Part 30 (2/2)

”Of course--” he said at random. ”Of course--a baby!” He walked across the room to look at a picture on the wall. ”That's rather--pretty!” he said in a suffocating voice. Suddenly he came back, and sat close beside her; his face was pale. ”Martie,” he said pitifully, ”it's dangerous for you--you're not strong, and if you--if you die, you know----You look pale now, and you're so thin. I don't know anything about it, but I wish it was over!”

Tears sprang to Martie's eyes, but they were tears of exquisite joy.

She laid a warm hand over his.

”Why, John, dear, there's no danger!”

”Isn't there?” he asked doubtfully.

”Not the least, you goose! I'm ever so glad and proud about it--don't look so woe-begone!”

Their hands were tightly locked: her face was radiant as she smiled up at him.

”It all works out, John--the furniture clerking, you know, and the being poor, and all that!”

”Sure it does!”

”Other people have succeeded in spite of it, I mean, so why not you and I?”

”Of course, they're not BORN rich and successful,” he submitted thoughtfully.

”Look at Lincoln--and Napoleon!” Martie said hardily.

John scowled down at the hand he held.

”Well, it's easier for some people than others,” he stated firmly.

”Lincoln may have had to split rails for his supper--what DO you split rails for, anyway?” he interrupted himself to ask, suddenly diverted.

”Fences, I guess!” Martie offered, on a gale of laughter.

”Well, whatever it was. But I don't see what they needed so many fences for! But anyway, being poor or rich doesn't seem to matter half as much as some other things! And now I'm going. Good-bye, Martie.”

”And write me, John, and send me books!” she urged, as he turned away.

He was at the door: meditating with his hand on the k.n.o.b, and his back turned to her. Martie watched him, expecting some parting word. But he did not even turn to smile a farewell. He let himself quietly out without another glance, and was gone. A moment later she heard the outer door close.

She sat on, in the darkening room, her book forgotten. The storm was coming fast now. Women in the backyards were drawing in their clothes-lines with a great creaking and rattling, and the first rush of warm, sullen drops struck the dusty dining-room window. Curtains streamed, and pictures on the wall stirred in the damp, warm wind.

Half an hour of furious musketry pa.s.sed: blue dashes lighted the room with an eerie splendour, thunder clapped and rolled; died away toward the south as a fresh onslaught poured in from the north.

Martie heeded nothing. Her soul was wrapped in a deep peace, and as the cooling air swept in, she dropped her tired head against the chair's cus.h.i.+on, and drifted into a dream of river and orchard, and of a white house set in green gra.s.s.

She knew that John would write her: she held the unopened envelope in her fingers the next morning, a strange, sweet emotion at her heart.

The beautiful, odd handwriting, the cleanly chosen words, these made the commonplace little note significant.

”Who's your letter from?” Wallace asked idly. She tossed it to him unconcernedly: she had told him of John's call. ”He must have a case on you, Mart!” Wallace said indifferently.

”Well, in his curious way, perhaps he has,” she answered honestly.

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