Part 37 (1/2)

For a moment Peter could not speak. He lay with dropped eyelids, fighting lest the sudden relief from the long strain should unman him before these who had been paying tribute to his manhood. But after a short s.p.a.ce he looked from Mr. Townsend to his son.

”I 'll come,” said he, and forgetting his bandaged hands, started to hold one out. Then he smiled whimsically, and added in an odd tone, ”If you 're not afraid of the bad omen in taking on a man with a pair of hands like these?”

”Not much, when we remember what put them in that shape!” declared Murray, in a tone of great satisfaction; and his father gave an emphatic a.s.sent.

”What do you think 's going to happen _now_?” cried Nancy, rus.h.i.+ng out upon Peter's porch, a week later.

”Give it up. But nothing can surprise me, after recent events,” replied Peter, removing his gaze for a moment from the morning newspaper pinned up in front of him to the excited face of his sister, but looking immediately back again at the absorbing column of business news he had been with some difficulty perusing. His hands had been slow in recovering from the severe injuries they had received.

”This will. Somebody's going to be married.”

”Remarkable. But such events have occurred before in the history of nations,” replied her brother, abstractedly.

”Not at the Townsend house, for Murray married Jane over here. Ah, ha!

I thought you 'd give me your undivided attention at last,” crowed Nancy, triumphantly.

Peter did his best to look unconcerned, but his heart had begun to thump quite suddenly and disconcertingly. He waited. He forgot the newspaper.

”Have n't you noticed how devoted Brant Hille has been for the last year?” Nancy demanded.

”No.”

”Then you 've been blind.”

”I 've been busy.”

”How oddly you speak! Is your throat sore?”

”Don't tease, Nan. I'm not up to it.” It was no use trying to look unconcerned.

Nancy saw, and took pity on him, as she might not have done if he had been upon his feet. ”It's Olive, then--though I believe I could have made you think it was s.h.i.+rley. It's not Brant Hille's fault that it is n't, I can tell you that. Olive's going to marry an Englishman she met last summer abroad--Mr. Arthur Crewe of Manchester. It's just announced.

The wedding 's to be the first of July. You 'll be on crutches, Peter.

Is n't that lucky? You can go.”

”Oh, yes, I 'll dance at the wedding!” agreed Peter, looking as if the shot that missed him had come uncomfortably close.

”It's going to be a big wedding--a gorgeous one. Is n't that like Olive? s.h.i.+rley's to be maid of honour, and there 'll be six bridesmaids. Six ushers--and you 'd have been one if you had n't broken your leg. Olive told me so.”

”Compensation in all things,” murmured Peter.

”The best man is the Englishman's brother. Olive says he 's stunning.

Would n't it be funny if he and s.h.i.+rley should take a fancy to each other? The maid of honour and the best man often do, you know.”

”Very interesting. I should say you had been taking a course of novels, you 're so full of possible plots.” And Peter eyed his newspaper as if he preferred its practical columns to his sister's outlines of sentimental situations. Nancy laughed.

”s.h.i.+rley's to have a vacation, for a week before the wedding. Perhaps she 'll find time to get over to see you oftener, then.”

”She 's been over to see me.”