Part 4 (1/2)

”They'll be along presently,” said Watts. ”Helen forgot something, and they went back after it.”

”They will be properly punished by the leathery condition of the rarebit, if they don't hurry. And as we are all agreed that Stirling is somewhat lacking in romance, he will not get a corresponding pleasure from the longer stroll to reward him for that. There, ladies and gentlemen, that is a rarebit that will melt in your mouth, and make the absent ones regret their foolishness. As the gourmand says in 'Richelieu,' 'What's diplomacy compared to a delicious pate?'”

CHAPTER VII.

FACING THE WORLD.

Army surgeons recognize three types of wounded. One type so nervous, that it drops the moment it is struck, whether the wound is disabling or not. Another so nerveless, that it fights on, unconscious that it has been hit. A third, who, feeling the wound, goes on fighting, sustained by its nerve. It is over the latter sort that the surgeons shake their heads and look anxious.

Peter did his packing quietly and quickly, not pausing for a moment in the task. Then he went downstairs, and joined the party, just finis.h.i.+ng the supper. He refused, it is true, to eat anything, and was quiet, but this phase was so normal in him, that it occasioned no remark. Asked where Miss Pierce was, he explained briefly that he had left her in the hall, in order to do his packing and had not seen her since.

In a few moments the party broke up. Peter said a good-bye to each, quite conscious of what he was doing, yet really saying more and better things than he had said in his whole visit, and quite surprising them all in the apparent ease with which he went through the duty.

”You must come and see us when you have put your s.h.i.+ngle out in New York,” said Mr. Pierce, not quite knowing why, having previously decided that they had had enough of Peter. ”We shall be in the city early in September, and ready to see our friends.”

”Thank you,” replied Peter. He turned and went upstairs to his room. He ought to have spent the night pacing his floor, but he did not. He went to bed instead Whether Peter slept, we cannot say. He certainly lay very still, till the first ray of daylight brightened the sky. Then he rose and dressed. He went to the stables and explained to the groom that he would walk to the station, and merely asked that his trunk should be there in time to be checked. Then he returned to the house and told the cook that he would breakfast on the way. Finally he started for the station, diverging on the way, so as to take a roundabout road, that gave him a twelve-mile tramp in the time he had before the train left.

Perhaps the hardest thing Peter encountered was answering his mother's questions about the visit. Yet he never flinched nor dodged from a true reply, and if his mother had chosen, she could have had the whole story.

But something in the way Peter spoke of Miss Pierce made Mrs. Stirling careful, and whatever she surmised she kept to herself, merely kissing him good-night with a tenderness that was unusual not merely in a New-Englander, but even in her. During the rest of his stay, the Pierces were quite as much kept out of sight, as if they had never been known.

Mrs. Stirling was not what we should call a ”lady,” yet few of those who rank as such, would have been as considerate or tender of Peter's trouble, if the power had been given them to lay it bare. Love, sympathy, unselfishness and forbearance are not bad equivalents for breeding and etiquette, and have the additional advantage of meeting new and unusual conditions which sometimes occur to even the most conventional.

One hope did come to her, ”Perhaps, now that”--and Mrs. Stirling left ”that” blank even in her thoughts; ”now my boy, my Peter, will not be so set on going to New York.” In this, however, she was disappointed. On the second day of his stay, Peter spoke of his intention to start for New York the following week.

”Don't you think you could do as well here?” said Mrs. Stirling.

”Up to a certain point, better. But New York has a big beyond,” said Peter. ”I'll try it there first, and if I don't make my way, I'll come back here”

Few mothers hope for a son's failure, yet Mrs. Stirling allowed herself a moment's happiness over this possibility. Then remembering that her Peter could not possibly fail, she became despondent. ”They say New York's full of temptations,” she said.

”I suppose it is, mother,” replied Peter, ”to those who want to be tempted.”

”I know I can trust you, Peter,” said his mother, proudly, ”but I want you to promise me one thing.”

”What?”

”That if you do yield, if you do what you oughtn't to, you'll write and tell me about it?” Mrs. Stirling put her arms about Peter's neck, and looked wistfully into his face.

Peter was not blind to what this world is. Perhaps, had his mother known it as he did, she might have seen how unfair her pet.i.tion was. He did not like to say yes, and could not say no.

”I'll try to go straight, mother,” he replied, ”but that's a good deal to promise.”

”It's all I'm going to ask of you, Peter,” urged Mrs. Stirling.

”I have gone through four years of my life with nothing in it I couldn't tell her,” thought Peter. ”If that's possible, I guess another four is.”

Then he said aloud, ”Well, mother, since you want it, I'll do it.”