Chapter 9: The House at the Turn

Dinner at the Rose house took place about two hours after the corresponding meal occurred at the farmhouse near the Westbury Turn. So while Corrie was walking through his five miles of desolate, dark road, the evening became well under way in the country parlor; sick-room no longer.

There had been changes in the room since Gerard’s occupancy of it. Bright rugs and coverings mitigated the severity of the horse-hair furniture, a couple of easy-chairs stood there like velvet-clad cavaliers in a Puritan meeting. If the hues ran to vivid scarlets and unexpected contrasts, why, Rupert had done the shopping and had consulted his own taste. In the midst of his artistic work, that one-time mechanician and self-installed nurse of Gerard’s was now seated beside a red-shaded lamp, engaged in reading aloud to his companion from a classic found on the family book-shelf.

“‘Thaddeus, his eyes cast down, glided from the room in a gentle suffusion of tears,’” he concluded a paragraph, and broke off, stunned. “Gee! And I was understanding that was a man! I ain’t qualified for the judges’ stand, but—did you ever strike this joy-promoting endurance run of language before?”

“Once. I didn’t have you to read it to me, or I would have enjoyed it more,” Gerard returned, stirring in his arm-chair opposite the ruddily glowing German stove. “Don’t you want to give me a cigarette; I haven’t had one since noon.”

He was thinner and still colorless, otherwise there was little to show what the last month and a half had meant to Allan Gerard. Except when he rose or moved, the inert uselessness of his right arm was not obvious. And however hard the battles and rebellion he inwardly had passed through, tone or expression carried no outward intelligence of past conflict as he smiled across at his entertainer. Gerard possessed in full measure that Anglo-Saxon reticence which abhors the useless display of emotions. Rupert balanced the volume upon his knee and proceeded to comply with the request, twisting his dark little face sardonically.

“When I was racing with Darling French,” he reminisced, “we gave out of oil, once, on a practice run across country. There was a house by the busy curb representing itself as the only one combination garage and grocery store, so Darling contracted for a can of warranted cylinder oil in a speed dash that left the man all used up and rattling mad. Being in some haste, we didn’t look up that can’s inner life, but chucked the stuff where it would do the most good.”

“Poor quality?”

“I ain’t saying so. The complaint wasn’t quality, it was kind. That can surrounded the finest brand of Koko Korn syrup, extra rich. They had to knock down our motor with a set of cooking utensils, and the man who did the job said it was a candied peach.”