From the Housetops Part 47

The others, just as brave and self-sacrificing as he, were briefly mentioned and that was all. He alone was in the headlines, he alone was discussed. No one was to be allowed to forget that he was the clever young surgeon who had saved the great Marraville. The account dwelt upon the grave personal sacrifice he was making in leaving New York just as the world was beginning to recognise his great genius and ability. Prosperity was knocking at his door, fame was holding out its hand to him, and yet he was casting aside all thought of self-aggrandis.e.m.e.nt, all personal ambition in order to go forth and serve humanity in fields where his name would never be mentioned except in a cry for help from strong men who had known no fear.

Sailing that day! Anne finally grasped the meaning of the words. She would not see him again. He would go away without a word to her, without giving her the chance to say good-bye, despite her silly statement that she would never utter the words again where he was concerned.

Slowly the warm glow returned to her blood. Her brain cleared, and she was able to think, to grasp at the probable significance of his action in deserting New York and his coveted opportunities. Something whispered to her that he was going away because of his own sufferings and not those of the poor wretches at the front. Her heart swelled with pity. There was no triumph in the thought that he was running away because of his love for her. She needed no such proof as this to convince her that his heart was more loyal to her than his mind would have it be. She cried a little ...

and then got up and called for a messenger boy.

This brief message went down to the s.h.i.+p:

"G.o.d be with you. I still do not say good-bye, just G.o.d be with you always, as I shall be. Anne."

She did not leave the hotel until long after the s.h.i.+p had sailed. He did not telephone. There were a dozen calls on the wire that morning, but she had her maid take the messages. There was always the fear that he might try to reach her while some one of her idle friends was engaged in making a protracted visit with her over the wire. About one o'clock Simmy Dodge called up to ask if he could run in and have luncheon with her.

"I've got a message for you," he said.

Her heart began to beat so violently that she was afraid he would hear it through the receiver at his ear. She could not trust herself to speak for a moment. Evidently he thought she was preparing to put him off with some polite excuse. Simmy was, as ever, considerate. He made haste to spare her the necessity for fibbing. "I can drop in late this afternoon-"

"No," she cried out, "come now, Simmy. I shall expect you. Where are you?"

He coughed in some embarra.s.sment. "I'm-well, you see, I was going past so I thought I'd stop in and-What? Yes, I'm downstairs."

She joined him in the palm room a few minutes later, and they went in to luncheon. Her colour was high. Simmy thought he had never seen her when she looked more beautiful. But he thought that with each succeeding glimpse of her.

"'Pon my word, Anne," he said, staring at her across the table, "you fairly dazzle me. Forgive me for saying so. I couldn't help it. Perfect a.s.s sometimes, you see."

"I forgive you. I like it. What message did Braden send to me?"

He had not expected her to be so frank, so direct. "I don't know. I wish I did. The beggar wrote it and sealed it up in this beastly little envelope." He handed her the square white envelope with the s.h.i.+p's emblem in the corner.

Before looking at the written address, she put her next question to him. A good deal depended on his answer. "Do you know when he wrote this note, Simmy?"

"Just before they pushed me down the gang-plank," he said. A light broke in upon him. "Did you send him a message?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't know whether it is the right thing to say, but I can tell you this: he wrote this note before reading your letter or telegram or whatever it was. He had a score of things like that and he didn't open one of 'em until she'd cast off."

She smiled. "Thank you, Simmy. You have said the right thing,-as you always do." One glance at the superscription was enough. It was in his handwriting. For the first time she saw it in his hand: "Anne Tresslyn Thorpe." A queer little s.h.i.+ver ran through her, never to be explained.

Simmy watched her curiously as she slipped the missive, unopened, into her gold mesh bag. "Don't mind me," he said. "Read it."

"Not now, Simmy," she said simply. And all through luncheon she thrilled with the consciousness that she had something of Braden there with her, near her, waiting for her. His own hand had touched this bit of paper; it was a part of him. It was so long since she had seen that well-known, beloved handwriting,-strong like the man, and sure; she found herself counting the ages that had pa.s.sed since his last love missive had come to her.

Simmy was rattling on, rather dolefully, about Braden's plans. He was likely to be over there for a long time,-just as long as he was needed or able to endure the strain of hard, incessant work in the field hospitals.

"I wanted to go," the little man was saying, and that brought her back to earth. "The worst way, Anne. But what could I do? Drive an automobile, yes, but what's that? Brady wouldn't hear to it. He said it was nonsense, me talking of going over there and getting in people's way. Of course, I'd probably faint the first time I saw a mutilated dead body, and that _would_ irritate the army. They'd have to stop everything while they gave me smelling salts. I suppose I'd get used to seeing 'em dead all over the place, just as everybody does,-even the worst of cowards. I'm not a coward, Anne. I drive my racing-car at ninety miles, I play polo, I go up in Scotty's aeroplane whenever I get a chance, I can refuse to take a drink when I think I've had enough, and if that doesn't prove that I've got courage I'd like to know what it does prove. But I'm not a fighting man. n.o.body would ever be afraid of me. There isn't a German on earth who would run if he saw me charging toward him. He'd just wait to see what the d.i.c.kens I was up to. Something would tell him that I wouldn't have the heart to shoot him, no matter how necessary it might be for me to do so.

Still I wanted to go. That's what amazes me. I can't understand it."

"I can understand it, you poor old simpleton," cried Anne. "You wanted to go because you are _not_ afraid."

"I wish I could think so," said he, really perplexed. "Brady is different.

He'd be a soldier as is a soldier. He's going over to save men's lives, however, and that's something I wouldn't be capable of doing. If I went they'd expect me to kill 'em, and that's what I'd hate. Good Lord, Anne, I couldn't shoot down a poor German boy that hadn't done a thing to me-or to my country, for that matter. If they'd only let me go as a spy, or even a messenger boy, I'd jump at the chance. But they'd want me to kill people,-and I couldn't do it, that's all."

"Is Braden well? Does he look fit, Simmy? You know there will be great hards.h.i.+ps, vile weather, exposure-"

"He's thin and-well, I'll be honest with you, he doesn't look as fit as might be."

She paled. "Has he been ill?"

"Not in body, but-he's off his feed, Anne. Maybe you know the reason why."

He looked at her narrowly.

"I have not seen him in months," she said evasively.

"I guess that's the answer," he said, pulling at his little moustache.

"I'm sorry, Anne. It's too bad-for both of you. Lordy, I never dreamed I could be so unselfish. I'm mad in love with you myself and-oh, well!

That's an old tale, so we'll cut it short. I don't know what I'm going to do without Brady. I've got the blues so bad that-why, I cried like a nasty little baby down there at the-everybody lookin' at me pityingly and saying to themselves 'what a terrible thing grief is when it hits a man like that,' and thinkin' of course that I'd lost a whole family in Belgium or somewhere-oh, Lordy, what a blithering-"

"Hus.h.!.+" whispered Anne, her own eyes glistening. "You are an angel, Simmy.

You-"

"Let's talk sense," he broke in abruptly. "Braden left his business in my hands, and his pleasures in the hands of Dr. Cole. He says it's a pleasure to heal people, so that's why I put it in that way. I've got his will down in our safety vault, and his instructions about that silly foundation-"

"You-you think he may not come back?" she said, gripping her hands under the edge of the table.

"You never can tell. Taking precautions, that's all, as any wise man would do. Oh, I'm sorry, Anne! I should have known better. Lordy, you're as white as-Sure, he'll come back! He isn't going to be in the least danger.

Not the least. n.o.body bothers the doctors, you know. They can go anywhere.

They wear plug hats and all that sort of thing, and all armies respect a plug hat. A plug hat is a _silk_ hat, you know,-the safest hat in the world when you're on the firing line. Everybody tries to hit the hat and not the occupant. It's a standing army joke. I was reading in the paper the other day about a fellow going clear from one end of the line to the other and having six hundred and some odd plug hats shot off his head without so much as getting a hair singed. Wait! I can tell what you're going to ask, and I can't, on such short notice, answer the question. I can only say that I don't know where he got the hats. Ah, good! You're laughing again, and, by Jove, it becomes you to blush once in a while, too. Tell me, old lady,"-he leaned forward and spoke very seriously,-"does it mean a great deal to you?"

She nodded her head slowly. "Yes, Simmy, it means everything."

He drew a long breath. "That's just what I thought. One ordinary dose of commonsense split up between the two of you wouldn't be a bad thing for the case."

"You dear old thing!" cried Anne impulsively.

"How are Lutie and my G.o.d-son?" he inquired, with a fine air of solicitude.

Half an hour later, Anne read the brief note that Braden had sent to her.

She read it over and over again, and without the exultation she had antic.i.p.ated. Her heart was too full for exultation.

"Dear Anne," it began, "I am going to the war. I am going because I am a coward. The world will call me brave and self-sacrificing, but it will not be true. I am a coward. The peril I am running away from is far greater than that which awaits me over there. I thought you would like to know.

The suffering of others may cause me to forget my own at times." He signed it "Braden"; and below the signature there was a postscript that puzzled her for a long time. "If you are not also a coward you will return to my grandfather's house, where you belong."

And when she had solved the meaning of that singular postscript she sent for Wade.

CHAPTER XXVI