WAITING FOR THE END OF THE STORY
At home on the Hill Ruth's affairs developed slowly. It was in time
ascertained from Australia that the Farringdon pearls had come to America
in the possession of Miss Farringdon who was named Elinor Ruth, daughter
of Roderick and Esther Farringdon, both deceased. What had become of her
and her pearls no one knew. Grave fears had been entertained as to the
girl's safety because of her prolonged silence and the utter failure of
all the advertising for her which had gone on in English and American
papers. She had come to America to join an aunt, one Mrs. Robert Wright,
widow of a New York broker, but it had been later ascertained that Mrs.
Wright had left for England before her niece could have reached her and
had subsequently died having caught a fever while engaged in nursing in a
military hospital. Roderick Farringdon, the brother of Elinor Ruth, an
aviator in His Majesty's service, was reported missing, believed to be
dead or in a German prison somewhere. The lawyers in charge of the huge
business interests of the two young Farringdons were in grave distress
because of their inability to locate either of the owners and begged that
if Doctor Laurence Holiday knew anything of the whereabouts of Miss
Farringdon that he would communicate without delay with them.
So far so good. Granted that Ruth was presumably Elinor Ruth Farringdon
of Australia. Was she or was she not married? There had been no
opportunity in the cables to make inquiry about one Geoffrey Annersley
though Larry had put that important question first in his letter to the
consul which as yet had received no answer. The lawyers stated that when
Miss Farringdon had left Australia she was not married but
unsubstantiated rumors had reached them from San Francisco hinting at her
possible marriage there.
All this failed to stir Ruth's dormant memory in any degree. There was
nothing to do but wait until further information should be forthcoming.
Not unnaturally these facts had a somewhat different effect upon the two
individuals most concerned. Ruth was frankly elated over the whole thing
and found it by no means impossible to believe that she was a princess in
disguise though she had played Cinderella contentedly enough.
On the strength of her presumable princessship she had gone on another
excursion to Boston carrying the Lambert twins with her this time and had
returned laden with all manner of feminine fripperies. She had an
exquisite taste and made unerringly for the softest and finest of
fabrics, the hats with an "air," the dresses that were the simplest, the
most ravishing and it must be admitted also the most extravagant. If she
remembered nothing else Ruth remembered how to spend royally.
She had consulted the senior doctor before making the splendid plunge.
She did not want to have Larry buy her anything more and she didn't want
Doctor Philip and Margery to think her stark mad to go behaving like a
princess before the princess purse was actually in her hands. But she had
to have pretty things, a lot of them, had to have them quick. Did the
doctor mind very much advancing her some money? He could keep her rings
as security.
He had laughed indulgently and declared as the rings and the pearls too
for that matter were in his possession in the safe deposit box he should
worry. He also told her to go ahead and be as "princessy" as she liked.
He would take the risk. Whereupon he placed a generous sum of money at
her account in a Boston bank and sent her away with his blessing and an
amused smile at the femininity of females. And Ruth had gone and played
princess to her heart's content. But there was little enough of heart's
content in any of it for poor Larry. Day by day it seemed to him he could
see his fairy girl slipping away from him. Ruth was a great lady and
heiress. Who was Larry Holiday to take advantage of the fact that
circumstances had almost thrown her into his willing arms?
Moreover the information afforded as to Roderick Farringdon had put a new
idea into his head. Roderick was reported "missing." Was it not possible
that Geoffrey Annersley might be in the same category? Missing men
sometimes stayed missing in war time but sometimes also they returned as
from the dead from enemy prisons or long illnesses. What if this should
be the case with the man who was presumably Ruth's husband? Certainly it
put out of the question, if there ever had been a question in Larry's
mind, his own right to marry the girl he loved until they knew absolutely
that the way was clear.
Considering these things it was not strange that the new year found Larry
Holiday in heavy mood, morose, silent, curt and unresponsive even to his
uncle, inclined at times to snap even at his beloved little Goldilocks
whose shining new happiness exasperated him because he could not share
it. Of course he repented in sack cloth and ashes afterward, but
repentance did not prevent other offenses and altogether the young doctor
was ill to live with during those harrassed January days.
It was not only Ruth. Larry could not take Ted's going with the quiet
fortitude with which his uncle met it. Those early weeks of nineteen
hundred and seventeen were black ones for many. The grim Moloch War
demanded more and ever more victims. Thousands of gay, brave, high
spirited lads like Ted were mown down daily by shrapnel and machine gun
or sent twisted and writhing to still more hideous death in the
unspeakable horror of noxious gases. It was all so unnecessary--so
senseless. Larry Holiday whose life was dedicated to the healing and
saving of men's bodies hated with bitter hate this opposing force which
was all for destruction and which held the groaning world in its
relentless grip. It would not have been so bad he thought if the Moloch
would have been content to take merely the old, the life weary, the
diseased, the vile. Not so. It demanded the young, the strong, the clean
and gallant hearted, took their bodies, maimed and tortured them, killed
them sooner or later, hurled them undiscriminatingly into the bottomless
pit of death.
To Larry it all came back to Ted. Ted was the embodiment, the symbol of
the rest. He was the young, the strong, the clean and gallant
hearted--the youth of the world, a vain sacrifice to the cruel blindness
of a so called civilization which would not learn the futility of war and
all the ways of war.
So while Ruth bought pretty clothes and basked in happy anticipations
which for her took the place of memories, poor Larry walked in dark
places and saw no single ray of light.
One afternoon he was summoned to the telephone to receive the word that
there was a telegram for him at the office. It was Dunbury's informal
habit to telephone messages of this sort to the recipient instead of
delivering them in person. Larry took the repeated word in silence. A
question evidently followed from the other end.
"Yes, I got it," Larry snapped back and threw the receiver back in place
with vicious energy. His uncle who had happened to be near looked up to
ask a question but the young doctor was already out of the room leaving
only the slam of the door in his wake. A few moments later the older man
saw the younger start off down the Hill in the car at a speed which was
not unlike Ted's at his worst before the smash on the Florence road.
Evidently Larry was on the war path. Why?
The afternoon wore on. Larry did not return. His uncle began to be
seriously disturbed. A patient with whom the junior doctor had had an
appointment came and waited and finally went away somewhat indignant in
spite of all efforts to soothe her not unnatural wrath. Worse and
worse! Larry never failed his appointments, met every obligation
invariably as punctiliously as if for professional purposes he was
operated by clock work.
At supper time Phil Lambert dropped in with the wire which had already
been reported to Larry and which the company with the same informality
already mentioned had asked him to deliver. Doctor Holiday was tempted to
read it but refrained. Surely the boy would be home soon.
The evening meal was rather a silent one. Ruth was wearing a charming
dark blue velvet gown which Larry especially liked. The doctor guessed
that she had dressed particularly for her lover and was sadly
disappointed when he failed to put in his appearance. She drooped
perceptibly and her blue eyes were wistful.
An hour later when the three, Margery, her husband, and Ruth, were
sitting quietly engaged in reading in the living room they heard the
sound of the returning car. All three were distinctly conscious of an
involuntary breath of relief which permeated the room. Nobody had said a
word but every one of them had been filled with foreboding.
Presently Larry entered with the yellow envelope in his hand. He was pale
and very tired looking but obviously entirely in command of himself
whatever had been the case earlier in the day. He crossed the room to
where his uncle sat and handed him the telegram.
"Please read it aloud," he said. "It--it concerns all of us."
The older doctor complied with the request.
_Arrive Dunbury January 18 nine forty_ A.M. So ran the brief though
pregnant message. It was signed _Captain Geoffrey Annersley_.
The color went out of Ruth's face as she heard the name. She put her
hands over her eyes and uttered a little moan. Then abruptly she dropped
her hands, the color came surging back into her cheeks and she ran to
Larry, fairly throwing herself into his arms.
"I don't want to see him. Don't let him come. I hate him. I don't want to
be Elinor Farringdon. I want to be just Ruth--Ruth Holiday," she
whispered the last in Larry's ear, her head on his shoulder.
Larry kissed her for the first time before the others, then meeting his
uncle's grave eyes he put her gently from him and walked over to the
door. On the threshold he turned and faced them all.
"Uncle Phil--Aunt Margery, help Ruth. I can't." And the door
closed upon him.
Philip and Margery did their best to obey his parting injunction but it
was not an easy task. Ruth was possessed by a very panic of dread of
Geoffrey Annersley and an even more difficult to deal with flood of love
for Larry Holiday.
"I don't want anybody but Larry," she wailed over and over. "It is Larry
I love. I don't love Geoffrey Annersley. I won't let him be my husband. I
don't want anybody but Larry."
In vain they tried to comfort her, entreat her to wait until to-morrow
before she gave up. Perhaps Geoffrey Annersley wasn't her husband.
Perhaps everything was quite all right. She must try to have patience and
not let herself get sick worrying in advance.
"He _is_ my husband," she suddenly announced with startling conviction.
"I remember his putting the ring on my finger. I remember his saying
'You've got to wear it. It is the only thing to do. You must.' I remember
what he looks like--almost. He is tall and he has a scar on his cheek
--here." She patted her own face feverishly to show the spot. "He made me
wear the ring and I didn't want to. I didn't want to. Oh, don't let me
remember. Don't let me," she implored.
At this point the doctor took things in his own hands. The child was
obviously beginning to remember. The shock of the man's coming had
snapped something in her brain. They must not let things come back
too disastrously fast. He packed her off to bed with a stiff dose of
nerve quieting medicine. Margery sat with her arms tight around the
forlorn little sufferer and presently the dreary sobbing ceased and
the girl drifted off to exhausted sleep, nature's kindest panacea for
all human ills.
Meanwhile the doctor sought out Larry. He found him in the office
apparently completely absorbed in the perusal of a medical magazine. He
looked up quickly as the older man entered and answered the question in
his eyes giving assurance that Ruth was quite all right, would soon be
asleep if she was not already. He made no mention of that disconcerting
flash of memory. Sufficient unto the day was the trouble thereof.
He came over and laid a kindly, encouraging hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Keep up heart a little longer," he said. "By tomorrow you will
know where you stand and that will be something, no matter which
way it turns."
"I should say it would," groaned Larry. "I'm sick of being in a
labyrinth. Even the worst can't be much worse than not knowing. You don't
know how tough it has been, Uncle Phil."
"I can make a fairly good guess at it, my boy. I've seen and understood
more than you realize perhaps. You have put up a magnificent fight, son.
And you are the boy who once told me he was a coward."
"I am afraid I still am, Uncle Phil,--sometimes."
"We all are, Larry, cowards in our hearts, but that does not matter so
long as the yellow streak doesn't get into our acts. You have not let
that happen I think."
Larry was silent. He was remembering that night when Ruth had come to
him. He wasn't very proud of the memory. He wondered if his uncle guessed
how near the yellow streak had come to the surface on that occasion.
"I don't deserve as much credit as you are giving me," he said humbly.
"There have been times--at least one time--" He broke off.
"You would have been less than a man if there had not been, Larry. I
understand all that. But on the whole you know and I know that you have a
clean slate to show. Don't let yourself get morbid worrying about things
you might have done and didn't. They don't worry me. They needn't worry
you. Forget it."
"Uncle Phil! You are great the way you always clear away the fogs. But my
clean slate is a great deal thanks to you. I don't know where I would
have landed if you hadn't held me back, not so much by what you said as
what you are. Ted isn't the only one who has learned to appreciate what a
pillar of strength we all have in you. However this comes out I shan't
forget what you did for me, are doing all the time."
"Thank you, Larry. It is good to hear things like that though I think you
underestimate your own strength. I am thankful if I have helped in any
degree. I have felt futile enough. We all have. At any rate the strain is
about over. The telegram must have been a knock down blow though. Where
were you this afternoon?"
"I don't know. I just drove like the devil--anywhere. Did you worry? I am
sorry. Good Lord! I cut my appointment with Mrs. Blake, didn't I? I never
thought of it until this minute. Gee! I am worse than Ted. Used to think
I had some balance but evidently I am a plain nut. I'm disgusted with
myself and I should think you would be more disgusted with me." The boy
looked up at his uncle with eyes that were full of shamed compunction.
But the latter smiled back consolingly.
"Don't worry. There are worse things in the world than cutting an
appointment for good and sufficient reasons. You will get back your
balance when things get normal again. I have no complaint to make anyway.
You have kept up the professional end splendidly until now. What you need
is a good long vacation and I am going to pack you off on one at the
earliest opportunity. Do you want me to meet Captain Annersley for you
tomorrow?" he switched off to ask.
Larry shook his head.
"No, I'll meet him myself, thank you. It is my job. I am not going to
flunk it. If he is Ruth's husband I am going to be the first to shake
hands with him."