The House in the Hedge/Chapter 18
XVIII
WE LOOK THROUGH THE WINDOW
Never shall I forget that terror-stricken race down the moonlit drive, out into the road under the black shadows of tree and hedge and through the gate. Larry came close behind me, but I neither heard nor thought of him until he clutched me as I would have sped up the steps.
“Wait, sis,” he cried. “Don't do that! The window!”
I sped around the corner of the house, tripped over a low bush, and would have fallen had not Larry dragged me to my feet, and in a moment was standing, my hands clutching the sill, looking into the room. The muslin curtain had been drawn aside to admit air, and the bed had stood close to the casement. The gas was turned low, but there was light enough to see, plainly, every detail. The sill came even with my shoulders and yet so near was the bed that I could have reached forth my arm and touched it. On the bed, the clothes flung away from the upper part of his body, he lay, arms at his sides and one hand clutching, loosely, the handle of the revolver. His face was turned away, but so much of it as I saw in that first frantic glance, looked in the dim light pale and lifeless. I reeled against Larry, sickening fear at my heart.
“It's all right,” he whispered hoarsely. “He's asleep.”
“He's dead,” I moaned, hiding my face against him.
“Nonsense! He's asleep, I say; look!”
I looked back again into the room. The head on the flat pillow turned slowly and the fingers about the revolver loosened and tightened again. In revulsion of feeling I slid away from the window and leaned against the house, feeling as though I should faint. But in the next instant a sudden movement from Larry drew me back. The invalid had not turned his face toward us, although we had evidently disturbed him. Instead, he was looking with calm, quiet face down at the revolver. A smile flickered about his lips and then, as though the weight of it was almost too much for him, he raised the pistol and brought it slowly toward him, nearer—nearer
With a sob of terror, I broke from Larry's grasp and flew to the front of the house, to the porch and through the partly-opened door. Every instant I expected to hear the awful sound of a shot. I had never been in the house before, but I had no doubt as to which door was the right one. It was drawn close, but unlatched. Thrusting it open, I ran into the room and straight across to the bed.
He had heard and was looking toward me with startled, questioning gaze, the revolver still held suspended in his hand.
“Reed! Reed!” I cried. “Don't! Please, please don't!”
And the next thing I knew I had thrown myself on my knees at the head of the bed, with my arms across his chest, pushing weakly at the hand with the revolver.
“Marjorie!” he cried. “Marjorie! What is it?”
His hand dropped the revolver and clutched weakly at my arm. I buried my head in the pillow and sobbed convulsively. And above my sobs I could hear him questioning bewilderedly but, oh, so kindly!
“Marjorie! Little girl! Don't cry! What is it? Can't you tell me?”
And then someone brushed against me and I heard Larry say quietly:
“It's this, Harrington.”
And a moment later the door closed and I looked up. The revolver was gone and Larry was gone, and Reed was looking at me with his troubled brown eyes only a few inches away. And then—oh, I don't know just how it happened, but I was crying again quite happily, with my face against his.
I think I must have stayed there a long time, just crushed up there against him, for when I drew away his eyes were closed and the furrows on his forehead were deep.
“Oh, I've been hurting you!” I cried. “I didn't think!”
“It's—nothing,” he whispered. Don't move-away.”
“But I took my weight off his poor body and sank down at the side of the bed.
“I can't see you there,” he said softly.-
“I—don't want you to. I'm so—so ashamed!”
His hand reached toward me and I seized it and laid my cheek against it.
“Don't talk like that, Marjorie,” he said. “You see, dear, I'm at a disadvantage, for I can't take you in my arms as I'm wanting to. Won't you come back where I can see you?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“N-no.”
Then I peeked up over the side, my cheeks, I'm sure, as red as fire.
“Oh, what will you think of me?” I wailed.
“What I've always thought, Marjorie; that you're the dearest, sweetest woman in the world. Little girl, little girl, I love you, love you!”
“But you can't,” I whispered, “after the way I've acted. Can you?”
“More than ever, sweetheart.”
“No, you can't, because I was perfectly perfectly brazen!”
“Marjorie!”
“Oh, but I was! I just came in here and—and tumbled myself right into your arms!”
“But if you only knew how those arms have ached for you, dear, for weeks!”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Very sure, dear. And they're still aching. Won't you—couldn't you come a little closer, Marjorie dear?”
So I did and—oh, there are some things I just can't tell about, can I; even if this is a truthful story? You understand, don't you?
After a while we talked—really said things, I mean—and I explained how it had all happened, for I didn't want him to think me quite, quite crazy!
“Why, little girl,” he said, “did you think I'd do that when I had so much to stay alive for? A month or two ago—well, then, I confess, I used to think of it. But now! Besides, I couldn't after what you said the other day. You said I was brave, sweetheart. That wouldn't be brave, would it?”
“No, but I didn't know—and Larry said he had told you—told you”
“What?” he asked perplexedly.
“Something that wasn't true; about me and Ned Merrill.”
“Oh, that!”
“Of course, I don't mean that that would make you do anything so silly,” I continued hurriedly, “but—he told me about the pistol, and I got scared; he was, too; and we came over here and looked in the window, and I thought first, that—you'd done it!”
“You poor little girl!”
“And then you took up the pistol and I ran in!”
“Bless you for it, dearest.”
“You know, though, don't you, that what Larry said isn't so at all?”
“I never paid any attention to it,” he answered simply. “I knew better.”
“Did you?” I asked shyly. “How?”
“Well, I watched and listened, dear. And thought. You see, I've had a good deal of time to think. And I decided that he wasn't anything to you. And perhaps this will sound pretty cheeky, dear—but I believed that you cared a little for me.”
“But—I didn't know it myself until to-night!” I exclaimed.
“Thank God for to-night,” he said devoutly. “At first I feared that, perhaps, it was only that you were a little sorry for me, that it was just pity. But it isn't that, is it, Marjorie?”
“No, it isn't,” I answered frankly. “It's just—you know—love. And, oh, Reed, it's getting worse every minute!”
After a while I remembered the morning, and I had to cry about that a little. But he promised me over and over that he wouldn't die, and so I stopped.
“Don't think any more about it,” he said. “I shan't have a mite of pain, dear, though, after to-night, I think I could stand it without the ether. I'm going to get well, sweetheart. Why, it would take at least a dozen operations to kill me now, Marjorie, for just the love in my heart would keep it beating for you!”
Presently there was a knock on the door and I sprang up and tried to fix my hair, which must have been a sight. But it was only Larry. He came in quite as though nothing unusual had happened.
“I guess you and I had better travel, sis,” he said. It's getting late and this chap ought to get to sleep.”
“Sleep!” laughed Reed softly. “I shan't sleep a wink and don't want to. Pryde, have you got anything to say to me?”
Larry took his hand and pressed it.
“Only this, Harrington; you're a good sort and I'm mighty glad. I think a good deal of Marjie, and—well, I'm satisfied. But there's to be no more—nonsense, you know; no more trifling with revolvers.”
“That was your mistake, Pryde,” he answered quietly, “but I confess that appearances were against me. I had no thought of anything like that.”
“Really?” asked Larry.
“Really.”
“I'm darned glad. I didn't think you were a quitter, Harrington, but you had me scared, just the same.” Larry passed his hand over his forehead and shook his head. “I was in a funk, and that's no lie. I think I'd better take her home now, old man.”
“Yes. I will see you both in a day or two. Good-night, Larry.”
“Good-night, Reed.”
They shook hands again and then Larry turned and went out, like a perfect dear, and closed the door again. I cried just a tiny little bit more, saying good-night
When we went out, Mr. Tully was just coming in the gate. He seemed surprised to find us there, and a little bit worried.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked anxiously. “I oughtn't to have stayed away so long.”
“No, everything is all right,” answered Larry. “We've been visiting rather late ourselves. Good-night, Tully.”
As we reached the beginning of the drive, our front door closed softly. I hoped that Jocelyn was one-half as happy as I was.