Part 37 (2/2)
For Jack Fuller was down on his knees before the girl he had married.
His finely-shaped head was buried in her lap. He was sobbing freakishly, for men do not know how to weep. And the girl seated there on the sofa was staring into unseeing s.p.a.ce with a holy look upon her beautifully plain face; her slender shapely fingers toying with the boy's wavy hair.
”Never, never, never-will I touch a drop of the stuff as long as I live, Betty,” he choked between his tears. ”I don't care-what the provocation is-I won't ever do it. I've been a cad, Betty. I haven't been a Fuller at all-but I'll show you I can be. I'll make up for this. We've lost the baby, Betty-but it's brought me to my senses. I'm-done! I swear it before G.o.d, Betty. I'm-done!”
The girl never knew a neighbor was looking on, unable to withdraw without disclosing her presence.
”If that's the price, Jack,” she replied softly, divinely, ”-if that's the price-and you'll keep your word-I'll pay it! Jackie dear-I love you.
I've loved you all along. But this has always been the way with me.
There was Dad. Rum got him-rum stole him away from me. When he was himself he was all right. But he drank and then beat me-he made me want to kill myself just because I was a Nieson-because his blood half saturated with rum-was in my veins. I married you, Jackie-because I hoped to pull myself up from being a Nieson. I hoped to show folks what I wanted to be-what I tried so hard to be. Every one knows the Niesons are worthless trash, the sc.u.m of the town. And I thought-being your wife-the wife of a Fuller-things would be different. The liquor seemed robbing me of you too, Jack. But if this-has given you back to me-yes-I'll pay the price. It's all right, Jack. I'll take your word that you'll never, never take a drop of the stuff again.”
Mrs. Hod succeeded in getting out without being discovered. She went home and told her husband. Sam shook his head sadly.
”I hope so,” commented the worldly wise old newspaper man, who frequently understood two-legged human folks better than they understood themselves. ”I hope so, indeed. I'd do anything under G.o.d's heaven to help him. But I'm afraid for him-afraid for him and the girl. It sure will be h.e.l.l for her if the lad breaks his promise-just _once_!”
But to his everlasting credit, let it be set down that the Fuller blood came uppermost in Jack. He did not break his promise. But what the poor boy went through in that succeeding six months only a reticent G.o.d in His heaven knows.
Jack had sold his automobile for two hundred dollars. Now he transferred what was left of his legacy from a checking account in the corner bank to the savings department. He went to work for Will Pease mending automobiles in the Paris Garage.
He grew thin and haggard with the struggle he was making. Some brainless young roustabouts in our town tried to get him to drink again just for the sake of winning him back to his old habits. They actually did get him into a bar one night with a gla.s.s of liquor before him. Then I guess it came to him what he was doing. The Fuller blood in him made a great convulsion for the upper hand-and won! He smashed the gla.s.s into the tempter's eyes and stumbled out into the raw cold night-and home.
The boy came home to his childless wife one night and said:
”Betty-it's h.e.l.l!” he said. ”I'm all burned out inside, Betty-”
”Jack,” she cried piteously, ”you're not going to give way after-after the price-we paid.”
”Not if I can help it, Betty,” he replied. ”But I need help, girl. I need some sort of discipline that'll straighten me out and help me physically. Betty-I've got a chance-to get into the quartermaster's department of the Vermont National Guard-”
”You mean-be a soldier?” she cried.
”And why not, Betty?” he said. ”My grandfather was a soldier. You know what he did in the Civil War; what he means to the Grand Army men. It's in my blood, I guess, Betty-”
”Jack!” she cried. ”Don't leave me now! Don't leave me alone! Don't!
Don't! There's too many memories, Jack. I ain't-brave enough, Jack!”
He sank down on the sofa and hid his burning face in his hands.
”G.o.d help me!” he groaned. ”I want to win out, but I'm all wrong inside.
Oh, Betty!”
She tried in her poor pitiful way to help him. She did help him-a little bit. But Jack was nearer right than he knew. He joined the Y. M. C. A.
that winter and went in for athletics. But two nights a week ”on the floor” wasn't rigorous enough for him.
Pinkie Price, our star reporter, came into the newspaper office one forenoon and exclaimed, ”Hey, you know that Fuller chap that killed his kid when he come home stewed? Well, what do you suppose he's up to? You know the preparedness scare and the trouble with Mexico and everything?
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