--I'vetried to lie to you, but I'm telling you the truth now, Honor. He'sdrinking already, and he'll grow worse and worse. Give him up, Honor!Give him up before he spoils your life, and let me--" with all hisstrength, far more than she would have thought it possible for him tohave, he tried to pull her into his arms, to reach her lips.
But Jimsy's Skipper, for all her two soft years in Europe, had not losther swimming, hiking, driving, out-of-door vigor, and her muscles werebetter than his.
"I'm going to kiss you," said Carter, huskily. "I've wanted to kiss youfor years ... always ... and I'm going to kiss you now!"
"No, you're not, Carter," said Honor. She got her arms out of his graspand caught his wrists in her hands. She was very white and her eyes werecold. "You see? You're weak. You're weak in your arms, Carter, just asyou're weak in your--in your character, in your friendship! And Idespise weakness." She dropped his wrists and saw him sit down, limply,in the nearest chair and cover his face with his hands. Then she walkedto the stairs and went up without a backward glance.
He was pallid and silent at breakfast next morning and Honor was carefulnot to look at him. It was beginning to seem, in the eight o'clocksunlight, as if the happening of the night before must have been ahorrid dream, and her sense of anger and scorn gradually gave way topity. After all ... poor old Carter, who had so little ... Jimsy, whohad so much! What Carter had said in his tirade about Jimsy's drinkingshe did not believe; it was simply temper; angry exaggeration. MildredLorimer, looking at Carter's white face and the gray shadows under hiseyes and observing Honor's manner toward him, sighed audibly and was alittle distant when she bade her daughter farewell. She loved her eldestborn devotedly, but there were moments when she couldn't help but feelthat Honor was not very much of a comfort to her....
Stephen held the girl's hands hard and looked deep into her eyes."Remember what I said, Top Step, 'Cross-my-heart!'"
"I'll remember, Stepper, dear! _Thanks!_" She turned to Carter and heldout a steady hand. "My love to your mother, Carter, and I do hope you'llhave a jolly crossing."
"Will you read this, please?" He lifted his heavy eyes to her face andslipped a note into her hand. She nodded and tucked it into her blouse.Then she stood with the _Signorina_, on the pier, waving, and with mistyeyes watching the steamer melting away and away into the blue water.When she was alone she read the little letter.
"Dear Honor--" Carter had written in a ragged scrawl unlike his usual firm hand--"Will you try to forgive me? You are the kindest and least bitter person in the world; I know you can forgive me. But--and this will be harder--can you forget last night? I promise to deserve it, if you will. Will you pretend to yourself that it never happened, and just remember the good days we've had this summer, and that--in spite of my losing my head--I'm your friend,
And Honor Carmody, looking with blurred eyes at the sea, wished shemight wave again and reassuringly to the boy on the steamer, facing thelong voyage so drearily. Then she realized that she still could, in asense, wave to him. The steamer stopped at Naples and she could send atelegram to him there, and he would not have to cross the wide oceanunder that guilty weight. She put on her hat and sped to the telegraphoffice, and there, because his note had ended with a question--had beenindeed all a question--and because she was the briefest of femininecreatures, and because the _Signorina_ was waiting luncheon for her anddid not enjoy waiting, she wired the one word, "Yes," and signed hername.
"Carter got a telegram," said Mildred Lorimer to her husband. "I wonderwhat it could have been. Did he say?"
"He didn't mention it," said Stephen. "About those silk shirts whichweren't finished, I daresay. Certainly not bad news, by the look ofhim."
When Carter Van Meter reached Los Angeles and his tearfully happy motherhe drew her into the library and closed the door. "Mater," he said withan odd air of intense repressed excitement, "I'm going to show yousomething, but you must promise me on your honor not to breathe it to aliving soul, least of all, Mrs. Lorimer."
"Oh, dearest," gasped his mother, "I promise faithfully----"
He took Honor's telegram out of his wallet and unfolded it and smoothedit out for her to read the single word it contained. Then, at her gladcry, "Sh ... Mater! It isn't--exactly--what you think. I can't explainnow. But it's a hope; it may--I believe it will, one day--lead to thething we both want!" He folded it again carefully into its creases andput it back into his wallet and he was breathing hard.