CHAPTER XX

PULLING OFF THE THORNS

The heat of June in the city drew forth a hot, damp steam. It made white faces and brought to mind sunstrokes, not June's country thought--roses.

"Gee, it's hot!" said John. He sat opposite Stuyvesant Twombly in a restaurant famed for its coolness. "Come out with me to-night!" he added. "Dad and Celie will be glad to have you, too. Come on! Awful nice and cool out there."

Stuyvesant answered absently, and smiled a little as he did. The idea of "Celie's" being glad to see him amused, even while it hurt, him desperately. He thought with a cankered humour of his trying to find out whether there was a spark of hope for him, after the talk with Annette had made his dreams too daring, and had made him need, all over again, proof of how little he mattered. He had gotten the proof. His first talk had been full of Marjory,--Marjory,--Marjory. He had not wanted to talk of Marjory. Again he had hated her for coming between them.

Cecilia had told of what Marjory's letters had held,--how dear Marjory was (Cecilia had been a bit breathless at this point)--how she, Cecilia, loved her,--where Marjory was,--where she was going. It had been a very surface talk, not once touching anything personal, at least no more than the small Cecilia's great love for her friend. Then John had appeared and Cecilia had excused herself with much relief and gone quickly away.

It was as always, her avoidance, and what in a less sweet nature would have shown as marked distaste. Stuyvesant had understood, and held on to his small privilege doggedly.

"Then I'll leave," Stuyvesant heard John say; he didn't know what had come before, "but I'll get home from school often and see you."

"I'm going away myself for a while," said Stuyvesant,--"I don't know just where. I'm tired of business,--everything. I guess I need a change." He thought miserably of the "change" he needed, and then shut his heart on her sweet image. He made up his mind to stop thinking of "that kind of thing," and his heart laughed at his decision.

"Stuyv!" said John aghast, "what am I going to do without you? Why, Stuyv! You can't go, at least for long. You don't mean a long trip?"

"'Fraid so," he was answered. "I guess I'd better, John. I--the fact is I've wanted something I can't have. I don't want to baby about it, only I'm,--well, I can't forget it here. I'm going to try a change. Damn it! What did I say that for? I hate to whine."

"Stuyv!" said John. He reached across the table, and squeezed the hand that was drawing designs on the tablecloth with a strawberry fork.

Stuyvesant felt the sympathy, and looked up. The boy on the other side of the table gasped.

"Is it as bad as that?" he asked. Stuyvesant shook his head, and then he uttered his own word and convincingly. "Gosh, John," he said, "it's the limit. I'd never have believed it possible."

"Would it help to tell?" asked John. Stuyvesant smiled a little. "Not exactly," he replied. "I did tell one person," he continued after a pause, "and after that it was worse. This person meant well too. Rot it, if I couldn't run a world better than it's run! I'd have people that love each----" he stopped, and looked wildly around. Then he mopped his forehead. "It's awful hot," he finished inanely.

"Yes," agreed John. "Lord, I'll miss you!" John was utterly despondent. "There's no one like you, Stuyv," he said in an embarrassed way. "You know how hard it is to say some things, but you can bet I know what you've done for me! I do--so does Cecilia. I had the wrong idea."

"I've been glad to be your friend," answered Stuyvesant. "You'll write me and tell me how,--how you all are?"

"Certainly," responded John. "Why, of course I will, but I don't know how I can say good-bye! Stuyv, I depend on you awfully. You know,--you know with dad, that is, I can't take his advice because I don't respect him."

"Why not?" broke in John's companion. "I'd like to know why not?"

John's mouth flew open. "His grammar----" he began.

"Trimmings," said K. Stuyvesant.

"Crudeness," said John.

"Companion of strength," said K. Stuyvesant.

"Mentioning money all the time," said John, "how much things cost."

"Better than spending it without mention on dubious objects." John looked away as Stuyvesant replied. "Look here," continued Stuyvesant, "you and I both know the honest goodness in your father--his rugged ideas of a decent life--his respect of them. The other things are tinsel balls on the Christmas tree. Desirable trimmings, but not essential for the tree's strength. A few more years will convince you,--absolutely convince you. Some day you won't even wince when your father forgets and uses his knife to eat from."

"Never," stated John.

"You prefer a man who is slippery both inside and out?" questioned Stuyvesant.

"They get along better with the world," said John.

"Oh, no," said Stuyvesant. "They get along better with the empties. A few people, those that count, look for something on the inside."

John suddenly leaned well across the table. "Look here, Stuyv," he said, "is this a bluff? Damned if I understand you! I was lying in the hammock on the porch last summer when Marjory and Cecilia came from the courts. They didn't see me, and I thought I'd hear about some beau and have a joke. I heard Marjory say that you said the old man should be kept in the garage. Not just those words, but smooth--Marjory's way. I never saw Celie so mad! She turned white as----"

"Did she say that?" shouted Stuyvesant.

"Lord, Stuyv!" said John, "everybody's lookin' at you. Yes, of course she said that. What's the matter with you?"

"What else did she say?" asked Stuyvesant. He was somewhat breathless, but for the sake of John more restrained.

"Well, Marjory told Cecilia what a hell of a case you had on her, talking about her eyes, and all that kind of stuff. Trust girls--they blab everything. Gimme the salt, will you?"

Stuyvesant shoved his glass of water toward John. "The salt, man!" said John, and then as he surveyed Stuyvesant with sad eyes, he added, "I hope it isn't catching."

"You go telephone her that we're coming out," said Stuyvesant.

"Who?"

"Your sister, of course. Tell her not to have any one else there. I've got to see her, John,--got to! Honestly, John, I've _got_ to. I've got to see her a little while alone. I really must."

"I think you've made it plain," replied John. "You say you must see Cecilia. You did mention that, didn't you?"

There was no room for anything but heaven in Stuyvesant. He nodded seriously. "Yes," lie answered, "I must! Really, I've got to, John!"

John howled. "The heat!" he explained, then he sobered.

"Look here, Stuyv," he said, "_did_ you say that?"

"What?" asked Stuyvesant, then he remembered, and for the first and last time made a certain utterance. "She lied," he said quietly, and then, "Oh, my _gosh_, I'm happy! I believe I'm going crazy."

"Oh, no!" replied John, "impossible."

"Yes, John?" said Cecilia.

"Stuyv's coming out with me," she heard him say.

"Yes, dear," she answered.

"Any one coming to dinner?"

"No, dear. Shall I ask one of the Welsh twins? They're always so sweet about coming."

"No," said John; "Stuyv and I were talking about dad, rather Marjory, and he's got a hunch that he's got to see you alone. Got to,--got to,--got to!" Cecilia did not understand, and was rather bewildered at John's laughter.

"Certainly he shall, John," she replied. Her heart beat in her voice. "Good-bye, dear," she ended, and heard the click of his receiver.

"Talking of Marjory" ... Cecilia turned away from the telephone and went to stand by the sea window of her room. She would help them both all she could. All she could.... She closed her eyes, for she felt sick and faint.

"How can I help him?" she questioned, for Marjory's letters had not held a mention of him, although Cecilia's had tactfully recorded his every move. She looked out on the world--it was grey like the frothing Sound.

"I will help them to be happy," she whispered unsteadily. "Father McGowan-dear,--I am learning. Some day I will learn to think of it, and smile----" Then she turned to dress.

Norah came in, and looked on happily. Cecilia was not vain after all. No, she didn't care which frock she put on, and she told Josephine not to fuss so over her hair, that it bored her. "What is the difference?" she had asked a little bitterly, and then to Norah she had said, "I didn't mean that! I didn't! What made me say it? I am not bitter, am I, Norah?"

"And why should you be," Norah had answered, "with everything in the world that money can buy?"