Wired Love Part 24

"No!" thought Nattie, raising her head proudly, and looking at the red and swollen eyes that gazed at her from the opposite gla.s.s. "Life _shall_ give me something of its best; if not of love, then of fame! and I will work and persevere until I gain it!"

Yet, for all of her resolution, Nattie sobbed herself to sleep. Not so easy is it to renounce love, and look forward to a life barren of its best and sweetest gift.

And after this there was a change in her observable even to the undiscerning Quimby. Shadows had fallen over her face, lurked in her gray eyes and around the corners of her mouth. The old restlessness had given place to a settled gloom. She was less often seen among the gay circle that gathered in Cyn's parlor, pleading every possible excuse for staying away, and when with them, to his surprise and delight, and to Celeste's dismay, she devoted herself to Quimby, to Jo--to any one rather than to Clem. For most of all had she changed to him. Afraid of betraying her secret, and unable to control the pain that overpowered her when in his presence, now she knew her own heart, she avoided him in every practicable way, and seldom, even over their wire, talked with him. She was always "tired," or "busy," when he called her now.

Clem, surprised and puzzled by this unaccountable change, at first endeavored to overcome her coolness, but ended by becoming cool in his turn, and talked and joked with Cyn more than ever. And if a touch of the shadows on Nattie's face sometimes crept over his own, she, in her self-engrossment, did not observe it.

If Quimby's hopes burned brighter at this state of affairs, and he was consequently happier, Jo, for some reason unexplained, was not. In fact, he was decidedly queer; now gay, now horribly cynical, not to say morose.

Truly, Cupid, viewed in the character of a telegraphist, was far from being a success; for he had switched everybody off on to the wrong wire!

Cyn, gay unconscious Cyn, no more dreamed of Clem being supposedly in love with her, than she did that Jo was so filled with thoughts of her, that, had he been a different kind of a man, one would have called him desperately in love. But Cyn, unconscious of all this, saw, and with sorrow, the ever-increasing coldness between Nattie and Clem. For she had quite set her heart on the romance that had commenced in dots and dashes culminating in orange blossoms--a Wired Love. But now, to her vexation, she saw her antic.i.p.ations liable to be set at naught, and herself unable to obtain even a clew to the trouble. Like the "line man," who goes up and down to find why the wires will not work, she could not find the "break" anywhere, and decided that romances, whether "wired" or taken in the ordinary way, were certainly very unwieldy things to manage.

"It seems to me that you do not use that wire very often now," she said one evening to Clem and Nattie, the latter of whom she had forcibly dragged forth from the solitude of her room. "Were it not for me, it would rust. Why! I used to hear your clatter into the small hours, but now--"

"Now we are more sensible," concluded Nattie, leaning over the piano to look at some music. "One gets tired of talking in dots and dashes after a time!"

Poor Nattie's trouble made her bitter sometimes.

"Yes, one wants a person they don't know to talk with, in order to make it interesting!" added Clem, not to be outdone.

"Good gracious!" thought Cyn, dismayed at the result of her probing.

"This is really dreadful!" then she exclaimed impulsively,

"I hope you have not quarreled, you two!"

"Oh! dear no!" replied Nattie quickly, "what should we quarrel about?"

But Clem, after looking at her a moment, advanced and held out his hand, saying frankly,

"I believe we have been cross to each other of late, although how it happened I do not know! So let us make up and be good!"

Cyn looked up hopefully at this, but Nattie, who could hardly conceal her agitation, replied coldly,

"I do not see that anything has been the matter!" and placing a limp hand in his for an instant, turned away.

Clem bit his lip, then took out his watch, saying,

"I believe I have an engagement down town this evening. I shall have to leave you now, I fear, ladies."

Nattie celebrated his departure by bursting into tears that she vainly tried to hide, and was detected in this situation on the sofa by Cyn.

Cyn's arms were about her in a moment, and Cyn's voice said lovingly,

"What is it, dear? Tell me what is the matter lately? Trust me with it.

Is it about Clem?"

With a determination, very brave and unselfish, but unfortunately entirely uncalled for, not to mar Cyn's happy love by her sorrow, Nattie checked the tears, of which she was ashamed, and answered,

"No! I am very weak and foolish. The idea of my crying like a school-girl! I am only unhappy because--because--I am n.o.body!"

And this was all the information the sympathetic and perplexed Cyn could obtain.

Sitting that night on a low cricket before the fire with her dark hair unbound--and it was fortunate for Jo's peace of mind that he could not see her just then, because she was such an interesting "study!"--Cyn thought it all over, and could not, as she told herself, make out what it was all about.

"I thought everything was going on so smoothly," she mused, "and now here is what Clem himself would term a cross on the wire! and no one can find out where it is! Doesn't she love him, I wonder? I should, if I was she! Does he love her? if he does not, he is no kind of a hero! Ah! I know what would test the matter! a crisis! Now, for instance, if the house would only get on fire, and Nat burn up--that is, almost--and Clem save her just in time--that is the sort of thing that brings these heroes to terms in the dramas! but I suppose--everything is so different in real life--Clem would not wake up in time, and she would burn to a crisp--or some one else would save her first--Quimby, for instance, he is always doing something he ought not! no, I don't think it would do to risk it! nevertheless, I am convinced that a crisis is what is essential to complete the circuit, telegraphically speaking, or in other words, to bring down the curtain on every body, embracing everybody, with great _eclat!_"

CHAPTER XIII.

THE WRONG WOMAN.

Somewhat exultant over the new aspect of affairs, and unable longer to endure the strain of the load of love he was carrying about with him, Quimby came to a desperate determination.

This was no other, than to confide in his room-mate, and once dreaded rival, and then, provided he was not thrown out of the window, or kicked down stairs, ask his advice about how to render himself clearly understood by _her_, at the same time relating his former unfortunate attempt.

This programme he carried into effect one morning, as Clem was blacking his boots. Perhaps he had made private calculations on a blacking-brush hitting a man with less damage than some larger article.

"I say, Clem!" Quimby began, "I--I want to ask your advice, you know!"

"I am at your service, my dear boy," replied the unsuspecting Clem, rubbing away at his boot.

"Well--I--I want to know--the fact is, I--I am boiling over with love!"

"What!" exclaimed Clem, looking up with an amused smile, "you are not in love with Cyn too, are you?"

"With Cyn, _too_?" These words were balm to the soul of Quimby, and gave him courage to answer eagerly,

"Ah! no use in that for _me_, you know! It--it is _she_--Miss Rogers--Nattie--you know!"

The blacking-brush left Clem's hand, but not to fly at the expectant Quimby. It simply dropped onto the floor, while Clem gave vent to his feelings in a prolonged whistle.

"Is it possible!" he said, having thus relieved himself of his first astonishment. "I might have suspected as much if I had stopped to think, though!"

"Yes, I--I think I showed it plain enough, you know!" said Quimby candidly. "You see, I--I tried to tell her of it once, before you came here, when you were invisible, you know, but some way she--she didn't just understand, and--and bolted, you know! So just tell me how to do it, that is a good fellow, for do it I must!"

Clem picked up his blacking-brush, and very deliberately smeared the boot he had just polished, with another coat of blacking, before answering.

"How can I tell you?" he said at last. "You don't suppose proposing is an every-day habit of mine, do you? My dear boy, I never proposed in my life!"

"But you--you ought to--I mean you will sometime, you know! Just give me a--a start, you know!" pleaded Quimby, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Shall I call her and propose for you?" inquired Clem, somewhat ironically, and glancing at the sounder.