SIDE LIGHTS
Louis Gray sat in a capacious willow easy-chair beside the high white
iron hospital bed upon which lay Hugh Benson, convalescing from his
attack of fever. "Pretty comfortable they make you here," Louis
observed, glancing about. "I didn't know their private rooms were as big
and airy as this one."
Benson smiled. "I don't imagine they all are. I didn't realize what sort
of quarters I was in till I began to get better and mother told me.
According to her I have the best in the place. That's Rich. Whatever he
looks after is sure to be gilt-edged. I wonder if you know what a prince
of good fellows he is, anyway."
"I always knew he was a good fellow," Louis agreed. "He has that
reputation, you know--kind-hearted and open-handed. I should know he
would be a substantial friend to his college classmate and business
partner."
"He's much more than that." Benson's slow and languid speech took on a
more earnest tone. "Do you know, I think if any young man in this city
has been misjudged and underrated it's Rich. I know the reputation you
speak of; it's another way of calling a man a spendthrift, to say he's
free with his money among his friends. But I don't believe anybody knows
how free Rich Kendrick is with it among people who have no claim on him.
I never should have known if I hadn't come here. One of my nurses has
told me a lot of things she wasn't supposed ever to tell; but once she
had let a word drop I got it out of her. Why, Louis, for three years
Rich has paid the expenses of every sick child that came into this
hospital, where the family was too poor to pay. He's paid for several
big operations, too, on children that he wanted to see have the best.
There are four special private rooms he keeps for those they call his
patients, and he sees that whoever occupies them has everything they
need--and plenty of things they may not just need, but are bound to
enjoy--including flowers like those."
He pointed to a splendid bowlful of blossoms on a stand behind Louis,
such blossoms as even in June grow only in the choicest of gardens.
"All this is news to me," declared Louis; "mighty good news, too. But
how has he been able to keep it so quiet?"
"Hospital people all pledged not to tell; so of course you and I mustn't
be responsible for letting it out, since he doesn't want it known. I'm
glad I know it, though, and I felt somehow that you ought to know. I
used to think a lot of Rich at college, but now that he's my partner I
think so much more I can't be happy unless other people appreciate him.
And in the business--I can't tell you what he is. He's more like a
brother than a partner."
His thin cheeks flushed, and Louis suddenly bethought himself.
"I'm letting you talk too much, Hugh," he said self-accusingly.
"Convalescents mustn't overexert themselves. Suppose you lie still
and let me read the morning paper to you."
"Thank you, my nurse has done it. Talking is really a great luxury and
it does me good, a little of it. I want to tell you this about Rich--"
The door opened quietly as he spoke and Richard Kendrick himself came
in. Quite as usual, he looked as if he had that moment left the hands of
a most scrupulous valet. No wonder Louis's first thought was, as he
looked at him, that people gave him credit for caring only for
externals. One would not have said at first glance that he had ever
soiled his hands with any labour more tiring than that of putting on
his gloves. And yet, studying him more closely in the light of the
revelations his friend had made, was there not in his attractive face
more strength and force than Louis had ever observed before?
"How goes it this morning, Hugh?" was the new-comer's greeting. He
grasped the thin hand of the convalescent, smiling down at him. Then he
shook hands with Louis, saying, "It's good of such a busy man to come in
and cheer up this idle one," and sat down as if he had come to stay. But
he had no proprietary air, and when a nurse looked in he only bowed
gravely, as if he had not often seen her before. If Louis had not known
he would not have imagined that Richard's hand in the affair of Benson's
illness had been other than that of a casual caller.
Louis Gray went away presently, thinking it over. He was thinking of it
again that evening as he sat upon the big rear porch of the Gray home,
which looked out upon the lawn and tennis court where he and Roberta had
just been having a bout lasting into the twilight.
"I heard something to-day that surprised me more than anything for a
long time," he began, and when his sister inquired what the strange news
might be he repeated to her as he could remember it Hugh Benson's
outline of the extraordinary story about Richard Kendrick. When she had
heard it she observed:
"I suppose there is much more of that sort of thing done by the very
rich than we dream of."
"By old men, yes--and widows, and a few other classes of people. But I
don't imagine it's so common as to be noticeable among the young men of
his class, do you?"
"Perhaps not. Though you do hear of wonderful things the bachelors do at
Christmas for the poor children."
"At Christmas--that's another story. Hearts get warmed up at Christmas,
that, like old Scrooge's, are cold and careless the rest of the year.
But for a fellow like Rich Kendrick to keep it up all the year
round--you'll find that's not so commonplace a tale."
"I don't know much about rich young men."
"You've certainly kept this one at a distance," Louis observed, eying
his sister curiously in the twilight. She was sitting in a boyish
attitude, racket on lap, elbows on knees, chin on clasped hands, eyes on
the shadowy garden. "He's been coming here evening after evening until
now that his grandfather has gone home, and never once has anybody seen
you so much as standing on the porch with him, to say nothing of
strolling into the garden. What's the matter with you, Rob? Any other
girl would be following him round and getting into his path. Not that
you would need to, judging by the way I've seen him look at you once or
twice. Have you drawn an imaginary circle around yourself and pointed
out to him the danger of crossing it? I should take him for a fellow who
would cross it then anyhow!"
"Imaginary circles are sometimes bigger barriers than stone walls," she
admitted, smiling to herself, "Besides, Lou, I thought somebody else was
the person you wanted to see walking in the garden with me."
"Forbes? The person I expected to see, you mean. Well, I don't know
about Forbes Westcott. He's a mighty clever chap, but I sometimes think
his blood is a little thin--like his body. I can't imagine his bothering
about a sick child at a hospital, can you? I've never seen him take a
minute's notice of Steve's pair; and they're little trumps, if ever
children were. Corporations are more in his line than children."
* * * * *
One thing leads to another in this interesting world. It was not two
days after this talk that Roberta herself had a private view of a little
affair which proved more illuminating to her understanding of a certain
fellow mortal than might have been all the evidence of other witnesses
than her own eyes.
Returning from school on one of the last days of the term, weary of
walls and longing for the soothing stillness and refreshment of
outdoors, Roberta turned aside some distance from her regular course to
pass through a large botanical park, originally part of a great estate,
and newly thrown open to the public. It was, as yet, less frequented
than any other of the city parks. Much of it, according to the decree of
its donor, a nature lover of discrimination, had been left in a state
not far removed from wildness, and it was toward this portion that
Roberta took her way; experiencing, with each step along a winding,
secluded path she had recently discovered, that sense of escape into
luxurious freedom which comes only after enforced confinement when the
world outside is at its most alluring.
At a point where the path swept high above a long, descending slope, at
the foot of which lay a tiny pool surrounded by thick and beautifully
kept turf, Roberta paused, and after looking about her for a minute to
make sure that there was no one near, turned aside from the path and
threw herself down beside a great clump of ferns, breathing a deep sigh
of restful relief. She sat gazing dreamily down at the pool, in which
was mirrored an exquisite reflection of tree and sky, the scene as
silent and still as though drawn upon canvas. She had many things to
think of, in these days, and a place like this was an ideal one in which
to think.
Was it? Far below her she heard the low hum of a motor. None could come
near her, but the road beneath wound near the pool, though out of sight
except at one point. In spite of this, the girl drew back further into
the shelter of the tall ferns, thinking as she did so that it was the
first time she had seen this remoter part of the park invaded by either
motorist or pedestrian. Watching the point at which the car must appear
she saw it come slowly into sight and stop. There were two occupants, a
man and a boy, but at the distance she could not discern their faces.
The man stepped out, and coming around to the other side of the car put
out his arms and lifted the boy. He did not set him down, but carried
him, seeming to hold him with peculiar care, and brought him through the
surrounding trees and shrubbery to the pool itself, coming, as he did
so, into full view of the unseen eyes above.
Roberta experienced a sudden strange leap of the heart as she saw that
the supple figure of the man was Richard Kendrick's own, and that the
slight frame he bore was that of a crippled child. She could see now the
iron braces on the legs, like pipe stems, which stuck straight out from
the embrace of the strong young arm which held them. She could discern
clearly the pallor and emaciation of the small face, in pitiful contrast
to the ruggedly healthy one of the child's bearer. Fascinatedly she
watched as Richard set his burden carefully down upon the grass, close
to the edge of the pool, the boy's back against a big white birch trunk.
The two were not so far below her but that she could see the expression
on their faces, though she could not hear their words.
Richard ran back to the car, returning with a rug and something in a
long and slender case. He arranged a cushion behind the little back.
Roberta judged the boy to be about eight or nine years old, though small
for his age, as such children are. Richard undid the case and produced a
small fishing-rod, which he fell to preparing for use, talking gayly as
he did so, watched eagerly by his youthful companion. Evidently the boy
was to have a great and unaccustomed pleasure.
Well, it was certainly in line with that which Roberta had heard of this
young man, but somehow to see something of it with her own eyes was
singularly more convincing. She could not bring herself to get up and go
away--surely there could be no need to feel that she was spying if she
stayed to watch the interesting scene. If Richard had chosen a spot
which he fancied entirely secluded from observation, it was undoubtedly
wholly on the boy's own account. She could easily imagine how such a
child as this one would shrink from observation in a public place,
particularly when he was to try the dearly imagined but wholly unknown
delight of fishing. It was plain that he was very shy, even with this
kind friend, for it was only now and then that he replied in words to
Richard's talk, though the response in the white face and big black eyes
was eloquent enough.
It seemed in every way remarkable that a young man of Richard Kendrick's
sort should devote himself to a poor and crippled child as he was doing
now. Not a gesture or act of his was lost upon the girl who watched.
Clearly he was taking all possible pains to please and interest his
little protégé, and he was doing it in a way which showed much skill,
suggesting previous practice in the art. This was no such interest as he
had shown in Gordon and Dorothy Gray, whose beauty had been so powerful
an appeal to his fancy. There was nothing about this child to take hold
upon any one except his helplessness and need. But Richard was as gentle
with him, as patient with his awkward attempts at holding the light rod
in the proper position for fishing, and as full of resources for
entertaining him when the fish--if there were any--failed to bite, as he
could have been with a small brother of his own.
There was another thing which it was impossible not to note: Never had
Roberta seen this young man in circumstances so calculated to impress
upon her the potency of his personality. Unconscious of the scrutiny of
any other human being, wholly absorbed in the task of making a small boy
happy, he was naturally showing her himself precisely as he was. In
place of his usual careful manners when in her presence was entire
freedom from restraint and therefore an effect uncoloured by
conventional environment. The tones of his voice, the frank smile upon
his lips, the touch of his hand upon the little lad's--all these
combined to set him before Roberta in a light so different from any she
had seen him in before that she must needs admit she had been far from
knowing him.
She stole away at length, feeling suddenly that she had seen enough, and
that her defences against the siege being made upon her heart and
judgment were weakening perilously. If she were to hold out before it
she must hear of no more affairs to Richard Kendrick's credit,
especially such affairs as these. Not all his efforts at establishing a
successful career in the world of achievement could touch her
imagination as did the knowledge of his brotherly kindness toward the
unfortunate. That was what meant most to Roberta, in a world which she
had early discovered to be a hard place for the greater part of its
inhabitants. Forgetfulness of self, devotion to the need of
others--these were the qualities she most strove to cultivate in
herself, and most rejoiced at seeing developed in those for whom she
cared.
Unluckily for his cause, if there had been a possible chance for its
success, Forbes Westcott chose the evening of this same day to come
again to Roberta Gray with his question burning on his lips. He arrived
at a moment when, to his temporary satisfaction, Roberta was said to be
playing a set of singles in the court with Ruth by the light of a
fast-fading afterglow; and he took his way thither without delay. It was
a simple matter, of course, to a man of his resource, to dispose of the
young sister, in spite of the elder's attempt to foil him at his own
game. So presently he had Roberta to himself, with every advantage of
time and place and summer beauty all about.
Louis Gray, looking down the lawn from the rear porch, upon whose steps
he sat with Rosamond and Stephen, descried the tall figure strolling by
their sister's side along a stretch of closely shaven turf between rows
of slim young birches.
"Forbes is persistent, eh?" he observed. "Think he has a fighting
chance?"
"Oh, I hope not!" cried Rosamond impulsively.
Stephen's grave eyes followed the others, to dwell upon the distant
pair. "Forbes stands to win a big place among men," was his comment.
"Oh, really big?" Rosamond's tender eyes came to meet her husband's.
"Stephen, do you think he is quite--scrupulous?--wholly honourable?"
"I have no reason to think otherwise, Rosy."
She shook her head. "Somehow I--could never quite trust him. He would
live strictly by the letter of the law--but the spirit--"
"Expect people to live by the spirit--these days, little girl?" inquired
Louis, with an affectionate glance at her.
She gazed straight back. "Yes. You do it--and so does Stephen--and
Father Gray--and Uncle Calvin."
The eyes of the brothers met above her fair head, and they smiled.
"That's high distinction, from you, dear," said her husband. "But you
must not do Westcott injustice. He has the reputation of being sharp as
a knife blade, and of outwitting men in fair contest in court and out of
it, but no shadow has ever touched his character."
Still she shook her head. "I can't help it. I don't want Rob to marry
him."
The young men laughed together, and Rosamond smiled with them.
"There you have it," said Louis. "There's no going behind those returns.
The county votes no, and the candidate is defeated. Let him console
himself with the vote from other counties--if he can."
The three were still upon the porch half an hour later, with others of
the family, when the two figures came again up the stretch of lawn
between the slim white birches, showing ghostlike now in the June
moonlight. They came in silence, as far as any sound of their voices
reached the porch, and they disappeared like two shades toward the front
of the house.
"He's not coming even to speak to us," whispered Rosamond to Stephen.
"That's very unlike him. Do you suppose--"
"It may be a case of the voice sticking in the throat," returned her
husband, under his breath. "I fancy he'll take it hard when Rob disposes
of him--as she certainly ought to do by this time, if she's not going to
take him. But she'd better think twice. He's a brilliant fellow, and he
has no rivals within hailing distance, in his line."
But Rosamond shook her head again. "He would never make her happy," she
breathed, with conviction. "Oh, I hope--I hope!"
Her hopes grew with Roberta's absence. Westcott had gone, for Ruth,
appearing at Rosamond's side, announced that Roberta was in her own
room, and would not be down again to-night.
"I think she has a headache," said the little sister. "Queer, for I
never knew Rob to have a headache before."
"The headache," murmured Louis, in Rosamond's ear, "is the feminine
defence against the world. A timely headache, now and then, is suffered
by the best of men--and women. Well--let her rest, Rufus. She'll be all
right in the morning."
Above them, by her open window, sat Roberta, for a little while, elbows
on sill, chin in hands. Then, presently, she stole downstairs again, out
by a side entrance, and away among the shrubbery, to the furthest point
of the grounds--not far, in point of actual distance, but quite removed
by its environment from contact with the world around. Here, stretched
upon the warm turf, her arms outflung, her eyes gazing up at the
star-set heavens above her, the girl rested from her encounter with a
desperate besieging force.
For a time, the last words she had heard that evening were ringing in
her ears--sombre words, uttered in a deep tone of melancholy, by a voice
which commanded cadences that had often reached the minds and hearts of
men and swayed them. "Is that all--_all_, Roberta? Must I go away with
_that_?"
She had sent him away, and her heart ached for him, for she could not
doubt the depth and sincerity of his feeling for her. Being a woman,
with a warm and kindly nature, she was sad with the disquieting thought
that anywhere under that starry sky was one whose spirit was heavy
to-night because of her. But--there had been no help for it. She knew
now, beyond a doubt, that there had been no help.