“Yes.”
He stirred restlessly. To stay on, to be near Sidney, perhaps to stand by as Wilson’s best man when he was married—it turned him cold. But he did not give a decided negative. The sick man was flushed and growing fretful; it would not do to irritate him.
“Give me another day on it,” he said at last. And so the matter stood.
Max’s injury had been productive of good, in one way. It had brought the two brothers closer together. In the mornings Max was restless until Dr. Ed arrived. When he came, he brought books in the shabby bag—his beloved Burns, although he needed no book for that, the “Pickwick Papers,” Renan’s “Lives of the Disciples.” Very often Max world doze off; at the cessation of Dr. Ed’s sonorous voice the sick man would stir fretfully and demand more. But because he listened to everything without discrimination, the older man came to the conclusion that it was the companionship that counted. It pleased him vastly. It reminded him of Max’s boyhood, when he had read to Max at night. For once in the last dozen years, he needed him.
“Go on, Ed. What in blazes makes you stop every five minutes?” Max protested, one day.
Dr. Ed, who had only stopped to bite off the end of a stogie to hold in his cheek, picked up his book in a hurry, and eyed the invalid over it.
“Stop bullying. I’ll read when I’m ready. Have you any idea what I’m reading?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I haven’t. For ten minutes I’ve been reading across both pages!”
Max laughed, and suddenly put out his hand. Demonstrations of affection were so rare with him that for a moment Dr. Ed was puzzled. Then, rather sheepishly, he took it.
“When I get out,” Max said, “we’ll have to go out to the White Springs again and have supper.”
That was all; but Ed understood.
Morning and evening, Sidney went to Max’s room. In the morning she only smiled at him from the doorway. In the evening she went to him after prayers. She was allowed an hour with him then.
The shooting had been a closed book between them. At first, when he began to recover, he tried to talk to her about it. But she refused to listen. She was very gentle with him, but very firm.
“I know how it happened, Max,” she said—”about Joe’s mistake and all that. The rest can wait until you are much better.”
If there had been any change in her manner to him, he would not have submitted so easily, probably. But she was as tender as ever, unfailingly patient, prompt to come to him and slow to leave. After a time he began to dread reopening the subject. She seemed so effectually to have closed it. Carlotta was gone. And, after all, what good could he do his cause by pleading it? The fact was there, and Sidney knew it.
On the day when K. had told Max his reason for giving up his work, Max was allowed out of bed for the first time. It was a great day. A box of red roses came that day from the girl who had refused him a year or more ago. He viewed them with a carelessness that was half assumed.
The news had traveled to the Street that he was to get up that day. Early that morning the doorkeeper had opened the door to a gentleman who did not speak, but who handed in a bunch of early chrysanthemums and proceeded to write, on a pad he drew from his pocket:—
“From Mrs. McKee’s family and guests, with their congratulations on your recovery, and their hope that they will see you again soon. If their ends are clipped every day and they are placed in ammonia water, they will last indefinitely.” Sidney spent her hour with Max that evening as usual. His big chair had been drawn close to a window, and she found him there, looking out. She kissed him. But this time, instead of letting her draw away, he put out his arms and caught her to him.
“Are you glad?”
“Very glad, indeed,” she said soberly.
“Then smile at me. You don’t smile any more. You ought to smile; your mouth—”
“I am almost always tired; that’s all, Max.”
She eyed him bravely.
“Aren’t you going to let me make love to you at all? You get away beyond my reach.”
“I was looking for the paper to read to you.”
A sudden suspicion flamed in his eyes.
“Sidney.”
“Yes, dear.”
“You don’t like me to touch you any more. Come here where I can see you.”
The fear of agitating him brought her quickly. For a moment he was appeased.
“That’s more like it. How lovely you are, Sidney!” He lifted first one hand and then the other to his lips. “Are you ever going to forgive me?”
“If you mean about Carlotta, I forgave that long ago.”
He was almost boyishly relieved. What a wonder she was! So lovely, and so sane. Many a woman would have held that over him for years—not that he had done anything really wrong on that nightmare excursion. But so many women are exigent about promises.
“When are you going to marry me?”
“We needn’t discuss that to-night, Max.”
