Half a Rogue by Harold MacGrath (bts book recommendations TXT) 📕

of delicate amethyst. The curving stream glittered. From where he stood he could see them bundling up the sheaves of wheat. All these things told him mutely that the world was going on the same as ever; nothing had changed. In the city men and women were going about their affairs as usual; the smoke rolled up from the great chimneys. When all is said, our griefs and joys are wholly our own; the outsider does not participate.

Yes, the world went on just the same. Death makes a vacancy, but the Great Accountant easily fills it; and the summing up of balances goes on. Let us thank God for the buoyancy of the human spirit, which, however sorely tried, presently rises and assumes its normal interest in life.

Warrington looked dreamily at the grave, and the philosopher in him speculated upon the mystery of it. Either the grave is Heaven or it is nothing; one can proceed no farther. If there was a Heaven (and in the secret corner of his heart he believed there was), a new star shone in the sky at night, a gentle, peaceful star. Just now the pain came in the knowledge that she was gone; later the actual absence would be felt. For a month or so it would seem that she had gone on a journey; he would find himself waiting and watching; but as the weeks and months went by, and he heard not her step nor her voice, then would come the real anguish. They tell us that these wounds heal; well, maybe; but they open and reopen and open again till that day we ourselves cease to take interest in worldly affairs.

He stooped and picked up one of the roses which she had held in her hand. Reverently he pressed his lips to it and put it away in his wallet. Then he turned and went slowly down the hill. He had never really known her till these last few months; not till now did he realize how closely knit together had been their lives and affections. He lighted a cigar, and with his hands behind his back and his chin in his collar, he continued to the gates. The old care-taker opened and closed the gates phlegmatically. Day by day they came, and one by one they never went out again. To him there was neither joy nor grief; if the grass grew thick and the trees leaved abundantly, that was all he desired.

It was a long walk to Williams Street, and he was tired when he entered the house. Jove leaped upon him gladly. Warrington held the dog's head in his hands and gazed into the brown eyes. Here was one that loved him, wholly and without question. You will always find some good in the man who retains the affection of his dog. In good times or bad, they are stanch friends; and they are without self-interest, which is more than human. In the living-room he found the Angora curled up on a sofa-cushion. He smoothed her, and she stretched her lithe body luxuriously and yawned. There is no other animal which so completely interprets the word indifference. Warrington wondered what he should do with her, for he was not very fond of cats. But his aunt had loved her, so he passed on to the dining-room without deciding what to do.

It was a lonely supper. He kept his eyes on his plate as well as he could; for whenever he saw the back of her chair, his food choked him. He wondered why he did not take the decanter of whisky down from the sideboard; a generous tumblerful. ... No. This was the first time in months that the desire to drink deeply came to him. No; he would leave it there. Supper done, he went to his den and took down a book. Could he live here now? He doubted it, for it was a house of empty doors. He settled himself in a chair and turned the pages of the book to a place he loved well. It was where D'Artagnan, representing Planchet and Company, returns to the grocer with the bags of English gold which, for several good reasons, Charles Second has given him for General Monk's sword. He was well along toward the fainting of the honest Planchet on the money-bags, when the telephone rang. He took up the receiver.

"Well?"

"Mama wants you to come over and spend the night with us. John and Kate will be here, too."

He recognized Patty's voice.

"I shall be very glad to," he replied. "Good-by." He rang for Mary, who came in, her eyes red and swollen; Poor soul, she had also lost her best friend. "I am going over to the Benningtons' to spend the night, Mary.

"Very well, sir; just as you think best."

The Benningtons were very kind to him. They engaged his interest the moment he entered the house. They talked of a thousand and one things diverting: the foreign news, the political outlook, the September horse-show at which Patty would ride and jump, what was contemplated in society for the fall and winter, the ice-carnival, and the engagements.

"Why don't you enter your Irish hunter?" asked John, when the talk veered around to horses again.

"I ride for the mere pleasure of it," replied Warrington; "or, if you will, I'm too lazy to learn the judges' catechism."

Presently they had him telling how he had written his first play, and how completely Mrs. Jack had fooled him on their first meeting.

"No, I have not the slightest desire to return to the stage," said Mrs. Jack, in answer to a casual inquiry made by Warrington.

"Not while I'm around," supplemented John.

"Why, nothing could lure me back to it," Mrs. Jack declared emphatically. "I am happy. I am very happy. I have nothing to wish for, save that my happiness may endure."

Mrs. Bennington, who had long since grown to love her daughter-in-law, smiled benignly.

"You will always be happy, my dear; you were born to be. It is the just reward for making those around you happy."

"Patty," said Warrington, "would you like the Angora?"

"I should love it dearly."

"Then I'll send it over to you in the morning."

And that was as near as they approached the subject they were tacitly avoiding.

At a quarter of nine, to the consternation of every one, Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was announced.

"Take me up stairs to the billiard-room," said Warrington; "I am not in the mood to meet that woman to-night."

"Come on, then," cried John, willing enough. "There's the servants' stairs. I'll give you a handicap of twenty in a hundred points."

"I'll beat you at those odds."

"That remains to be seen."

And the two hurried up the stairs just as the hall-door closed. The billiard-room was situated at the head of the front stairs. Warrington won the bank, and he ran a score of ten. While he was chalking his cue he heard voices.

"It is very sad." It was Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene talking. "We shall miss her in church work. It is a severe blow to Mr. Warrington."

"That was a good draw, John. Three cushions this time. Good. You're playing strong to-night."

"Did you think to bring over your pajamas?" John asked irrelevantly.

Warrington smiled in spite of himself.

"I forgot all about them," he admitted.

"Thought you would, so I brought over two sets. We're about the same size. Pshaw! that was an easy one, too."

Warrington missed his shot; He heard voices again.

"And I want you to help me." It was Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene again. "We shall reorganize the Woman's Auxiliary Republican Club, and we shall need you. It is principally for that that I came over."

"I take very little interest in anything outside my home," replied Mrs. Bennington.

"Did you get that?" whispered John, as he drew back for a carom.

"But this is very important for the city's welfare," pursued Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene.

"I doubt it. So long as we do not vote-"

"That's just it. We can't vote, but we can get together and control the male vote in the family. That's something."

John grinned at Warrington, who replied with a shrug.

"And they all call me the meddler!" he said.

"What's the matter with your staying on here a few days, Dick?"

"I should be nothing but a bother to you."

"Rot! You can't stay alone over there."

"I'll have to; I can't leave those poor old souls alone. They are broken-hearted. I sent her two hundred every month regularly, just for pin-money; and what do you think she did with it? Hoarded it up and willed something like two thousand to Mary and her husband. I'm all in, Dick. But go on; I'll finish the game."

"All right. But whenever you feel lonesome, come here or over to my house. There'll always be a spare room for you in either house."

"It's mighty kind of you, John. My shot?" Warrington ran four and missed.

Voices again.

"I never believe what I hear, and only half of what I see." That was Mrs. Jack speaking.

Murmurs. The billiard-balls clicked sharply as John played for position.

"The stage doesn't appeal to you any more, then?" Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene.

"Not in the least. It never did appeal to me. I am so far away from it now that I am losing the desire to witness plays."

"And for whom will Mr. Warrington write his plays now?"

"The vacancy I made has long ago been filled. I was but one in a thousand to interpret his characters. There is always a lack of plays, but never of actors."

"Excuse me for a moment." It was Patty this time.

"Certainly, my dear."

Warrington heard nothing more for several minutes.

"Is it true what I hear about Patty and that rich young Mr. Whiteland, of New York?"

"What is it that you have heard?"

"Why, that their engagement is about to be announced."

Warrington stood perfectly still. Whiteland had been a guest at the Adirondack bungalow earlier in the summer. He waited for the answer, and it seemed to him that it would never come.

"I am not engaged to any one, Mrs. Haldene, and I hope you will do me the favor to deny the report whenever you come across it." Patty had returned. "It seems incredible that a young man may not call upon a young woman without their names becoming coupled matrimonially."

"Nevertheless, he is regarded as extremely eligible."

"I have often wondered over Haldene's regular Saturday night jag at the club," said John, stringing his count, "but I wonder no longer. They say she never goes out Saturdays."

Warrington heard the words, but the sense of them passed by. He could realize only one thing, and that was, he loved Patty better than all the world. He could accept his own defeat with philosophy, but another man's success!-could he accept that? How strangely everything had changed in the last few days! He had never known real mental anguish; heartaches in others had always afforded him mild amusement and contempt. It was one thing, he reflected, to write about human emotions; it was entirely another thing to live and act them. He saw that his past had been full of egotism and selfishness, but he also saw that his selfishness was of the kind that has its foundation in indifference and not in calculation. The voices went on down stairs, but