________________________________________________
_ Edith, glancing casually into the "ready-made" library, stopped
abruptly, seeing Bibbs there alone. He was standing before the
pearl-framed and golden-lettered poem, musingly inspecting it.
He read it:
Fugitive
I will forget the things that sting:
The lashing look, the barbed word.
I know the very hands that fling
The stones at me had never stirred
To anger but for their own scars.
They've suffered so, that's why they strike.
I'll keep my heart among the stars
Where none shall hunt it out. Oh, like
These wounded ones I must not be,
For, wounded, I might strike in turn!
So, none shall hurt me. Far and free
Where my heart flies no one shall learn.
"Bibbs!" Edith's voice was angry, and her color deepened suddenly
as she came into the room, preceded by a scent of violets much more
powerful than that warranted by the actual bunch of them upon the
lapel of her coat.
Bibbs did not turn his head, but wagged it solemnly, seeming depressed
by the poem. "Pretty young, isn't it?" he said. "There must have
been something about your looks that got the prize, Edith; I can't
believe the poem did it."
She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder and spoke sharply, but in a
low voice: "I don't think it's very nice of you to bring it up at
all, Bibbs. I'd like a chance to forget the whole silly business.
I didn't want them to frame it, and I wish to goodness papa'd quit
talking about it; but here, that night, after the dinner, didn't he go
and read it aloud to the whole crowd of 'em! And then they all wanted
to know what other poems I'd written and why I didn't keep it up and
write some more, and if I didn't, why didn't I, and why this and why
that, till I thought I'd die of shame!"
"You could tell 'em you had writer's cramp," Bibbs suggested.
"I couldn't tell 'em anything! I just choke with mortification every
time anybody speaks of the thing."
Bibbs looked grieved. "The poem isn't THAT bad, Edith. You see, you
were only seventeen when you wrote it."
"Oh, hush up!" she snapped. "I wish it had burnt my fingers the first
time I touched it. Then I might have had sense enough to leave it
where it was. I had no business to take it, and I've been ashamed--"
"No, no," he said, comfortingly. "It was the very most flattering
thing ever happen to me. It was almost my last flight before I went
to the machine-shop, and it's pleasant to think somebody liked it
enough to--"
"But I DON'T like it!" she exclaimed. "I don't even understand it
--and papa made so much fuss over its getting the prize, I just hate
it! The truth is I never dreamed it'd get the prize."
"Maybe they expected father to endow the school," Bibbs murmured.
"Well, I had to have something to turn in, and I couldn't write a
LINE! I hate poetry, anyhow; and Bobby Lamhorn's always teasing me
about how I 'keep my heart among the stars.' He makes it seem such
a mushy kind of thing, the way he says it. I hate it!"
"You'll have to live it down, Edith. Perhaps abroad and under
another name you might find--"
"Oh, hush up! I'll hire some one to steal it and burn it the first
chance I get." She turned away petulantly, moving to the door. "I'd
like to think I could hope to hear the last of it before I die!"
"Edith!" he called, as she went into the hall.
"What's the matter?"
"I want to ask you: Do I really look better, or have you just got
used to me?"
"What on earth do you mean?" she said, coming back as far as the
threshold.
"When I first came you couldn't look at me," Bibbs explained, in his
impersonal way. "But I've noticed you look at me lately. I wondered
if I'd--"
"It's because you look so much better," she told him, cheerfully.
"This month you've been here's done you no end of good. It's the
change."
"Yes, that's what they said at the sanitarium--the change."
"You look worse than 'most anybody I ever saw," said Edith, with
supreme candor. "But I don't know much about it. I've never seen a
corpse in my life, and I've never even seen anybody that was terribly
sick, so you mustn't judge by me. I only know you do look better,
I'm glad to say. But you're right about my not being able to look
at you at first. You had a kind of whiteness that--Well, you're
almost as thin, I suppose, but you've got more just ordinarily pale;
not that ghastly look. Anybody could look at you now, Bibbs, and
no--not get--"
"Sick?"
"Well--almost that!" she laughed. "And you're getting a better color
every day, Bibbs; you really are. You're getting along splendidly."
"I--I'm afraid so," he said, ruefully.
"'Afraid so'! Well, if you aren't the queerest! I suppose you mean
father might send you back to the machine-shop if you get well enough.
I heard him say something about it the night of the--" The jingle of
a distant bell interrupted her, and she glanced at her watch. "Bobby
Lamhorn! I'm going to motor him out to look at a place in the
country. Afternoon, Bibbs!"
When she had gone, Bibbs mooned pessimistically from shelf to shelf,
his eye wandering among the titles of the books. The library
consisted almost entirely of handsome "uniform editions": Irving,
Poe, Cooper, Goldsmith, Scott, Byron, Burns, Longfellow, Tennyson,
Hume, Gibbon, Prescott, Thackeray, Dickens, De Musset, Balzac,
Gautier, Flaubert, Goethe, Schiller, Dante, and Tasso. There were
shelves and shelves of encyclopedias, of anthologies, of "famous
classics," of "Oriental masterpieces," of "masterpieces of oratory,"
and more shelves of "selected libraries" of "literature," of "the
drama," and of "modern science." They made an effective decoration
for the room, all these big, expensive books, with a glossy binding
here and there twinkling a reflection of the flames that crackled
in the splendid Gothic fireplace; but Bibbs had an impression that
the bookseller who selected them considered them a relief, and that
white-jacket considered them a burden of dust, and that nobody else
considered them at all. Himself, he disturbed not one.
There came a chime of bells from a clock in another part of the house,
and white-jacket appeared beamingly in the doorway, bearing furs.
"Awready, Mist' Bibbs," he announced. "You' ma say wrap up wawm
f' you' ride, an' she cain' go with you to-day, an' not f'git go see
you' pa at fo' 'clock. Aw ready, suh."
He equipped Bibbs for the daily drive Dr. Gurney had commanded;
and in the manner of a master of ceremonies unctuously led the way.
In the hall they passed the Moor, and Bibbs paused before it while
white-jacket opened the door with a flourish and waved condescendingly
to the chauffeur in the car which stood waiting in the driveway.
"It seems to me I asked you what you thought about this 'statue' when
I first came home, George," said Bibbs, thoughtfully. "What did you
tell me?"
"Yessuh!" George chuckled, perfectly understanding that for some
unknown reason Bibbs enjoyed hearing him repeat his opinion of the
Moor. "You ast me when you firs' come home, an' you ast me nex' day,
an' mighty near ev'y day all time you been here; an' las' Sunday you
ast me twicet." He shook his head solemnly. "Look to me mus' be
somep'm might lamiDAL 'bout 'at statue!"
"Mighty what?"
"Mighty lamiDAL!" George, burst out laughing. "What DO 'at word
mean, Mist' Bibbs?"
"It's new to me, George. Where did you hear it?"
"I nev' DID hear it!" said George. "I uz dess sittin' thinkum to
myse'f an' she pop in my head--'lamiDAL,' dess like 'at! An' she
soun' so good, seem like she GOTTA mean somep'm!"
"Come to think of it, I believe she does mean something. Why, yes--"
"Do she?" cried George. "WHAT she mean?"
"It's exactly the word for the statue," said Bibbs, with conviction,
as he climbed into the car. "It's a lamiDAL statue."
"Hiyi!" George exulted. "Man! Man! Listen! Well, suh, she mighty
lamiDAL statue, but lamiDAL statue heap o' trouble to dus'!" "I
expect she is!" said Bibbs, as the engine began to churn; and a
moment later he was swept from sight.
George turned to Mist' Jackson, who had been listening benevolently
in the hallway. "Same he aw-ways say, Mist' Jackson--'I expec' she
is!' Ev'y day he try t' git me talk 'bout 'at lamiDAL statue, an'
aw-ways, las' thing HE say, 'I expec' she is!' You know, Mist'
Jackson, if he git well, 'at young man go' be pride o' the family,
Mist' Jackson. Yes-suh, right now I pick 'im fo' firs' money!"
"Look out with all 'at money, George!" Jackson warned the enthusiast.
"White folks 'n 'is house know 'im heap longer'n you. You the on'y
man bettin' on 'im!"
"I risk it!" cried George, merrily. "I put her all on now--ev'y cent!
'At boy's go' be flower o' the flock!"
This singular prophecy, founded somewhat recklessly upon gratitude for
the meaning of "lamiDAL," differed radically from another prediction
concerning Bibbs, set forth for the benefit of a fair auditor some
twenty minutes later.
Jim Sheridan, skirting the edges of the town with Mary Vertrees
beside him, in his own swift machine, encountered the invalid upon
the highroad. The two cars were going in opposite directions, and
the occupants of Jim's had only a swaying glimpse of Bibbs sitting
alone on the back seat--his white face startlingly white against cap
and collar of black fur--but he flashed into recognition as Mary
bowed to him.
Jim waved his left hand carelessly. "It's Bibbs, taking his
constitutional," he explained.
"Yes, I know," said Mary. "I bowed to him, too, though I've never
met him. In fact, I've only seen him once--no, twice. I hope he
won't think I'm very bold, bowing to him."
"I doubt if he noticed it," said honest Jim.
"Oh, no!" she cried.
"What's the trouble?"
"I'm almost sure people notice it when I bow to them."
"Oh, I see!" said Jim. "Of course they would ordinarily, but Bibbs
is funny."
"Is he? How?" she asked. "He strikes me as anything but funny."
"Well, I'm his brother," Jim said, deprecatingly, "but I don't know
what he's like, and, to tell the truth, I've never felt exactly like
I WAS his brother, the way I do Roscoe. Bibbs never did seem more
than half alive to me. Of course Roscoe and I are older, and when
we were boys we were too big to play with him, but he never played
anyway, with boys his own age. He'd rather just sit in the house and
mope around by himself. Nobody could ever get him to DO anything;
you can't get him to do anything now. He never had any LIFE in him;
and honestly, if he is my brother, I must say I believe Bibbs Sheridan
is the laziest man God ever made! Father put him in the machine-shop
over at the Pump Works--best thing in the world for him--and he was
just plain no account. It made him sick! If he'd had the right kind
of energy--the kind father's got, for instance, or Roscoe, either--
why, it wouldn't have made him sick. And suppose it was either of
them --yes, or me, either--do you think any of us would have stopped
if we WERE sick? Not much! I hate to say it, but Bibbs Sheridan'll
never amount to anything as long as he lives."
Mary looked thoughtful. "Is there any particular reason why he
should?" she asked.
"Good gracious!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean that, do you? Don't
you believe in a man's knowing how to earn his salt, no matter how
much money his father's got? Hasn't the business of this world got
to be carried on by everybody in it? Are we going to lay back on
what we've got and see other fellows get ahead of us? If we've got
big things already, isn't it every man's business to go ahead and
make 'em bigger? Isn't it his duty? Don't we always want to get
bigger and bigger?"
"Ye-es--I don't know. But I feel rather sorry for your brother.
He looked so lonely--and sick."
"He's gettin' better every day," Jim said. "Dr. Gurney says so.
There's nothing much the matter with him, really--it's nine-tenths
imaginary. 'Nerves'! People that are willing to be busy don't have
nervous diseases, because they don't have time to imagine 'em."
"You mean his trouble is really mental?"
"Oh, he's not a lunatic," said Jim. "He's just queer. Sometimes
he'll say something right bright, but half the time what he says is
'way off the subject, or else there isn't any sense to it at all.
For instance, the other day I heard him talkin' to one of the darkies
in the hall. The darky asked him what time he wanted the car for his
drive, and anybody else in the world would have just said what time
they DID want it, and that would have been all there was to it; but
here's what Bibbs says, and I heard him with my own ears. 'What time
do I want the car?' he says. 'Well, now, that depends--that depends,'
he says. He talks slow like that, you know. 'I'll tell you what time
I want the car, George,' he says, 'if you'll tell ME what you think
of this statue!' That's exactly his words! Asked the darky what he
thought of that Arab Edith and mother bought for the hall!"
Mary pondered upon this. "He might have been in fun, perhaps," she
suggested.
"Askin' a darky what he thought of a piece of statuary--of a work of
art! Where on earth would be the fun of that? No, you're just
kind-hearted--and that's the way you OUGHT to be, of course--"
"Thank you, Mr. Sheridan!" she laughed.
"See here!" he cried. "Isn't there any way for us to get over this
Mister and Miss thing? A month's got thirty-one days in it; I've
managed to be with you a part of pretty near all the thirty-one, and
I think you know how I feel by this time--"
She looked panic-stricken immediately. "Oh, no," she protested,
quickly. "No, I don't, and--"
"Yes, you do," he said, and his voice shook a little. "You couldn't
help knowing."
"But I do!" she denied, hurriedly. "I do help knowing. I mean--Oh,
wait!"
"What for? You do know how I feel, and you--well, you've certainly
WANTED me to feel that way--or else pretended--"
"Now, now!" she lamented. "You're spoiling such a cheerful
afternoon!"
"'Spoilin' it!'" He slowed down the car and turned his face to her
squarely. "See here, Miss Vertrees, haven't you--"
"Stop! Stop the car a minute." And when he had complied she faced
him as squarely as he evidently desired her to face him. "Listen.
I don't want you to go on, to-day."
"Why not?" he asked, sharply.
"I don't know."
"You mean it's just a whim?"
"I don't know," she repeated. Her voice was low and troubled and
honest, and she kept her clear eyes upon his.
"Will you tell me something?"
"Almost anything."
"Have you ever told any man you loved him?"
And at that, though she laughed, she looked a little contemptuous.
"No," she said. "And I don't think I ever shall tell any man that
--or ever know what it means. I'm in earnest, Mr. Sheridan."
"Then you--you've just been flirting with me!" Poor Jim looked both
furious and crestfallen.
"Not on bit!" she cried. "Not one word! Not one syllable! I've
meant every single thing!"
"I don't--"
"Of course you don't!" she said. "Now, Mr. Sheridan, I want you to
start the car. Now! Thank you. Slowly, till I finish what I have
to say. I have not flirted with you. I have deliberately courted
you. One thing more, and then I want you to take me straight home,
talking about the weather all the way. I said that I do not believe
I shall ever 'care' for any man, and that is true. I doubt the
existence of the kind of 'caring' we hear about in poems and plays
and novels. I think it must be just a kind of emotional TALK--most
of it. At all events, I don't feel it. Now, we can go faster,
please."
"Just where does that let me out?" he demanded. "How does that
excuse you for--"
"It isn't an excuse," she said, gently, and gave him one final look,
wholly desolate. "I haven't said I should never marry."
"What?" Jim gasped.
She inclined her head in a broken sort of acquiescence, very humble,
unfathomably sorrowful.
"I promise nothing," she said, faintly.
"You needn't!" shouted Jim, radiant and exultant. "You needn't! By
George! I know you're square; that's enough for me! You wait and
promise whenever you're ready!"
"Don't forget what I asked," she begged him.
"Talk about the weather? I will! God bless the old weather!" cried
the happy Jim. _
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