For a few moments it moved and concerned Honor to see that she was the
cause of the first serious quarrel between her mother and her
stepfather. She was shocked to see her mother's wild weeping and Stephen
Lorimer's grim jaw and to hear the words between them, but nothing could
really count with her in those hours.
She took her mother in her arms and kissed her and spoke to her as she
had to her little brothers in the years gone by, when they were hurt or
sorry. "There, there, Muzzie _dear_! You can't help it. You must just
stop caring so. It isn't your fault."
"People will think--people will say----" sobbed Mildred Lorimer.
"No one will blame you, dear. Every one knows what a trial I've always
been to you."
"You have, Honor! You have! You've never been a comfort to me--not since
you were a tiny child. And even then you were tomboyish and rough and
queer."
"I know, Muzzie."
"I never heard of anything so brazen in all my life--running after him
to Mexico--to visit people you never laid eyes on in all your days,
utter strangers to you----"
"Jimsy's aunt and uncle, Muzzie."
"Utter strangers to _you_, forcing yourself upon them, without even
telegraphing to know if they can have you----"
"No. I don't want Jimsy to know I'm coming."
"Where's your pride, Honor Carmody? When he's done such dreadful things
and got himself expelled from college--a young man never lives _that_
down as long as he lives!--and gone the way of all the 'Wild Kings,' and
hasn't even written to you! That's the thing I can't understand--your
running after him when he's dropped you--gone without a word or a line
to you."
"He may have written, Muzzie. Letters are lost, you know, sometimes."
"Very seldom. _Very_ seldom!" Mrs. Lorimer hotly proclaimed her faith in
her government's efficiency. "I haven't lost three letters in forty
years. No. He's jilted you, Honor. That's the ugly, shameful truth, and
you're too blind to see it. If you knew the things Carter told his
mother----"
"I don't want to know them, Muzzie."
"Of course you don't. That's just it! Blind! Blind and
stubborn,--determined to wreck and ruin your whole life. And I must
stand by, helpless, and see you do it. And the _danger_ of the thing!
With Diaz out of the country it's in the hands of the brigands. You'll
be murdered ... or worse! Well--I know whose head your blood will be on.
Not mine, thank Heaven!" There was very little that day, Mildred Lorimer
felt, that she could thank Heaven for. It was not using her well.
"You know that Stepper will give me letters and telegraph ahead to the
train people," said Honor. "And you mustn't believe all the hysterical
tales in the newspapers, Muzzie dear. Here's Stepper now."
Stephen Lorimer was turning the car in at the driveway and a moment
later he came into the house. He looked very tired but he smiled at his
stepdaughter. "You're in luck, Top Step! I've just come from the Mexican
Consulate. Met some corking people there, Mexicans, starting home
to-morrow. They'll be with you until the last day of your trip! Mother
and father and daughter,--Menéndez is the name. Fascinating creatures.
I've got your reservations, in the same car with them! Mildred," he
turned to his wife, still speaking cheerily but begging for absolution
with his tired eyes, "Señora Menéndez--Menéndez y García is the whole
name--sent her compliments and said to tell you she would 'guard your
daughter as her own.' Doesn't that make you feel better about it?"
"She can defend her from bandits, I suppose?"
"My dear, there will be Señor Menéndez, and they tell me the tales of
violence are largely newspaper stuff,--as I've told you repeatedly. They
will not only look after Honor all the way but they will telegraph to
friends to meet her at Córdoba and drive her out to the Kings'
_rancho_--I explained that she wished to surprise her friends. I don't
mind telling you now that I should have gone with her myself if these
people hadn't turned up."
"Stepper, dear!"
"And I'll go now, T. S., if you like."
"No, Stepper. I'd rather go alone, really--as long as I'm going to be so
well looked after, and Muzzie needn't worry."
"'Needn't worry!'" said Mildred Lorimer, lifting her hands and letting
them fall into her lap.
"Honestly, Muzzie, you needn't. If you do, it's because you let
yourself. You must know that I'll be safe with these people."
"Your bodily safety isn't all," her mother, driven from that corner,
veered swiftly. "The thing itself is the worst. The _idea_ of it--when I
think--after all that was in the paper, and every one talking about it
and pitying you--_pitying_ you, Honor!"
Her daughter got up suddenly and crossed over to her mother. "Every one
but you, Muzzie? Can't you manage to--pity me--a little? I think I could
stand being pitied, just now." It was indeed a day for being mothered.
There was a need which even the best and most understanding of
stepfathers could not fill, and Mildred Lorimer, looking into her white
face and her mourning eyes melted suddenly and allowed herself to be
cuddled and somewhat comforted but the heights of comforting Honor she
could not scale.
"I think," said the girl at length, "I'd like to go up to my room and
rest for a little while, if you don't mind, Muzzie,--and Stepper."
"Right, T. S. You'll want to be fresh for to-morrow."
"Do, dear--and I'll have Kada bring you up some tea. Rest until dinner
time, because Mrs. Van Meter's dining with us," she broke off as she saw
the small quiver which passed over her daughter's face and defended
herself. "I had to ask her, Honor. I couldn't--in common decency--avoid
it. She's so devoted to you, and think what she's done for you, Honor!"
Honor sighed. "Very well. But will you make her promise not to let
Carter know I am coming?"
"My dear, how could she? You'll be there yourself as soon as a letter."
"She might telegraph." She turned to her stepfather. "Will you make her
promise, Stepper?"
"I will, Top Step. Run along and rest. I daresay there will be some of
the Old Guard in to see you this evening." He walked with her to the
door and opened it for her. The small amenities of life had always his
devoted attention. He smiled down at her. "_Rest!_" he said.
"I can rest, now, Stepper." It was true. When she reached the haven of
her big blue room she found herself relaxed and relieved. Again the
direct simplicity of her nature upheld her; she had not found Jimsy, but
she would find him; she was going to him without a day's delay; she
could "rest in action."
The soft-footed, soft-voiced Kada brought her a tea tray and arranged it
deftly on a small table by the window. He smiled incessantly and kept
sucking in his breath in his shy and respectful pleasure. "Veree glod,"
he said as the gardener had said before him, "Veree _glod_! I lige veree
moach you comin' home! Now when thad Meestair Jeemsie comin' home too,
happy days all those days!" He had brought her two kinds of tiny
sandwiches which she had favored in the old tea times, chopped olives
and nuts in one, cream cheese and dates in the other, and there was a
plate of paper-thin cookies and some salted almonds and he had put a
half blown red rose on the shining napkin.
"Kada, you are very kind. You always do everything so beautifully! How
are you coming on with your painting?"
"Veree glod, thank-you-veree-moach!" He bowed in still delight.
"You must show me your pictures in the morning, Kada."
"Thank-you-veree-moach! Soon I have one thousand dollar save', can go
study Art School."
"That's fine, Kada!"
"_Bud_"--his serene face clouded over--"veree sod leavin' theeze house!
When you stayin' home an' thad Meestair Jeemsie here I enjoy to work
theeze house; is merry from moach comedy!"'
He bowed himself out, still drawing in his breath and Honor smiled.
"Merry from much comedy" the house had been in the old gay days; dark
from much tragedy it seemed to-day. What would it be to her when she
came back again? But, little by little, the old room soothed and stilled
her. There were the sedate four-poster bed and the demure dresser and
the little writing desk, good mahogany all of them; come by devious
paths from a Virginia plantation; the cool blue of walls and rugs and
hangings; the few pictures she had loved; three framed photographs of
the Los Angeles football squad; a framed photograph of Jimsy in his
class play; a bowl of dull blue pottery filled now with lavish winter
roses. It was like a steadying hand on her shoulder, that sane and
simple girlhood room.
The window gave on the garden and the King house beyond it. She wondered
whether she should see James King before she went to Mexico. She felt
she could hardly face him gently,--Jimsy's father who had failed him in
his dark hour. In view of what his own life had been! She leaned forward
and watched intently. It was the doctor's motor, the same seasoned old
car, which was stopping before the house of the "Wild Kings," and she
saw the physician hurry up the untidy path and disappear into the house.
James King was ill again. She would have to see him, then. Perhaps he
would have a good message for Jimsy. She finished her tea and slipped
into her old blue kimono, still hanging in the closet, turned back the
embroidered spread and laid herself down upon the bed. She took Jimsy's
ring out of the little jewel pocket where she carried it and put it on
her finger. "I will never take it off again," she said to herself. Then
she fell asleep.
"Fresh as paint, T. S.," said her stepfather when she came down.
"My dear, what an adorable frock," said her mother. "You never got
_that_ in Italy!"
"But I did, Muzzie!" Honor was penitently glad of the sign of
fellowship. "There's a really lovely little shop in the Via Tournabouni.
Wait till my big trunk comes and you see what I found for you there! Oh,
here's Mrs. Van Meter!"
She hurried to the door to greet Carter's mother. Marcia Van Meter
kissed her warmly and exclaimed over her. She was thinner but it was
becoming, and her gown suited her perfectly, and--they were seated at
dinner now--was that an Italian ring?
"Yes," said Honor, slowly, looking first at her mother, "it is an
Italian ring, a very old one. Jimsy gave it to me. It has been in the
King family for generations. Isn't it lovely?"
"_Lovely_," said Mrs. Van Meter, coloring. She changed the subject
swiftly but she did not really seem disconcerted. Indeed, her manner
toward Honor during the meal and the hour that followed was
affectionate to the point, almost, of seeming proprietary and maternal.
Some boys and girls came in later and Mrs. Van Meter rose to go. "I'll
run home, now, my dear, and leave you with your young friends."
"I'll go across the street with you, Mrs. Van Meter," said Stephen
Lorimer, flinging his cigarette into the fire. He had already extracted
her promise not to telegraph Carter but he meant to hear it again.
"Thanks, Mr. Lorimer, but I'm going to ask Honor to step over with me. I
have a tiny parcel for Carter and a message. Will you come, Honor?"
She slipped her arm through the girl's and gave it a little squeeze as
they crossed the wide street. "Hasn't the city changed and grown, my
dear? Look at the number of motors in sight at this moment! One hardly
dares cross the street. I declare, it makes me feel almost as if I were
in the East again." She gave her a small, tissue wrapped parcel for her
son and came out on to the steps again with her. "Be careful about
crossing, Honor!"
"Yes," said Honor, lightly. "That would hardly do,--to come alone from
Italy and then get myself run over on my own street. What's that
Kipling thing Stepper quotes:
To sail unscathed from a heathen land
And be robbed on a Christian coast!
Well, good-night, Mrs. Van Meter, and good-by, and I'll write you how
Carter is!"
The older woman put her arms about her and held her close. "Dearest
girl, Carter told me not to breathe to any one, not even to your mother,
about--about what happened last summer--and--and what he asked you, and
I haven't, but I _must_ tell you how glad...." then, at the bewilderment
in Honor's face in the light of the porch lamp,--"he showed me the
telegram you sent him to the steamer."
"Oh,--I remember!" Her brief wire to him, promising to forgive and
forget his wild words of the evening before. She had quite forgiven, and
she had so nearly forgotten that she could not imagine, at first, what
his mother meant. And now, because the older woman was trembling, and
because Carter must have told her of how he had lost control of himself
and been for a moment false to his friend, she gave back the warm
embrace and kissed the pale cheek. "Yes. And I _meant_ it, Mrs. Van
Meter!"
"You _blessed_ child!" Marcia Van Meter wiped her eyes. "You've made me
very happy."
Honor ran across Figueroa Street between flashing headlights on
automobiles, and her heart was soft within her. _Poor_ old Cartie! How
he must have grieved and reproached himself, and how seriously he must
have taken it, to tell his mother! Fancy not forgiving people! Her
stepfather had marked a passage for her in her pocket "R. L. S."...
"The man who cannot forgive any mortal thing is a green hand in life,"
Stevenson had said. Honor believed him. She could even forgive James
King, poor, proud, miserable James King, for failing Jimsy. It was
because he cared so much. As she started up her own walk some one called
to her from the steps of the King house.
"That you, Honor?"
"Yes, Doctor! I just came home to-day. How are you?" She ran over to
shake hands with him. "Is Mr. King very sick?"
"He's dying."
"Oh, Doctor _Deering_!"
"Yes. No mistake about it this time. Wants to see you. Old nigger woman
told him you were home. Will you come now?"
"Of course." She followed him into the house and up the long, shabbily
carpeted stairs. She had never seen a dying person and she began to
shiver.
As if he read her thought the doctor spoke. "Isn't going to die while
you're here. Not for a week--perhaps two weeks. But he'll never be up
again." His voice was gruff and his brow was furrowed. He had been with
Jeanie King when Jimsy was born and when she died, and he had cherished
and scorned James King for long years.
There was a chair beside the bed and Honor seated herself there in
silence. Presently the sick man opened his eyes and his worn and ravaged
look of his son caught at her heart.
"So," he said somberly, "you came home."
"Yes, Mr. King. I came because Jimsy was in trouble, and to-morrow I'm
going to him."
His eyes widened and slow, difficult color came into his sharply boned
face. "You're going ... to Mexico?"
"Yes; alone."
The color crept up and up until it reached the graying hair, crisply
waved, like Jimsy's. "No King woman ever ... held harder ... than that!"
he gasped. "You're a good girl, Honor Carmody. They knew ... what to ...
name you, didn't they?"
She leaned nearer, holding her hand so that the rays of the night light
fell on the ring. "Didn't you know I'd 'hold hard' when you let Jimsy
give me this?"
He hauled himself up on an elbow and stared at it with tragic eyes.
"Jeanie wore it five years.... My mother wore it thirty.... Honor
Carmody, you're a good girl.... You make me ... ashamed.... Tell the boy
that ... I'm sorry ... that letter. Bring him back ... in time...." He
fell back, limp, gasping, and the doctor signaled to the girl to go. As
she was slipping through the door the sick man spoke again, querulously.
"Damn that mocking-bird ... make somebody shoot him!... There was one
singing when Jimsy was born ... and when Jeanie went ... and this one
now, mocking, mocking...."
She ran back to him. "Oh, Mr. King," she said, with shy fervor, "he
isn't making fun of _us_!--Only of the bad, hard things! One sang out
near Fiesta Park the day we thought Greenmount would win the
championship, and one was singing the night Jimsy and I found out that
we loved each other,--and this one was singing when I came home to-day!"
It was a long speech for Honor and she was a little shy and breathless.
"I _know_ he doesn't mean it the way you think! He's telling us that
the sad, hard, terrible things are not the real things!" Suddenly she
bent and kissed his cold forehead. "Oh, Mr. King, if you listen to him
with--with your _heart_--you'll hear it! He's mocking at trouble and
disgrace,--and misunderstanding and silly pride! He's--_hear him
now!_--he's mocking at pain and sorrow and--and _death_!"
Then she ran out of the room and down the long stairs and across the
lawn to her own house, where a noisy and jubilant section of the Old
Guard waited.