"Is it?" he said a little bitterly. "I wonder why his _everybody_ must
needs exclude me."
Next day, Olive gone and no one else in prospect, Reed lay staring out
through the open window into the green trees on the lawn, staring
listlessly, with no especial thought of envy for the birds hopping
among the branches. Indeed, even to Reed himself, that was the most
tragic phase of the whole tragic situation: that his hours of restless
longing seemed to have come to a final end. Always too sane to waste
regrets upon futilities, he had come now to a point of passive
acceptance of the immutable bad in his surroundings, an active effort
only to snatch at whatever good remained. It did not affect his
attitude in the very least that, nine days out of every ten, he had to
take a spiritual microscope to hunt the good. One of the longest
lessons is the learning to pick up the crumbs of comfort, when one has
been used to munching the whole loaf. However, Reed was conning the
lesson steadily, learning it by slow degrees.
This time, however, he was more occupied in studying how best to face
certain inevitable bad half-hours before him than he was in picking any
crumbs of comfort from their prospect. It seemed to him a little bit
unfair, now that he knew past all gainsaying what the future held for
him, to go on allowing his parents and some friends--well, Olive, if
one must be so specific--to continue hoping against hope that he would
ever be well, and on his legs, and walking. Out of his own experience,
Opdyke knew that it is uncertainty which kills. Had he any right to go
on in silence, and not end the suspense once and for all? Of course, it
was the place of the surgeons to utter the decree of condemnation.
However, as long as they were not sufficiently astute to find out the
truth of the prospect, then, in all honour, was it not up to him?
There was no longer any hope of his recovery; that he knew of a surety,
knew as, every now and then, one does know things unprovable. He had
taken the knowledge pluckily, albeit it had told on him more than he
would have been willing to confess. It would have told on him still
more, though, had it not been for his week with Whittenden. All that
week, he had clung to Whittenden, as the drowning man clings to the
life raft. In the end, Whittenden had dragged him to the shore. And now
it was his own turn to do as much for his parents, and for Olive. Yes,
for Olive. Poor Olive! Yes, she was bound to take it hard.
So lost in thought of Olive was he that he started violently, when he
heard coming up the stairway to him the unmistakable rustle of feminine
skirts. He forgot the tree tops instantly, forgot his questionings.
Olive was coming back again. Doubtless, after her frequent custom, she
was returning to tell him something that she had forgotten. He turned
his head expectantly. Olive would have been welcome, a dozen times a
day; she was the one person in the world who never antagonized him,
never bored him, never tired him with irrelevant chatter. Now, without
in the least realizing the fact, he was shaping his lips into a smile
of eager welcome. Only an instant later, the smile had vanished, and
there had come into his brave brown eyes a look astonishingly like
consternation.
Not Olive, but Katharine Brenton, stood upon his threshold; and, as
Opdyke was too well aware, for the time being that threshold was
totally unguarded.