Who Cares? A Story of Adolescence

  Produced by Charles Franks and the Online DistributedProofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.

  WHO CARES?

  A STORY OF ADOLESCENCE

  by

  COSMO HAMILTON

  TO

  MY YOUNG BROTHER

  ARTHUR

  WHO PLAYS THE GAME

  "Another new novel?"

  "Well,--another novel."

  "What's it about?"

  "A boy and a girl."

  "A love story?"

  "Well,--it's about a boy and a girl."

  "Do they marry?"

  "I said it was about a boy and a girl."

  "And are they happy?"

  "Well,--it's a love story."

  "But all love stories aren't happy!"

  "Yes they are,--if it's love."

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  SPRING IN THE WORLD

  PART TWO

  THE ROUND-ABOUT

  PART THREE

  THE GREAT EMOTION

  PART FOUR

  THE PAYMENT

  PART ONE

  SPRING IN THE WORLD AND ALL THINGS FOR THE YOUNG

  I

  Birds called. Breezes played among branches just bursting into green.Daffodils, proud and erect, stood in clumps about the dazzling lawn.Young, pulsing, eager things elbowed their way through last year'sleaves to taste the morning sun; the wide-eyed celandine, yellower thanbutter; the little violet, hugging the earth for fear of being seen;the sturdy bourgeois daisy; the pale-faced anemone, earliest to wakeand earliest to sleep; the blue bird's-eye in small family groups; theblatant dandelion already a head and shoulders taller than anyneighbor. Every twig in the old garden bore its new load of buds thatwere soft as kittens' paws; and up the wrinkled trunks of ancient treesyoung ivy leaves chased each other like school-boys.

  Spring had come again, and its eternal spirit spread the message ofnew-born hope, stirred the sap of awakening life, warmed the bosom of awintry earth and put into the hearts of birds the old desire to mate.But the lonely girl turned a deaf ear to the call, and rounded hershoulders over the elderly desk with tears blistering her letter.

  "I'm miserable, miserable," she wrote. "There doesn't seem to beanything to live for. I suppose it's selfish and horrid to grumblebecause Mother has married again, but why did she choose the verymoment when she was to take me into life? Oh, Alice, what am I to do? Ifeel like a rabbit with its foot in a trap, listening to the traffic onthe main road--like a newly fledged bird brought down with a brokenwing among the dead leaves of Rip Van Winkle's sleeping-place. You'lllaugh when you read this, and say that I'm dramatizing my feelings andwriting for effect; but if you've got any heart at all, you'd cry ifyou saw me (me of all girls!) buried alive out here without a singlesoul to speak to who's as young as I am--hushed if I laugh by mistake,scowled at if I let myself move quickly, catching old age every hour Istay here."

  "Why, Alice, just think of it! There's not a person or a thing in andout of this house that's not old. I don't mean old as we thought of itat school, thirty and thirty-five, but really and awfully old. Thehouse is the oldest for miles round. My grandfather is seventy-two, andmy grandmother's seventy. The servants are old, the trees are old, thehorses are old; and even the dogs lie about with dim eyes waiting fordeath."

  "When Mother was here, it was bearable. We escaped as often as wecould, and rode and drove and made secret visits to the city and sawthe plays at matinees. There's nothing old about Mother. I supposethat's why she married again. But now that I'm left alone in this houseof decay, where everybody and everything belongs to the past, I'mfrightened of being so young, and catch looks that make me feel that Iought to be ashamed of myself. It's so long since I quarreled with agirl or flirted with a boy that I can't remember it. I'm forgetting howto laugh. I'm beginning not to care about clothes or whether I looknice."

  "One day is exactly like another. I wander about aimlessly with nothingto do, nowhere to go, no one to speak to. I've even begun to give upreading novels, because they make me so jealous. It's all wrong, Alice.It's bad and unhealthy. It puts mutinous thoughts into my head.Honestly, the only way in which I can get the sort of thrill that Iought to have now, if ever I am to thrill at all, is in making wildplans of escape, so wild and so naughty that I don't think I'd betterwrite about them, even to you, dear."

  "Mother's on her honeymoon. She went away a week ago in a state ofself-conscious happiness that left Grandfather and Grandmother snappyand disagreeable. She will be away four months, and every weekly letterthat comes from her will make this place more and more unbearable andme more restless and dangerous. I could get myself invited away. Enidwould have me and give me a wonderful time. She has four brothers.Fanny has begged me to stay with her in Boston for the whole of thespring and see and do everything, which would be absolutely heaven. Andyou know everybody in New York and could make life worth living."

  "But Grandfather won't let me go. He likes to see me about the house,he says, and I read the papers to him morning and evening. It does megood, he considers, to 'make a sacrifice and pay deference to thosewhose time is almost up.' So here I am, tied to the shadows, a prisonertill Mother comes back--a woman of eighteen forced to behave like agood little girl treated as if I were still content to amuse myselfwith dolls and picture books! But the fire is smolderin Alice, and onefine day it will burst into flame."

  A shaft of sunlight found its way through the branches of a chestnuttree and danced suddenly upon the envelope into which Joan had sealedup this little portion of her overcharged vitality. Through the openwindows of her more than ample room with its Colonial four-post bed,dignified tallboys, stiff chairs and anemic engravings ofearly-Victorianism, all the stir and murmur of the year's youth came toJoan.

  If her eyes had not been turned inward and her ears had not been tunedonly to catch her own natural complaints, this chatter of young thingswould have called her out to laugh and tingle and dance in the hauntedwood and cry out little incoherent welcomes to the children of theearth. Something of the joy and emotion of that mother-month must havestirred her imagination and set her blood racing through her youngbody. She felt the call of youth and the urge to play. She sensed themagnetic pull of the voice of spring, but when, with her long brownlashes wet with impatient tears, she went to the window and looked outat the green spread of lawn and the yellow-headed daffodils, it seemedmore than ever to her that she was peering through iron bars into theplayground of a school to which she didn't belong. She wasJoan-all-alone, she told herself, and added, with that touch ofpicturesque phrasing inherited from her well-read mother, that she wasmore like a racing motorboat tied to a crumbling wharf in a desertedharbor than anything else in the world.

  There was a knock on her door and the sound of a bronchial cough. "Comein," she said and darted an anxious look at the blond fat face of theclock on the mantelshelf. She had forgotten all about the time.

  It was Gleave who opened the door, Gleave the bald-headed manservantwho had grown old along with his master with the sameresentfulness--the ex-prizefighter, sailor, lumberman and adventurerwho had thrown in his lot with Cumberland Ludlow, the sportsman, whenboth were in the full flush of middle age. His limp, the result of anepoch-making fight in an Australian mining camp, was emphasized bysevere rheumatism, and the fretfulness of old age was heightened by hisshortness of breath.

  He got no further than: "Your grandfather--"

  "I know," said Joan. "I'm late again. And there'll be a row, I suppose.Well, that will break the monotony, at any rate." Seizing the momentwhen Gleave was wrestling with his cough, she slipped her letter intoher desk, rubbed her face vigorously with her handkerchief and made adart at the door. Grandfat
her Ludlow demanded strict punctuality andmade the house shake if it failed him. What he would have said if hecould have seen this eager, brown-haired, vivid girl, built on the slimlines of a wood nymph, swing herself on to the banisters and slide thewhole way down the wide stairway would have been fit only for theappreciative ears of his faithful man. As it was, Mrs. Nye, thehousekeeper, was passing through the hall, and her gasp at thisexhibition of unbecoming athletics was the least that could be expectedfrom one who still thought in the terms of the crinoline and had neverrecovered from the habit of regarding life through the early-Victorianend of the telescope.

  Joan slipped into Mr. Cumberland Ludlow's own room, shut the doorquickly and picked her way over the great skins that were scatteredabout the polished floor.

  "Good morning, Grandfather," she said, and stood waiting for the stormto break. She knew by heart the indignant remarks about the sloppinessof the younger generation, the dire results of modern anarchy and theuniversal disrespect that stamped the twentieth century, and set herquick mind to work to frame his opening sentence.

  But the old man, whose sense of humor was as keen as ever, saw in thegirl's half-rebellious, half-deferential attitude an impatientexpectation of his usual irritation, and so he merely pointed a shakingfinger at the clock. His silence was far more eloquent and effectivethan his old-fashioned platitudes. He smiled as he saw her surprise,indicated a chair and gave her the morning paper. "Go ahead, my dear,"he said.

  Sitting bolt upright, with her back to the shaded light, her charmingprofile with its little blunt nose and rounded chin thrown up againstthe dark glistening oak of an old armoire, Joan began to read. Herclear, high voice seemed to startle the dead beasts whose heads hungthickly around the room and bring into their wide, fixed eyes a look ofuneasiness.

  Several logs were burning sulkily in the great open fireplace, throwingout a pungent, juicy smell. The aggressive tick of an old and pompousclock endeavored to talk down the gay chatter of the birds beyond theclosed windows. The wheeze of a veteran Airedale with its chin on thehead of a lion came intermittently.

  They made a picture, these two, that fitted with peculiar rightnessinto the mood of Nature at that moment. Youth was king, and with allhis followers had clambered over winter and seized the earth. The redremainders of autumn were almost over-powered. Standing with his handsbehind him and his back to the fire, the old sportsman listened, with aqueer, distrait expression, to the girl's reading. That he was stillputting up a hard fight against relentless Time was proved by hisclothes, which were those of a country-lover who dressed the part withcare. A tweed shooting-coat hung from his broad, gaunt shoulders.Well-cut riding breeches, skin tight below his knees, ran into a pairof brown top-boots that shone like glass. A head and shoulders tallerthan the average tall man, his back was bent and his chest hollow. Histhin hair, white as cotton wool, was touched with brilliantine, and hishandsome face, deeply lined and wrinkled, was as closely shaved as anactor's after three o'clock. His sunken eyes, overshadowed by bushybrows, had lost their fire. He could no longer see to read. He tooheard the call without, and when he looked at the young, sweet thingupon whom he was dependent for the news, and glanced about the room sofull of memories of his own departed youth, he said to himself withmore bitterness than usual: "I'm old; I'm very old, and helpless; lifehas no use for me, and it's an infernal shame."

  Joan read on patiently, glancing from time to time at the man whoseemed to her to be older than the hills, startlingly, terribly old,and stopped only when, having lowered himself into his arm-chair, heseemed to have fallen asleep. Then, as usual, she laid the paper aside,eager to be up and doing, but sat on, fearful of moving. Hergrandfather had a way of looking as though he would never wake upagain, and of being as ready as a tiger to pounce upon her if she triedto slip away. She would never forget some of the sarcastic things hehad said at these times, never! He seemed to take an unexplainabledelight in making her feel that she had no right to be so young. He hadnever confided to her the tragedy of having a young mind and an oldbody, young desires and winter in his blood. He had never opened thedoor in his fourth wall and let her see how bitterly he resented havingbeen forced out of life and the great chase, to creep like an old houndthe ancient dogs among. He had never let her suspect that the tragedyof old age had hit him hard, filling his long hours with regret forwhat he might have done or done better. Perhaps he was ashamed toconfess these things that were so futile and so foolish. Perhaps he wasafraid to earn a young incredulous laugh at the pathetic picture ofhimself playing Canute with the on-coming tide of years. He was notunderstood by this girl, because he had never allowed her to get aglimpse into his heart; and so she failed to know that he insisted uponkeeping her in his house, even to the point of extreme selfishness,because he lived his youth over again in the constant sight of her.What a long and exquisite string of pearls there could be made of ourunspoken words!

  The logs glowed red; the hard tick of the pompous clock marked off theprecious moments; and outside, spring had come. But Joan sat on withmutinous thoughts, and the man who not so long ago had stalked thebeasts whose heads and skins were silent reminders of his strength, layback in his chair with nodding head.

  "He's old," she said to herself, "dreadfully, awfully old, and he'spunishing me for being young. Oh! It's wicked, it's wicked. If only Ihad a father to spoil me and let me live! If only Mother hadn'tforgotten all about me in her own happiness! If only I had money of myown and could run away and join the throng!"

  She heard a sigh that was almost a groan, turned quickly and saw twoslow tears running down her grandfather's face. He had been kickingagainst the pricks again and had hurt his foot.

  With all the elaborate care of a Deerslayer, Joan got up, gave theboards that creaked a wide berth--she knew them all--and tiptoed to thedoor. The fact that she, at eighteen years of age, a full-grown womanin her own estimation, should be obliged to resort to such methods madeher angry and humiliated. She was, however, rejoicing at one thing. Hergrandfather had fallen asleep several pages of the paper earlier thanusual, and she was to be spared from the utter boredom of wadingthrough the leading articles which dealt with subways and Tammany andforeign politics and other matters for which she had a lofty contempt.She was never required to read the notices of new plays and operas andthe doings of society, which alone were interesting to her and made hermouth water.

  Just as she had maneuvered her way across the wide, long room and waswithin reach of the door, it opened and her grandmother hobbled in,leaning on her stick. There was a chuckle from the other end of theroom. The blood flew to the girl's face. She knew without turning tolook that the old man had been watching her careful escape and wasenjoying the sight of her, caught at the moment when freedom was athand.

  Mrs. Ludlow was one of those busy little women who are thorns in theflesh of servants. Her eyes had always been like those of an inspectinggeneral. No detail, however small, went unnoticed and unrectified.

  She had been called by an uncountable number of housemaids and footmen"the little Madam"--the most sarcastic term of opprobrium contained intheir dictionary. A leader of New York society, she had run charitableinstitutions and new movements with the same precision and efficiencythat she had used in her houses. Every hour of her day had been filled.Not one moment had been wasted or frittered away. Her dinner partieshad been famous, and she had had a spoke in the wheels of politics. Herwitty sayings had been passed from mouth to mouth. Her littleflirtations with prominent men and the ambitious tyros who had beendrawn to her salon had given rise to much gossip. Not by any means abeauty, her pretty face and tiptilted nose, her perennial cheerfulness,birdlike vivacity and gift of repartee had made her the center ofattraction for years.

  But she, like Cumberland Ludlow, had refused to grow old gracefully andwith resignation. She had put up an equally determined fight againstage, and it was only when the remorseless calendar proved her to besixty-five that she resigned from the struggle, washed the dye out ofher hair and the make-u
p from her face and retired to that old house.Not even then, however, did she resign from all activity and remaincontented to sit with her hands in her lap and prepare herself for thenext world. This one still held a certain amount of joy, and sheconcentrated all the vitality that remained with her to the perfectrunning of her house. At eleven o'clock every morning the tap of herstick on the polished floors was the signal of her arrival, and ifevery man and woman of the menage was not actively at work, she knewthe reason why. Her tongue was still as sharp as the blade of a razor,and for sloppiness she had no mercy. Careless maids trembled before hertirades, and strong men shook in their shoes under her biting phrases.At seventy, with her snowy hair, little face that had gone into as manylines as a dried pippin, bent, fragile body and tiny hands twisted byrheumatism, she looked like one of the old women in a Grimm's fairytale who frightened children and scared animals and turned giants intocowards.

  She drew up in front of the frustrated girl, stretched out her whitehand lined with blue veins and began to tap her on theshoulder--announcing in that irritating manner that she had a complaintto make.

  "My dear," she said, "when you write letters to your little friends oryour sentimental mother, bear in mind that the place for ink is on thenote paper and not on the carpet."

  "Yes, Grandmother."

  "Try to remember also that if you put your hand behind a candle you canblow it out without scattering hot grease on the wall paper."

  "Yes, Grandmother"

  "There is one other thing, if I may have your patience. You are notrequired to be a Columbus to discover that there is a basket for soiledlinen in your bedroom. It is a large one and eager to fulfill itsfunction. The floor of your clothes closet is intended for your shoesonly. Will you be so good as to make a note of these things?"

  "Yes, Grandmother."

  Ink, candle grease, wash basket--what did they matter in the scheme oflife, with spring tapping at the window? With a huge effort Joan forcedback a wild burst of insurrection, and remained standing in what shehoped was the correct attitude of a properly repentant child. "How longcan I stand it?" she cried inwardly. "How long before I smash thingsand make a dash for freedom?"

  "Now go back and finish reading to your grand father."

  And once more, trembling with anger and mortification, the girl pickedher way over the limp and indifferent skins, took up the paper and satdown. Once more her clear, fresh voice, this time with a little quiverin it, fitted in to the regular tick of the querulous clock, thenear-by chatter of birds' tongues and the hiss of burning logs.

  The prim old lady, who had in her time borne a wonderful resemblance tothe girl whom she watched so closely,--even to the chestnut-brown hairand the tip-tilted nose, the full lips, the round chin and the spiritthat at any moment might urge her to break away fromdiscipline,--retired to carry on her daily tour of inspection; and theold man stood again with his back to the fire to listen impatiently andwith a futile jealousy to the deeds and misdeeds of an ever-young andever-active world.