PULLING OFF THE THORNS
The heat of June in the city drew forth a hot, damp steam. It made
white faces and brought to mind sunstrokes, not June's country
thought--roses.
"Gee, it's hot!" said John. He sat opposite Stuyvesant Twombly in a
restaurant famed for its coolness. "Come out with me to-night!" he
added. "Dad and Celie will be glad to have you, too. Come on!
Awful nice and cool out there."
Stuyvesant answered absently, and smiled a little as he did. The
idea of "Celie's" being glad to see him amused, even while it hurt,
him desperately. He thought with a cankered humour of his trying to
find out whether there was a spark of hope for him, after the talk
with Annette had made his dreams too daring, and had made him need,
all over again, proof of how little he mattered. He had gotten the
proof. His first talk had been full of Marjory,--Marjory,--Marjory.
He had not wanted to talk of Marjory. Again he had hated her for
coming between them.
Cecilia had told of what Marjory's letters had held,--how dear
Marjory was (Cecilia had been a bit breathless at this point)--how
she, Cecilia, loved her,--where Marjory was,--where she was going.
It had been a very surface talk, not once touching anything personal,
at least no more than the small Cecilia's great love for her friend.
Then John had appeared and Cecilia had excused herself with much
relief and gone quickly away.
It was as always, her avoidance, and what in a less sweet nature
would have shown as marked distaste. Stuyvesant had understood, and
held on to his small privilege doggedly.
"Then I'll leave," Stuyvesant heard John say; he didn't know what had
come before, "but I'll get home from school often and see you."
"I'm going away myself for a while," said Stuyvesant,--"I don't know
just where. I'm tired of business,--everything. I guess I need a
change." He thought miserably of the "change" he needed, and then
shut his heart on her sweet image. He made up his mind to stop
thinking of "that kind of thing," and his heart laughed at his
decision.
[Illustration: CECILIA STOPPED AND GASPED. IT WAS HARDER THAN SHE
HAD DREAMED]
"Stuyv!" said John aghast, "what am I going to do without you? Why,
Stuyv! You can't go, at least for long. You don't mean a long trip?"
"'Fraid so," he was answered. "I guess I'd better, John. I--the
fact is I've wanted something I can't have. I don't want to baby
about it, only I'm,--well, I can't forget it here. I'm going to try
a change. Damn it! What did I say that for? I hate to whine."
"Stuyv!" said John. He reached across the table, and squeezed the
hand that was drawing designs on the tablecloth with a strawberry
fork.
Stuyvesant felt the sympathy, and looked up. The boy on the other
side of the table gasped.
"Is it as bad as that?" he asked. Stuyvesant shook his head, and
then he uttered his own word and convincingly. "Gosh, John," he
said, "it's the limit. I'd never have believed it possible."
"Would it help to tell?" asked John. Stuyvesant smiled a little.
"Not exactly," he replied. "I did tell one person," he continued
after a pause, "and after that it was worse. This person meant well
too. Rot it, if I couldn't run a world better than it's run! I'd
have people that love each----" he stopped, and looked wildly around.
Then he mopped his forehead. "It's awful hot," he finished inanely.
"Yes," agreed John. "Lord, I'll miss you!" John was utterly
despondent. "There's no one like you, Stuyv," he said in an
embarrassed way. "You know how hard it is to say some things, but
you can bet I know what you've done for me! I do--so does Cecilia.
I had the wrong idea."
"I've been glad to be your friend," answered Stuyvesant. "You'll
write me and tell me how,--how you all are?"
"Certainly," responded John. "Why, of course I will, but I don't
know how I can say good-bye! Stuyv, I depend on you awfully. You
know,--you know with dad, that is, I can't take his advice because I
don't respect him."
"Why not?" broke in John's companion. "I'd like to know why not?"
John's mouth flew open. "His grammar----" he began.
"Trimmings," said K. Stuyvesant.
"Crudeness," said John.
"Companion of strength," said K. Stuyvesant.
"Mentioning money all the time," said John, "how much things cost."
"Better than spending it without mention on dubious objects." John
looked away as Stuyvesant replied. "Look here," continued
Stuyvesant, "you and I both know the honest goodness in your
father--his rugged ideas of a decent life--his respect of them. The
other things are tinsel balls on the Christmas tree. Desirable
trimmings, but not essential for the tree's strength. A few more
years will convince you,--absolutely convince you. Some day you
won't even wince when your father forgets and uses his knife to eat
from."
"Never," stated John.
"You prefer a man who is slippery both inside and out?" questioned
Stuyvesant.
"They get along better with the world," said John.
"Oh, no," said Stuyvesant. "They get along better with the empties.
A few people, those that count, look for something on the inside."
John suddenly leaned well across the table. "Look here, Stuyv," he
said, "is this a bluff? Damned if I understand you! I was lying in
the hammock on the porch last summer when Marjory and Cecilia came
from the courts. They didn't see me, and I thought I'd hear about
some beau and have a joke. I heard Marjory say that you said the old
man should be kept in the garage. Not just those words, but
smooth--Marjory's way. I never saw Celie so mad! She turned white
as----"
"Did she say that?" shouted Stuyvesant.
"Lord, Stuyv!" said John, "everybody's lookin' at you. Yes, of
course she said that. What's the matter with you?"
"What else did she say?" asked Stuyvesant. He was somewhat
breathless, but for the sake of John more restrained.
"Well, Marjory told Cecilia what a hell of a case you had on her,
talking about her eyes, and all that kind of stuff. Trust
girls--they blab everything. Gimme the salt, will you?"
Stuyvesant shoved his glass of water toward John. "The salt, man!"
said John, and then as he surveyed Stuyvesant with sad eyes, he
added, "I hope it isn't catching."
"You go telephone her that we're coming out," said Stuyvesant.
"Who?"
"Your sister, of course. Tell her not to have any one else there.
I've got to see her, John,--got to! Honestly, John, I've _got_ to.
I've got to see her a little while alone. I really must."
"I think you've made it plain," replied John. "You say you must see
Cecilia. You did mention that, didn't you?"
There was no room for anything but heaven in Stuyvesant. He nodded
seriously. "Yes," lie answered, "I must! Really, I've got to, John!"
John howled. "The heat!" he explained, then he sobered.
"Look here, Stuyv," he said, "_did_ you say that?"
"What?" asked Stuyvesant, then he remembered, and for the first and
last time made a certain utterance. "She lied," he said quietly, and
then, "Oh, my _gosh_, I'm happy! I believe I'm going crazy."
"Oh, no!" replied John, "impossible."
"Yes, John?" said Cecilia.
"Stuyv's coming out with me," she heard him say.
"Yes, dear," she answered.
"Any one coming to dinner?"
"No, dear. Shall I ask one of the Welsh twins? They're always so
sweet about coming."
"No," said John; "Stuyv and I were talking about dad, rather Marjory,
and he's got a hunch that he's got to see you alone. Got to,--got
to,--got to!" Cecilia did not understand, and was rather bewildered
at John's laughter.
"Certainly he shall, John," she replied. Her heart beat in her
voice. "Good-bye, dear," she ended, and heard the click of his
receiver.
"Talking of Marjory" ... Cecilia turned away from the telephone and
went to stand by the sea window of her room. She would help them
both all she could. All she could.... She closed her eyes, for she
felt sick and faint.
"How can I help him?" she questioned, for Marjory's letters had not
held a mention of him, although Cecilia's had tactfully recorded his
every move. She looked out on the world--it was grey like the
frothing Sound.
"I will help them to be happy," she whispered unsteadily. "Father
McGowan-dear,--I am learning. Some day I will learn to think of it,
and smile----" Then she turned to dress.
Norah came in, and looked on happily. Cecilia was not vain after
all. No, she didn't care which frock she put on, and she told
Josephine not to fuss so over her hair, that it bored her. "What is
the difference?" she had asked a little bitterly, and then to Norah
she had said, "I didn't mean that! I didn't! What made me say it?
I am not bitter, am I, Norah?"
"And why should you be," Norah had answered, "with everything in the
world that money can buy?"