Part 57 (2/2)

A PERFECT UNDERSTANDING

As they resumed their way Barbara did most of the talking. She tried so hard to make his loss appear wholly attributable to her, that only the sweetness of her throat and chin and the slow smoothness of her words saved her from seeming illogical. She readily got his admission that the theft might have been done in that archway as the engine rushed by. Very good! And without her, she reasoned, he would not have stopped. ”Or, if you had stopped,” she softly droned, with her eyes on her steps, ”you would have had----”

”Oh, now, what would I have had?”

”Your hands in your pockets.”

”That's not my habit.”

”Oh, Mr. March!”

”My d-ear Miss Barb! I should think I ought to know!”

”Yes, sir; that's why I tell you.” They laughed in partners.h.i.+p.

Mr. March was entirely right, Barbara resumed, not to tell his mishap to the Fairs, or to anyone, anywhere, then or thereafter. ”But you're cruel to me not to let me lend you enough to avoid the rev-e-la-tion.” That was the utmost she would say. If he couldn't see that she would rather _lose_--not to say lend--every dollar she had, than have anyone know where her hand was when his pocket was picked, he might stay just as stupid as he was. She remained silent so long that John looked at her, but did not perceive that she was ready to cry. She wore a glad smile as she said:

”I've got more money with me than I ought to be carrying, anyhow.”

”Why, Miss Barb, you oughtn't to do that; how does that happen?” He spoke with the air of one who had never in his life lost a cent by carelessness.

”It's not so very much,” was her reply. ”It's for my share of Rosemont.

I sold it to pop-a.”

”What! just now when the outlook for Rosemont--why, Miss Barb, I do believe you did it to keep clear of our land company, didn't you?”

”Mr. March, I wish you would let me lend you some of it, won't you?”

”No, I'll be--surprised if I do. Oh, Miss Barb, I thank you just the same; but my father, Miss Barb, gave it to me, as a canon of chivalry, never to make a money bargain with a lady that you can't make with a bank. If I'm not man enough to get out of this pinch without--oh, pshaw!”

In the hotel, at the head of the ladies' staircase, they stood alone.

”Good-by,” said John, unwillingly. ”I'll see you this evening, shan't I, when I come up to say good-by to your friends?”

Barbara said he would. They shook hands, each pair of eyes confessing to the other the superfluity of the ceremony.

”Good-by,” said John again, as if he had not said it twice already.

”Good-by. Mr. March, if you want to give securities--as you would to a bank--I--I shouldn't want anything better than your mother's poems.”

He glowed with grat.i.tude and filial vanity, his big hand tightening on hers. ”Oh, Miss Barb! no, no! But G.o.d bless you! I wonder if anyone else was ever so much like suns.h.i.+ne in a prison window! Good-by!” She felt her hand lifted by his; but, when she increased its weight the merest bit, he let it sink again and slide from his fingers.

He was gone, and a moment later she was with the Fairs, talking slowly, with soft smiles; but her head swam, she heard their pleasant questions remotely as through a wall, and could feel her pulse to her fingers and feet. He had almost kissed her hand. ”The next time--the next time--sweet heaven send this poor hand strength to resist just enough and--and not too much.” So raved the prayer locked in her heart, or so it would have raved had she dared give it the liberty even of unspoken words.

Meanwhile, John March lay on his bed with the back of his head in his hands.

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