Part 21 (2/2)

”Shall I go over?” thought Peter, when he had had his bath and his supper, and had come out upon the porch again.

He was quite alone, for his mother, after serving his supper, had hurried out to see a neighbour who had been long ill, and who depended upon Mrs. Bell for her daily cheer. Mr. Bell had driven out to Grandfather Bell's farm. The little house seemed strangely silent, and the porch, in the early summer twilight, more companionable. A hammock swung behind the vines, and after a moment's indecision, Peter stretched his long form in it, clasping his hands under his head. He was unusually weary, for the day had been very hot. He lay quietly listening to the distant 'plunkings' of the banjo and to the faint sounds of talk and laughter which floated across the s.p.a.ce to him. So, after a little, he fell asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of voices on the step. The Bell porch, unlike that of the Townsends, possessed no electric lamps, and the nearest illumination to-night came from an arc-light on the corner.

Peter, in his hammock, lay shrouded wholly in darkness. He could see a gleam of white between the vines which sheltered him, and the voices were those of his sister Nancy and s.h.i.+rley Townsend.

”It's such a relief,” s.h.i.+rley was saying, ”to get away from that banjo.

I seem to have been listening all day to the sorts of music I like least. Rodman Fielding and his banjo are the last straw. Nan, what do you suppose is the matter with me that I don't seem to care for the things most girls do--clothes and boys and--banjos. I detest banjos!”

”What do you care for?” Nancy asked. ”Tennis, anyhow. And you like Rufus and Ross and Peter, don't you? As for banjos--I don 't think anybody thinks they 're very musical. They just like the funny songs that go with them.”

”Rufus is like a brother, and Ross like an uncle--a young one. As for Peter--I don't seem to know Peter. He 's changed. What 's he been doing to make him look so old and sober? I almost thought I saw a gray hair--and he 's no older than Murray.”

”Peter old and sober?”--Peter himself was growing fairly awake, although not fully enough roused to the situation to realise that he was playing eavesdropper.--”What an idea! He has n't changed a particle. Gray hair! It could n't be. Why, Peter 's stronger than all the rest of us put together!”

”He's been taxing his strength, then. He looks as if he had been carrying loads of responsibility--solving problems--worrying over some he could n't solve. He's working too hard.”

Nancy laughed incredulously, and said that Peter's work was quite the same as it had been, and that her friend's absence had made her see things unnaturally. But Peter's eyes, in the darkness, opened wide.

Here was extraordinary discernment for a nineteen-year-old girl, who had met him only once since her return, casually upon the street, during which time she had merely laughed at him for not knowing her immediately, and then had walked on. Was it possible that she had seen that which he had been carefully guarding from the eyes of his family for a long, long time, and at which even his mother did not guess?

But here was s.h.i.+rley again, speaking low and thoughtfully: ”I seem to see everybody, since I came home, as if I had never seen them before. I see father looking as if he thought it did n't pay to have made so much money, after all; and mother looking worn-out playing the grand lady; Olive following after, and not finding much in it. Murray and Jane absorbed in each other, but Jane wis.h.i.+ng--no, I 'll not say what I think Jane is wis.h.i.+ng. She would n't admit it, I know. Ross and Rufus and you, busy and happy. Your father and mother contented as ever. But Peter----”

It would not do. He was fully awake now. If she was going on to talk about him again he must let her know he was there. Besides, if she really divined something of the truth, he must not let her make Nancy anxious.

s.h.i.+rley had paused with his name upon her lips, as if soberly thinking.

Peter sat up. But at the fortunate instant a figure dashed across Gay Street.

”You runaways!” Rufus called, reproachfully. ”A fine hostess you are, s.h.i.+rley Townsend! They 're asking for you. You 'll have to come back.”

So they went away and Peter was left alone upon the porch. There was a queer feeling tugging at his heart. n.o.body else had seen, n.o.body else had even noticed the slightest change in him. Of course it was not possible that s.h.i.+rley could know the least thing about his situation, but it was something that she appreciated one fact--that he was working to the limit of his capacity, and that, although he was not yet overdone, the strain was beginning to tell. Not the strain of work, but the greater and more exhausting drain of anxiety.

CHAPTER III

LUNCHEON FOR TWELVE

”Mrs. Murray, Mrs. Townsend would like you to come to her room, if you please.”

”Yes, Sophy, certainly. Is Mrs. Townsend's headache better this morning?”

”It's very bad, Mrs. Murray. And she's that upset about the luncheon she's giving. Cook's taken sick, too--the bad luck!”

”Since breakfast, Sophy?”

”'T was Norah and Mary served breakfast. Cook but got out of bed and went back. Mr. Townsend bade me send for the doctor. He says she 'll not leave her bed again the day. And Mrs. Townsend says the luncheon must go on, and not a bit of outside help to be had at this short notice.”

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