"There was n.o.body at fault except me and my fool temper. I am desperately ashamed of myself Ruth. I've left you all alone all this time and I promised I wouldn't. You'll never trust me again and I don't deserve to be trusted. It doesn't do any good to say I am sorry. It can't undo what I did. I didn't dare stay and that's the fact. I didn't know what I'd do to Ted if he got in my way. I felt--murderous."

"Larry!"

"I know it sounds awful. It is awful. It is an old battle. I thought I'd won it, but I haven't. Don't look so scared though. Nothing happened. Ted came after me like the corking big-hearted kid he is and brought me to, in half the time I could have done it for myself. It is thanks to him I'm here now. But never mind that. It is only you that matters. Shall I take you home? I don't deserve it, but if you will let me it will show you forgive me a little bit anyway," he finished humbly.

"Don't look so dreadfully unhappy, Larry. It is over now, and of course I forgive you if you think there is anything to forgive. I'm so thankful you didn't quarrel with Ted. I was awfully worried and so was Tony. She watched the door every minute till you came back."

"I suppose so," groaned Larry. "I made one horrible mess of everything for you all. Are you ready to go?"

"I'd like to dance with you once first, Larry, if--if you would like to."

"Would I like to!" Larry's face lost its mantle of gloom, was sudden sunshine all over. "Will you really dance with me--after the rotten way I've behaved?"

"Of course, I will. I wanted to all the time, but I was afraid. But when Ted made me it all came back and I loved it, only it was you I wanted to dance with most. You know that, don't you, Larry, dear?" The last word was very low, scarcely more than a breath, but Larry heard it and it nearly undid him. A flood of long-pent endearments trembled on his lips.

But Ruth held up a hand of warning.

"Don't, Larry. We mustn't spoil it. We've got to remember the ring."

"d.a.m.n the ring!" he exploded. "I beg your pardon." Larry was genuinely shocked at his own bad manners. "I don't know why I'm such a brute tonight. Let's dance."

And to the delight and relief of the younger Holidays, Larry and Ruth joined the dancers.

The dance over, they made their farewells. Larry guided Ruth down the slope, his arm around her ostensibly for her support, and helped her into the canoe. Once more they floated off over the quiet water, under the quiet stars. But their young hearts were anything but quiet. Their love was no longer an unacknowledged thing. Neither knew just what was to be done with it; but there it was in full sight, as both admitted in joy and trepidation and silence.

As Larry held open the door for her to step inside the quiet hall he bent over the girl a moment, taking both her hands in his. Then he drew away abruptly and bolted into the living room, leaving her to grope her way up stairs in the dark alone.

"I wonder," she murmured to herself later as she stood before her mirror shaking out her rippling golden locks from their confining net. "I wonder if it would have been so terrible if he had kissed me just that once.

Sometimes I wish he weren't quite so--so Holidayish."

CHAPTER XIX

TWO HOLIDAYS MAKE CONFESSION

The next evening Doctor Holiday listened to a rather elaborate argument on the part of his older nephew in favor of the latter's leaving Dunbury immediately in pursuit of his specialist training that he had planned to go in for eventually.

"You are no longer contented here with me--with us?" questioned the older man when the younger had ended his exposition.

Larry's quick ear caught the faint hurt in his uncle's voice and hastened to deny the inference.

"It isn't that, Uncle Phil. I am perfectly satisfied--happier here with you that I would be anywhere else in the world. You have been wonderful to me. I am not such an ungrateful idiot as not to understand and appreciate what a start it has given me to have you and your name and work behind me. Only--maybe I've been under your wing long enough. Maybe I ought to stand on my feet."

Doctor Holiday studied the troubled young face opposite him. He was fairly certain that he wasn't getting the whole or the chief reasons which were behind this sudden proposition.

"Do you wish to go at once?" he asked. "Or will the first of the year be soon enough."

Larry flushed and fell to fumbling with a paper knife that lay on the desk.

"I--I meant to go right away," he stammered.

"Why?"

Larry was silent.

"I judge the evidence isn't all in," remarked the older doctor a little drily. "Am I going to hear the rest of it--the real reason for your decision to go just now?"

Still silence on Larry's part, the old obstinate set to his lips.

"Very well then. Suppose I take my turn. I think you haven't quite all the evidence yourself. Do you know Granny is dying?"

The paper knife fell with a click to the floor.

"Uncle Phil! No, I didn't know. Of course I knew it was coming but you mean--soon?"

"Yes, Larry, I mean soon. How soon no one can tell, but I should say three months would be too long to allow."

The boy brushed his hand across his eyes. He loved Granny. He had always seemed to understand her better than the others had and had been himself always the favorite. Moreover he was bound to her by a peculiar tie, having once saved her life, conquering his boyish fear to do so. It was hard to realize she was really going, that no one could save her now.

"I didn't know," he said again in a low voice.

"Ted will go back to college. I shall let Tony go to New York to study as she wishes, just as you had your chance. It isn't exactly the time for you to desert us, my boy."

"I won't, Uncle Phil. I'll stay."

"Thank you, son. I felt sure you wouldn't fail us. You never have. But I wish you felt as if you could tell me the other reason or reasons for going which you are keeping back. If it is they are stronger than the one I have given you for staying it is only fair that I should have them."

Larry's eyes fell. A slow flush swept his face, ran up to his very hair.

"My boy, is it Ruth?"

The gray eyes lifted, met the older man's grave gaze unfalteringly.

"Yes, Uncle Phil, it is Ruth. I thought you must have seen it before this. It seemed as if I were giving myself away, everything I did or didn't do."

"I have thought of it occasionally, but dismissed the idea as too fantastic. It hasn't been so obvious as it seemed to you no doubt. You have not made love to her?"

"Not in so many words. I might just as well have though. She knows. If it weren't for the ring--well, I think she would care too."

"I am very sorry, Larry. It looks like a bad business all round. Yet I can't see that you have much to blame yourself for. I withdraw my objections to your going away. If it seems best to you to go I haven't a word to say."

"I don't know whether it is best or not. I go round and round in circles trying to work it out. It seems cowardly to run away from it, particularly if I am needed here. A man ought not to pull up stakes just because things get a little hard. Besides Ruth would think she had driven me away. I know she would go herself if she guessed I was even thinking of going. And I couldn't stand that. I'd go to the north pole myself and stay forever before I would send her away from you all. I was so grateful to you for asking her to stay and making her feel she was needed. She was awfully touched and pleased. She told me last night."

The senior doctor considered, thought back to his talk with Ruth. Poor child! So that was what she had been trying to tell him. She had thought she ought to go away on Larry's account, just as he was thinking he ought to go on hers. Poor hapless youngsters caught in the mesh of circ.u.mstances! It was certainly a knotty problem.

"It isn't easy to say what is right and best to do," he said after a moment. "It is something you will have to decide for yourself. When you came to me you had decided it was best to go, had you not? Was there a specially urgent reason?"