Round the Corner in Gay Street Part 12

"You 'd be a good one to send after him," Murray answered, with a slight smile. "You 'd know better than to pounce on him like an officer of the law. You 'd treat him like a brother--a better brother than I 've been,"--and the smile faded.

"Look here, don't take it that way. There are few brothers I know who stand shoulder to shoulder as they ought to do. It's odd, but it's so, and a pity it is, too. I think our family is different from most--for the reason----" Here Peter stopped abruptly once more, meeting Jane's eyes. He could not say that early training, given by wise parents, had made all the difference in the world with their family life.

"Yes, I fancy I know the reason," said Murray, wistfully, "and I congratulate you on it."

"I 'm a stupid sort of Job's comforter," Peter went on. "But one thing is sure; if you 'd like an extra brother, to stand by in this difficulty, here he is."

He laid his hand on Murray's arm as he spoke, and Murray flushed with pleasure. He turned and held out his own hand, and Peter's closed on it with a grip. Then both began to talk with a will about other things.

When Murray went home he took Mrs. Bell with him. He watched her vanish through the doorway of his mother's room, where that poor lady had been all day in a state of nervous prostration, and felt that he had brought her a friend worth while.

The moment that his father came home Murray went to him with the news he had obtained in Gay Street. The two had a long conference, during which Murray discovered his father to be watching him with a peculiar expression, as if surprised to find this reserved son so ready with suggestions.

Mr. Townsend shook his head over the notion that Forrest could have carried his revolt against authority so far as to have taken the step of enlisting in the army; but when Murray urged that the clue should be followed up, the elder man said slowly:

"I don't know whether it would do any good to hunt him up and bring him home. He's taken things into his own hands. I feel like letting him manage his own affairs for a while. He has n't the force of character to deprive himself of the comforts of life very long. If he has enlisted, he 'd better take the consequences. I 'm not so sure but a term of service in the army would do him good, take the conceit out of him, and show him that he cannot escape discipline anywhere;--life itself means discipline of one sort or another."

"If we should find he had enlisted, then, you wouldn't take the steps to get him off? You could, you know, sir, since he 's under age. Peter says so."

"Peter? Peter who?"

"Peter Bell--in Gay Street."

"Oh, yes. You see a good deal of the Bells, Murray?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't think I should apply to have him released from service," said Mr. Townsend, slowly, grim lines settling about his mouth.

A week went by. At its close a second briefly letter arrived from Forrest, addressed to his mother. It stated that Forrest had enlisted in the army, and had, at his own application, been allowed to join a regiment just leaving for San Francisco, to be sent for a term of three years' service in the Philippines. By the time the letter reached home, Forrest would have sailed.

The letter was written in a spirit of boyish bravado, like the first, but although it upset Mrs. Townsend again and sent her back to her bed, it relieved the tension of the family. It furnished definite news of the young fellow's whereabouts, and made it possible to communicate with him when he should have reached his destination.

Mrs. Townsend spent many days thereafter in urging her husband to apply at headquarters to have her son returned. It could be done, she was sure, because the boy was but nineteen, and having enlisted without his father's permission, must have misrepresented his age at the recruiting-station. But Mr. Townsend remained firm. He said that Forrest, having chosen this course, must abide by it, at least for the term of service for which he had enlisted. He would not have a turncoat for a son, he said sternly, although with a suspicious lowering of the voice; and he was more and more impressed with the conviction that the hard realities of life would make a man out of Forrest if the stuff of which men are made was in him.

"Meanwhile," he said to Murray, with a sadness which the other detected, "it is the father, rather than the son, after all, who has the bitterest dose of medicine to take."

"I 'm sorry, sir," was all Murray could say, wondering if his father meant the fact that his plan for taking Forrest into the business would have to be given up.

He suggested this to Jane Bell, in the little garden one evening, down by the phlox-bed, where she had gone to pick a bunch of flowers for Olive, who sat upon the porch with Ross and Peter. Olive had at last learned the way over to Gay Street, and having found it, had discovered that the knowledge lent interest to a life she had felt to be very dull.

"I suppose he feels badly about it," said Murray, holding the phlox Jane gave him while she picked a cl.u.s.ter of lilies to go with it.

"Indeed, he must."

"It is the thing he has looked forward to for years--ever since he realised he could n't make a business man out of me."

"Yes, and I suppose, even if your brother came back after two or three years, less head-strong than now, he might not be any more willing to settle down to that life."

"No, I doubt if he would. It's all up for father, and it's a tremendous disappointment."

"I am very, very sorry for him," said Jane, gravely, musing over her lilies. There was silence for a moment; then she looked up. "You don't think," she ventured, her hazel eyes scanning his, "that anybody could possibly make it up to him?"

"Anybody? Who?"

"Who, indeed?" Jane was breathing a little quickly.

Murray stared at her in mingled astonishment, questioning and dismay.

Then he spoke, abruptly and roughly: "In the name of all absurdity, you can't mean _me_?"

Jane dropped her eyes, flushing deeply. She bit her lips. "It would be very, very hard, would n't it?"

Murray drew a deep, impatient breath. "_Hard!_" he exploded, and turned away. Then he wheeled back. "You're not serious?" he said, hurriedly.

"You can't be serious in even suggesting such a thing. I--bookworm, cripple, weakling----"

Jane raised her eyes once more. In the deepening twilight Murray felt as if they were searching his soul.

"And yet," she said, slowly, and almost wistfully, "it would be such a magnificent thing to do. It would take hero stuff, I know--yet," she smiled, "I think--you--could----" Then she stopped short. "Oh, forgive me!" she cried, softly, under her breath. "What am I that I should suggest hero deeds to you? A girl who cries nearly every night of her life because she can't go to college!"

CHAPTER VIII

MURRAY GIVES AN ANSWER

"I wish I knew," observed Olive Townsend to Jane Bell, "what in the world is the matter with Murray. He acts as if he had lost his head completely. I went into his room this morning, and almost fell over a pile of Indian clubs and dumb-bells; and I saw a set of chest weights hanging against the wall. It's the queerest thing! He's never gone in for that sort of thing at all--and I shouldn't think he was strong enough for it, either."

The two girls were driving along the park roadway in a high-hung phaeton of Olive's, behind a very smartly harnessed horse. This was the third time Olive had asked Jane to drive with her, and although Jane would have enjoyed excursions into the country much more than these drives about the fashionable city streets, she appreciated the honour Olive meant to do her in thus exhibiting their friendship to all beholders.

Olive had grown to be rather proud of Jane's company upon these drives, for she was conscious that they attracted considerable admiring attention, and she fancied that Jane's quiet daintiness of attire set off her own rather more striking style.

Jane laughed at the notion that Murray was not strong enough to put himself in the way of being stronger. She knew it was Peter who had suggested this course of proceedings in response to an envious comment from Murray, when he had seen Peter scantily garbed for some severe physical labor about the house.

"Biceps?" Peter had laughed, as Murray grasped the sinewy arm and expressed his admiration for the fine development thereof. "And deltoid?--Oh yes, that's easy. If your particular form of daily toil does n't give you muscle where you want it, get it for yourself with exercise. You can build up anything you like in a gymnasium--or in your own room, if you have the persistence."

"You could, with your splendid health to begin on, of course," Murray replied, with a sigh, for he had begun to suspect that Peter's unusual level-headedness and efficiency came in considerable degree from his well-developed body.

"So could you. A year of solid work with a good instructor would make another chap of you. Two years, an athlete."

"Oh, no--not with my const.i.tution."

"Your const.i.tution, man!" Peter had almost shouted. "What's const.i.tution? Something to be made just about what you will of.

Fellows with a direct tendency toward consumption have made themselves giants by living outdoors and sawing wood."

This had been the beginning, the first result of which serious talk had been the dumb-bells and chest-weights which had called forth Olive's suspicion of her brother's sanity.

"But he's never cared for anything but books--and to be let alone,"

objected Olive, when Jane replied that she thought nothing better could happen to Murray than to become interested in building up his physical being. "It's just since Forrest has been gone--only think, that's six weeks now--that Murray has been at this."