Miss Theodosia's Heartstrings Part 11

"Maybe it was you, steam-whistling," she laughed. "I heard that! Oh, I am glad enough you came this time! You've saved me from a trip to Rome--tea is so much less expensive! I'll go and get it." She was off directly and back again in remarkably quick time with her little kettle and lamp. "Less time and fuss, too. See how little baggage! Now, Rome--"

"Don't mention Rome!" There was a deep note in John Bradford's voice. He watched her making the tea. Miss Theodosia's hands were worth watching.

"Speaking of steam whistles reminds me of ears," he said.

"Naturally! The two go together, all right!" But she saw that his face remained grave. "Oh!--you mean the steam-whistler's ears--I see."

"Yes, I have examined them rather carefully. They aren't hopeless little ears--not hopeless. I'm not ready to go any farther than that yet. But I intend--you see, I specialized in ears and a few other things at the University--in practice, too, before--before I reformed."

Quickly Miss Theodosia looked up.

"There! You are harking back; please don't hark back! It was mean in me to say it. I'm sorry! If I'd sent Elly Precious to college--while he was my baby--and given him a doctor's degree, he could have taken it or left it. He'd have had a right. Men have rights to their own lives."

"Sure," but John Bradford's tone was thoughtful rather than emphatic.

"Still--I sometimes wonder--"

"Why?--tell me why!" Now she was championing the Reformed Doctor! "You could do as you pleased, couldn't you? It was your own life you were 'reforming.' Still, I wonder, too. Tell me how it happened."

"How do I know how it happened?" He was walking up and down the room.

"It was in my blood to write stories. I wrote them every chance I could get. Had to write them. I suppose I woke up to the rather decent conclusion that a man can't serve two masters and serve them well. Isn't efficient. So I chose my favorite master. There you have it in a nutsh.e.l.l. May I have mine in a teacup?"

She filled the dainty sh.e.l.l, but it rattled a little on its saucer. Miss Theodosia felt about for less moving things; she was strangely moved.

"How is the love story getting on?" she asked.

"The--oh! Well, it had a setback awhile ago. Setbacks are not good for love stories. But I shall go to work on it again."

"At once--to-day?" What was this sudden freak of hers to drive him to work?--the work she had all but derided before.

"To-day. I'm working on it now--that is--er--"

"Before and after--tea," she smiled. "Well, I shall help you all I can on that story. I feel in a penitent mood. When you begin on it again--"

"I've begun on it again."

"After you go home, I mean. When you go to work again, make believe I'm David Copperfield's Dora--holding the pens!" Too late she saw her error and hedged. "Or cups of tea to keep up your strength."

"I like pens better. If Dora were there--"

"One more cup? You've only had one. The cups are no size at all. And while you drink it, tell me about your heroine. What have you named her?"

"Dora," he said promptly. "You see, you've helped already."

It was pleasant, drinking tea like this, with John Bradford there, opposite, having his second cup. A pleasant way to drink tea--with a John! Miss Theodosia hugged herself happily. Even the forgotten little nightgown on the floor failed to diminish her content. She had not forgotten Elly Precious; she was merely making the most of the ameliorations the G.o.ds offered. The kind G.o.ds. But conscience had to put in its pious oar.

"I'm having a beautiful time; I don't know whether you are or not. But I'm going to send you back to that love story. I hope the Recording Angel will give me a white mark for it, or cross out a black one. The goodness of me! I've been sitting here trying to strangle my conscience, but you see it isn't my own--it's my grandmother's conscience; you have to respect your grandmother's conscience. You'll have to go."

"I can work on it here," he pleaded, but she shook her head mournfully.

"I haven't the materials. It takes special paper, doesn't it, and pens?"

"I could--er--think up my plot."

"With me talking a blue streak? I should talk a blue streak; that's my grandmother's, too. No, you must go. How will you ever get it done, if you don't?"

"I sha'n't if I do. Staying here is doing me good. I need to 'get up more strength.'"

She laughed, but remembered her grandmother. "No more tea," she said kindly. "Conscience! But I'll tell you--you may come back after you've worked."

"To-day?"

"To-morrow."

And for many to-morrows he came back. On one of them the talk once more reverted to the book that the Story Man was understood to be writing, in some mysterious Place of Pens and Paper.

"I hope it's a regular romance," Miss Theodosia said.

"Romance? What is that? Is there such a thing? There may have been once--"

Miss Theodosia's fair cheeks took on faint color. She turned upon him.

"Once nothing! I can't help it if that is slang; the occasion demands slang. Are you trying to tell me romance is dead?"

He nodded. "Sterilized--Pasteurized--boiled out of us. I suppose," he sighed, "we are more hygienic, but we have faded in the process. It dulls romance to Pasteurize it."

She held up a staying hand.

"Please!" she said, "in words of one syllable and maybe you can convince me. But you can't. Do you mean to say there are no sweet, blus.h.i.+ng girls left, with--with dreams?"

Again his sigh. It pained him to disillusion her.

"Not blus.h.i.+ng ones. I tell you the color won't stand our modern sterilization process. I mis...o...b.. the dreams, too. If they dream 'em, they're of independence and careers and votes; you wouldn't call those romantic dreams, would you? The little 'clinging vines'--" he waved them back into the past with a comprehensive sweep of his hand--"all gone.

Our present-day soil is too invigorating, too stimulating. The young things stand up on their own roots. No more clinging. Each one aspires to be a s.p.u.n.ky little tree by herself. Look at 'em and see for yourself--the subways and elevateds are full of 'em at the crush hours, nights and mornings--all glorying in their independence--their fine, strong, young roots. No blus.h.i.+ng, no clinging there! Are you convinced?"

"I am not," flashed Miss Theodosia gamely. "There must be one little dreamer of love dreams left."

"Show her to me."

"That isn't fair. I'm not in a way to know girls. I know just Stefana."

"And Evangeline."

"And Evangeline," laughed Miss Theodosia.

"Is she romantic?" demanded the Story Man. And there he had Miss Theodosia. She had instant vision of Evangeline growing, straight and thrifty already, on her own small roots. It was not possible to visualize a blus.h.i.+ng--a clinging little Evangeline.

"She is still young," Miss Theodosia murmured. "Besides, she's one of a kind. There's only one Evangeline. You can't reason by only one of anything. The exception proves the rule."

"Then you yield me Evangeline?"