VI
Grace was not happy! Much as she tried to avoid the flat conclusion, the best she could do was to twist it into a question. Love was a worthless thing if its effect was merely to torture, to inflict pain. She had told Trenton that she loved him and had virtually agreed to accept him on his own terms. Why, as the days passed, was she still doubting, questioning, challenging her love for him?
At the end of a rainy day that had been full of exasperations Grace left the store to take the trolley home. The rain had turned to sleet that beat spitefully upon her umbrella and the sidewalks were a mass of slush. She was dreading the passage home in the crowded car and the evening spent in her room, thinking of Trenton, fashioning her daily letter. She had begun to hate her room where every object seemed to be an animate, malevolent embodiment of some evil thought. She had half decided to persuade her father to brave the weather and return down town after supper to go to a picture show when, turning the corner, she heard her name called.
“Hello, there, Grace!”
“Why, Bob, is it you?” she cried peering out at Cummings from under her umbrella.
He took her umbrella and fell into step with her.
“Don’t look so scared; of course it’s I. Frankly this isn’t just chance alone; I’ve been lying in ambush!”
“This will never do!” she cried, but in spite of herself she was unable to throw any resentment into her tone.
“I’ve got a grand idea!” he said. “I’m playing hooky tonight. Evelyn called me up this afternoon to ask if I’d go to dine with an uncle of hers who’s having a birthday. These family parties are bad enough at Christmas and Thanksgiving but when they begin ringing in birthdays I buck. So I told Evelyn I was too tired to go and that I had a business engagement anyhow, and would get my dinner down town.”
“Do you realize that I’m getting wet? You beat it for your family party; I’m going home.”
“Please, Grace, don’t desert me!” he replied coaxingly. “Let’s have a cozy supper together and I’ll get you home early.”
“I told you I’d never see you again!” she said indignantly. “You have no excuse for waylaying me like this. It’s unpardonable!”
“Don’t be so cruel!” he pleaded. “I’ll be awfully nice—honestly I will! You won’t have a thing to be sorry for.”
Firm as her resolution had been not to see him again she was weighing the relief it would be to avoid going home against the danger of encouraging him.
“Where are your manners, sir? You haven’t even offered to drive me home.”
“God pity us homeless children in the great city tonight!” he cried, aware that she was relenting. “My car’s parked yonder by the Sycamore Tavern. The night invites the adventurous spirit. We’ll dare the elements and ride hard and fast like king’s messengers.”
“Will you keep that up—just that way—pretending we’re two kids cutting up, as we used to do?”
“Of course, Grace; you may count on it.”
“Well, I’m tired and bored with myself, and was dreading the ride home—I’ll go! But whither?”
“To McGovern’s house of refreshment at the border of a greenwood, known to Robin Hood in olden times!” cried Cummings, elated by her consent. “We’ll stop at the Sycamore and I’ll telephone the varlet to make the coffee hot.”
“I supped there once, years agone! But the crowd was large and boisterous,” she replied, now entering fully into the spirit of the proposed adventure. Their attempt at archaic speech recalled their youthful delight in the Arthurian legends in days when their world was enfolded in a golden haze of romance.
It was impossible to think of Cummings otherwise than as a boy, and a foolish boy, but amusing when the humor was on him as now, and to have supper with him would work injury to no one.
While he talked to McGovern she went into a booth and explained to her mother that she wouldn’t be home for supper, saying that she was going to a movie with a girl friend.
“All set?” asked Cummings. “That’s fine. We’ll move right along. You’ll be in early; that’s a cinch. Evelyn’s sure to be home by ten and I’ll be practising Chopin furiously when she gets back from her uncle’s. Mac wasn’t keen about taking us in as he shuts down at the first frost. But that’s all the better; nobody else would think of going there on such a night!”
They were planning with much absurd detail the strategy of their approach to a beleaguered capital when they reached McGovern’s and were warmly welcomed by the proprietor.
“It gets mighty lonesome out here in the winter,” he said. “The missus thought you’d like having supper right here in the living room so you could sort o’ chum with the fire.”
“That’s a heavenly idea,” said Grace, eyeing the table with covers laid for two. Mrs. McGovern, a stout woman whose face shone with good nature, appeared and bade her husband help bring in the dishes. Whereupon Cummings and Grace rushed to the kitchen to assist and filed in behind him, bearing serving dishes and singing a song they had learned in their childhood:
“It’s over the river to feed the sheep,
It’s over the river to Charlie;
It’s over the river to feed the sheep
And measure out the barley!”