Who Cares? A Story of Adolescence

by Cosmo Hamilton

  XII

  He was not given much to reading, but when Martin left the cottage andstood out in the liquid silver of the moon under the vast dome whichdazzled with stars, and he caught the flash of fireflies among theundergrowth that were like the lanterns of the fairies a line came intohis mind that he liked and repeated several times, rather whimsicallypleased with himself for having found it at exactly the right moment.It was "the witching hour of night."

  He remained on top of the incline for a little while, moved to thatspirit of the realization of God which touches the souls of sensitivemen when they are awed by the wonder and the beauty of the earth. Hestood quite still, disembodied for the moment, uplifted, stirred, withall the scents and all the whisperings about him, humble, childlike,able, in that brief flight of ecstasy, to understand the language ofanother world.

  And then the stillness was suddenly cut by a scream of vacuouslaughter, probably that of an exuberant Irish maid-servant, to whomsilences are made to break, carrying on, most likely, a roughflirtation with a chauffeur.

  It brought Martin back to earth like the stick of a rocket. But hedidn't go down immediately to the water. He sat there and nursed hisknees and began to think. Whether it was Howard's unexpected talk ofPlattsburg and of being made something of or not he didn't know. Whathe did know was that he was suddenly filled with a sort of fright...."Good God," he said to himself, "time's rushing away, and I'm nearlytwenty-six. I'm as old as some men who have done things and made thingsand are planted on their feet. What have I done? What am I fit to do?Nearly twenty-six and I'm still playing games like a schoolboy!...What's my father saying? 'We count it death to falter not to die' ...I've been faltering--and before I know anything about it I shall bethirty--half-time.... This can't go on. This waiting for Joan isfaltering. If she's not coming to me I must go to her. If it's notcoming right it must end and I must get mended and begin again. I can'tstand in father's shoes with all he worked to make in my hands likeripe plums. It isn't fair, or straight. I must push up a rung and carrythings on for him. Could I look him in the face having slacked? My God,I wish I'd watched the time rush by! I'm nearly twenty-six ...Joan--to-morrow. That's the thing to do." He got up and strode quicklydown to the water. "If she's going to be my wife, that's a good stepon. And she can help me like no one but my father. And then I'll makesomething of myself. If not ... if not,--no faltering, Gray,--then I'lldo it alone for both their sakes."

  He chucked his sweater into the dingey, shoved it off the beach andsprang in and rowed strongly towards the yawl. Somehow he felt broaderof back and harder of muscle for this summing up of things, this auditof his account. He was nearly twenty-six and nothing was done. That wasthe report he had to make to his conscience, that was what he had tosay to the man who smiled down upon him from his place in the New Yorkhouse.... Good Lord, it was about time that he pulled himself together.

  The yawl was lying alone, aloof from the other small craft anchorednear the pier. Her mast seemed taller and her lines more gracefulsilhouetted against the sky, silvered by the moon. It was indeed thewitching hour of night.

  He got aboard and tied up the dingey, cast a look round to see thateverything was shipshape, took in a deep breath and went into thecabin. He was not tired and never felt less like sleep. His brain wasclear as though a fog had risen from it, and energy beat in him like arunning engine. He would light the lamp, get into his pajamas and thinkabout to-morrow and Joan. He was mighty glad to have come to a decision.

  Stooping, he lit the lamp, turned and gave a gasp of surprise.

  There, curled up like a water sprite on the unmade bunk lay Tootles inbathing clothes, holding a rubber cap in her hand, her head, with itsgolden bobbed hair, dented into a cushion.

  For a moment she pretended to be asleep, but anxiety to see how Martinwas looking was too much for her. Also her clothes were wet and notvery comfortable. She opened her eyes and sat up.

  "My dear Tootles!" said Martin, "what's the idea? You said you weregoing home to bed." She would rather that he had been angry thanamused. "It was the night," she said, "and something in the air. I justhad to bathe and swam out here. I didn't think you'd be coming yet. Isuppose you think I'm bug-house."

  "No, I don't. If I hadn't taken my bathing suit to the cottage to bemended I'd have a dip myself. Cigarette?" He held one out.

  But she shook her head. How frightfully natural and brotherly this boywas, she thought. Was her last desperate card to be as useless as allthe rest of the pack? How could it be! They might as well be on adesert island out there on the water and she the only woman on it.

  "Feel a bit chilly? You'd better put on this sweater."

  She took it from him but laid it aside. "No. The air's too warm," shesaid. "Oh, ho, I'm so sleepy," and she stretched herself out again withher hands under her head.

  "I'm not," said Martin. "I'm tremendously awake. Let's talk if you'renot in a hurry to get back."

  "I'm very happy here," she answered. "But must we have that lamp? Itglares and makes the cabin hot."

  "The moon's better than all the lamps," said Martin, and put it out. Hesat on his bunk and the gleam of his cigarette came and went. It waslike a big firefly in the half dark cabin. "To-morrow," he said tohimself, with a tingle running through his blood, "to-morrow--and Joan."

  Tootles waited for him to speak. She might as well have been miles awayfor all that she affected him. He seemed to have forgotten that she wasalive.

  He had. And there was a long silence.

  "To-morrow,--and Joan. That's it. I'll go over to Easthampton and takeher away from that house and talk to her. This time I'll breakeverything down and tell her what she means to me. I've never told herthat."

  "He doesn't care," thought Tootles. "I'm no more than an old shoe tohim."

  "If I'd told her it might have made a difference. Even if she hadlaughed at me she would have had something to catch hold of if shewanted it. By Jove, I wish I'd had the pluck to tell her."

  "He even looks at me and doesn't see me," she went on thinking, herhopes withering like cut flowers, her eagerness petering out and agreat humiliation creeping over her. "What's the matter with me? Somepeople think I'm pretty. Irene does ... and last night, when I kissedhim there was an answer.... Has that girl come between us again?"

  And so they went on, these two, divided by a thousand miles, eachabsorbed in individual thought, and there was a long queer silence.

  But she was there to fight, and having learned one side of men duringher sordid pilgrimage and having an ally in Nature, she got up and satdown on the bunk at his side, snuggling close.

  "You are cold, Tootles," he said, and put his arm round her.

  And hope revived, like a dying fire licked by a sudden breeze, and sheput her bobbed head on his broad shoulder.

  But he was away again, miles and miles away, thinking back, unfoldingall the moments of his first companionship with Joan and looking atthem wistfully to try and find some tenderness; thinking forward, withthe picture of Joan's face before him and wondering what would comeinto her eyes when he laid his heart bare for her gaze.

  Waiting and waiting, on the steady rise and fall of his chest,--poorlittle starved Tootles, poor little devil,--tears began to gather,tears as hot as blood, and at last they broke and burst in an awfultorrent, and she flung herself face down upon the other bunk, cryingincoherently to God to let her die.

  And once more the boy's spirit, wandering high in pure air, fell likethe stick of a rocket, and he sprang up and bent over the pitifullittle form,--not understanding because Joan held his heart and kept itclean.

  "Tootles," he cried out. "Dear old Tootles. What is it? What'shappened?"

  But there was only brotherliness in his kind touch, only the samesolicitude that he had shown her all along. Nothing else. Not a thing.And she knew it, at last, definitely. This boy was too different, toomuch the other girl's--curse her for having all the luck.

  For an instant, for one final desperate instant, she was urged to trya
gain, to fling aside control and restraint and with her trembling bodypressed close and her eager arms clasped about his neck, pour out herlove and make a passionate stammering plea for something,--justsomething to put into her memory, her empty loveless memory,--butsuddenly, like the gleam of a lamp in a tunnel, her pride lit up, thelittle streak of pride which had taken her unprofaned through all hersordid life, and she sat up, choked back her sobs, and dried her facewith the skirt of her bathing dress.

  "Don't mind me," she said. "It's the night or something. It got on mynerves, I suppose, like--like the throb of an organ. I dunno. I'm allright now, anyway." And she stood in front of him bravely, with herchin up, but her heart breaking, and her attempt to make a laugh mustsurely have been entered in the book of human courage.

  But before Martin could say anything, she slipped into the cockpit,balanced herself on the ledge of the cabin house, said "Good night, olddear," and waved her hand, dived into the silver water and swamstrongly towards the beach.