The Fighting Edge (Smith's Magazine 1907)/Chapter 12

Maisie closed the book softly, and let her hands fall into her lap. She had been reading to him from a volume of old English ballads and lyrics. This was another taste they had in common, the love of choice old verse; and Devereux had fallen into eager, appreciative criticism. Indeed, she had found it necessary to exert her authority as nurse to restrain him, for he was still weak as a child.

She had continued to read to him, under a prohibition of silence on his part; and he had listened in sheer content of happiness to the melody of her voice. Her reading touched to life so exquisitely the old lyrics that he fitted to it instinctively Dobson’s

But he had been silent so long she judged him asleep, and her voice had gradually died away. She leaned back in a corner of the big armchair and watched him to her heart’s content. He had had a hard fight for life, and the struggle had left its marks upon him. There were weary shadows under the eyes, and the gay, responsive face had grown thin and sharper in contour. But the loss in good looks had but emphasized the quality of the man; had accented his charm for her by defining more clearly the spiritual in him. He was the farthest in the world from a prig; had always been inclined to laugh at himself and his failures. And this self-depreciation, the hatred of appearing a poseur, had obscured measurably his high purposes. She had always been sure that he was not of those that lived by bread alone, and it pleased her now that the city had awakened to a sudden pride and admiration of him.

Perhaps it pleased him, too, but it amused him a good deal more, and very considerably embarrassed him. For he had become in a day the hero of his State, and had made a narrow shave of being its martyr. One of those manias for hero-worship that obsess the American people had. swept the Rockies and made him its victim. The papers exaggerated his services, and endowed him with virtues he never had possessed. He had saved the State. He was a twentieth century leader, a captain of the Common Good. Magazine writers were already in the field to tell to the world dramatically the story of his fight against graft.

All of this she had read to him with a good deal of manifest humor and not a little secret pleasure. One of the nice things about Devvie, she had discovered, was that you could spoil him without turning his head. His sense of humor was too robust to leave much room for heroics.

She thought of this now as she watched him lying there with his eyes shut, very worn and pallid with the struggle. All of the sweet charm and fascination of him still drew her. At a chance meeting of the eyes that little shock of pleasure never failed. But his helplessness had called out the divine maternity that lies dormant in every good woman, ready to leap to life in behalf of those she loves.

She rose softly and straightened the bed-covering, not so much because it was necessary as because she loved to be doing something for him. He opened his eyes and smiled.

“Did I awaken you?” she reproached herself.

“I have not been asleep.”

“Thinking?”

“Letting thoughts happen.”

“Happy ones?”

“Very.”

“And am I not to share them?”

“I was thinking how good it is to have you here, dear, and how I shall miss you when you are gone.”

“Ts that all?” she sweetly scoffed. “I can think that myself.”

“And do you?” he asked shyly, for, since his sickness, there had been between them no direct reference to their love, though it had seldom been out of their thoughts.

“You silly boy! Of course I do.”

“That’s good hearing.” He presently added: “But you must go this week. I can’t have you sacrificing your tour this way. If I continue to keep you from your audiences, I shall become the most unpopular man in the country.

“So you are up to your old Irish blarney again. You’re getting well fast, sir. The trouble is that | hear such glowing reports from my understudy there seems no need of haste. Besides, think of the advertising I am getting by staying with you. I am more in the public eye here than I should be if I were filling my engagements.”

“Still, I can’t keep you here forever. You must go this week. It isn’t fair.”

“I have been needing the rest. Why are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?”

“Am I in a hurry?” he smiled ruefully. “I suppose that is because I would like you to stay. I’m a disciple of Herrick:

“That’s a verse would cloak many a lover’s sin of omission,” she laughed. “You are like the little boy who wrote out a copy of his prayer and pinned it over the head of his bed. When he was tired and in a hurry to deliver himself to the sand-man, he just nodded toward his prayer and said: ‘You know my sentiments, Lord.’”

“Certainly you know mine, my Lady of Dreams. I’m not going to make of them a burden to you.”

“A burden, Devvie?” she reproached.

“An obligation, if you like the word better.”

“You'll be pleased to know, then, that I’m going to join my company next week.”

“It’s a relief to my conscience.”

“So, of course, you are delighted to hear it?”

“I ought to be, oughtn’t I?”

They looked at each other and laughed, with that subtle light of mutual understanding that is the lover’s heaven-born privilege.

“Tl have to leave by to-morrow night to reach San Francisco in time. That gives us just one day, three hours”—she looked at her watch—“and fifty-five minutes.”

“Of heaven,” he added, with a little laugh. “I’m speaking for myself, of course.”

“You're speaking for me, too, Devvie,” she nodded, with light-hearted sincerity.

It was impossible to believe that either time or distance could really separate them in such an enchanted world of sunshine. The birds on the flower-porch outside his window sang no more joyously than their hearts.

Tiny imps of merriment sparkled in her eyes. She leaned back in the big chair, her elbow supported by its arm, her dimpled chin in her hand. Some source of amusement hidden from him seemed to offer her food for mirth. He waited, quite sure that he would presently be included.

“One day, three hours, and fifty minutes,” she murmured.

“Better twenty hours of Devvie than a cycle of J. B.,” he parodied lazily.

“That is not very nice of you, sir. Mr. Stoneman has been here every day to inquire for you.”

“Perhaps I didn’t quite mean it. And how do you and Mr. Stoneman hit it off?”

“We don’t hit it off at all. He does not condescend to the least interest in me. Sometimes I wonder whether he would be so much interested in the health of our city hero were it not to show to the world the great magnanimity of which he is capable. One day, three hours, and forty-five minutes.”

“Afraid I can’t keep up with you. I know, of course, that it is my play, but I can’t seem to localize the play. Be a good fellow and help me out.”

“There isn’t anything you have forgotten, is there?”

“I can’t think of it.”

“Nothing else that you would like?”

“One thing, but I understand that it is not attainable just now.”

She busied herself with his medicine-bottles. “It is time to take this.”

He observed that a delicate rose bloom had mounted to her cheeks, that she did not meet his eyes so frankly as usual. Reaching out, he captured the hand that held the spoon.

“Look out, Devvie. You'll spill it.”

He laughed happily. “No, I sha’n't. You have not poured it yet. Put down that bottle. That’s good. Now sit on the edge of the bed. I want to tell you something.”

“I can hear you where I am.” Her eyes had grown suddenly shy.

“You can hear better here.”

She moved. “Well—since you are so masterful.”

“I want to tell you that we are engaged.”

“Since when?” And immediately, “Did I ask you? Was I shameless?” she demanded.

“Quite.” He laughed softly. “You see, I don’t ask you. I merely announce it because I thought you might be interested in knowing we belong.”

“To each other,” she interrupted, and flamed out, her soft eyes loving him. “Oh, I knew that already.”

“Good. You now have one day, three hours, and forty minutes in which to be good to me.” He fell back against his pillows and smiled at her.

With an arm reaching out to embrace him, she put her head beside him in sweet surrender. “And a lifetime isn’t long enough, my boy.”