Why Joan? Part 63

"Don't include me with yourself," she protested in quick deprecation.

"I'm not and never shall be 'literary.' Human nature is all I'm after, Stefan. Villains who won't stay villains; heroes with fatal flaws of character; good, fine, n.o.ble natures who spread havoc all about 'em--that's the sort of thing I want to do; never 'literature'!"

He smiled, nodding. "Spoken like a true Cobzar!--But at that rate you'll find it difficult to escape literature, my dear." He rose to leave, against protests. "No, no, I have no intention of sharing honors with a Climax. Let me come back to-morrow, when the crisis is out of her system. I know how that is!"

"You always know how things are," murmured Joan gratefully, pressing his hand....

Archie walked with him to the car-station.

"You think she's looking well, sir?" he asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Better than well, Blair. Content."

The husband sighed with satisfaction. "I think so myself--though of course it's the kid who's done that, not me--Mr. Nikolai, I've got to talk to you on business. How big a hurry are you in for that money you lent me?"

"None at all," answered the other pleasantly. "I've acc.u.mulated a good deal of moss for such a rolling-stone--a racial trait, perhaps! Take your time. You've already paid me more than half, I think."

"Joan's book did most of that, not me," admitted Archie, flushing.

"Though of course I'm going to pay her back."

"Don't," said the other.

"_Don't!_ Why not?"

"Our only hold upon such as Joan is--our need of them."

Archie ruminated upon this in silence. "I get you," he said at last.

"Let 'em think we're sort of helpless, like--like children, eh? But it's pretty hard accepting money from a woman!"

"Why? When we have consented to accept life itself from a woman--Where there is love there is no debt, Blair!"

"I guess that's right," said Archie slowly. "What's mine is hers of course; and so what's hers is mine--But speaking of the war--"

It happened that they had not been speaking of the war at all, though it hung in the background of their talk, grim and menacing, as it hung in the background of all talk just then.

"Yes, Blair?"

"We're getting into it at last, thank G.o.d! And as soon as we do, I'm going."

"Of course," said Nikolai.

Archie turned to him eagerly. "You think I've got a right to go?"

"So much of a right that I've come out here largely to see how I can help you--Of course you know," he added after a moment's hesitation, "that anything I have will go some day to my namesake Stefan?"

"Say, that's great!" cried Archie, beaming. "That makes me mighty easy about the future! And the present's all right, too. I'm pretty sure of getting a commission, and Joan makes more money than I do now. The thing that's been troubling me is wondering how _you'd_ ever get paid back....

I'm pretty tall for the trenches," he explained. "And I seem to get sort of careless when I'm excited--the Irish coming out on me, I reckon. The chances are against my coming back. And in that case all you'd get would be--Joan."

A silence fell.

"And the kid, of course--He's a pretty nice little fellow," Archie added tentatively. "I don't suppose he'd be much of a--drawback?"

"On the contrary," said Nikolai. "I think he might be considered interest on the investment!"

Archie laughed with relief.

"I tell you, it makes me feel pretty comfortable to know that whatever happens to me they'll be safe! And to know that you'll be taking care of her, sir. She needs a good deal of taking care of, too--though she don't know it. Thinks she's as independent as a little pig on ice. But they're none of 'em independent, Mr. Nikolai--take it from me! They've got to be humored, and teased, and exercised, and petted--and the smarter they are the more petting they need. This high-brow business seems to leave people sort of lonesome in their hearts--you know what I mean?"

"Yes," said Nikolai, "I know what you mean--I shall accept your legacy gladly, Blair, if I am here to accept it. But--I am going to the war, myself. Not into the trenches, no. Into Russia."

Archie protested as Joan had. "But I thought Russia was not safe for you!"

"It is not. Nor for anybody else just now. There is something brewing there. You will see. And I think perhaps I can do a little something for both my countries, the new and the old. That is why I have come to America; to arrange my affairs, and to--say good-by."

"I get you," said Archie, simply, and held out his hand. His face had fallen. "Gee, supposing neither of us comes back? What will she do then?"

Nikolai gravely smiled. "Listen!" he said.

Through the hush of the still afternoon came to their ears, faint but distinct, the steady clicking of a typewriter.

"That is what she will do, my friend, with us or without. She has graduated from you and me--from herself as well. She has turned from men to Man; and of him the supply is inexhaustible."

Archie sighed, a little jealously. "You gave her that! You've given her almost everything she values, sir, haven't you?"

"Not quite everything, Blair."

Archie's eyes brightened. He remembered then the thing the other had not given her: their boy.

It was a scene that etched itself upon Nikolai's memory as he stood there waiting for his car, one of those pictures the heart carries with it into far places, and forever; the pleasant, homely cottage among its flowers and gnarled apple-trees, children's voices prattling about, the smell of cooking pickle in the air, Archie's cheery, retreating whistle, and dominating all the eager clicking of a typewriter.

His eyes followed the broad shoulders of the younger man, swinging along the road to the brisk, martial tread all young men have learned latterly.... Nikolai's life had thrown him into contact with all phases of the human problem, low and high. He knew how inextricably the two are mingled. Heroism, self-sacrifice, he had found in the most unlikely places, and thrilled to them as a fighting nature thrills to the drum.

It hurt him to realize that the finest heroism, the most exquisite sacrifice, must always be hidden things, hidden often even from the eyes of him who sacrifices. Archibald Blair, failure in all that the world finds important, would have called himself undoubtedly a poor stick.

Only to the occasional eye did he loom a hero.

Nikolai looked after him sadly, listening to the steady click of that typewriter. At last he quoted to himself, with a shrug,

"Meurs, parce que j'ai besoin de chanter la mort pour mes chansons."[1]

Between them, he knew, they would manage to serve Joan's needs to the end.

THE END

[Footnote: 1 "Die, for I have need to sing of death in my songs."]