"THE GREATEST OF THESE"
It was nearly two hours after the Mercury car had crashed into ruin
under the aromatic apple-trees, before knowledge of the disaster came to
Flavia. Breakfast was over, at least the breakfast of Mr. Rose and his
daughter; no other member of the family had appeared. A maid reported
that Isabel had ordered her horse and had departed on an early ride to
the neighboring golf club, where she was engaged to play with an equally
athletic college girl, that morning. There was nothing to disturb the
customary pleasant routine or to suggest uneasiness. At the usual hour
Mr. Rose left for the city; he was on his way to New York when he first
caught the rumor that sent him instead to the farmhouse at Westbury.
Flavia, roseate, softly irradiated, moving in an atmosphere of undefined
expectation as difficult to breathe calmly as the rarefied air of a
mountain-top, had held herself to the accomplishment of her daily
charges. She was seated at her little white-and-gold desk in her
white-and-gold study, setting the household affairs in order for the
day with the dainty precision of all her methods, when Isabel came into
the room and stopped upright and rigid, near the door.
"You had better hear it now," the younger girl dully announced. "There
has been an accident on the course."
Flavia's hands flew over her heart, the room blackened.
"Corrie----" she gasped.
"No; Mr. Gerard. He is alive, that's all I know."
The scent of the yellow roses Flavia had put in her hair dilated to a
stifling heaviness that hindered breath; she covered her eyes with her
small cold fingers, seeking the dark, mute under torture. He was
alive--that niggard concession was made to Allan Gerard, whose rich
fullness of vigor and dominant presence last night had seemed the one
firm reality in a world of pleasant vagueness. Weak, conscious of
nothing but what her inward vision showed, she lay in her chair;
questioning no more, making no sign.
Suddenly Isabel, the self-assured, evenly poised Isabel, was on the
floor at her cousin's knees, burying her face in Flavia's pale-yellow
dress and sobbing in frantic hysteria.
"Flavia, Flavia, I can't bear it! I am afraid, I am afraid--if he should
die----"
Shocked back into strength, Flavia bent over her, soothing and caressing
with soft touches and inarticulate phrases of affection.
"Hush, dear, hush! Put your head here. Let me call Martha; you frighten
me, Isabel!"
The tempest did not last long. As abruptly as she had lost self-command,
Isabel regained it. Rising to her feet, she swept back the disordered
auburn curls from her flushed face and stood silent beside the desk, in
a state approaching exhaustion. She was wearing a dark riding-habit
soiled with dust and stained in several places with oil or grease, her
high-laced boots were scratched and sand-covered. But Flavia was beyond
notice of costume and saw only her cousin's sullen misery of expression.
"Dear, you loved him," escaped her, in her double compassion for the
woman whom Gerard had not chosen.
Isabel's gray eyes were crossed by a spark.
"No--I _hate_ him!" she flared viciously. "What did he do it for? He had
no right. He, he----" She pressed her drenched handkerchief hard against
her lips. "Corrie, poor Corrie----"
Flavia shrank, commencing to tremble before a looming premonition of
something still worse to be endured.
"What of Corrie? Isabel, what?"
"You will hear soon enough," she assured bitterly. "I've said all I can.
No--don't ask me, don't follow me. They will tell you downstairs. I'm
going."
Downstairs, meant the servants. Flavia Rose was, above all things,
maiden-proud; as Gerard's fiancee, as Gerard's wife, no cost of pain or
humiliation would have kept her from him. But she was neither. She had
only her own interpretation of his mirthful glances and graceful speech,
only a few yellow roses to hint that he did not regard her as the most
casual of friends. Suppose she had been mistaken, suppose he had meant
only courtesy to a hostess whose youth exacted gallantry?
Isabel had gone. Flavia turned her face to a diminutive mirror lying
among the trifles on her desk. Could she go down to the curious servants
so--pale, quivering and emotion-spent? Even as she looked into her own
reflected eyes, the tears at last overflowed.
It was half an hour later before Flavia, quiet, dignified and only
betrayed by her absolute pallor, trusted herself to descend the stairs.
The Rose house was too near the race course, too intimately concerned in
the drama, for the information she sought not to be already rife gossip
there. When Mr. Rose came home, near noon, he had little left to tell
his daughter except Gerard's condition and his defense of Corrie.
"Then Corrie did not hurt him," she grasped the exquisite relief.
Mr. Rose shook his head, reluctantly discouraged and discouraging. He
had not gone to the city during those intervening hours; he never, then
or afterward, spoke of where he had been or what he had felt.
"There was the wrench," he heavily reminded her. "And where has he sent
Dean, who must have seen all that happened and could have given Gerard's
mechanician the lie? I've not seen Corrie except across the room," the
recollection of that ghastly room broke the speech. "We have got to wait
until he comes home to answer."
Flavia slipped her hand into his, nestling to him, and he put his arm
about her. Both were remembering Corrie's brief, simoon-hot tempers, his
hasty tongue and ready hand--and swift repentances. Had an occasion come
when the repentance was too late, too vain! And what repentance! To the
sister who knew with life-long knowledge the ardent, passionate Corrie,
his young rigidity in honor and high pride, his tenacious affections,
this menaced downfall was almost as appalling as his death. She thrust
the possibility from her with revolted condemnation of herself for
crediting this libel, this slander of her brother. What had he ever done
to justify such a belief?
"Papa, he could not!" she defended. "Corrie could not. Not, not
_Corrie_!"
"I hope not, my girl."
Something in his tone, some quality she did not recognize, brought her
gaze to his face with a fresh dread. What would it mean to Thomas Rose,
if this were true of his son? And what would the change in Thomas Rose
mean to Corrie?
The early autumn dusk had fallen and the lamps were lit, when Corrie
came home. The routine of the household had gone on through the long
day; under the eye of convention, Flavia and Mr. Rose had dressed for
dinner and now sat together in the drawing-room, each holding an unread
book. But at the closing of the outer door both started erect, pretense
forgotten.
"Corrie!" his father summoned. Not Corwin B.; by a trick of usage the
nickname had become formal, the formal name a playfulness not to be
spoken now.
Corrie came quietly between the velvet curtains. He still wore the pink
racing costume, its hue in marked contrast to his worn young face. That
one day had drawn white lines about his boyish mouth and set black
circles under his blue eyes. As if feeling himself on trial, he stopped
just within the room and stood with the quiescent endurance that he had
shown in the farmhouse parlor and which sat so strangely upon him.
"First--Gerard?" required Mr. Rose hardly. "You've been there?"
"Yes, sir. They say he will live."
"Live! What----"
"They say he will never drive again."
Flavia cried out faintly, grasping the arms of her chair, and there was
a pause.
"I've heard Rupert's story, and I've heard Gerard's," slowly pronounced
Mr. Rose. "I haven't heard yours, yet. Nor I haven't learned that anyone
has. What wrecked Gerard's car?"
There was no answer. Corrie's breathing quickened slightly, but he
neither moved nor spoke, nor lifted his eyes to the two who watched him.
After moments, Mr. Rose put out his hand and pushed away a tinted
electric lamp from which the light fell too strongly on his face.
"Rupert isn't lying," he asserted. "He might be crazy. If he is, say
so. I saw your nickel wrench picked up, myself, and a dozen people along
the line saw you and Gerard racing just before the smash. Where is your
mechanician, Dean? What has he got to say? It looks bad, your hiding
him."
"He was not with me," Corrie replied, his voice oddly smothered.
"Not with you? Rupert talks of seeing him beside you in the car."
"Rupert is mistaken. Dean was not yet out at the course and I started
alone. Ask the men at my camp and the race officials; they will tell you
that I took out my machine without a mechanician."
"Then Rupert is crazy? Gerard told the truth? Speak out! Are you afraid
or sulky?"
This time the lash took effect. Corrie moved sharply and spoke.
"I am not going to talk," he declared definitely. "Nor ought you to ask
it of me, sir. If you don't know how I loved Allan Gerard, if you can't
feel that I would rather have killed myself than hurt him and would have
turned my car against a stone wall sooner than see to-day, there is no
use of my saying it. I don't care what anyone thinks or says. I stood
the worst that can come to me when I helped his surgeons to-day and
heard him clear me----I'm going to my room; you needn't fear I'll run
away."
Mr. Rose was across the room before his son could leave it, gripping the
satin-clad shoulder.
"You'll keep what Gerard lied to give you," he promised with inexorable
menace. "And that's what is left of your reputation. You'll neither run
nor skulk in your room; you'll go dress for dinner and come down here
and eat it. We'll have no scenes. The medicine you have got to take is
nothing to the black dose Gerard has to swallow."
"Papa!" Flavia appealed, unheard.
"Yes, sir," Corrie answered simply.
On the wide landing of the staircase Flavia overtook her brother. There
was just one thing she could say to him, must and would always have to
say whatever his faults or the rest of the world's condemnation.
"I love you," she panted, clasping her little hands around his arm.
"Corrie, it is hurting you so! I love you, let me come."
Under the soft hall-lights he turned to her, blue eyes meeting blue
eyes; then for the first time in their lives he took her in his arms
with a man's touch and kissed her.
"You stick close, Other Fellow," he said unsteadily. "I'm pretty
lonesome; you're a help. But don't come now."
Pretty lonesome. Yes, that expressed the atmosphere of aloofness, the
air of being suddenly walled around and set apart, that now marked the
impulsive and social Corrie. It was with him when he came down to the
dreary dinner, an hour later.
The one who failed to play out the wretched farce of customary life was
Isabel. She kept her room, alleging illness, and did not appear to lend
aid to the evening which the three spent in silent endurance of one
another and their own thoughts. The very surroundings insisted on the
image of Gerard; a book he had been reading lay open on the table, the
music he preferred was waiting on the piano rack. At nine o'clock,
unable to bear more, Flavia rose, hurriedly pleading fatigue. Corrie
also rose with her to retire, or to escape.
"Wait," his father bade, at his movement, laying down a newspaper. "You
will not be out with your automobile, to-morrow."
Corrie looked at him without rebellion or surprise, unflinching from the
decision.
"I shall never drive a racing car again, sir," was his quiet statement.
And only Gerard could have gauged what that renunciation cost his
fellow-driver.
Gerard, at that hour, was not conscious of many things. The night that
was long at the rose-colored villa, was longer yet in the little
farmhouse. But when the first pale light of dawn made the parlor windows
grow into glimmering squares of gray, the patient suddenly spoke out of
what was rather stupor than sleep.
"'And the greatest of these is charity?'" he said strongly and clearly.
The nurse hurried to his side, but it was many moments before he again
aroused and asked for Rupert.
"Now, and alone," he insisted, when she demurred, urging rest.
Even in his helplessness he was compelling. The nurse went in search of
Rupert, who had kept vigil in the kitchen, scoffing at the suggestion of
bed while that battle was being waged in the other room.
Gerard turned his fever-burnished eyes upon his small mechanician's
sullen face, when that visitor entered. Both men understood perfectly
well the contest of wills about to ensue. Both were coolly determined
and prepared with the fine weapon of mutual knowledge of one another.
"There's a silver case on the table; get me a cigarette and light it,
will you?" requested Gerard, in his low, unsure voice.
Rupert complied. He had not altogether escaped, himself, with mere
scratches; he limped as he came across to place the cigarette in the
languid fingers.
"I guess there ain't any special need to ask if it's hurting bad, when
you're wanting these dopes," he drew grim inference. "Here."
"It is, all the time. Thanks. I didn't bring you here to talk about
that, when you should be asleep, though. Rupert, no more is to be said
about Corrie Rose. There has been too much of that already, I can see."
Rupert's black eyes hardened and narrowed to lines of glinting jet.
"I've got the truth stripped down to running facts, carrying no
trimmings, and I'm demonstrating it to everybody I meet," he imparted
dryly. "And I mean to keep on. I know what you want, all right, and I
ain't intending to do it. Let him stand for what is coming to him."
Gerard lifted his cigarette, seeking the narcotic smoke. His superb
vitality and undrained youth had turned upon him like traitorous
servants upon a fallen master, denying him surcease in unconsciousness
and holding him as a sensitive instrument for pain to run its gamut
upon.
"Why?" he queried.
"Because I want to see him get his. You don't? I do. I guess my say
goes, this time. I ain't enjoying being sore wherever I ain't worse, but
I'd go out and take another smash like we had to-day to see him wearing
zebra clothes in a jail. Missing that, I'll make that pink millionaire
palace red-hot and get him ruled off every race course in the country."
"Rupert----"
The mechanician's gesture cut off protest.
"There ain't any use! I mean it."
"You liked Corrie----"
"I ain't noticing it, now. When you were behind the steering-wheel, your
say so was what happened--if you'd said to light the gasoline tank, I'd
have struck a match. That's business. This ain't. Rose stands for what
he did, for I'm free to put it through."
"Very true; I am helpless," Gerard acquiesced, his white lips
compressed, and averted his head on the pillow.
Checked, Rupert stared at the other with many shifting expressions
twitching his own angry dark face.
"Do you know what the doctors say?" he demanded, at last. "Are you
knowing, when you ask me to let Rose off, what he's done to you?"
"Yes," was the laconic answer.
There was no retort to that all-sufficient brevity. None was attempted.
The windows had gradually paled from gray to white, streaks of gold
caught and reflected in the glass panes as the sun drew up above the
horizon. All night the air had been filled with a steady murmur and dull
flow of sound, unobserved because of its very continuity. Now, across
the hush of the sick room unexpectedly crashed a roar of rapid
explosions, growing thunderous as it approached nearer; cheers of joyous
excitement pealed from many throats. Gerard started, his eyes blazing
wide.
"The race," flung the mechanician bitterly. "It's on."
Gerard slowly raised his left arm and dropped it across his face as
those who yesterday were his mates rushed past the house. With the
movement a spot of crimson sprang into view against the linen swathing
his shoulder, enlarging ominously, but even the alarmed Rupert knew
this was no time to summon doctor or nurse, whatever the physical cost.
"Don't you think?" Gerard presently asked, quite gently and naturally,
"that I've got enough to stand, Rupert?"
The sound that broke from the vanquished mechanician was less cry than
curse.
"I'll shut up!" he cast his submission before the victor. "I ain't going
to lie--I'd choke--but I'll hold my tongue. Don't ask more or I'll take
back that. You've got me down; I'll shut up."