DONALD'S HOMECOMING
"By the Lord Harry, but I'm glad to see you back again, safe and sound,
you good-for-nothing old reprobate."
True to his written statement, Philip had come to Donald's apartment as
fast as a taxicab could bring him, after he had heard his old friend's
voice over the wire. Now the two men gripped hands, hard, and then--for
just a moment--flung their arms around each other's shoulders in a rare
outward display of their deep mutual affection.
Then Philip held his senior away at arms' length and said, with
masculine candor but with a look of sympathy in his eyes, "Don, you poor
devil, you've been killing yourself over there. Don't tell _me_. I've a
mind to appoint myself your physician and order you to bed for a month."
"Good Lord, do I look as bad as that?" laughed the other. "If I do,
looks are deceitful, for I feel fit as a fiddle. I need only one thing
to make a complete new man of me."
"And that is ...?"
"A secret, at present."
The two seated themselves opposite each other, and Philip continued,
"I've managed to keep myself pretty well posted on the work that you've
been doing, without knowing any of the details of your life--you're a
rotten correspondent. Come, did you have any 'hairbreadth' 'scapes or
moving accidents by field and flood?"
"Nary one. My life has been one dead, monotonous waste."
"Like ... the deuce it has. Come, I've got just ten minutes to stay;
tell me the whole detailed history of your two years and a half. Knowing
your natural verbosity, I should say that it would take you just about
half that time, which will leave me the balance for my own few remarks."
"Five minutes? I could tell you the whole history of my life in that
time. But, before I start, I want to ask you about my little niece,
Muriel? I've just been reading a letter from Ethel, which seems to
indicate that they are rather worried about her; but, when I called her
by long distance, she either couldn't, or wouldn't tell me anything
definite."
"I don't think that there is any real occasion for being disturbed,"
answered Philip, quietly. "Although I'll confess frankly that things
haven't been going just right, and I'm not sorry to have you back and in
charge of the case. Muriel made the acquaintance of a typhus bug--the
Lord knows how--and, although I succeeded in getting the best of the
fever fairly quickly, thanks to the able assistance of that nurse whom
you swear by ..."
"Miss Merriman?"
"Yes, she's a wonder, isn't she? Well, as I said, we took care of the
fever, all right; but the cerebral affection has been more persistent,
and she hasn't convalesced as you would expect in a twelve-year-old
child. She seems to be laboring under a sort of nervous depression, not
so much physical as mental ... in fact, a psychos. It's common enough in
older people, of course; but hanged if I ever saw anything just like it
in a perfectly normal, and naturally happy child."
"H-m-m-m. What are the symptoms?"
"Psychological, all of them. She mopes; seems to take no healthy
interest in anything, and, as a result, has no appetite; bursts out
crying over the most trivial things--such as the chance of you're being
blown up by a submarine on the way home--and frequently for no cause at
all. Of course I packed the family off to the shore, as soon as she was
able to be moved, in the belief that the change of scene and the sea air
would effect a cure, but it hasn't. I can't find a thing wrong with her,
physically, nor could Morse. I took him down on my own hook, in
consultation, one day. It's a rather unusual case of purely
psychological depression, and in my opinion all she needs is ..."
"A generous dose of Smiles," interrupted Donald.
"By thunder, you've struck it," cried Philip, as he gave the arm of his
chair a resounding thump. "What an ass I've been not to have thought of
that before, particularly as she has been so constantly in my thoughts.
It's another case of a thing being too close to one for him to see it."
Donald stiffened suddenly. He held the match, with which he was about to
light a cigar, poised in mid-air until the flame reached his fingers,
and then blew it out, unused.
"In fact, it was about her, Don, that I was so anxious to see you," the
other went on. His own nervousness made him unconscious of the effect
which his words had produced on Donald. "Of course, she's practically of
legal age now; but I know that she still regards you as her guardian and
that in a sense you stand _in loco parentis_ toward her. Certainly she
regards your word as law. So I thought that, as she is practically alone
in the world, it would be the only right and honorable thing to ... to
speak to you, first."
"To speak to me ... _first_?" echoed Donald, a trifle unsteadily, as he
struck another match and watched its flame, with unseeing eyes, until
it, too, burned his fingers.
"Yes. Great Scott, can't you guess what I'm driving at? The plain fact
is ... is that I love her, Don. I ... I want to marry her."
The words smote the older man's senses like a bolt from a clear sky, and
they reeled, although he managed, somehow, to keep outwardly calm.
"You ... you haven't told her ... yet ... that you love her?" he managed
to say, after a moment.
"No. At least, not directly; but I guess that she knows it. I wanted,
first, to be sure that you would approve ... perhaps even sponsor my
suit, for, although I mean, of course, to stand or fall on the strength
of my own case, I know that she worships you, as a brother, and might be
influenced by your attitude. You understand, don't you, old man?"
Donald nodded, then asked slowly, "Does ... does Smiles love you, Phil?"
"Yes, I think that I can honestly say that I believe she does. Of course
no word of love has ever passed between us, but ... well, you know how
it is."
With a mighty effort of his will, Donald conquered the trembling that
had seized upon his body, and--on his third attempt--calmly lit the
cigar. But his thoughts were running like a tumultuous millrace. "Blind,
egotistical, self-confident fool," they shouted. "That something like
this should have happened is the most natural thing in the world, and it
has been farthest from your mind."
He remained silent so long that Philip was forced to laugh, a bit
uneasily.
"I know well enough that I'm not half worthy of her--no man could
be--but I hope that I'm not altogether ineligible, and I'm sure that I
love her more than any one else could." At his words Donald winced.
"I'll do my best to make her life a happy one, if she'll have me--you
know that, old fellow. Well," he laughed again, "say something, can't
you? I should almost get the idea that you were jealous, if I didn't
also know that that is absurd. Your engagement to Marion Treville ... I
suppose that you don't want to talk about that, but you know how deeply
I feel for you."
Donald shook himself together, mentally, and made an effort to respond
with convincing heartiness, although he found that his words sounded
unnaturally, even to his own ears.
"Of course, you have my consent, if it's worth anything. If our little
Rose does love you, I am sure that you can make her happy--you're a
splendid chap, Phil, and I--and I appreciate what you have done for her
while I was away. She wrote me all about it."
He stretched out his hand, and the other started from his chair, and
wrung it heartily.
"Thanks, old man. You give me an added quota of courage, and I wish that
I might go to her this minute; but I've been called out of town on an
important case. I really shouldn't have taken the time even to stop
here, but I simply had to see you to-night. Love is an awful thing,
isn't it?"
"Yes," he answered, dully. "Love is always impatient ... I know that
myself. Perhaps I ... that is, if I can get her ... Rose, I think that I
will take her down to Ethel's with me, to-night, and you can ... can see
her there. Where is she staying now?"
"With Miss Merriman's family, if she hasn't been called out on a case
since morning. She's been doing district nursing, principally; but
she's already had two private cases, you know."
Donald did not, and the realization of how far he had drifted away from
his old, intimate association with Smiles' affairs, brought his heart an
added stab of pain.
"The number is Back Bay, 4315." He glanced at his watch and then
exclaimed, "Heavens, I've got to catch a train at the Trinity Place
station in five minutes. Be ready to furnish bail for my chauffeur as
soon as he is arrested for over-speeding. 'Night. I'll see you at
Manchester in a few days ... that is if ..."
His words trailed off down the corridor, the front door closed and
Donald was alone. No, not alone. Philip had gone, but the room was
peopled with a multitude of ghosts and haunting spectres which he had
left behind. The doctor had only to close his eyes in order to see them,
gibbering and dancing on his hopes, which had been laid low by his
friend's eager disclosure. Another loved her, another wanted to marry
her, and that other could truthfully say that he believed she cared for
him. No spoken words of love may have passed between them, but Donald
knew well how unessential these were when heart called to heart.
This was his homecoming!
It were as though the eyes of his soul had been permitted, for a brief
time, to behold a dazzling celestial light, which had suddenly failed,
leaving the darkness blacker than before. The words which he had
planned to utter had turned to bitter ashes in his mouth. He had to face
the truth squarely. Rose was not, had never been, for him. It had been
mere madness for him even to dream of such a thing. Had she not accepted
him as a brother, and given him the frank affection of such
relationship, which precludes love of the other sort?
His heart hurt and he felt old and weary again. Somewhere, hidden in a
cabinet, was a bottle of whiskey, he remembered, and he sought it out
and poured himself a generous glassful. But, when he raised it to his
lips, the vision face of Smiles, as she had looked that first night on
the mountain, when she told Big Jerry and Judd that "nary a drap o' thet
devil's brew would ever be in house of hers," appeared before him, and,
with a groan, he set it down, untasted.
Returning to his living-room, he sat a long time in mental readjustment,
which was brought about with many a wrench at his heart; and when, at
last, his old iron will--which had been weakened a little by illness and
further softened by love--had once again been tempered in the crucible
of anguish, the lines on his prematurely seamed face were deeper, and in
his dark gray eyes was a new expression of pain.
* * * * *
In compliance with his telephoned request, Rose had packed her suit
case, and was all ready to accompany him when he arrived at the
Merrimans' apartment in a taxicab, to take her with him to the North
Station to catch the nine o'clock train. She was irrepressibly the
child, for the time being, and in her cheeks bloomed roses so colorful
that Gertrude Merriman accused her of painting, while knowing well
enough that joy needs no artistry.
"I'm almost _too_ happy," she cried after hearing his voice over the
wire, and proceeded to dance around the room, to the impromptu chant,
"Donald, dear, is here, is here. Donald, dear, is here."
"Are you going to kiss him?" laughed her friend. But Rose was not to be
teased, and answered, "Kiss him? I'll smother him with kisses. Isn't he
my brother, and isn't he home again after being away two and a half
years?"
When the apartment bell rang, it was Rose who ran to answer it, and
whose sweet young voice, saying, "Oh, come up _quick_," Donald heard
thrilling over the wire. His heart leaped, but his will steadied its
increased pulsations. It leaped again when he reached the third floor,
and the girl of his dreams threw herself upon him with laughter which
was suspiciously like weeping, and with the smother of kisses, which she
could not restrain nor he prevent, although each burned and seared his
very soul.
She backed into the room and pulled him after her by the lapels of his
coat; but, as the brighter light struck upon his face, she stopped with
widening eyes, through which he could read the troubled question in her
mind.
"Oh, my poor big brother. I didn't realize ... I mean, how you must have
suffered. Poor dear, you don't have to tell me how ill you have been, so
far away from all of us who love you."
Her pitying words drove the last nail in his crucified hopes. Not only
were they, all too obviously, merely those of a child who loved him with
a sister's love, but they told him how changed, wan and aged he was; one
who was, in fact, no longer fitted to mate with radiant youth.
"'Old, ain't I, and ugly?'" He imitated Dick Deadeye with a laughing
voice, but the laugh was not true.
"Old and ugly?" she repeated, in horror. "Donald, how _can_ you? You're
tired out, that is all; and as for this--" she lightly touched the sheen
of silvery gray at his temples, where the alchemy of Time and stress had
made its mark--"it makes you look so ... so distinguished that I am
ashamed of my frivolously familiar manner of greeting you. But I just
couldn't help it, and I promise not to embarrass you again. Yes, you
_were_ embarrassed. I could read it in your face."
There was but a moment for conversation with the others, and they were
whirled off to catch the train for the North Shore resort.
When they were seated, face to face, in the Pullman chair car, there
came a moment of silence, during which each studied the other covertly.
Donald decided that, physically, the girl had not greatly changed from
the picture of her which he had borne away in his heart. The passing
years had merely deepened the charm of the soft, waving hair, whose rich
and glinting chestnut strands swept low on her broad forehead and
nestled against the nape of her neck; the slender patrician nose and
wonderfully shadowed eyes; the smooth contour of cheek and rounded chin;
and the tender glory which still trembled, as in the old days, on her
sensitive lips. But, in her poise and speech, after the first rush of
impetuous childlike eagerness had spent itself, he discovered a new
maturity, and he realized that, where he had left a child, he found a
woman, whose heart was no longer worn upon her sleeve. True, her
gratitude and affection for him were unaltered. They showed in every
word and look, and once the thought came to him that he might yet win
the castle of Desire, if he should only determine to enter the lists
against Philip. The primal man in him cried out against, and might have
overcome, his better nature, which whispered that this would be
treachery to a friend who had played fair, and was worthy, if there had
not always been before his mind the consideration that the fight would
be hopeless. Rose was not for him; she loved another.
And the girl? She cheered him with her smile, and loved him for the
dangers he had passed as he, in the hope of in that subject finding a
vent for his emotions, told her of the work he had been doing. But in
her heart she was deeply disturbed. The tired, drawn look on his strong
face would pass away, she felt; but the sight of the expression of pain
in his eyes gave her thoughts pause. Had Marion Treville's faithlessness
struck so deep? At the memory of her interview with the woman, Smiles'
own eyes changed, and lost their quiet tenderness.
* * * * *
Morning had come, and the sunlight danced like a myriad host of tiny
sprites, clad in cloth of gold over the broad blue bosom of the Atlantic
and into the windows of little Muriel's cheerful bedroom. The door
opened softly, and Rose, in trim uniform and cap, with its three black
bands, slipped into the room, silently motioning the man in the hall
outside to keep back out of sight. The child, thin and pale on her snowy
bed, turned her head listlessly and looked at the intruder.
Suddenly the suggestion of a smile touched her colorless lips, and
lighted her unnaturally heavy eyes. She sat up with a glad cry of
surprise and welcome, "Why, it's my own Smiles! Wherever did you come
from; are you going to make us a visit? Oh, I'm so glad."
"Yes, darling. I got so tired and grumpy up in the hot city that I just
had to come down here to be cheered up. Will you help do it?"
"'Course I will. Why, just _seeing_ you makes me want to cheer." She
quickly swung her slender legs over the bedside. "Oh, now if dear Uncle
Don were only safe home again it would be perfect. I've worried and
worried about his getting hit by a bomb or being blown up by a
submarine. I wish ..."
"And, presto! your wish is granted," laughed Donald, as he ran into the
room and caught his small niece up in an old-time bear hug.
"Oh, oh, oh. It's better than a fairy tale. I'm so happy I could die,
but instead I'm going to get well right off. I'm well _now_; where are
my clothes?"
The little bare feet sought for bedroom slippers, and the light curls
bobbed energetically as she enunciated, "Now that I've got you two I
mean to keep you forever and ever. If you, Uncle Don, would only mar
..."
The man made haste to clap his hand over the offending mouth; but he was
too late. Rose had heard, and, with glowing cheeks, replied quickly,
"But you forget that Uncle Don adopted me as a little sister, long ago."
She slipped her hand through his arm and pressed it close to her for a
moment, before laughing gayly, "Run along, man. Milady is about to dress
and this is no place for you."