V
Paul had not needed the doctor’s blunt words to awaken his violent remorse. He walked up and down the sitting room for the better part of the night, hating himself, blaming himself beyond all measure or reason. He had neglected his own Christine, forgotten her suffering, in his shameful preoccupation with Miss Banks and Deccabroni. He wasn’t fit to live!
As is often the way with human beings, he wanted very much to blame Miss Banks for everything; but he was, after all, a just and logical young man, and he refused to do that.
After Christine’s arm had been dressed, and she had gone to bed, he had politely conducted Miss Banks to the door of the guest room. At intervals she had called down the stairs for towels, for cigarettes, for matches, for a glass of milk, for a book to read, and for the exact time. He had responded politely to each summons; but never in his life had he felt less chivalrous.
Toward morning he lay down on the sofa and dropped asleep. It was late when he awoke, with stiff limbs, heavy eyes, and the frowzy discomfort that comes from having slept in one’s clothes. He ran up to see Christine, but she was sleeping.
His next idea was to take a warm bath; but Miss Banks had forestalled him. She required one hour and four minutes, and she took every drop of hot water.
When he came downstairs, she was waiting impatiently.
“Oh, do make some coffee!” she cried. “I’m worn out!”
“I don’t know how to make coffee,” he told her.
“You can try,” said she.
“So can you,” he retorted.
Christine had got up, and was just then at the head of the stairs, prepared to make coffee; but when she heard this dialogue, she stopped where she was, and listened.
“Not in my line,” said Miss Banks. “I’m not domestic.”
“It’s got nothing to do with being domestic,” said Paul. “You might simply be fair. You don’t understand the rudiments of fair play. You want—”
“I want a cup of coffee, and I’m going to have it!” said she. “Fair play doesn’t interest me. Women aren’t expected to play fair.”
“On the contrary,” said Paul, “a man has no respect for the type of woman that—”
And so on, about sharing work and play and being comrades. Christine listened with great delight. So severely eloquent was Paul, so reasonable did his arguments seem, that she expected Miss Banks to be abashed. But—in the end, Paul made the coffee.
Christine went quietly back into her room, with an odd smile on her lips.
“Very well!” she said to herself. “I’m not too old to learn!”
When Paul came home that evening, the door was opened by a trained nurse.
“Is she—worse?” he cried.
“Oh, no!” said the nurse pleasantly. “Your wife’s resting comfortably; but she’s suffering from nervous shock, and the doctor thinks she’d better take a good, long rest.”
He found Christine resting comfortably, to be sure, and not much inclined to talk; so he left her, saying that he would come up again after dinner. He went into the sitting room, where Miss Banks was reading and eating some fudge that she had made.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening,” she replied.
Paul took up a book, to read while he waited.
He waited.
The nurse was moving about upstairs, but no sounds came from the kitchen. Still, with three women in the house, he could not credit the monstrous suspicion that was dawning upon him.
At seven o’clock the nurse came downstairs, in hat and coat.
“Good night,” she said. “I’ll be here at seven in the morning. Just give your wife her medicine at nine, and I think she’ll sleep all night.”
And off she went. Miss Banks continued to read and to eat her candy. Paul saw now that there was no dinner, that there would not be any dinner that evening.
At nine o’clock he went up to give Christine her medicine. He was as gentle and affectionate as he knew how to be. He knew she mustn’t be worried; yet he[Pg 69] couldn’t help asking, in a somewhat plaintive voice:
“Did you have any supper, Christy?”
“Oh, yes,” said she. “The nurse made me some delicious soup and some nice, crisp toast. I think you’d better see about getting a servant to cook your meals, Paul.”
Then she closed her eyes, and he didn’t dare to disturb her repose by asking questions.
He was not afraid of Miss Banks, however.
“Can’t you help me?” he demanded. “Just tell me what to do, if you’re too high and mighty to do anything yourself. I’m hungry. I don’t know how to cook anything.”
“I always said you were spoiled,” said Miss Banks. “You’re a perfect baby. You can’t even feed yourself!”
“My share is to provide the money,” Paul began, when a horrible idea came to him.
It was one thing to provide money for the thrifty and ingenious Christine, but a trained nurse, a servant, and doctors’ bills! He didn’t care so much about dinner now. He ate some bread and butter, while he did some constructive and intensive thinking.
He came home the next evening, earlier than usual, bringing with him a cook—a masterful and unscrupulous woman who saw his deplorable plight and intended to take the fullest advantage of it. Still, she did go to market, and she did cook dinner; and if he paid an exorbitant price for the privilege of eating a collection of the dishes he most disliked, he was nevertheless grateful.
He sat down at the table with the nurse and Miss Banks, and he was in a better humor than he had been for weeks. Christine, upstairs, heard his cheerful voice and his laugh, and tears came into her eyes, although she smiled.
He came up later to sit beside her, and he was so affectionate, so genuinely concerned on her behalf, that her heart smote her.
“All this is a horribly heavy burden for you, Paul,” she said.
“See here! You’re not to worry, you know,” he said. “I can manage very well, Christy. All you have to do is to rest. I want you to rest, my dearest girl, and to enjoy it as much as you can.”
“But the expense!”
“I’ve arranged for that,” he said magnificently. “I’ve got some extra work to do in the evening, and next month I’m going to a new firm, at almost double my present salary.”
She knew he wouldn’t like her to appear surprised or too much delighted, so she merely said:
“That’s very nice, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes—nice enough,” he replied casually; “but I shouldn’t be much of a man if I weren’t able to get you whatever you needed.”
“And the more I need, the more you’ll get,” she reflected. “Oh, you dear, splendid, silly boy!”
She found it hard not to hug him violently.
“But isn’t Miss Banks rather a superfluous burden, when you have so much on your shoulders?” she asked, after a long silence.
“Well, you see, Christy,” he answered seriously, “now that her little fool house is burned down, she hasn’t anywhere to go. We can’t very well turn her out, can we? Shell be gone in a few weeks, anyhow. She’s going to take charge of Deccabroni’s publicity campaign, and she’ll have to live in the city.”
“Who’s Deccabroni?” asked Christine.
“Didn’t she have a picture of him that was burned?” said Paul. “I don’t remember who he is; but Heaven help him!”
Paul rose.
“I’ve got to get at my work now, Christy, darling,” he said. “You won’t worry any more now, will you? You see that I can handle things fairly well.”
Modest words, and a modest enough expression upon his face, but in his heart the fellow was shamelessly exultant. Certainly he could handle things, all things, and not fairly well, but wonderfully well. Wives, cooks, trained nurses, and Miss Bankses could all be borne upon his capable shoulders.
So full was the house of dependent females that he had no place to work except a cold and dismal little sewing room; but what did he care? His little world was revolving, and he was its axis. Everything depended upon him and him alone. He put on an overcoat, lighted a cigarette, and set to work on a pile of documents with zest and good humor. He didn’t care any longer whether he had eight hours’ sleep or a temperature of the correct humidity, or how much he smoked. Nor was he much in[Pg 70]terested in post-war Beluchistan. He had a man’s work to do!
He didn’t hear Christine as she came down the hall and stood in the doorway. He was absorbed in his work, his black hair wildly ruffled, his overcoat collar turned up, and his feet wrapped in a quilt.
“Paul,” said she, “I’ve brought you some hot soup.”
He disentangled his feet as quickly as he could, and sprang up.
“You shouldn’t have done that!” he cried, with a frown. “You’re supposed to be resting, Christy.”
She was ready then to tell him that she was a fraud, and her need of rest a deception; but she valiantly resisted the impulse.
“But I like to do something for you, Paul,” she said. “I want to help you.”
“I don’t want help,” he said proudly. “I don’t need it.”
She put down the bowl of soup on the table and threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh, Paul!” she cried. “You’re wonderful!”
“Nonsense!” said he, grinning in spite of himself. “Now you run along and rest.”
And she did. She had said that Paul was wonderful, and she knew, and he knew, that it was true. That was what he needed.[Pg 71]
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
MAY, 1923
Vol. LXXVIII NUMBER 4
Old Dog Tray
SHOWING HOW A LONG COURTSHIP CAME TO AN UNEXPECTED ENDING
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
MURCHISON ascended the hill to the house that Saturday afternoon as usual, his pockets filled with presents for the children, and under his arm a box of Scotch kisses for Gina. His obstinate, lantern-jawed face showed all the satisfaction possible to it. This was always one of his happy moments, when he could fancy that he was coming home.
He had nothing else but Gina and Gina’s children. It would not be true to say that he could not have lived without them, for he was not that sort. He would tenaciously have gone on living if he were translated among savages.
But the welcome he got at Gina’s house was ineffably dear to him. From a distance he saw them all on the lawn. His face would have brightened, had that been possible to his dour visage, and he would have hastened his step, if he had not been already striding as fast as he could. Then one of the small boys saw him, and came rushing out of the gate.
“Here’s Old Dog Tray!” he shouted joyously.
Gina called him back sharply, and came herself to welcome Murchison; but let her be ever so sweet and friendly, it was obvious by her overanxious manner and her flushed cheeks that she knew he had heard, and that she felt guilty.
Murchison was by no means delighted with the name. Quite the contrary—he was deeply affronted. He distributed the presents, but instead of handing the invariable box to one of the children, with the invariable joke—“Here are some Scotch kisses for your mother. You’d better give them to her”—he merely set down the box on the bench. He would have been glad to destroy the offensively arch object. He made up his mind never to bring another such box; and his mind, when made up, was an imposing thing.
“Old Dog Tray!” he thought. “That’s how she sees it, eh?”
It rankled; it galled.
He conducted himself as usual. He played “red rover” with the children, dodging miraculously, lean, solemn, dignified even in his agility. He sat down to tea on the veranda, and when offered a slice of lemon he asked little Rose, according to precedent:
“Now do you think it would do more good to my complexion than harm to my disposition?”
There was his customary plate of buttered toast, and he ate three slices, as usual. No one but Gina, who knew him so well, would have suspected that he was hurt and angry.
She knew, though, that the only way to deal with Murchison was by rough outspokenness. He both dreaded and adored plain speaking. He was never happy until a thing was made clear and explicit, yet he shied away from any attempt at intimacy. He had, so to speak, to be seized by the neck and forced to listen.
She waited until the children were all in bed, and they had the sitting room to themselves, before she tackled him.
“Robert,” she said, “I suppose you heard the silly thing Roddy said?”
“Aye!” said he, and at once began to sheer off. “Roddy’s getting to be—”
“I’m sorry you heard it,” she said gently. “It was just my own little name for you, and I wanted to keep it to myself.”
There was magic in the woman, sewing in the lamplight. Even the few gray hairs in the shining flood of brown were dear to him, and so was the uncertain quality of her voice.[Pg 73]
“Never mind it,” he said.
“But I do mind it, Robert,” she protested. “I’m sure you don’t understand.”
He looked nothing less than mulish, and she saw with despair that he intended not to understand. This must not be. The unclouded admiration of her faithful Robert was the breath of life to her. She looked long at him, but he smoked his pipe, refusing to raise his eyes, and at last she rose.
He glanced up quickly enough when he heard the piano. He liked nothing better than a song. Never did Gina touch his heart more surely than by her music. She was a slender, gracious little woman, still pretty. She often fancied that it was Robert who kept her young, that his sturdy refusal to admit any change in her arrested the course of time. She smiled over her shoulder at him, and began:
“Old Dog Tray, he is faithful;
Grief cannot drive him away.
He is gentle, he is kind,
And you’ll never, never find
A better friend than Old Dog Tray.”
She sang it touchingly.
“Don’t you see, Robert,” she said, “that it’s really a beautiful thing to think of you?”
“Yes, Gina, I’ve no doubt it’s as you say,” he answered, and she was satisfied.
She didn’t know that she had made a terrible mistake, that she had done irrevocable harm. All the time she sang, he had endured torments. Suppose the children heard, or the servants? He was not Old Dog Tray! He would not be!