The House in the Hedge/Chapter 14

luncheon the others went off in the car and I went over to the House in the Hedge. Poor Mr. Reed was terribly glad to see me, and I'm sure I was glad to see him again. He was really looking better already, for being out of doors had taken that awful yellowish tinge from his face and his eyes seemed brighter. After we had shaken hands, and I had seated myself in a chair be side him, I looked down the porch and there was that miserable Fairfax sitting and blinking at me, in the sun. I told Mr. Reed how we had thought we had lost him, but I didn't say anything about our midnight search. Mr. Reed was very apologetic.

“If I'd known I'd have sent word over,” he said. “But I was so used to seeing Fairfax around that it didn't occur to me that he had deserted home completely. What shall we do with him?”

“Just let him alone. It doesn't matter whether he's here or there, so long as he's happy.”

“Being happy is the main thing, then?” he asked smilingly.

“Of course.”

“For folks as well as felines?”

“Why, yes. As long as you're happy nothing else matters, does it?”

“Um, that's an easy philosophy. Supposing, though, that being happy meant being selfish and—forgetful of others' happiness?”

“But it couldn't; I wouldn't be happy then.”

“I see. Happiness with you, then, Miss Marjorie, means a strict adherence to all the commandments and the golden rule, to say nothing of national, state, and local laws.”

“I don't know,” I answered doubtfully. “But it seems to me, that if you're going to be happy yourself, you've got to have folks around you happy, and, of course, they wouldn't be if you didn't treat them fairly.”

“Suppose, though, that the others didn't know they were being treated unfairly.”

“But I'd know, and so I wouldn't be happy.” Mr. Reed seemed amused and I felt a little uncomfortable.

“I don't pretend to know very much, if you please,” I said apologetically.

“What you know, you seem to have pretty straight,” he said dryly. “But I'm afraid your brand of happiness belongs rather to the Golden Age than the twentieth century, my dear young—Miss Marjorie.”

“You nearly did it!” I laughed.

“Yes, but—I stopped in time.” He turned his head away on the low pillow.

“Is the sun in your eyes?” I asked. “Can I move the couch for you?”

“No, thank you I'm very comfortable. Tell me about all your gay doings at New London. From the sounds that penetrate to my cell I gather that you have brought some of the party back with you.”

“Yes, Jocelyn Hare and Ned Merrill; and Larry, of course.”

“And Larry, of course,” he echoed, with a laugh.

“Why do you laugh?” I asked, puzzled.

“I wasn't laughing at you, but with you. There's a difference, isn't there? I was only thinking how fond you are of that brother of yours, Miss Marjorie. It must be fine to have a brother—or a sister. I never had either. I never thought much about it before, but it seems to me now that a chap loses a lot by being the only one. You see, he doesn't have anyone to talk things over with or be—fond of. The relation between brother and sister ought to be something very sweet and wonderful, I should think.”

“I don't think I ever thought much about it,” I acknowledged. “I'm so used to having Larry, you see. But I suppose it would have made a difference if—if he hadn't been. I guess I'd have been pretty lonesome. You see, I'm—well, I guess I'm a little bit daffy about Larry, Mr. Reed.”

“He must be a fine chap, Miss Marjorie.”

“He is, really; just a dear! Would you mind if I brought him over some day to see you? I've told him about you; not much; just about your accident and—and how brave you are”

He broke out in a laugh.

“Brave! Great Scott! You didn't tell him that?”

“Of course I did!” I answered indignantly. “Why not? You are brave.”

“Am I?” he asked soberly. “Thank you for thinking so. That ought to help me to be so, Miss Marjorie. Tell your brother that I'll be glad to see him any time, if he doesn't mind being bored.”

“Bored! Haven't I told you not to say such things?” I demanded.

“You have,” he said contritely. “I—I forgot. Now tell me about the races. Old Harvard made a pretty clean sweep, did she? Tully read me all about it from the papers, but I'd like to hear what you saw.”

So I told him all I could, and when I had finished, he sighed.

“I rowed on the 'Varsity two years,” he said, “and we got beaten both times. But it was great, just the same. I've never seen the Crimson come in ahead at New London, oddly enough, and now I never shall.”

“Oh, yes, you will. Larry says we're going to win again next year as sure as shooting.”

“Well” He stopped, frowned, and went on. “In that case, perhaps I may, after all. Let's hope so. You can always hope, you know.”

“And if you hope hard enough, things come true.”

“Do you really believe that, Miss Marjorie?”

“I know it! I've seen it happen.”

“It's worth trying, anyhow,” he murmured. “Now I shall know what to do when—time drags. I'll hope.”

“I would,” I said. “And I'll hope too. In that way it will be just sure to happen.”

“And what will you hope for, Miss Marjorie?”

“That you will get well,” I answered. “And that you will see Harvard win from Yale next spring at New London.”

“Let's concentrate on the first part,” he said. “Let's just hope that I'll get well. If that happens, I'll look after the rest myself.”

“But you couldn't make Harvard win just by yourself, could you?”

“I don't believe I'd be heart-broken if she didn't,” he laughed. “I'm more concerned with someone else's success.”

“Someone else's?”

“My own.”

“Oh,” I began vaguely, “you mean”

“I mean I'm talking nonsense,” he interrupted with one of his quick frowns. “Is that rascal of a cat still sunning himself over there?”

The next afternoon I brought Larry over, and the way they took to each other was lovely. They talked boating, and football, and college for an hour, while I just sat and embroidered on the “H.” and listened. Going back, Larry turned suddenly and said:

“What did you tell me his name was, sis?”

“Mr. Reed,” I answered.

“It isn't, then. I knew him the moment I set eyes on him. There are a dozen pictures of him around Cambridge. He's Harrington—'Slim' Harrington, they used to call him. He was a wonderful oar and a dandy end on the football team You still hear stories about him up there. I didn't let on I recognized him, for he evidently doesn't want people to know who he really is. By Jove, it's awful to think of a chap like he being laid out this way! Somebody—something ought to be done, Marjorie!”

“But what, Larry?”

“Oh, I don't know. Hasn't he any folks to look after him?”

“No, his father and mother are both dead and he told me yesterday that he hadn't any brothers or sisters. I don't suppose anything can be done except what's being done, though, Larry. Mr. Tully says”

“Oh, he's a ninny. Looks like an undertaker. Gee, I'd die at once if I had to have that sad-eyed chap around me all the time. What he needs is jollying up.”

“I don't believe anyone could jolly Mr. Tully up, Larry.”

“I don't mean Tully; I mean Harrington—Reed. He tells me he doesn't get to sleep very early. I'm going over this evening to sit with him a while; sort of take his mind off his troubles, you know.”

“Oh, I'm so glad!” I cried. Larry swung on the top step and looked at me curiously.

“I say, sis, seems to me you're mightily interested in that chap.”

“I am? What about you? You've only known him an hour or so, and now you're going over to see him after dinner.”

“Well, I'm a man and it's different,” he grumbled. “Harrington—Reed—whatever his name is—is a fine chap, all right, but you can take it from me, old girl, that he'll never be anywhere except just where he is, flat on his back. And you don't want to go and get flossy about him. It won't do.”

“Larry, you just mind your own affairs,” I cried angrily. “You're—you're absolutely insulting!”

“That's all right,” he grumbled. “Just you remember!”

Brothers are nice, but sometimes they're terribly exasperating. As though I wasn't old enough to take care of myself!

That night was stifling hot and we sat on the porch until late, Jocelyn and Ned and I. Larry was over with Mr. Reed. It was really far too warm to talk much, and so we just sat there and drank lemonade and fanned ourselves and watched the young moon. After a while Ned, who had played twenty seven holes of golf that afternoon, went fast asleep on the edge of the porch, with his head against a pillar, and snored beautifully. So Jocelyn and I stole off to bed and left him there, knowing that Larry would find him when he came back from the House in the Hedge. But when I was ready for bed I didn't feel a bit like sleeping, and so I sat down at the window. I had a great deal to think about. There was the mysterious state of affairs between Jocelyn and Mr. Tully, which puzzled me dreadfully. Of course the first solution that occurred to me was that Mr. Tully was the lover Jocelyn had confessed to, but when I tried to picture him in the rôle, I failed dismally. Jocelyn's lover, I told myself, would have to be big, and handsome, and dashing, the sort of man to take her literally by storm. Mr. Tully was big enough and very good-looking, but I couldn't quite see him dash or storm. Mr. Reed, for instance, would be far more in Jocelyn's style. And then my thoughts wandered across to the House in the Hedge and I quite forgot Jocelyn and Mr. Tully. After a while I saw a little red spark on the lawn beneath, and leaned out. It was a cigarette.

“Is that you, Larry?” I called.

“Yes,” he answered.

“What are you doing?”

“Just strolling around. It's too darned hot to go to bed.”

“Have you seen anyone?” I whispered hoarsely.

“Seen anyone? No. Who?”

“You know what I mean. Have you seen Her.”

“No,” he answered shortly. “You'd better go to bed.”

“So had you. And you'd better take Ned with you. He's asleep on the front porch.” Larry chuckled.

“All right. I'll lug him up. Good-night, sis.”

“Did you—have a nice talk?” I asked.

“Yep. I did most of the talking, though. He was kind of done up. Good-night.”

In a minute or two I heard them come upstairs, Ned protesting sleepily at being disturbed. Then I crawled into bed myself and dreamed the greatest hodge-podge, in which even Aunt Myra and Peter Quinn were mixed up, not one bit of which could I remember in the morning. That's so annoying, I think.