The Dominant Dollar Part 15

The argument was irresistible and Randall capitulated.

"No, none whatever," he answered, as he was expected to answer; and once more sweet peace rested on the house of Randall.

Back in her place opposite once more Margery looked at her husband seriously, a pucker of perplexity on her smooth face.

"By the way," she digressed, "I've been wondering for some time now if anything's wrong with Elice and Steve. Has he hinted anything to you?"

"No; why?"

"Oh, I don't know anything definite; but he's been here three evenings the last week, you know, Sunday evening for one at that, and it looks queer."

"I've noticed it too," admitted Randall, "and he's coming again this evening. He asked permission and I couldn't well refuse. Not that I don't like to have him come," quickly, "but it interferes with my lectures next morning."

"And with our own evenings. I--just wish he wouldn't come so often."

Randall said nothing, but unconsciously he was stroking the bald spot already appearing on the crown of his head in a way he had when worried.

"And, besides," justified Margery, "it isn't treating Elice right. I think it's a shame."

This time the man looked up.

"She didn't say anything, intimate anything, I hope?" he hesitated.

"Of course not. It isn't her way. She's--queer for a woman, Elice is; she never gets confidential, no matter how good an opportunity you offer." A pause followed that spoke volumes. "Agnes Simpson, though, says there is something the matter--with Steve at least. They're talking about it in the department."

"Talking about what, Margery?" soberly. "He's a friend of ours, you know."

"Yes, I know," the voice was swift with a pent-up secret, "and we've tried hard to be nice to him; but, after all, we're not to blame that he--drinks!"

"Margery!" It was open disapproval this time, a thing unusual for Harry Randall. "We mustn't listen to such gossip, either of us. Steve and I have been chums for years and years and--we simply mustn't listen to such things at all."

For an instant the girl was silent; then the brown head tossed rebelliously.

"Well, I can't help it if people talk; and it isn't fair of you to suppose that I pa.s.s it on either--except to you. You know that I--" she checked herself. "It isn't as though Agnes was the only one either," she defended. "I've heard it several times lately." Inspiration came and she looked at her husband directly. "Honest, Harry, haven't you heard it too?"

The man hesitated, and on the instant solid ground vanished from beneath his feet.

"Yes, I have," he admitted weakly. "It's a burning shame too that people will concoct--" He halted suddenly, listening. His eyes went to the clock. "I had no idea it was so late," he digressed as the bell rang loudly. "That's Steve now. I know his ring."

Alone in the up-stairs study, which with its folding-bed was likewise spare sleeping-room and again smoking-room,--Margery had not yet surrendered to the indiscriminate presence of tobacco smoke,--Steve Armstrong ignored the chair Randall had proffered and remained standing, his hands deep in his trousers' pockets, a look new to his friend--one restless, akin to reckless--on his usually good-humored face. Contrary again to precedent his dress was noticeably untidy, an impression accentuated by a two-days' growth of beard and by neglected linen. That something far from normal was about to transpire Randall knew at a glance, but courteously seemed not to notice. Instead, with a familiar wave, he indicated the cigar-jar he kept on purpose for visitors and took a pipe himself.

"I haven't had my after-dinner smoke yet," he commented. "Better light up with me. It always tastes better when one has company."

"Thanks." Armstrong made a selection absently and struck a match; but, the unlighted cigar in his fingers, let the match burn dead. "I don't intend to bother you long," he plunged without preface. "I know you want to work." He glanced nervously at the door to see that it was closed. "I just wanted to have a little talk with you, a--little heart-to-heart talk."

"Yes." Randall's face showed no surprise, but his pipe bowl was aglow and his free hand was caressing his bald spot steadily.

"Frankly, old man," the other had fallen back into his former position, his hands concealed, his att.i.tude stiffly erect, "I'm in the deuce of a frame of mind to-night--and undecided." He laughed shortly. "You're the remedy that occurred to me."

"Yes," Randall repeated, this time with the slow smile, "I am a sort of remedy. Sit down and tell me about it. I'm receptive at least."

"Sit down! I can't, Harry." The restless look became one of positive repugnance. "I haven't been able to for a half-hour at a stretch for a week."

"Try it anyway," bluntly. "It won't do you any harm to try."

"Nor any good either. I know." He threw himself into a seat with a nervous scowl upon his face. "I haven't been able to do any real work for an age, which is worse," he continued. "My lectures lately have been a disgrace to the college. No one knows it better than myself."

A moment Randall hesitated, but even yet he did not put an inquiry direct.

"Yes?" he suggested again.

"I'm stale, I guess, or have lost my nerve or--or something." Armstrong smiled,--a crooked smile that failed to extinguish the furrows on his forehead. "By the way, have you got a little superfluous nerve lying about that you could stake me with?"

Randall echoed the laugh, because it seemed the only possible answer, but that was all.

In the silence that followed Armstrong looked at his friend opposite, the nervous furrow between his eyes deepening.

"I suppose you're wondering," he began at last, "just what's the matter with me and what I want of you. Concerning the first, there's a lot I might say, but I won't; I'll spare you. As to what I want to ask of you--Frankly, Harry, straight to the point and conventional reticence aside, ought I to marry or oughtn't I?" He caught the other's expression and answered it quickly. "I know this is a peculiar thing to ask and seems, looking at it from some angles, something I shouldn't ask; but you know all the circ.u.mstances between Elice and me and, in a way, our positions are a good deal similar. Just what do you think? Don't hesitate to tell me exactly."

In his seat Randall shifted uncomfortably; to gain time he filled his pipe afresh,--a distinct dissipation for the man of routine that he was.

"Frankly, as you suggest, Steve," he answered finally, "I'd rather not discuss the subject, rather not advise. It's--you know why--so big and personal."

"I realize that and have apologized already for bringing it up; but I can't decide myself--I've tried; and Elice--there are reasons why she can't a.s.sist now either. It's--" he made a motion to rise, but checked himself--"it's something that has to be decided now too."

"Has to?" Randall's eyes behind the big lens of his gla.s.ses were suddenly keen. "Why, Steve?"

"Because it's now or never," swiftly. "I've--we've hesitated until we can't delay any longer. I'm not sure that it's not been too long already, that's why Elice can't figure." He drew himself up with an effort, held himself still. "We've crossed the dividing line, Elice and I, and we're drifting apart. Just how the thing has come about I don't know; but it's true. We're on different roads somehow and we're getting farther apart every month." He sprang to his feet, his face turned away. "Soon--It's simply h.e.l.l, Harry!"

Randall sat still; recollecting, he laughed,--a laugh that he tried to make natural.

"Oh, pshaw!" He laughed again. "You're mixing up some of the novels you're writing with real life. This sort of thing is nonsense, pure nonsense."

"No, it's so," flatly. "I've tried hard enough to think it different, but I couldn't because it is so. It's h.e.l.l, I say!"

"Don't you love her, man?" abruptly.

"Love her!" Armstrong wheeled, his face almost fierce. "Of course I love her. A hundred times yes. I'm a cursed fool over her."

"Sit down then and tell me just what's on your mind. You're magnifying a mole-hill of some kind into a snow-capped peak. Sit down, please.

You--irritate me that way."

A second Armstrong hesitated. His face a bit flushed, he obeyed.

"That's better." The brusqueness was deliberately intentional. "Now out with it, clear the atmosphere. I'm listening."

Armstrong looked at his friend a bit suspiciously; but the mood was too strong upon him to cease now even if he would.

"Just what do you wish to know?" he asked in tentative prelude. "Give me a clew."