Peter Part 39

"But she MUST know, Corinne. I never have any secrets from Ruth, and don't you have any either. Ruth couldn't be anything but kind to you and she never misunderstands, and she is so helpful. Here she is. Ruth, dear, we were just waiting for you. Corinne is nervous and depressed, and imagines all sorts of things, one of which is that we don't care for her: and I've just told her that we do?"

Ruth looked into Jack's eyes as if to get his meaning--she must always get her cue from him now--she was entirely unconscious of the cause of it all, or why Corinne should feel so, but if Jack thought Corinne was suffering and that she wanted comforting, all she had was at Corinne's and Jack's disposal. With a quick movement she leaned forward and laid her hand on Corinne's shoulder.

"Why, you dear Corinne,--Jack and I are not like that. What has gone wrong,--tell me," she urged.

For a brief instant Corinne made no answer. Once she tried to speak but the words died in her throat. Then, lifting up her hands appealingly, she faltered out:

"I only said that I--Oh, Ruth!--I am so wretched!" and sank back on the lounge in an agony of tears.

CHAPTER XXVI

At ten o'clock that same night Jack went to the station to meet Garry.

He and Ruth had talked over the strange scene--unaccountable to both of them--and had determined that Jack should see Garry at once.

"I must help him, Ruth, no matter at what cost. Garry has been my friend for years; he has been taken up with his work, and so have I, and we have drifted apart a little, but I shall never forget him for his kindness to me when I first came to New York. I would never have known Uncle Peter but for Garry, or Aunt Felicia, or--you, my darling."

Jack waited under the shelter of the overhanging roof until the young architect stepped from the car and crossed the track. Garry walked with the sluggish movement of a tired man--hardly able to drag his feet after him.

"I thought I'd come down to meet you, Garry," Jack cried in his old buoyant tone. "It's pretty rough on you, old fellow, working so hard."

Garry raised his head and peered into the speaker's face.

"Why, Jack!" he exclaimed in a surprised tone; the voice did not sound like Garry's. "I didn't see you in the train. Have you been in New York too?" He evidently understood nothing of Jack's explanation.

"No, I came down to meet you. Corinne was at Mr. MacFarlane's to-day, and said you were not well,--and so I thought I'd walk home with you."

"Oh, thank you, old man, but I'm all right. Corinne's nervous;--you mustn't mind her. I've been up against it for two or three weeks now,--lot of work of all kinds, and that's kept me a good deal from home. I don't wonder Cory's worried, but I can't help it--not yet."

They had reached an overhead light, and Jack caught a clearer view of the man. What he saw sent a s.h.i.+ver through him. A great change had come over his friend. His untidy dress,--always so neat and well kept; his haggard eyes and shambling, unsteady walk, so different from his springy, debonair manner, all showed that he had been and still was under some terrible mental strain. That he had not been drinking was evident from his utterance and gait. This last discovery when his condition was considered, disturbed him most of all, for he saw that Garry was going through some terrible crisis, either professional or financial.

As the two advanced toward the door of the station on their way to the street, the big, burly form of McGowan, the contractor, loomed up.

"I heard you wouldn't be up till late, Mr. Minott," he exclaimed gruffly, blocking Garry's exit to the street. "I couldn't find you at the Council or at your office, so I had to come here. We haven't had that last payment on the church. The vouchers is all ready for your signature, so the head trustee says,--and the money's where you can git at it."

Garry braced his shoulders and his jaw tightened. One secret of the young architect's professional success lay in his command over his men.

Although he was considerate, and sometimes familiar, he never permitted any disrespect.

"Why, yes, Mr. McGowan, that's so," he answered stiffly. "I've been in New York a good deal lately and I guess I've neglected things here. I'll try to come up in the morning, and if everything's all right I'll get a certificate and fill it up and you'll get a check in a few days."

"Yes, but you said that last week." There was a sound of defiance in McGowan's voice.

"If I did I had good reason for the delay," answered Garry with a flash of anger. "I'm not running my office to suit you."

"Nor for anybody else who wants his money and who's got to have it, and I want to tell you, Mr. Minott, right here, and I don't care who hears it, that I want mine or I'll know the reason why."

Garry wheeled fiercely and raised his hand as if to strike the speaker, then it dropped to his side.

"I don't blame you, Mr. McGowan," he said in a restrained, even voice.

"I have no doubt that it's due you and you ought to have it, but I've been pretty hard pressed lately with some matters in New York; so much so that I've been obliged to take the early morning train,--and you can see yourself what time I get home. Just give me a day or two longer and I'll examine the work and straighten it out. And then again, I'm not very well."

The contractor glared into the speaker's face as if to continue the discussion, then his features relaxed. Something in the sound of Carry's voice, or perhaps some line of suffering in his face must have touched him.

"Well, of course, I ain't no hog," he exclaimed in a softer tone, which was meant as an apology, "and if you're sick that ends it, but I've got all them men to pay and--"

"Yes, I understand and I won't forget. Thank you, Mr. McGowan, and good-night. Come along, Jack,--Corinne's worrying, and will be till I get home."

The two kept silent as they walked up the hill Garry, because he was too tired to discuss the cowardly attack; Jack, because what he had to say must be said when they were alone,--when he could get hold of Garry's hand and make him open his heart.

As they approached the small house and mounted the steps leading to the front porch, Corinne's face could be seen pressed against a pane in one of the dining-room windows. Garry touched Jack's arm and pointed ahead:

"Poor Cory!" he exclaimed with a deep sigh, "that's the way she is every night. Coming home is sometimes the worst part of it all, Jack."

The door flew open and Corinne sprang out: "Are you tired, dear?" she asked, peering into his face and kissing him. Then turning to Jack: "Thank you, Jack!--It was so good of you to go. Ruth sent me word you had gone to meet him."

She led the way into the house, relieving Garry of his hat, and moving up an easy chair stood beside it until he had settled himself into its depths.

Again she bent over and kissed him: "How are things to-day, dear?--any better?" she inquired in a quavering voice.

"Some of them are better and some are worse, Cory; but there's nothing for you to worry about. That's what I've been telling Jack. How's baby?

Anybody been here from the board?--Any letters?"

"Baby's all right," the words came slowly, as if all utterance gave her pain. "No, there are no letters. Mr. McGowan was here, but I told him you wouldn't be home till late."

"Yes, I saw him," replied Garry, dropping his voice suddenly to a monotone, an expression of pain followed by a shade of anxiety settling on his face: McGowan and his affairs were evidently unpleasant subjects.

At this instant the cry of a child was heard. Garry roused himself and turned his head.

"Listen--that's baby crying! Better go to her, Cory."

Garry waited until his wife had left the room, then he rose from, his chair, crossed to the sideboard, poured out three-quarters of a gla.s.s of raw whiskey and drank it without drawing a breath.

"That's the first to-day, Jack. I dare not touch it when I'm on a strain like this. Can't think clearly, and I want my head,--all of it. There's a lot of sharks down in New York,--skin you alive if they could. I beg your pardon, old man,--have a drop?"

Jack waved his hand in denial, his eyes still on his friend: "Not now, Garry, thank you."

Garry dropped the stopper into the decanter, pushed back the empty tumbler and began pacing the floor, halting now and then to toe some pattern in the carpet, talking all the time to himself in broken sentences, like one thinking aloud. All Jack's heart went out to his friend as he watched him. He and Ruth were so happy. All their future was so full of hope and promise, and Garry--brilliant, successful Garry,--the envy of all his a.s.sociates, so hara.s.sed and so wretched!

"Garry, sit down and listen to me," Jack said at last. "I am your oldest friend; no one you know thinks any more of you than I do, or will be more ready to help. Now, what troubles you?"

"I tell you, Jack, I'm not troubled!"--something of the old bravado rang in his voice,--"except as everybody is troubled when he's trying to straighten out something that won't straighten. I'm knocked out, that's all,--can't you see it?"

"Yes, I see it,--and that's not all I see. Is it your work here or in New York? I want to know, and I'm going to know, and I have a right to know, and you are not going to bed until you tell me,--nor will I. I can and will help you, and so will Mr. MacFarlane, and Uncle Peter, and everybody I ask. What's gone wrong?--Tell me!"

Garry continued to walk the floor. Then he wheeled suddenly and threw himself into his chair.