Quill's Window Part 13

"And the other eleven months of the year?"

"Oh, I merely change the wording. In July I say 'I never lie in July,'--and so on throughout the twelve-month. I don't slight a single month. By the by, I hope I didn't pop in too far ahead of time this afternoon. You asked me to come at four. I'm half an hour early. Were you occupied with anything--"

"I was not busy. A few letters,--but they can wait." He caught the faint shadow of a cloud as it flitted across her eyes. "They are all personal,--nothing important in any of them, I am sure."

She shot a quick glance at the folded check and, arising abruptly, went over to the table where, with apparent unconcern, she ran through the little pile of letters. He saw her pick up the check and thrust it into the pocket of her sport skirt. Then she returned to the fireplace. The cloud was on her brow again as she stared darkly into the crackling flames. He knew now that it was Strong's letter she had destroyed in anger. He would have given much to know what the man she despised so heartily had written to her. If he could have seen that brief note he would have read:

DEAR ALIX:

I enclose my checque for two-fifty. If all goes well I hope to clean up the indebtedness by the first of the year. In any case, I am sure it can be accomplished by early spring. You may thank the flu for my present prosperity. It has been pretty bad here in the East again, although not so virulent as before. Please credit me with the amount. This leaves me owing you five hundred dollars. It should not take long to wipe it out entirely, interest and all.

Sincerely yours,

DAVID.

Courtney eyed her narrowly as she stood for a moment looking into the fire before resuming her seat. He realized that her thoughts were far away and that they were not pleasant.

"It's queer," he said presently, "that you have never learned to smoke."

She started slightly at the sound of his voice. As she turned to sit down, he went on:

"Almost every girl I know smokes. I will not say that I like to see it,--especially in restaurants and all that sort of thing,--but it's rather jolly if there's a nice, cosy fire like this,--see what I mean? Sort of intimate, and friendly, and--soothing. Don't you want to try one now?"

"Thank you, no. If it weren't so shocking, I think I should like to learn how to smoke a pipe,--but I suppose that isn't to be thought of. Somehow I feel that a pipe might be a pal, a good old stand-by, or even a relative,--something to depend upon in all sorts of weather, fair and foul. I've noticed that the men on the place who smoke pipes appear to be contented and jolly and good humoured,--and efficient. Yes, I think I should like to smoke a pipe."

"Would you like me better if I cut out the cigarettes, and took up the pipe of peace--and contentment?" he inquired thoughtfully.

"I doubt it," she replied, smiling. "I can't imagine you smoking a pipe."

"Is that supposed to be flattering or scornful?"

"Neither. It is an impression, that's all."

He frowned slightly. "I used to smoke a pipe,--in college, you know.

Up to my soph.o.m.ore year. It was supposed to indicate maturity. But I don't believe I'd have the courage to tackle one now, Miss Crown.

Not since that little gas experience over there. You see, my throat isn't what it was in those good old freshman days. Pipe smoke,--you may even say tobacco smoke, for heaven only knows what these cigarettes are made of,--pipe smoke is too strong. My throat is so confounded sensitive I--well, I'd probably cough my head off. That beastly gas made a coward of me, I fear. You've no idea what it does to a fellow's throat and lungs. If I live to be a thousand years old, I'll never forget the tortures I went through for weeks,--yes, ages. Every breath was like a knife cutting the very--But what a stupid fool I am! Distressing you with all these wretched details.

Please forgive me."

She was looking at him wonderingly. "You are so different from the poor fellows I saw in New York," she said slowly. "I mean the men who had been ga.s.sed and sh.e.l.l-shocked. I saw loads of them in the hospitals, you know,--and talked with them. I was always tremendously affected by their silence, their moodiness, their unwillingness to speak of what they had been through. The other men, the ones who had lost legs or arms or even their eyes,--were as a rule cheerful and as chatty as could be,--oh, how my heart used to ache for them,--but the sh.e.l.l-shock men and the men who had been ga.s.sed, why, it was impossible to get them to talk about themselves. I have seen some of them since then. They are apparently well and strong, and yet not one word can you get out of them about their sufferings. You are almost unique, Mr. Thane. I am glad you feel disposed to talk about it all. It is a good sign. It--"

"I didn't say much about it at first," he interrupted hurriedly.

"Moreover, Miss Crown," he went on, "a lot of those chaps,--the majority of them, in fact,--worked that dodge for all it was worth.

It was a deliberate pose with them. They had to act that way or people wouldn't think they'd been hurt at all. Bunk, most of it."

"I don't believe that, Mr. Thane. I saw too many of them. The ones with whom I came in contact certainly were not trying to deceive anybody. They were in a pitiable condition, every last one of them,--pitiable."

"I do not say that all of them were shamming,--but I am convinced that a great many of them were."

"The doctors report that the sh.e.l.l-shock cases--"

"Ah, the doctors!" he broke in, shrugging his shoulders. "They were all jolly good fellows. All you had to do was to even hint that you'd been knocked over by a sh.e.l.l that exploded two hundred yards away and--zip! they'd send you back for repairs. As for myself, the only reason I didn't like to talk about my condition at first was because it hurt my throat and lungs. It wasn't because I was afflicted with this heroic melancholy they talk so much about.

I was mighty glad to be alive. I couldn't see anything to mope about,--certainly not after I found out I wasn't going to die."

"I daresay there were others who took it as you did. I wish there could have been more."

He hesitated a moment before speaking again. Then he hazarded the question:

"What does your friend, Dr. Strong, have to say about the general run of such cases?"

"I don't know. I have not seen Dr. Strong since the war ended."

He looked mildly surprised. "Hasn't he been home since the war?"

"I believe so. I was away at the time."

"How long was he in France?"

"He went over first in 1916 and again in the fall of 1917, and remained till the end of the war. His mother is here with me, you know."

"Yes, I know. By Jove, I envy him one thing,--lucky dog." She remained silent. "You were playmates, weren't you?"

"Yes," she said, lifting her chin slightly.

"Well, that's why I envy him. To have been your playmate,--Why, I envy him every minute of his boyhood. When I think of my own boyhood and how little there was to it that a real boy should have, I--I--confound it, I almost find myself hating chaps like Strong, chaps who lived in the country and had regular pals, and girl sweethearts, and went fis.h.i.+ng and hunting, and played hookey as it ought to be played, and grew up with something fine and sweet and wholesome to look back upon,--and to have had you for a playmate,--maybe a sweetheart,--you in short frocks, with your hair in pigtails, barefooted in summertime, running--"

She interrupted him. "Your imagination is at fault there, Mr.

Thane," she said, smiling once more. "I never went barefooted in my life."

"At any rate, HE did. And he played all sorts of games with you; he--"

"My impression of David Strong is that he was a boy's boy," she broke in rather stiffly. "His games were with the boys of the town,--and they were rough games. Football, baseball, s.h.i.+nney, circus,--things like that."

"I don't mean sports, Miss Crown. I was thinking of those wonderful boy and girl games,--such as 'playing house,' 'getting married,'

'hide-and-go-seek,'--all that sort of thing."

"Yes, I know," she admitted. "We often played at getting married, and we had very large but inanimate families, and we quarrelled like real married people, and I used to cry and take my playthings home, and he used to stand outside our fence and make faces at me till I hated him ferociously. But all that was when we were very small, you see."

"And as all such things turn out, I suppose he grew up and went off and got married to some one else."

"He is not married, Mr. Thane."

"Well, for that matter, neither are you," said he, leaning forward, his eyes fixed intently on hers. She did not flinch. "I wonder just how you feel toward him today, Miss Crown."

She was incapable of coquetry. "We are not the best of friends,"

she said quietly. "Now, if you please, let us talk of something else. Did I tell you that an old Ambulance man is coming down for a day or two nest week? A Harvard man who lives in Chicago. His sister and I went to New York together to take our chances there on getting over to France. I think I've told you about her,--Mary Blythe?"

"Blythe?" repeated Courtney thoughtfully. "Blythe. Seems to me I heard of a chap named Blythe over there in the Ambulance, but I don't remember whether I ran across him anywhere or not. He may have been after my time, however. I was with the Ambulance in '15 and the early part of '16, you see."