Short Story

Lake County Press, Issue 2736, 30 May 1918, Page 7

Short Story

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. THE SOLUTION.

By ALICE HEGAN KICP

Hilda Grantham, sitting alone in her secluded corner of the dining-room, linked indefinitely over her coffee for tno sole purpose of watching the nev.lviirnved occupants of the table next her own. Watching other people had hecome her chief diversion during the five interminable weeks she had marked time at the Sanatorium, pending the convalescence of an elderly relative. The present recipient of her gaze, however, was in pronounced contrast to the usual run of sick and disabled humanity that assembled here. She had noticed bi.ni when lie first entered the dining-room, and had been iirrosted b v the curiously familiar apof his fine, bold profile, and ' • strong, well-set shoulders. Even before I he turned his head she knew that a ! lock of almost Whistler whiteness fell across the temple she could not see. ' And yet when he turned, and followed ' the waiter to her corner of the room, j slio made the disconcerting discovery | that while the white lock arched above j his brown hair just as she had ini- I agined, the face below it was that of ! an entire stranger. I For further enlightenment, she turned to his companion, onlv to meet with j deeper bewilderment. hi sharp con- I trast to the striking physical appear- i nnce and air of easy distinction which so plainly established the position of the one, was the half awkward, half I bold manner of the short, red-haired, red-faced man who sat opposite to ' him. Hilda watched them with increasing i curiosity. Nothing escaped her quick, j restless grey eyes, from the quiet fas- j tidiousuess of the older man to the • coarse, heavy hands and execrable table \ manners of the stocky one. Seen under I other circumstances they would have | passed for master and valet, but their ' appearance together at table was baffl- j mg. What possible bond could hold!,. them together, even for one evening?'' Was either of them ill ? Had they ac- 1 companied some one to the Sanatorium ' who was ill? | These and many other questions like ■ them flashed through her mind, and behind them all was a rapidly developing interest in that fine grave face which she had recognised and vet did not , know. When at last she left the din-ing-room she went into the office, and while waiting for the distribution of the mail, tcok occasion to glance at the register. Only two names had been entered during the day : John Fennerton. i Benj. Potts. ltoom 80. The two details which to Hilda were conspicuous for their absence were a home address, and a second room number. That this strangely assorted pair should be fellow-travellers might be explained in various ways, but that they should be on terms of sufficient intimacy to occupy the same bedroom appeared inexplicable. This problem and others of a more ( absorbing interest" were to fill Hilda's idleness for the next few days. She timed her presence at table'to coinffaide with theirs, and from behind the -bulwark of a magazine, made her oh- ' servations. Never before had she encountered a personality that so captured her fancy as did Fennerton's. His fine, clean-cut outlines, his dark, clear colouring, his low, vibrant voice, and. above all. his strange, detached air of melancholy roused all the sentiment in her. For want of other occupation she gave free rein to ifti imagination that was all too readv to cany her far afield-. It was the revenge she per- j initted herself to take on the past five ' weeks of unutterable ennui. j The romance of life for Hilda Gran- ' tham had ever lain in the quest. Keen, sensitive, equisitely sympathetic, she j had, for the greater part of her twenty- I five years, lived upon her emotion's. The history of her life could be sum- . med up in a record of her love affairs. She had scaled the heights of one fervid experience after another, only to falter and turn back when the summit was in sight. Her fate seemed to be the eternal quest. The moment she lost the mystery, the uncertainty of the chase, the illusion vanished. She was one of those women destined never to realise their desires for the reason that their desire is the approach. With such people only the way to Heaven is Heaven. So completely engrossed did she become in the small daily occurrences that revealed her unknown friend to her, that she avoided any outside comment that might more definitely ex- lplain his presence. So completely did j ho meet her ideal as he was, that she feared the disillusioning breath of ■ reality. I That she was not alone in feeling the I strange charm of her personality was soon evinced by the attentions of the employees about the Sanatorium. His entrance into the dining-room invariably produced a little flutter among the j girls who acted as waitresses. His' wants in the office were met almost ' before they were expressed. In fact, in spite of his marked aloofness, his evi- i dent indifference to effect, and his air ''■ of complete abstraction, he had the ' quality, to a greater (".agree than any- j one she had ever seen, of making himself felt. fa The most obvious evidence of this was Potts. He haunted Fennerton's footsteps, he served him with a curious eagerness, half-authoritative, hall'-de-he hung upon his words at and looked raiserablely restless and uphappy if for a few minutes he was deprived of his society. It was not until the second morning after their arrival that Hilda felt that Fennerton was conscious of her presence. It was a new experience to her to pass unnoticed, and his apparent oblivion to her formed no small part of his attraction for her. She had come in late to breakfast, and found him alone at the adjoining table deep in the perusal of his mail. His bent head and evident absorption in his task gave her the coveted opportunity of scrutinising his features. The' bold brows and straight, strong nose gave the impression of courage, ambition, power, but the mouth and chin, with their almost too perfect curves, seemed to have been modelled bv a more sensitive and weaker hand. As Hilda watched him. he suddenly lifted his head from the pages before him, and their glances met squarely, glances which on the part of each were unexpected and unprepared for. For u precarious moment the shock held then both, then Hilda's lids dropped in eon fusion. Never had she surprised r look in tin eyes of a fellow-creature that was so haunted, so hopeless, m full of infinite despair. Instantly he curiosity and interest were fused int<

Inn overwhelming sympathy. She sui mised that, in spite of his magnificeii physique and apparent vitality, lie wa ill with a mortal illness. Surely onl some impending catastrophe could havi brought that look into his face. From that moment she waited ho opportunity to speak to him Mon than anything else in the world s] K wanted to help him, to meet that mi known need, that desperate call for hell that had flashed across her path, a* a blazing rocket rips the heavens or some stormy night at sea. to tell of an unknown ship in deadly peril. Ihe occasion came sooner than she expected. She was sitting in the sun parlour, idly turning the leaves of a magazine, when she heard a voice that she recognised, asking the attendant in charge of the hooks for a certain volume of poems. Hilda turned eagerly—*'] had the hook last night in my room.” she said “Imt I am quite through with it 1 assure yon. May 1 get it for von -” I' ennerton looked at her for a momeni. and in the moment placed her "Thank you very much,” he said courteously but indifferently. ”1 won’t trouble you. It’s a matter of no consequence.”

•Anything is of consequence if we happen to want it.” she said, and he- ; fore he could detain her she had slipped away. j When she returned lie was standin" j with folded arms beside her chair with j ' T . s tumbled work-ha" and o]K'ii miiga- , zinc, looking absently out into the i street. He seemed to have forgotten • **■ -s request and her errand, and il was : only when she handed him the book that his thoughts travelled slowly hack | to the present. i “Oh! I beg your pardon,” he said, starting, ‘'you arc verv kind.” And with this he lapsed into abstraction again, idly turning over the pages of the book, while she dropped quietly into her chair, and picked up the mystery of wool and silk she was evolving. She was thrillingly aware of his nearness, and eager to advance the acquaintance so casually begun, hut among her chief gifts was that of felicitous silence. It was not until a hall of wool slipped from her lap and he stooped mechanically to pick it up that he seemed to recall her presence. “Are you a lover of poetry?” lie asked. “I’m a lover of poets,” she said. ”1 read the poetry for the sake of the revelations it contains. He smiled, and for the first time she saw the sombre look in his face lighten. “A delightfully feminine viewpoint,” he said, ‘‘only one must take it lor granted that there is something worth while in the writer to reveal.” “There is always something worth while in everybody,” Hilda insisted, “the only difference between poets and other people is that the poets dare to reveal themselves.' Most people go about hermetically sealed with all sorts of interesting labels tagged on them.” “But you do not believe the labels?” “Not always, but I’m never satisfied until I’ve got the cork out and tasted for myself.” At this moment Potts, who had been standing in the doorway, came forward, and murmuring something about seeing the doctor, bore him away. Hilda’s eyes followed them to the turn- of the corridor. Every afternoon that Fennerton was able they tramped the surrounding country, and on every such occasion when Hilda returned to sit in the darkened room of her invalid the blood raced quicker through her veins, and life took on a more absorbing aspect. It was not that Fennerton ever for a moment abandoned that apparently forced reserve, that almost morbid reticence. But Hilda was strangely devoid of the petty conventions that tend to deaden social intercourse. She did not wait for him to take the initiative. To her, far beyond the personal attraction which ho undoubtedly had for her, was the paramount fact that his was a soul in desperate need. To her an appeal from any source meant instant response, and she gave with all the lavish generosity of her nature. She read to him, played for him, and devised a hundred little ways of relieving the monotony of his days. Her reward was almost too subtle for analysis. It came in the consciousness that when with him she was able to lighten that crushing burden under which he seemed to ho staggering. She knew that her presence acted upon him like wine upon a half-frozen man. She saw his head lift, the light come into his eyes, a vigour into his movements. “You have a very dangerous habit of inspiring people with hope,” ho said to her one day as lie lay on a couch in the sun parlour, after a particidarly had night. “Even a broken-winged bird would try to skim the heavens under your influence.” She hold the thought a moment before giving it back to him; “Oh! if I could only believe in myself as I do in riv friends!” she sighed, j “Why shouldn’t you believe in your- ! self?” bo demanded, looking up at the | slender, oval face with the halo of fair j hair, a face of irregular features, but j holding the rare charm that comes with , delicate perceptions and quick sym- ! pathies. 1 “Because I have no grit,” she said, j “I can’t do anything.” “The innocent moon that nothing ■ does but shine Moves all the labouring surges ot the world,” | quoted Fennerton smiling. Then he added with sudden earnestness; “If you do nothing else in your life, hut he as < good to other poor devils as you have ■ been to me, you will have achieved imt mortality.” “Suppose I don’t want immortality ?” “You moan that this life is enough?” j “I mean that this life is too much.” “Already?” Fennerton smiled quizzically, “hut surely yours has been a , reasonably happy one?” “Oh! I’m not thinking of myself,” she said, “I am thinking of all the } world suffering, the unnecessary pain ' and injustice, and bitterness of life. I don’t think 1 should care to live it over again.” i “But that is the sure test of a ’ pessimist.” ho urged. “It’s prepos- ; temis to think of you with all yom splendid vitality and enthusiasm as a 1 pessimist.” “Are you one?” she asked 1 “Not by that test?” 1 “You mean you would like to live r 1 all over again, mistakes and all?” - 1 The cold look of brooding settled or * his face, and he answered slowly, as i to himself, “Yes, mistakes and all . Life, freedom, the very chance to male mistakes even, seems worth while whci •* the end is in sight.” I “But you must not think the end i in sight.” she protested. “You ar V going' to get well. You are going on 0 world again well and -stron to take up all the big things that 0 know are waiting your return.” II “Yes. to be sure.” be said grind,' 11 “I had almost forgotten the thing •- that await mv return.” a was almost the only personal a lusion he had ever made, and it tol ” I her nothing. Talking to him was lit w driftin'' down some beguiling, windin o stream,’ where overv promts.

something definite. hut only opens n further vague, alluruing vistas. S! had new* - ’ before met a man who so pel sistently avoided Himself as a topic < i conversation. It was she who invar i ably became the subject of their ta Ihj and she found herself laying bare man secrets of her soul that had hithert been carefully concealed. She who Inn spent much of her life analysing othe people, found a new and imexpectet excitement in thus turning the search light of another clover mind upon he own. Hut even as her enjoyment of ha companionship increased, she felt i growing anxiety as to the serious nature of his illness. One dav when the;; had walked farther than usual, and Fennorton had shown unmistakable signs of exhaustion, she found a chance of speaking alone with Potts. “Are you uite sure .Mr. Feunerton is not overtaxing himselfshe asked. “Ho does not seem so well as he did last week.” ‘‘Ho ain’t,” said Potts emphatically and confidentially, ‘‘but you don’t get nothing to that effect outer him. It’s the pain that’s doing for him. Day and night, you know ; don’t let up a minute. And do you think he will

, I touch the dope the doctor orders; i ever a time. Talk about your game ] Jones! Well, he heats my time!” ) ‘‘Rut ought he to go on those loiu r j walks and tire himself as he does?” ; asked Hilda. Potts shrugged: ‘‘Doctor says to lei , him put in the time whatever wav is the easiest for him. You see, Mr. I'Vnuarton—well, he’s right up against it.” i ‘‘You mean the operation?” T mean—all round.” She would not stoop to further inquiry. That red, earnest face with its knobhv features was too repellent to her to admit of confidences. What Fcnnerton wished her to know he would tel! her. With that she would rest satisfied, with that and the estimate she had formed of his character. Every hour spent with him deepened her conviction that his was one of the noblest natures she had ever known. Evidently in sore distress himself, he nevertheless went to infinite pains to help her formulate her vague beliefs and confused convictions in a clear and helpful philosophy of life. It was as if a drowning man, clinging to a spar, and being drawn relentlessly down by the current, urged courage and hope upon a companion who was safely placed upon a raft. Just how much she was to need this courage and hope she did not realise until one day when she was suddenly called upon to exhibit both. She and Fennerton were standing at the window in the sun parlour, where they usually loitered for a few moments after lunch. The room, in spite of its luxurious fittings, was depressing; it seemed to hold all the ennui of the countless invalids who had laiif in their wheel chairs under its palms, and counted the minutes as they were ticked oil by the white marble clock on the white marble mantelpiece. Hilda and Fennerton exchanged rue- j ful glances. ‘‘Not a very cheerful , place to spend our last afternoon ft)- j gether,” he said. “Last afternoon?” she repeated, and I her pnlso quickened. “Yes, to-morrow morning has been set for my operation. You will probably be gone by the time I am up again, if I am to be up.” He said it lightly, but she know from a remark let slip by Potts, that the favourable outcome of the operation had in the past week passed from a probability into a possibility. The idle words of ignorant assurance and cheap confidence witli which one usually meets such a crisis, did not oven occur to her; she stood beside him, silent looking out on the world of snow and : brilliant sunshine. “Of course,” he said, “it’s a relief to have the doctors come to a decision. It’s the waiting that gets on one s nerves. I am not much good at wait- ; ing.” “Rut you’ve been wonderful,” said Hilda, “to have suffered as you have for two weeks, and never make a complaint.” Fennerton shook his head impatiently. “Courage is the commonest thing in the world. We all have it in some form or other. We have got to have it. We have got to go on bearing it even when it becomes that most tragic of all virtues, courage without hope.” (To bo Continued.)