James King, greatly to the surprise of his physicians, did not die, but
he hovered on the brink of it for many thin weeks and his son gave up
his entire vacation to be with him. The letters he sent Honor were brief
bulletins of his father's condition, explosive regrets at having to give
up his summer with her, but Jimsy was not a letter writer. In order
properly to fill up more than a page it was necessary for him to be able
to say, "Had a bully practice to-day," or, "Saw old Duffy last night and
he told me all about--" He was not good at producing epistolary bulk out
of empty and idle days. Stephen Lorimer, often beside Honor when she
opened and read these messages in English Cathedral towns or beside
Scotch lakes, ached with sympathy for these young lovers under his
benevolent wing because of their inability to set themselves down on
paper. He knew that his stepdaughter was very nearly as limited as the
boy.
"Ethel," he said to Miss Bruce-Drummond who had met up with them for a
week-end at Stirling, "those poor children are so pitifully what Gelett
Burgess calls 'the gagged and wordless folk'; it would be so much
easier--and safer--for them if they belonged to his 'caste of the
articulate.'"
She nodded. "Yes. It's rather frightful, really, to separate people who
have no means of communication. Especially when--" she broke off,
looking at Carter who was pointing out to Honor what he believed to be
the Field of Bannockburn.
Stephen Lorimer shook his head. "No danger there," he said comfortably.
"Top Step is sorry for him--a creature of another, paler world ...
infinitely beneath her bright and beamish boy's. No, I feel a lot safer
to have Carter with her than with Jimsy King."
The Englishwoman stared. "Really?"
"Yes. I daresay I exaggerate, but I've always seen something sinister
about that youth."
Miss Bruce-Drummond looked at Carter Van Meter and observed the way in
which he was looking at Honor. "He wants her frightfully, doesn't he,
poor thing?"
"He wants her frightfully but he isn't a poor thing in the very least.
He is an almost uncannily clever and subtle young person for his years,
with a very large income and a fanatically devoted mother behind him,
and he's had everything he ever wanted all his life except physical
perfection,--and my good Top Step."
"Ah, yes, but what can he do, after all?"
Honor's stepfather shrugged. "He knows that she would not be allowed to
marry the lad if he went the way of the other 'Wild Kings,'--that she is
too sound and sane to insist on it. And I think--I thought even in their
High School days--that he deliberately steers Jimsy into danger."
"My word!" said the novelist, hotly. "What are you going to do about it,
Stephen?"
"Watch. Wait. Stand ready. I shall make it my business to drop in at the
fraternity house once or twice next season, when I go north to San
Francisco,--and into other fraternity houses, and put my ear to the
ground. And if I find what I fear to find I'll take it up with both the
lads, face to face, and then I'll send for Honor."
"Right!" said Miss Bruce-Drummond, her fine, fresh-colored face glowing.
"And I'll run down to Florence at the Christmas holidays and take her to
Rome with me, shall I?"
"It will be corking of you, Ethel."
"I shall love doing it."
He looked at her appreciatively. She would love doing it; she loved
life and people, Ethel Bruce-Drummond, and she was able therefore to put
life and people, warm and living, on to her pages. She was as fit and
hardy as a splendid boy, her cheeks round and ruddy, her eyes bright,
her fine bare hands brown and strong, her sturdy ankles sturdier than
ever in her heavy knitted woolen hose and her stout Scotch brogues. He
had known and counted on her for almost twenty years--and he had married
Mildred Carmody. "Ethel," he said, suddenly, "in that book of mine I
mean to have----"
"Ah, yes, that book of yours, Stephen! Slothful creature! You know quite
well you'll never do it."
"Never do it! Why,"--he was indignant--"I've got tons of it done
already, in my head! It only wants writing down."
"Yes, yes," said his friend, penitently, "I make no doubt. It only wants
writing down. Well?"
"I'm going to have a chapter on friendship, and insert a really novel
idea. Friendship has never been properly praised,--begging pardon in
passing of Mr. Emerson and his ilk. I'm going to suggest that it be
given dignity and weight by having licenses and ceremonies, just as
marriage has. It has a better right, you know, really. It's a much saner
and more probable vow--to remain friends all one's life, than in love.
In genuine friendship there is indeed no variableness, neither shadow or
turning. You and I, now, might quite safely have taken out our
friendship license and plighted our troth,--twenty years, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Miss Bruce-Drummond, gently, "it's twenty years, Stephen,
and that's a quite beautiful idea. You must surely put it in your book,
old dear." Her keen eyes, looking away across the ancient battlefields
were a little less keen than usual, but Stephen Lorimer did not notice
that because he was looking at his watch.
"Do you know it's nearly five, woman, and Mildred waiting tea for us at
the Stirling Arms?" So he called to the boy and girl and fell into step
beside his friend and swung down the hill to his tea and his wife, a
little thrilled still, as he always would be to the day of his death, at
being with her again after even the least considerable absence.
It seemed to Honor Carmody that three solid summers had been welded
together for her soul's discipline that year; there were assuredly
ninety-three endless days in July. She was not quite sure whether having
Carter with them made it harder for her or easier. He was an
accomplished traveler; things moved more smoothly for his presence,
and--as she wrote Jimsy--he knew everything about everywhere. On the
whole, it was pleasanter, more like home, more like the good days on
South Figueroa Street, to have him about; she could sometimes almost
cajole herself into thinking Jimsy must be there, too, in the next room,
hurrying up the street, a little late for dinner, but there, near them.
It was only when Carter talked to her of Jimsy that she grew anxious,
even acutely unhappy. It wasn't, she would decide, thinking it over
later, lying awake in the dark, so much what Carter had said--it was
what he hadn't said in words. It was the thing that sounded in his
voice, that was far back in his eyes.
"Yes," he would say, smiling in reminiscence, "that was a party! Nothing
ever like it at Stanford before in the memory of the oldest inhabitant,
they say. And old Jimsy--I wish you could have seen him! No, I don't
really, for you wouldn't have approved and the poor old scout would have
been in for a lecture, but it was----"
"Carter," Honor would interrupt, "do you mean, can you possibly mean
that Jimsy--that he's--" She found she couldn't say it after all; she
couldn't put it into the ugly definite words.
"Oh, nothing serious, Honor! Nothing for you to worry about! He has to
do more or less as others do, a man of his prominence in college. It's
unavoidable. Of course, it might be better if he could steer clear of
that sort of thing altogether--" he would stop at a point like that and
frown into space for a moment, as if remembering, weighing, considering,
and Honor's heart would sink coldly. Then he would brighten again and
lay a reassuring hand on her sleeve. "But you mustn't worry. Jimsy's got
a level head on his shoulders, and he has too much at stake to go too
far. He'll be all right in the end, Honor, I'm sure of that. And you
know I'll always keep an eye on him!".
And Honor twisting on her finger the ring with the clasped hands and the
hidden blue stone of constancy which she always wore except when her
mother was with her, would manage a smile and say, "I know how devoted
you are to him, Carter. You couldn't help it, could you?--Every one is.
And you mean to help him; I know that. I _am_ grateful. It's next best
to being with him myself." Then, because she couldn't trust herself to
talk very much about Jimsy, she would resolutely change the subject and
Carter would write home to his hoping mother that Honor really seemed to
be having a happy summer and to enjoy everything, and that she was not
very keen to talk much about Jimsy.
He did not hear the talk she had with her stepfather the night before
they were to sail for home. It came after her hour of fruitless pleading
with her mother to be allowed to go back with them. Mildred Lorimer had
stood firm, and Stephen had been silent and Carter had sided with
Honor's mother.
"It really would be rather a shame, Honor,--much as we'd love having you
with us on the trip home. You're coming on so wonderfully with your
work, the _Signorina_ says. She intends to have you in concert this
winter, and coming home would spoil that, wouldn't it?" He was very
sensible about it.
Honor had managed to ask Stephen to see her alone, after the rest had
gone to their rooms. They were sailing from Genoa because they had
wanted to bring Honor back to Italy and the _Signorina_ had joined them
at the port and would take the girl back to Florence with her. Honor
went upstairs and came down again in fifteen minutes and found him
waiting for her in the lounge.
He got up and came to meet her and took her hands into his solid and
reassuring clasp. "This is pretty rough, Top Step. You don't have to
tell me."
She did not, indeed. Her young face was drained of all its color that
night and her eyes looked strained. It was mildly warm and the windows
were open, but she was shivering a little. "Stepper, dear, I don't want
to be a goose----"
"You're not, Top Step."
"But I'm anxious. When Jimsy gave me this ring, and told me what he had
told his father--that he was not going to be another 'Wild King' and
asked me if I believed him, I told him I'd never stop believing him, and
I won't, Skipper. I won't!"
"Right, T. S."
"But--things Carter says,--things he doesn't say--Stepper, I think Jimsy
needs me _now_."
The man was silent for a long moment. He could, of course, assert his
authority or at least his power, since the girl was Mildred's child and
not his, break with his good friend, the _Signorina_, and take Honor
home. But, after all, what would that accomplish, unless she went to
Stanford? He began to think aloud. "Even if you came home with us, Top
Step, you wouldn't be near him, would you, unless you went to college?
And you'd hardly care to do that now--to enter your Freshman year two
years behind the boys."
"No."
"And if you stayed in Los Angeles--you might almost as well be here.
The number of miles doesn't matter."
"But--perhaps Jimsy wouldn't stay at Stanford then. Oh, Stepper, dear,
haven't we waited long enough?"
"He's only twenty, T. S."
She sighed. "Being young is the cruelest thing in the world!"
"You are blaspheming!" said her stepfather, sternly. "T. S., that's the
only stupid and wicked thing you've ever said in the years I've known
you! Don't ever dare to say it--or think it--again! Being young is the
most golden and glorious thing in the world! Being young--" he ran a
worried hand over his thinning hair and sighed. "Ah, well, you'll know,
some day. Meanwhile, girl, it looks as if you'd have to stick. That's
your part in 'playing the game!' But I promise you this. I shall keep an
eye on things for you; keep in touch with the boy, see him, hear from
him, hear _of_ him, and if the time comes when I believe that his need
of you is instant and vital, I'll write--no, I'll cable you to come."
"Stepper!" The comfort in her eyes warmed him.
"It's a promise, Top Step"--he grinned,--"as you used to say when I
first knew you--'cross-my-heart,
hope-never-to-see-the-back-of-my-neck!' Now, hop along to bed,--and
trust me!"
The lift in the little hotel put its head under its wing at ten-thirty
and it was now almost eleven, so Honor set out on foot to do the three
flights between her and her room. She ran lightly because she felt
suddenly eased of a crushing burden; Stepper, good old Stepper, was on
guard; Stepper was standing watch for her. There was a little
writing-room and sun parlor on the second floor, dim now, with only one
shaded light still burning, and as she crossed it a figure rose so
startlingly from a deep chair that she smothered a small cry.
"It's I," said Carter. He stepped between her and the stairway.
"Cartie! You did make me jump!" Honor smiled at him; she was so cozily
at peace for the moment that she had an increased tenderness for their
frail friend. "It was so still in the hotel it might be the 'night
before Christmas,'--'not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.'
You'd better go to bed," she added, maternally. "You look pale and
tired."
"I'm not tired," he said shortly. He continued to stand between her and
the stairs.
"Well--_I'm_ sleepy," she said, moving to pass him. "Good----"
But Carter was quicker. He caught hold of her by her arms and held her
in a tense grip. "Honor, Honor, _Honor_!" he said, choking.
"Why,--Cartie! You--please--" She tried to free herself.
"Honor, I can't help it. I've got to speak. I've got to know. Don't
you--couldn't you--care at all for me, Honor?"
"Carter! Not--not the way you mean! Of course I'm fond of you, but----"
"I don't want that!" He shook her, roughly, and his voice was harsh. "I
want you to care the way I care. And I'm going to make you!"
"Carter," she was not angry with him, only unhappy, "do you think this
is fair? Do you think you're being square with Jimsy?"
"No," he said, hotly, "and I don't care. I don't care for anything but
you. Honor, you don't love Jimsy King. I know it. It's just a silly,
boy-and-girl thing--you must realize that, now you're away from him!
Your mother doesn't want you to marry him. What can he give you or do
for you? And he'll go the way of his father and all his family--I've
tried to lie to you, but I'm telling you the truth now, Honor. He's
drinking already, and he'll grow worse and worse. Give him up, Honor!
Give him up before he spoils your life, and let me--" with all his
strength, far more than she would have thought it possible for him to
have, he tried to pull her into his arms, to reach her lips.
But Jimsy's Skipper, for all her two soft years in Europe, had not lost
her swimming, hiking, driving, out-of-door vigor, and her muscles were
better than his.
"I'm going to kiss you," said Carter, huskily. "I've wanted to kiss you
for years ... always ... and I'm going to kiss you now!"
"No, you're not, Carter," said Honor. She got her arms out of his grasp
and caught his wrists in her hands. She was very white and her eyes were
cold. "You see? You're weak. You're weak in your arms, Carter, just as
you're weak in your--in your character, in your friendship! And I
despise weakness." She dropped his wrists and saw him sit down, limply,
in the nearest chair and cover his face with his hands. Then she walked
to the stairs and went up without a backward glance.
He was pallid and silent at breakfast next morning and Honor was careful
not to look at him. It was beginning to seem, in the eight o'clock
sunlight, as if the happening of the night before must have been a
horrid dream, and her sense of anger and scorn gradually gave way to
pity. After all ... poor old Carter, who had so little ... Jimsy, who
had so much! What Carter had said in his tirade about Jimsy's drinking
she did not believe; it was simply temper; angry exaggeration. Mildred
Lorimer, looking at Carter's white face and the gray shadows under his
eyes and observing Honor's manner toward him, sighed audibly and was a
little distant when she bade her daughter farewell. She loved her eldest
born devotedly, but there were moments when she couldn't help but feel
that Honor was not very much of a comfort to her....
Stephen held the girl's hands hard and looked deep into her eyes.
"Remember what I said, Top Step, 'Cross-my-heart!'"
"I'll remember, Stepper, dear! _Thanks!_" She turned to Carter and held
out a steady hand. "My love to your mother, Carter, and I do hope you'll
have a jolly crossing."
"Will you read this, please?" He lifted his heavy eyes to her face and
slipped a note into her hand. She nodded and tucked it into her blouse.
Then she stood with the _Signorina_, on the pier, waving, and with misty
eyes watching the steamer melting away and away into the blue water.
When she was alone she read the little letter.
"Dear Honor--" Carter had written in a ragged scrawl unlike his
usual firm hand--"Will you try to forgive me? You are the kindest
and least bitter person in the world; I know you can forgive me.
But--and this will be harder--can you forget last night? I promise
to deserve it, if you will. Will you pretend to yourself that it
never happened, and just remember the good days we've had this
summer, and that--in spite of my losing my head--I'm your friend,
and Jimsy's friend? Will you, Honor?"
And Honor Carmody, looking with blurred eyes at the sea, wished she
might wave again and reassuringly to the boy on the steamer, facing the
long voyage so drearily. Then she realized that she still could, in a
sense, wave to him. The steamer stopped at Naples and she could send a
telegram to him there, and he would not have to cross the wide ocean
under that guilty weight. She put on her hat and sped to the telegraph
office, and there, because his note had ended with a question--had been
indeed all a question--and because she was the briefest of feminine
creatures, and because the _Signorina_ was waiting luncheon for her and
did not enjoy waiting, she wired the one word, "Yes," and signed her
name.
"Carter got a telegram," said Mildred Lorimer to her husband. "I wonder
what it could have been. Did he say?"
"He didn't mention it," said Stephen. "About those silk shirts which
weren't finished, I daresay. Certainly not bad news, by the look of
him."
When Carter Van Meter reached Los Angeles and his tearfully happy mother
he drew her into the library and closed the door. "Mater," he said with
an odd air of intense repressed excitement, "I'm going to show you
something, but you must promise me on your honor not to breathe it to a
living soul, least of all, Mrs. Lorimer."
"Oh, dearest," gasped his mother, "I promise faithfully----"
He took Honor's telegram out of his wallet and unfolded it and smoothed
it out for her to read the single word it contained. Then, at her glad
cry, "Sh ... Mater! It isn't--exactly--what you think. I can't explain
now. But it's a hope; it may--I believe it will, one day--lead to the
thing we both want!" He folded it again carefully into its creases and
put it back into his wallet and he was breathing hard.