“There is one thing we could do.”
“What, Peter?”
“We could marry. If you cared for me even
a little it—it might not be so bad for
you.”
“But I am not in love with you. I care
for you, of course, but—not that way, Peter.
And I do not wish to marry.”
“Not even if I wish it very much?”
“No.”
“If you are thinking of my future—”
“I’m thinking for both of us. And
although just now you think you care a little for
me, you do not care enough, Peter. You are lonely
and I am the only person you see much, so you think
you want to marry me. You don’t really.
You want to help me.”
Few motives are unmixed. Poor Peter, thus accused,
could not deny his altruism.
And in the face of his poverty and the little he could
offer, compared with what she must lose, he did not
urge what was the compelling motive after all, his
need of her.
“It would be a rotten match for you,”
he agreed. “I only thought, perhaps—You
are right, of course; you ought not to marry.”
“And what about you?”
“I ought not, of course.”
Harmony rose, smiling a little.
“Then that’s settled. And for goodness’
sake, Peter, stop proposing to me every time things
go wrong.” Her voice changed, grew grave
and older, much older than Peter’s. “We
must not marry, either of us, Peter. Anna is
right. There might be an excuse if we were very
much in love: but we are not. And loneliness
is not a reason.”
“I am very lonely,” said Peter wistfully.
Peter took the polished horns to the hospital the
next morning and approached Jimmy with his hands behind
him and an atmosphere of mystery that enshrouded him
like a cloak. Jimmy, having had a good night
and having taken the morning’s medicine without
argument, had been allowed up in a roller chair.
It struck Peter with a pang that the boy looked more
frail day by day, more transparent.
“I have brought you,” said Peter gravely,
“the cod-liver oil.”
“I’ve had it!”
“Then guess.”
“Dad’s letter?”
“You’ve just had one. Don’t
be a piggy.”
“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”
“Vegetable,” said Peter shamelessly.
“Soft or hard!”
“Soft.”
This was plainly a disappointment. A pair of
horns might be vegetable; they could hardly be soft.
“A kitten?”
“A kitten is not vegetable, James.”
“I know. A bowl of gelatin from Harry!”
For by this time Harmony was his very good friend,
admitted to the Jimmy club, which consisted of Nurse
Elisabet, the Dozent with the red beard, Anna and
Peter, and of course the sentry, who did not know that
he belonged.
“Gelatin, to be sure,” replied Peter,
and produced the horns.
It was a joyous moment in the long low ward, with
its triple row of beds, its barred windows, its clean,
uneven old floor. As if to add a touch of completeness
the sentry outside, peering in, saw the wheeled chair
with its occupant, and celebrated this advance along
the road to recovery by placing on the window-ledge
a wooden replica of himself, bayonet and all, carved
from a bit of cigar box.
