The Happy Man/Chapter 17

by Ralph Henry Barbour

 

XVII

An hour later the clubhouse was a glowing, smoking heap of charred timbers and débris, from which arose, like a memorial shaft, the tall stone chimney about whose hearth they had so often gathered. But regrets found no sincere expression yet, for the hysterical gaiety that attends all catastrophes still held the throng. Out on the lawn, beyond the radius of singed turf, Allan had propped a door rescued from the ruins. Across the top he had printed with a charred stick on the blistered white paint:

CLUBHOUSE FUND!
Subscribe Now! All are Welcome!

Major Prescott had been permitted the honor of heading the list, and had set down the sum of five hundred dollars after his name. Others had followed, Allan among them, his donation equaling the Major's, and now, with the east just turning gray, nearly five thousand dollars had been pledged, a Committee on Building had been appointed, and the cottagers were moving away across the links toward the Frazers' house, where, it was announced, a Conflagration Breakfast was to be served.

Beryl had joined a group consisting of Mrs. Prescott, Mrs. Mellen, and Jerry Forbes, and with them she left the glowing ruins behind and struck across toward the Frazers'. Jerry had begged to be allowed to find shoes for her, but she had protested that she could get along quite well without them, and that she would borrow a pair from Mrs. Frazer. Behind them the sullen throb of the engine still sounded. It was not often that the Thompsonvale Fire Department had an opportunity to display its heroism, and now it meant to make the most of it. Ahead, merry groups of hastily attired cottagers were dimly visible in the paling darkness, their laughing voices coming back on the still morning air. Beryl was rather silent, and Jerry, still in high spirits, failed to rouse her.

Once inside the house, the ladies hurried upstairs to repair or add to their bizarre costumes, while the men unanimously followed the host to the sideboard. The breakfast was a merry affair. Appetites were keen, and the excitement was not yet dulled. Steaming hot coffee, toast, broiled ham, eggs in various styles, and marmalade made up the hastily prepared repast, and every one helped himself and ate sitting or standing about the dining-room. Burton Bryant requisitioned a chafing-dish and many eggs and concocted a breath-taking dish which, because of the presence of. much cayenne and mustard, was promptly dubbed Eggs à la Conflagration. Young Russell, who had lost most of his wearing apparel, had been supplied with clothes by Tom Frazer, and the sight of his protruding ankles and wrists caused much laughter. George Smith bemoaned the loss of his shaving outfit, and begged advice as to whether to raise an imperial or side-whiskers. Allan, minus one sleeve of his coat, was said to have lost an arm, and was the recipient of appropriate sympathy. In their present keyed-up condition of mind, no one referred to his rescue of the housekeeper save jokingly. Later they tried hard to make a hero of him, a rôle he refused to assume. But that was when sober second thought had changed what now seemed a spectacular frolic into a distinct misfortune. Then a subscription was taken for the club employees, most of whom had lost their entire wardrobes; the men who had lodged in the clubhouse were apportioned to different cottages for the balance of the season; and the housekeeper, suffering from the shock of her experience, was removed to a hospital in Thompsonvale. But just now it was all a good deal of a joke, and Alderbury laughed accordingly.

It was quite light outside before the ladies, yawning discreetly, began to slip away. Beryl, who had been fitted with a pair of pumps by Mrs. Frazer, refused Jerry Forbes's petition to be allowed to see her home, and had started off with the Mellens when footsteps on the walk caused her to look back. It was Allan. He had lost his cap, his white canvas shoes were water-soaked and soiled, and he had the appearance of one who, under an outer concession to the proprieties, is secretly guilty of strange unconventionalities! But in spite of that he looked fresh and cheerful and quite untroubled by any considerations of personal attire. Beryl and he had exchanged a few careless words at breakfast, but he had not sought her society. Now he overtook them and walked with them to the Mellens' gate. One might have thought from his manner that early morning fires, daring rescues, and four o'clock breakfasts were an every-day occurrence with him. Beryl declined an invitation to stop at the Mellens', and with a laughing “Good-night!” went on. Allan, striding along at her side, said nothing until they reached the little lane beyond the Mellens' lawn, which led back to the links. Then—

“Let's go this way,” he said.

“But it's much longer,” Beryl demurred.

“That,” he replied cheerfully, “is why I suggested it.”

“But really, Mr. Shortland, I don't think I am dressed for an early morning ramble.”

“I don't know,” he answered, “just what the proper costume is for an early morning ramble; but there is no one to see you but me, and I am quite satisfied.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly. Then she found that they were turning into the lane, through grass that was long and wet with dew and under the branches of wild apple trees that disputed their passage. They were both silent again until the level turf of the links was under their feet. Then, as they turned to walk along in the shadows of the trees there, Beryl said:

“I fear, Mr. Shortland, that all this is a poor preparation for your journey.”

“My journey? Oh, but I am not going. I've changed my mind.”

“Not going!” She was conscious of a swift rush of happiness that caught at her heart like fingers, but she only laughed carelessly as she asked, “And what about poor Dobbin's hay fever?”

“Dobbin,” he answered gravely, “will be disappointed; but he is a philosopher and will get over it.” He paused to pick up a lost golf ball from the grass. Beryl waited while he examined it with deep interest. Finally, as he showed no inclination to continue the journey.

“Is it one of yours?” she asked.

“Mine?” he inquired vaguely.

“The ball, I mean.”

“Oh! No, I think not,” he replied abstractedly, dropping it into a pocket. “I'm not much of a golfer, Miss Vernon, but I can say proudly that when I lose a ball I do it thoroughly. It is never found again.” He glanced about him. They were near the seventh green, and a wooden bench, knife-scarred and leaf-strewn, was set in the shade of the trees that crowded up to the boundary wall. “Shall we sit down over there a few minutes?” he asked.

“Certainly not, Mr. Shortland,” she replied decidedly.

“I wish you would. You see, there is something I want to say to you. Don't you think that you could—just for five minutes?”

“You are absolutely ridiculous! The idea of sitting under the trees at—at—what time is it, please?”

“I don't know,” he answered cheerfully. “I haven't my watch with me. Perhaps five o'clock, though. It really isn't late, Miss Vernon.”

She laughed, hesitated, and viewed the bench dubiously.

“It looks very damp,” she demurred.

“It is rather.” He brushed the leaves from it, slipped off his coat, and spread it along one end of the bench.

“Please, Mr. Shortland! You'll catch cold. Besides, this ulster is quite thick. Please put it on again.”

“If you wish.” He donned his coat, and Beryl seated herself at one end of the bench. Before them the shadows of the trees stretched far across the dewy grass. Beyond the shadows the links were bathed in the pale gold of early sunlight. The chill of night had gone, and the fresh morning air, sweet with the scents of damp soil and verdure, was already tinged with warmth. The sounds of the waking world came to them softly: the clucking of a hen, the discordant challenge of a rooster, the far- away shriek of a locomotive. Pale blue-gray columns of smoke arose in the still air from neighboring chimneys, while beyond the crest of an intervening rise, dun-colored vapor hovered above the scene of the fire.

“We'll all miss the clubhouse dreadfully,” murmured Beryl, stealing a glance at the silent Allan.

“Yes.”

“Does any one know,” she continued after a moment, “how the fire started?”

“They think from the electric wires.” There was another long moment of silence, and then, “Miss Vernon,” he said, “I wish you'd tell me what you meant yesterday when you—congratulated me.”

“Why, only what—one usually means, Mr. Shortland, when one offers congratulations,” she replied lightly.

“You said you had heard I was to be married. Will you please tell me where you heard it?”

“I think—Mr. Smith was the informant. Has he been indiscreet?”

“Smith? And did he happen to give his authority, Miss Vernon?”

“Oh, yes! He said you had announced the fact at the club.”

“I had?” He looked puzzled. “Did he say when?”

“Soon after you came, I believe. Does it matter very much?” she added indifferently.

“No, I suppose not. He was a trifle previous, however. It is a bit startling, you know, to be informed that you are to be married when you aren't at all assured of the fact yourself.”

“But—but didn't you tell him?” asked Beryl.

“Not exactly. I did make the remark one day that I was thinking of being married. I'd forgotten it, though. I forget what led up to it.”

“How queer!” said Beryl, elaborately careless. “He even said you had met the—the lady abroad; in Florence.”

“Really? I might have said I met her abroad, but I surely didn't say in Florence, because, as a matter of fact, it was Venice.”

“Oh!” The exclamation was a bit startled. “But you said yesterday that you were going to be—be——”

“Married? Yes, I did. I had just found it out.”

“Then—my congratulations were not out of order, after all, were they?” Beryl was interestedly viewing the tip of one of Mrs. Frazer's pumps.

“Not at all. I only hope you won't regret the congratulations or—or want to retract them when you learn who the lady is.”

“Why should I, Mr. Shortland?”

“You shouldn't. I devoutly hope you won't.”

“I'll promise not to,” she said gaily. “Although I fancy that my congratulations are not—well, absolutely necessary, Mr. Shortland.”

“At least, your good wishes are,” he replied gravely.

“I am flattered! If it will make you any happier, I assure you that you have them.”

“It makes me a great deal happier. I am also distinctly relieved. You see, Miss Vernon, for a man to marry a girl without having her good wishes in the matter would—well, it would be the very deuce, wouldn't it?”

“We were—speaking of my good wishes, weren't we?” she asked. “I fail to see how they affect the affair one way or another, Mr. Shortland.”

“Then, you haven't guessed the identity of the young lady who is to do me the honor of becoming my wife?” he returned cheerfully.

“I am not a very good guesser, Mr. Shortland. Am I to understand that she is some one I know?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well.”

“If you want me to guess, you must tell me more than that, Mr. Shortland. I told you I was not a good guesser.”

“I met her in Venice four years ago, Miss Vernon, and fell in love with her quickly and irrevocably. Unfortunately I lost her for a time; but, Fortune aiding, found her again two months ago. In the meanwhile she had become engaged to another man, had broken the engagement, and when I recovered her was suffering from a broken—pride.”

“Mr. Shortland!”

“Just a moment more! She thought her trouble was a broken heart, but I was fortunately able to show her that she was mistaken. She acknowledges it now quite frankly——”

“I—I——”

“—Realizing that she was never really in love with the other chap. As, however, the course of true love never did run smooth, I had some difficulty in convincing her that she cared for me enough to marry me. In fact, it was not until I had been forced to set fire to a perfectly good clubhouse in order to secure an uninterrupted talk with her that she at last consented.”

“I haven't! And—and I never will!” She faced him with scarlet cheeks and mutinous eyes. “You treat me as though—as if—as if I was a joke! I—I hate you!”

“You promised me your good wishes,” he said plaintively.

She made no answer. With hands clasped very tightly in her lap, she was staring across the sunlit field. After a moment he went on softly:

“Dear, if I have seemed to make a joke of it, it is because I—I haven't dared to be serious! I'm the kind who keeps his courage up by laughing, dear, and—and I'm scared to death! If you would only look at me, you'd see that it's very far from being a joke, Beryl.”

Very slowly a pair of rebellious violet eyes turned toward him. What they saw must have moved her, for they fled away with fluttering lashes.

“But—but you were going away,” she murmured.

“And I should have come back again,” he said gently. “I didn't want to go, dear, but you treated me unkindly—even, as I thought, a little unfairly, and—and I couldn't quite stand it.”

“I thought—they said——” she stammered.

“But I'd already told you, Beryl.”

She nodded, staring at the tip of a shoe that peeked from under the edge of her long gray coat. “I thought perhaps you had—changed your mind,” she whispered. “I'd been very mean and ugly to you, you see.”

“Why?” he asked.

She shook her head and was silent a moment. Then, with a fleeting glance at him, “I think,” she said softly, with a hint of laughter in her voice, “it was because—because I was—beginning to and didn't want to!”

“Beginning to——?” he questioned eagerly.

“A—a little,” she nodded.

He reached forward and covered the clasped hands with one of his.

“Beryl,” he said softly, “you told me once that you were going to call me the Happy Man, and I said I'd rather you made me that. Will you, dear? Are you going to make me a happy man, the very happiest man in the world?”

“If—if you want me to,” she answered simply.

“If I want you to!” he sighed. He drew one slim hand toward him and slipped something upon a finger. She looked at it, raised her eyes to his with a shy smile, and murmured:

“My ring!”

“Your ring, sweetheart, the ring you pledged yourself to me with four years ago.”

“Did I?” she asked.

“Didn't you? See for yourself!” He laughed happily.

“I suppose—I must have,” she agreed.

“Beryl!” he whispered. His eyes were drawing very close to hers. The morning world was still, so still that it seemed to them the throbbing of their hearts was the only sound in it. And it was a very beautiful world; a world of dazzlingly blue sky, of golden sunlight, of cool mauve shadows, of sparkling jewels on leaf and stem; a wonderful world of radiance and fragrance and love.

Later, the sun having meanwhile climbed above the tree-tops, they paused once more in their slow homeward journey, as though loath to leave this green and golden realm of romance, paused in the rose-fragrant shadow of the Prescotts' gate. Once beyond that, they must needs unclasp their hands and walk apart, an exaction poignantly tragic. For a girl who had had but a few hours of sleep, whose hair was in wild disorder, whose feet and ankles were soaking wet, and whose attire was lacking in both detail and conventionality, Beryl looked strangely happy and very lovely, and, considering the fact that they were in fair view of the Prescotts' upper windows, displayed a fine disregard for consequences.

“You called me once,” he said, “a dawdler and a harlequin. Do you remember?”

She nodded, her eyes suing for forgiveness.

“And you are still willing to marry a man who is—all those things?”

She nodded again. “I wouldn't want you changed a mite,” she declared. “Harlequins are—very nice.” And, after a moment, “I suppose,” she continued in simulated despair, and with a sigh, “you'll soon be running off to China again and leaving me all alone.”

“There will be no more running off, dear,” he answered, “for I have found what I was searching for.”

“Really?” she asked, pretending perplexity. “And what is that?”

He took her into his arms again, in front of seven staring windows.

“My Heart's Content,” he whispered.