AUNT JANE'S NIECES AND UNCLE JOHN
Continued....
CHAPTER XIX
"THREE TIMES"
Softly stepping over the thick carpets, which
deadened the sound of
the crutches--now becoming scarcely necessary to
her--the young girl
passed along the corridor, passing angles and turns
innumerable on her
way to her room. Some erratic architect certainly
concocted the
plan of the Hotel del Coronado. It is a very
labyrinth of passages
connecting; its nine hundred rooms, and one has to
have a good bump of
location to avoid getting lost in its mazes.
Near one of the abrupt turns a door stood ajar, and
in passing Myrtle
glanced in, and then paused involuntarily. It was a
small parlor,
prettily furnished, and in a big chair reclined a
man whose hands were
both pressed tight against his face, thus covering
it completely. But
Myrtle knew him. The thin frame, as well as the
despairing attitude,
marked him as the man who had come so strangely into
her life and
whose personality affected her so strangely. She now
stood in the
dimly lighted corridor looking in upon him with
infinite pity, and as
she looked her glance fell upon the table beside
him, where something
bright glittered beneath the electric lamps.
Her heart gave a sudden thump of mingled fear and
dismay. She knew
intuitively what that "something" was. "Let him,"
Uncle John had said;
but Myrtle instantly determined _not_ to let him.
She hesitated a moment; but seeing that the man
remained motionless,
his eyes still covered, as if lost to all his
surroundings, she softly
crept forward and entered the room. She held the
crutches under her
arms, but dared not use them for fear of making a
noise. Step by step
she stole forward until the table was within reach.
Then she stretched
out her hand, seized the revolver, and hid it in the
folds of her
blouse.
Turning for a final glance at the man she was
startled to find he had
removed his hands and was steadfastly regarding her.
Myrtle leaned heavily on her crutches. She felt
faint and miserable,
like a criminal caught in the act. As her eyes fell
before the intent
gaze her face turned scarlet with humiliation and
chagrin. Still, she
did not attempt to escape, the idea not occurring to
her; so for a
time the tableau was picturesque--the lame girl
standing motionless
with downcast eyes and the man fixedly staring at
her.
"Three times!" he slowly said, in a voice finally
stirred by a trace
of emotion. "Three times. My child, why are you so
persistent?"
Myrtle tried to be brave and meet his gaze. It was
not quite so
difficult now the silent man had spoken.
"Why do you force me to be persistent?" she asked, a
tremor in her
voice. "Why are you determined to--to--"
Words failed her, but he nodded to show he
understood.
"Because," said he, "I am tired; very tired, my
child. It's a big
world; too big, in fact; but there's nothing in it
for me any more."
There was expression enough in his voice now;
expression of utter
despondency.
"Why?" asked Myrtle, somewhat frightened to find
herself so bold.
He did not answer for a long time, but sat reading
her mobile face
until a gentler look came into his hard blue eyes.
"It is a story too sad for young ears," he finally
replied. "Perhaps,
too, you would not understand it, not knowing or
understanding me. I'm
an odd sort of man, well along in years, and I've
lived an odd sort
of life. But my story, such as it is, has ended, and
I'm too weary to
begin another volume."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Myrtle, earnestly. "Surely this
cannot be the
fulfillment and end of your life. If it were, why
should _I_ come into
your life just now?"
He stared at her with a surprised--an even
startled--look.
"Have you come into my life?" he inquired, in a low,
curious tone.
"Haven't I?" she returned. "At the Grand Canyon--"
"I know," he interrupted hastily. "That was your
mistake; and mine.
You should not have interfered. I should not have
let you interfere."
"But I did," said Myrtle.
"Yes. Somehow your voice sounded like a command, and
I obeyed it;
perhaps because no living person has a right to
command me. You--you
took me by surprise."
He passed his hand over his eyes with that weary
gesture peculiar to
him, and then fell silent.
Myrtle had remained standing. She did not know what
to do in this
emergency, or what more to say. The conversation
could not be ended in
this summary fashion. The hopeless man needed her in
some way; how,
she did not know. Feeling weak and very incompetent
to meet the
important crisis properly, the girl crept to a chair
opposite the man
and sank into it. Then she leaned her chin upon her
hand and looked
pleadingly at her strange acquaintance. He met her
eyes frankly.
The hard look in his own seemed to have disappeared,
dispelled by a
sympathy that was new to him.
And so they sat, regarding one another silently yet
musingly, for a
long time.
"I wish," said Myrtle once, in her softest, sweetest
tones, "I could
help you. Some one helped me when I was in great
trouble, so I want to
help you."
He did not reply, and another period of silence
ensued. But his next
speech showed he had been considering her words.
"Because you have suffered," he said, "you have
compassion for others
who suffer. But your trouble is over now?"
"Almost," she said, smiling brightly.
He sighed, but questioned her no farther.
"A while ago," she volunteered, "I had neither
friends nor relatives."
He gave her a queer look, then. "I had no money. I
had been hurt in an
accident and was almost helpless. But I did not
despair, sir--and I am
only an inexperienced girl.
"In my darkest hour I found friends--kind, loving
friends--who showed
me a new world that I had not suspected was in
existence. I think
the world is like a great mirror," she continued,
meditatively, "and
reflects our lives just as we ourselves look upon
it. Those who turn
sad faces toward the world find only sadness
reflected. But a smile is
reflected in the same way, and cheers and brightens
our hearts. You
think there is no pleasure to be had in life. That
is because you are
heartsick and--and tired, as you say. With one sad
story ended you are
afraid to begin another--a sequel--feeling it would
be equally sad.
But why should it be? Isn't the joy or sorrow
equally divided in
life?"
"No," he replied.
"A few days ago," she continued earnestly, "we were
crossing the
Arizona deserts. It was not pleasant, but we did not
despair, for
we knew the world is not all desert and that the
land of roses and
sunshine lay just beyond. Now that we're in
California we've forgotten
the dreary desert. But you--Why, sir, you've just
crossed your desert,
and you believe all the world is bitter and cruel
and holds no joy for
you! Why don't you step out bravely into the roses
and sunshine of
life, and find the joy that has been denied you?"
He looked into her eyes almost fearfully, but it
seemed to her that
his own held a first glimmer of hope.
"Do you believe there can be joy for me anywhere in
the world?" he
asked.
"Of course. I tell you there's just as much sweet as
there is bitter
in life. Don't I know it? Haven't I proved it? But
happiness doesn't
chase people who try to hide from it. It will meet
you halfway, but
you've got to do your share to deserve it. I'm not
preaching; I've
lived this all out, in my own experience, and know
what I'm talking
about. Now as for you, sir, I can see very plainly
you haven't been
doing your duty. You've met sorrow and let it
conquer you. You've
taken melancholy by the hand and won't let go of it.
You haven't tried
to fight for your rights--the rights God gave to
every man and expects
him to hold fast to and take advantage of. No,
indeed!"
"But what is the use?" he asked, timidly, yet with
an eager look in
his face. "You are young, my child; I am nearly old
enough to have
been your father. There are things you have not yet
learned; things I
hope you will never learn. An oak may stand alone in
a field, and be
lonely because it cannot touch boughs with another.
A flower may bloom
alone in a garden, and wither and die for want of
companionship. God's
wisdom grouped every living thing. He gave Adam a
comrade. He created
no solitary thing. But see, my child: although this
world contains
countless thousands, there is not one among them I
may call my
friend."
"Oh, yes; just one!" said Myrtle quickly. "I am your
friend. Not
because you want me, but because you need me. And
that's a beginning,
isn't it? I can find other friends for you, among
_my_ friends, and
you will be sure to like them because I like them."
This naive suggestion did not affect him as much as
the fact that this
fair young girl had confessed herself his friend. He
did not look at
Myrtle now; he stared straight ahead, at the wall
paper, and his brow
was furrowed as if he was thinking deeply.
Perhaps any other man would have thanked the girl
for her sympathy and
her proffered friendship, or at the least have
acknowledged it. But
not so this queer Mr. Jones; eccentric, indeed, as
the shrewd landlord
had described him. Nor did Myrtle seem to expect an
acknowledgment.
It was enough for her that her speech had set him
thinking along new
lines.
He sat musing for so long that she finally
remembered it was growing
late, and began to fear Patsy and Beth would seek
their rooms, which
connected with her own, and find her absent. That
would worry them. So
at last she rose softly, took her crutches and
turned to go.
"Good night, my--friend," she said.
"Good night, my child," he answered in a mechanical
tone, without
rousing from his abstraction.
Myrtle went to her room and found it was not so late
as she had
feared. She opened a drawer and placed the revolver
in it, not without
a little shudder.
"At any rate," she murmured, with satisfaction, "he
will not use this
to-night."
AUNT JANE'S NIECES AND UNCLE JOHN
Continued....
 
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