CHAPTER XXXI
THE MOVING FINGER CONTINUES TO WRITE
Having read and reread the boy's letter Doctor Holiday sat long with itin his hand staring into the fire. Poor Teddy for whom life had hithertobeen one grand and glorious festival! He was getting the other, the seamyside of things, at last with a vengeance. Knowing with the sure intuitionof love how deeply the boy was suffering and how sincerely he repentedhis blunders the doctor felt far more compassion than condemnation forhis nephew. The fineness and the folly of the thing were so inextricablyconfused that there was little use trying to separate the two even if hehad cared to judge the lad which he did not, being content with the boy'sown judgment of himself. Bad as the gambling business was and deeply ashe regretted the expulsion from college the doctor could not help seeingthat there was some extenuation for Ted's conduct, that he had in themain kept faith with himself, paid generously, far more than he owed, andtraveling through the fiery furnace had somehow managed to come outunscathed, his soul intact. After all could one ask much more?
It was considerably harder for Larry to accept the situationphilosophically than it was for the senior doctor's more tolerant andmature mind. Larry loved Ted as he loved no one else in the world notperhaps even excepting Ruth. But he loved the Holiday name too with afine, high pride and it was a bitter dose to swallow to have his youngerbrother "catapulted in disgrace," as Ted himself put it, out of thecollege which he himself so loved and honored. He was inclined to resentwhat looked in retrospect as entirely unnecessary and uncalled forgenerosity on Ted's part.
"Nobody but Ted would ever have thought of doing such a fool thing," hegroaned. "Why didn't he pull out in the first place as Hendricks wantedhim to? He would have been entirely justified."
But the older man smiled and shook his head.
"Some people could have done it, not Ted," he said. "Ted isn't built thatway. He never deserted anybody in trouble in his life. I don't believe heever will. We can't expect him to have behaved differently in this oneaffair just because we would have liked it better so. I am not sure butwe would be wrong and he right in any case."
"Maybe. But it is a horrible mess. I can't get over the injustice of thepoor kid's paying so hard when he was just trying to do the decent, hard,right thing."
"You have it less straight than Ted has, Larry. He knows he is paying notfor what he did and thought right but for what he did and knew was wrong.You can't feel worse than I do about it. I would give anything I have tosave Ted from the torture he is going through, has been going throughalone for days. But I would rather he learned his lesson thoroughly now,suffering more than he deserves than have him suffer too little and fallworse next time. No matter how badly we feel for him I think it is up tous not to try to dilute his penitence and to leave a generous share ofthe blame where he puts it himself--on his own shoulders."
"I suppose you are right, Uncle Phil," sighed Larry. "You usually are.But it's like having a piece taken right out of me to have him go offlike that. And the Canadians are the very devil of fighters. Always inthe thick of things."
"That is where Ted would want to be, Larry. Let us not cross thatbridge until we have to. As he says himself there are worse things thandeath anyway."
"I know. Marrying the girl would have been worse. She was rathermagnificent, wasn't she, just as he says, not saving herself when shemight have at his expense?"
"I think she was. I am almost glad the poor child is where she can sufferno more at the hands of men."
The next day came a wire from Ted announcing his acceptance in theCanadian army and giving his address in the training camp.
The doctor answered at once, writing a long, cheerful letter full of homenews especially the interesting developments in Ruth's romantic story. Itwas only at the end that he referred to the big thing that had to befaced between them.
"I am not going to say a word that will add in any way to the burden youare already carrying, Teddy, my lad. You know how sadly disappointed weall are in your having to leave college this way but I understand andsympathize fully with your reasons for doing what you did. Even though Ican't approve of the thing itself. I haven't a single reproach to offer.You have had a harsh lesson. Learn it so well that you will never bringyourself or the rest of us to such pain and shame again. Keep your scar.I should be sorry to think you were so callous that you could passthrough an experience like that without carrying off an indelible markfrom it. But it isn't going to ruin your life. On the contrary it isgoing to make a man of you, is doing that already if I may judge fromthe spirit of your letter which goes far to atone for the rest. Theforgiveness is yours always, son, seventy times seven if need be. Neverdoubt it. We shall miss you very much. I wonder if you know how dear tous you are, Teddy lad. But we aren't going to borrow trouble of thefuture. We shall say instead God speed. May he watch over you whereveryou are and bring you safe back to us in His good time!"
And Ted reading the letter later in the Canadian training camp was notashamed of the tears that came stinging up in his eyes. He was woefullyhomesick, wanted the home people, especially Uncle Phil desperately.But the message from the Hill brought strength and comfort as well asheart ache.
"Dear Uncle Phil," he thought. "I will make it up to him somehow. I will.He shan't ever have to be ashamed of me again."
And so Ted Holiday girded on manhood along with his khaki and his SamBrowne belt and started bravely up out of the pit which his own willfulfolly had dug for him.
Tony was not told the full story of her brother's fiasco. She onlyknew that he had left college for some reason or other and had takenFrench leave for the Canadian training camp. She was relieved todiscover that even in Larry's stern eyes the escapade, whatever itwas, had not apparently been a very damaging one and acceptedthankfully her uncle's assurance that there was nothing at all toworry about and that Ted was no doubt very much better off where hewas than if he had stayed in college.
As for the going to war part small blame had she for Ted in that. Sheknew well it was precisely what she would have done herself in his caseand teemed with pride in her bonny, reckless, beloved soldier brother.
She had small time to think much about anybody's affairs beside her ownjust now. Any day now might come the word that little Cecilia had goneand that Tony Holiday would take her place on the Broadway stage as areal star if only for a brief space of twinkling.
She saw very little even of Alan. He was tremendously busy and seemed,oddly enough, to be drawing a little away from her, to be less jealouslyexacting of her time and attention. It was not that he cared less, rathermore, Tony thought. His strange, tragic eyes rested hungrily upon herwhenever they were together and it seemed as if he would drink deep ofher youth and loveliness and joy, a draught deep enough to last a long,long time, through days of parching thirst to follow. He was very gentle,very quiet, very loveable, very tender. His stormy mood seemed to havepassed over leaving a great weariness in its wake.
A very passion of creation was upon him. Seeing the canvases thatflowered into beauty beneath his hand Tony felt very small and humble,knew that by comparison with her lover's genius her own facile gifts werebut as a firefly's glow to the light of a flaming torch. He was of themasters. She saw that and was proud and glad and awed by the fact. Butshe saw also that the artist was consuming himself by the very fire ofhis own genius and the knowledge troubled her though she saw no way tocheck or prevent the holocaust if such it was.
Sometimes she was afraid. She knew that she would never be happy in theevery day way with Alan. Happiness did not grow in his sunless garden.Married to him she would enter dark forests which were not her naturalenvironment. But it did not matter. She loved him. She came always backto that. She was his, would always be his no matter what happened. Shewas bound by the past, caught in its meshes forever.
And then suddenly a new turn of the wheel took place. Word came justbefore Christmas that Dick Carson was very ill, dying perhaps down inMexico, stricken with a malarial fever.
> A few moments after Tony received this stunning news Alan Massey's cardwas brought to her. She went down to the reception room, gave him a limpcold little hand in greeting and asked if he minded going out with her.She had to talk with him. She couldn't talk here.
Alan did not mind. A little later they were walking riverward toward abrilliant orange sky, against which the Soldiers' and Sailors' Monumentloomed gray and majestic. It was bitter cold. A stinging wind lashed thegirl's skirts around her and bit into her cheeks. But somehow shewelcomed the physical discomfort. It matched her mood.
Then the story came out. Dick was sick, very sick, going to die maybe andshe, Tony Holiday couldn't stand it.
Alan listened in tense silence. So Dick Carson might be going to be sounexpectedly obliging as to die after all. If he had known how to pray hewould have done it, beseeched whatever gods there were to let the thingcome to an end at last, offered any bribe within his power if they wouldset him free from his bondage by disposing of his cousin.
But there beside him clinging to his arm was Tony Holiday aquiver withgrief for this same cousin. He saw that there were tears on her cheeks,tears that the icy wind turned instantly to frosted silver. And suddenlya new power was invoked--the power of love.
"Tony, darling, don't cry," he beseeched. "I--can't stand it. He--hewon't die."
And then and there a miracle took place. Alan Massey who had neverprayed in his life was praying to some God, somewhere to save John Masseyfor Tony because she loved him and his dying would hurt her. Tony mustnot be hurt. Any God could see that. It must not be permitted.
Tony put up her hand and brushed away the frosted silver drops.
"No, he isn't going to die. I'm not going to let him. I'm going to Mexicoto save him."
Alan stopped short, pulling her to a halt beside him.
"Tony, you can't," he gasped, too astonished for a moment even to beangry.
"I can and I am going to," she defied him.
"But my dear, I tell you, you can't. It would be madness. Your unclewouldn't let you. I won't let you."
"You can't stop me. Nobody can stop me. I'm going. Dick shan't die alone.He shan't."
"Tony, do you love him?"
"I don't know. I don't want to talk about love--your kind. I do love himone way with all my heart. I wish it were the way I love you. I'd go downand marry him if I did. Maybe I'll marry him anyway. I would in a minuteif it would save him."
"Tony!" Alan's face was dead white, his green eyes savage. "You promisedto stick to me through everything. Where is your Holiday honor that youcan talk like that about marrying another man?" Maddened, he branishedhis words like whips, caring little whether they hurt or not.
"I can't help it, Alan. I am sorry if I am hurting you. But I can't thinkabout anybody but Dick just now."
"Forgive me, sweetheart. I know you didn't mean it, what you said aboutmarrying him and you didn't mean it about going to Mexico. You know youcan't. It is no place for a woman like you."
"If Dick is there dying, it _is_ the place for me. I love you, Alan. Butthere are some things that go even deeper, things that have their veryroots in me, the things that belong to the Hill. And Dick is a very bigpart of them, sometimes I think he is the biggest part of all. I have togo to him. Please don't try to stop me. It will only make us both unhappyif you try."
A bitter blast struck their faces with the force of a blow. Tonyshivered.
"Let's go back. I'm cold--so dreadfully cold," she moaned clingingto his arm.
They turned in silence. There was nothing to say. The sunset glory hadfaded now. Only a pale, cold mauve tint was left where the flame hadblazed. A star or two had come out. The river flowed sinister black,showing white humps of foam here and there.
At the Hostelry Jean Lambert met them in the hall.
"Tony, where have you been? We have been trying everywhere to locate you.Cecilia died this afternoon. You have to take Miss Clay's place tonight."
Tony's face went white. She leaned against the wall trembling.
"I forgot--I forgot about the play. I can't go to Mexico. Oh, what shallI do? What shall I do?"
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