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  CHAPTER VI

  "At least," Mildred Lorimer wept, "at _least_, Stephen, make them keepit a secret! Make them promise not to tell a living soul--and not to actin such a way as to let people suspect! I think"--she lifted tragic,reproachful eyes to him--"you ought to do what you can, now, consideringthat it's all your fault."

  "Some day," said her husband, sturdily, "it will be all my cleverness... all my glory. I did honestly believe it was a cradle chumship whichwouldn't last, Mildred. I thought it would break of its own length. ButI'm glad it hasn't."

  "Stephen, how _can_ you? One of the 'Wild Kings'--I cannot bear it. Isimply cannot bear it." She clutched at her hope. "She must go abroadeven sooner than we planned--and _stay_ abroad. Stephen, you will makethem keep it a secret from every one?"

  "They've already told Carter. Told him just after they'd told me."

  "Oh, poor, poor Carter!" There was a note of fresh woe in her voice.

  He turned sharply to look at her. "So, that's where the pointed patentleather pinches, Mildred?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You've been hoping it would be Carter?"

  "Dearest, I've looked upon them all as children.... It was the merest... idea ... thought. Mrs. Van Meter is devoted to Honor, Carter is anunusual boy, and they're exceptional people. And he--of course, I meanin his boyish way--_adores_ Honor. This will be a cruel blow for him."She grieved. "Poor, frail boy...."

  Stephen Lorimer smoked in silence for a moment. "I fancy Carter will notgive up hope. There's nothing frail about his disposition. His willdoesn't limp."

  "Well, I certainly hope he doesn't consider it final. I don't. Iconsider it a silly boy-and-girl piece of sentimental nonsense, and Ishall do everything in my power to break it up. I consider that mychild's happiness is at stake."

  "Yes," said her husband, "so do I." He got up and went round to hiswife's chair and put penitent arms about her and comforted her. Afterall, he could afford to be magnanimous. He was going to win his pointin the end, and meanwhile it would be an excellent thing for theyoungsters to have Mildred doing everything in her pretty power to breakit up. She might just as well, he believed, try to put out the hearthfire with the bellows.

  With her daughter she became motherly and admonitory in her officialthird person. "Mother wants only your happiness; you know that, dear."

  "Well, then, there's nothing to worry about," said Honor, comfortably,"for you want me to be happy and I can't be happy unless it's withJimsy, so you'll have to want me to have Jimsy, Muzzie!"

  "Mother wants real happiness for you, Honor, genuine, lasting happiness.That's why she wants you to be sure. And you cannot possibly be sure atyour age."

  "Yes, I can, Muzzie," said Honor, patiently. "Surer than sure.Why,--haven't I always had Jimsy,--ever since I can remember? _Before_ Ican remember? He's part of everything that's ever happened to me. Ican't imagine what things would be like without him. _I won't imagineit!_" Her eyes darkened and her mouth grew taut.

  "But you'll promise Mother to keep it a secret? You'll promise mefaithfully?"

  "Of course, Muzzie, if you want me to, but I can't see what differenceit makes. I'll never be any surer than I am now,--and I can't ever knowJimsy any better than I do now. Why"--she laughed--"it isn't as if I hadfallen in love at eighteen, with a new person, some one I'd just met, orsome one I'd known only a little while, like Carter! If I felt like thisabout Carter I'd think it was reasonable to 'wait' and be 'sure.'" Shewas aware of a new expression on her mother's lovely face andinterpreted it in her own fashion. "I'm sorry if you don't like ourtelling Carter, Muzzie. We did it before you asked us not to, you know.He's always with us and I'm sure he'd have found out, anyway." Shesmiled. "Carter's funny about it. He acts--amused--as if he were yearsand years older, and we were babies playing in a sand box or making mudpies." It was clear that his amusement amused her, just as her mother'sadmonition amused her: nothing annoyed or disturbed her,--her serenitywas too deep for that. Her fine placidity was lighted now with an innerflame, but she was very quiet about her happiness; she was not veryarticulate in her joy.

  "Mother cannot let you go about unchaperoned with Jimsy, Honor. Peoplewould very soon suspect----"

  "I don't think they would, Muzzie," said Honor, calmly. "None of theother mothers are so particular, you know. Most of the girls go on walksand rides alone. But we won't, if you'd rather not. Stepper will go withus, or Billy, or Ted."

  Mrs. Lorimer sighed. She could envisage just how much efficient,deterrent chaperonage her husband would supply.

  She watched them set off for the Malibou Ranch the next Sunday morningrather complacently, however. She had seen to it that Carter was of theparty. To be sure, he was in the tonneau with Stephen Lorimer and theyoung Carmodys and Lorimers and the heroic-sized lunch box and thethermos case, while Jimsy and Honor sat in front, but at least he wasthere. There would be no ignoring Carter, as they might well ignore herhusband and sons.

  Carter, talking easily and intelligently to his host about the growingproblem of Mexico, quietly watched the two in front. They were nottalking very much. Jimsy was driving and he kept his eyes on the roadfor the most part, and Honor sat very straight, her hands in her lap.Only once Carter saw, from the line of his arm, that Jimsy had put hisleft hand over hers, and when it happened he stopped short in the middleof his neat sentence and an instant later he said, coloringfaintly,--"I beg your pardon, Mr. Lorimer,--you were saying?"

  Stephen Lorimer felt an intense pity for him but he did not see anypresent or future help for his misery. Therefore, when they had finishedtheir gypsy luncheon and the younger boys were settling it by a wildrough-house before their swim and Jimsy rose and said, "Want to walk upthe coast, Skipper?" and Honor said, "Yes,--just as soon as I've putthese things away," he went deliberately and seated himself besideCarter and began to read aloud to him from the Sunday paper.

  He looked up from the sheet to watch the boy's face as the others setoff. Carter pulled himself to his feet. He ran his tongue over his lipsin rare embarrassment. "I--don't you feel like a stroll, too, Mr.Lorimer? After that enormous lunch, I----"

  Honor's stepfather grinned. "Well, I don't feel like a stroll in thatdirection, Carter. Let 'em alone,--shan't we?" He included him in theattitude of affectionate indulgence. "I've been there myself, and youwill be there--if you haven't been already." He patted the sand besidehim. "Sit down, old man. This editorial sounds promising."

  But Carter would not be denied. "Mr. Lorimer, you don't considerit--_serious_, do you?"

  "About the most serious matter in the world, I should say, Carter."

  The boy refused the generalization. "I mean, between Honor and Jimsy?"He was visibly expecting a negative answer. "I know that Mrs. Lorimerdoesn't."

  "Well, I disagree with her. I should say, with average youngsters oftheir age that it was as transient as--as the measles. But they aren'taverage, Carter."

  "I know that. At least, Honor isn't."

  "Nor Jimsy. I sometimes think, Carter, that fellows of our type, yoursand mine," he was not looking at him now, he was running his longfingers lazily through the hot and shining sand, "are apt to be a littlecontemptuous in our minds of his sort. Being rather long on brain, wefancy, we allow ourselves a scorn of the more or less unadorned brawn.And yet,--they're the salt of the earth, Carter; they're the cities seton hills. They do the world's red-blooded vital jobs while we--think.And Honor's not clever either; you know that, Carter. All the sense andbalance and character in the world, Top Step, God love her, but not aflash of brilliancy. They're capitally suited. Sane, sound, sweet;gloriously fit and healthy young animals--" this was calculated cruelty;Carter might as well face things; there would be a girl, waiting nowsomewhere, no doubt, who wouldn't mind his limp, but Honor must have amate of her own vigorous breed,--Honor who had always and would always"run with the boys,"--"who will produce their own sort again."

  The boy's mouth was twisted. "And--and how about his blood--hisheredity? Isn't he one of the 'Wild Kin
gs'?"

  "You know," Stephen lighted a cigarette, "I don't believe he is! He'sgot their looks and their charm, but I'm convinced he's two-thirdsScotch mother,--that sturdy soul who would have saved his father ifdeath hadn't tricked her. And I'm rather a radical about heredity,anyway, Carter. It's gruesomely overrated, I think. What is it?--Clammyhands reaching out from the grave to clutch at warm young flesh--andpollute it? Not while there are living hands to beat them off!" He beganto get vehement and warm. There was to be a chapter on heredity in thatbook of his, one day. "It's a bogy. It goes down before environment asthe dark before the dawn. Why, environment's a vital, flesh and bloodthing, fighting with and for us every instant! I could take theoffspring of Philip the Second and Great Catherine and make a--a FrancesWillard or a Jane Addams of her,--_if_ people didn't sit about likecrows, cawing about her parents and her blood and her heritage. Evendry, statistical scientists are beginning----"

  And while like the Ancient Mariner he held Carter Van Meter on the sunnysand Honor and Jimsy walked sedately up the shore. They were a littleill at ease, both of them. It was the first time since--as Honor put itto herself--"it had happened" that they had been quite alone with eachother in the hard, bright daylight. There had been delectable moments onthe stairs, on the porch, stolen seconds in the summerhouse, but herethey were on a blazing Sunday afternoon under a turquoise sky, with asalt and hearty wind stinging their faces, all by themselves. They wouldnot be quite out of sight of the rest, though, until they rounded thenext turn in the curving road. Jimsy looked back over his shoulder,obviously taking note of the fact. He knew that Honor knew it, too, andthe sight of her hot cheeks, her resolute avoidance of his eyes put himsuddenly at ease.

  "I guess," he said, casually, "this is kind of like Italy. Fair enough,isn't it?"

  "Heavenly," said Honor, a little breathlessly. "Italy! Just think,Jimsy,--next year at this time I'll _be_ in Italy!"

  "Gee," he said, solemn and aghast, "_gee_!" They had passed the turn andinstantly he had her in a tense, vise-like hug. "No, you won't. No, youwon't. _I won't let you._ I won't let you go 'way off there, alone,without me. I won't let you, Skipper, do you hear?" Suddenly he stoppedtalking and began to kiss her. Presently he laughed. "I've always knownI was a poor nut, Skipper, but to think it took me eighteen years todiscover what it would be like to kiss you!" He took up his task again.

  "Oh," said Honor, gasping, pushing him away with her hands against hischest--"you wouldn't have had _time_!"

  "I could have dropped Spanish or Math'," he grinned. "Come on,--let's gofurther up the coast. Some of those kids will be tagging after us, orCarter."

  "Not Carter. Stepper's reading to him. He won't let him come."

  "One peach of a scout, Stephen Lorimer is," said the boy, warmly. "Bestscout in the world."

  "He's the best friend we've got in the world, Jimsy," she said gravely.

  "I know it. Your mother's pretty much peeved about it, Skipper."

  "Yes, she is, just now. Poor Muzzie! I'm afraid I've never pleased hervery much. But she gets over things. She'll get over it when--when shefinds that we _don't_ get over it!" She held out her hand to him and hetook it in a hard grip, and they swung along at a fine stride, up thetwisting shore road. They came at last to the great gate which led intothe Malibou Ranch and they halted there and went down into a littlepocket of rocks and sand and sun and sat down with their faces to theshining sea.

  He kissed her again. "No; you can't go to Italy, Skipper. That'ssettled."

  "Then--what are we going to do, Jimsy dear?"

  "Why, we'll just get--" his bright face clouded over. "Good Lord, I'mtalking like a nit-wit. We've got to wait, that's all. What could I donow? Run up alleys with groceries? Take care of gardens?"

  "Not _my_ garden! You don't know a tulip from a cauliflower!"

  "No, I'll have to learn to do something with my head and my hands,--notjust my legs! I guess life isn't all football, Skipper."

  "But I guess it's all a sort of game, Jimsy, and we have to 'play' it!And it wouldn't be playing the game for our people or for ourselves todo something silly and reckless. This thing--caring for each other--isthe wisest, biggest thing in our lives, and we've got to keep it that,haven't we?"

  He nodded solemnly. "That's right, Skipper. We have. I guess we'll justhave to grit our teeth and wait--_gee_--three years, anyway, till I'mtwenty-one! That's the deuce of a long time, isn't it? Lord, why wasn'tI born five years before you? Then it would be O. K. Loads of girls aremarried at eighteen."

  "You weren't born five years before me because then it would havespoiled everything," said Honor, securely confident of the eternalrightness of the scheme of things. "You would have been marching aroundin overalls when I was born, and when I was ten you would have beenfifteen, and you wouldn't have _looked_ at me,--and now you'd be throughcollege and engaged to some wonderful Stanford girl! No, it's perfectlyall right as it is, Jimsy. Only, we've just got to be sensible."

  "Well, I'll tell you one thing right now, Skipper, I'm not going to waitfive or six years. I'm going to go two years to college, enough to bat alittle more knowledge into my poor bean, and then I'm coming out and geta job,--and get you!" He illustrated the final achievement by catchingher in his arms again.

  When she could get her breath Honor said, "But we needn't worry aboutall of it now, dear. We haven't got to wait the four--or six years--allat once! Just a month, a week, a day at a time. And the time willfly,--you'll see! You'll have to work like a demon----"

  "And you won't be there to help me!"

  "And there'll be football all fall and baseball all spring, andtheatricals, and we'll write to each other every day, won't we?"

  "Of course. But I write such bone-headed boob letters, Skipper."

  "I won't care what they're like, Jimsy, so long as you tell me things."

  "_Gee_ ... I'm going to be lost up there without you, Skipper."

  "You'll have Carter, dear."

  "I know. That'll help a lot. Honestly, I don't know how a fellow with ahead like his puts up with me. He forgets more every night when he goesto sleep than I'll ever know. He's a wonder. Yes, it sure--will help alot to have Carter. But it won't be you."

  "Jimsy, have you told--your father?"

  He nodded. "Last night. He was--he's been feeling great these last fewdays. He was sitting at his desk, looking over some old letters andpapers, and I went in and--and told him."

  "What did he say?"

  "He didn't say anything at first. He just sat still for a long time,staring at the things he'd been reading. And then he got out a littleold leather box that he said was my mother's and unlocked it and tookout a ring." Jimsy thrust a hand deep into a trouser pocket and broughtout a twist of tissue paper, yellowed and broken with age. He unwrappedit and laid a slender gold ring on Honor's palm.

  "_Jimsy!_" It was an exquisite bit of workmanship, cunningly carved andchased, with a look of mellow age. There were two clasped hands,--notthe meaningless models for wedding cakes, slim, tapering, faultless, buttwo cleverly vital looking hands, a man's and a woman's, the one ruggedand strong, the other slender and firm, and the wrists, masculine andfeminine, merging at the opposite side of the circle into one. "Oh ..."Honor breathed, "it's wonderful...."

  "Yes. It's a very old Italian ring. It was my great-grandmother's,first. It always goes to the wife of the eldest son. My Dad says it'ssupposed to mean love and marriage and--and everything--'the endlesscircle of creation,' he said, when I asked him what it meant, but firsthe just said, 'Give this to your girl and tell her to _hold hard_. Tellher we're a bad lot, but no King woman ever let go.'"

  Suddenly and without warning, as on the day when Stephen Lorimer hadfirst read the Newbolt poem to them, Honor began to cry.

  "Skipper! Skipper, _dearest_--" she was in the young iron clasp of hisarms and his cheek was pressed down on her hair. "What is it? Skipper,tell me!"

  "Oh," she sobbed, clinging to him, "I can't bear it, Jimsy! All theyears--all those splendid men, a
ll those faithful women, 'holding hard'against--against----"

  He gathered her closer. "My Dad's the last of 'em, Skipper. He's thelast 'Wild King.' It stops with him. I told him that, and he believesme. Do you believe me, Skipper?"

  She stopped sobbing and looked up at him for a long moment, her wet eyessolemn, her breath coming in little gasps. Then--"I do believe you,Jimsy," she said. "_I'll never stop believing you._"

  He kissed her gravely. "And now I'll show you the secret of the ring."He took it from her and pressed a hidden spring. The clasped handsslowly parted, revealing a small intensely blue sapphire. "That's for'constancy,' my Dad says." He put it on her finger. "It just fits!"

  "Yes. And it just fits--us, too, Jimsy. The jewel hidden ... the way wemust keep our secret. Muzzie won't let me wear it here, but I'll wear itthe minute I leave here,--and every minute of my life. It was wonderfulfor your father to let us have it--when we're so young and have so longto wait!"

  "He said--you know, he was different from anything he's ever beenbefore, Skipper, more--more like his old self, I guess--he said it wouldhelp us to wait."

  "It will," said Honor, contentedly, tucking her hand into his again.They sat silently then, looking out at the bright sea.