From the remarks of his friends even as they thronged him, offering congratulations, Mr. Allen could easily gather that however impressive his speech had been, few of his audience had taken his warning seriously.
“You queered my speech, Larry,” he said, “but I forgive you.”
“Not at all, Sir,” replied Larry. “You certainly got me.”
“I fear,” replied Mr. Allen, “that I am 'the voice crying in the wilderness.'”
At the Allens' party Larry was overwhelmed with congratulations on his speech, the report of which had been carried before him by his friends.
“They tell me your speech was quite thrilling,” said Mrs. Allen as she greeted Larry.
“Your husband is responsible for everything,” replied Larry.
“No,” said Mr. Allen, “Miss Jane here is finally responsible. Hers were the big shells I fired.”
“Not mine,” replied Jane. “I got them from Mr. Romayne, your brother-in-law, Larry.”
“Well, I'm blowed!” said Larry. “That's where the stuff came from! But it was mighty effective, and certainly you put it to us, Mr. Allen. You made us all feel like fighting. Even Scuddy, there, ran amuck for a while.”
“What?” said Mr. Allen, “you don't really mean to say that Scudamore, our genial Y. M. C. A. Secretary, was in that scrap? That cheers me greatly.”
“Was he!” said Ramsay Dunn, whose flushed face and preternaturally grave demeanour sufficiently explained his failure to appear at Dr. Brown's dinner. “While Mr. Smart's life was saved by the timely upper-cut of our distinguished pacifist, Mr. Gwynne, without a doubt Mr. Scudamore—hold him there, Scallons, while I adequately depict his achievement—” Immediately Scallons and Ted Tuttle, Scudamore's right and left supports on the scrimmage line, seized him and held him fast. “As I was saying,” continued Dunn, “great as were the services rendered to the cause by our distinguished pacifist, Mr. Gwynne, the supreme glory must linger round the head of our centre scrim and Y. M. C. A. Secretary, Mr. Scudamore, to whose effective intervention both Mr. Smart and Mr. Gwynne owe the soundness of their physical condition which we see them enjoying at the present moment.”
In the midst of his flowing periods Dunn paused abruptly and turned away. He had caught sight of Jane's face, grieved and shocked, in the group about him. Later he approached her with every appearance of profound humiliation. “Miss Brown,” he said, “I must apologise for not appearing at dinner this evening.”
“Oh, Mr. Dunn,” said Jane, “why will you do it? Why break the hearts of all your friends?”
“Why? Because I am a fool,” he said bitterly. “If I had more friends like you, Miss Brown,” he paused abruptly, then burst forth, “Jane, you always make me feel like a beast.” But Larry's approach cut short any further conversation.
“Jane, I want to talk to you,” said Larry impetuously. “Let us get away somewhere.”
In the library they found a quiet spot, where they sat down.
“I want to tell you,” said Larry, “that I feel that I treated you shabbily to-day. I have only a poor excuse to offer, but I should like to explain.”
“Don't, Larry,” said Jane, her words coming with hurried impetuosity. “I was very silly. I had quite forgotten it. You know we have always told each other things, and I expected that you would come in this morning just to talk over your medal, and I did want a chance to say how glad I was for you, and how glad and how proud I knew your mother would be; and to tell the truth really,” she added with a shy little laugh, “I wanted to have you congratulate me on my prize too. But, Larry, I understand how you forgot.”
“Forgot!” said Larry. “No, Jane, I did not forget, but this telegram from Chicago came last night, and I was busy with my packing all morning and then in the afternoon I thought I would hurry through a few calls—they always take longer than one thinks—and before I knew it I was late for dinner. I had not forgotten; I was thinking of you all day, Jane.”
“Were you, Larry?” said Jane, a gentle tenderness in her smile. “I am glad.”
Then a silence fell between them for some moments. They were both thinking of the change that was coming to their lives. Larry was wondering how he would ever do without this true-hearted friend whose place in his life he was only discovering now to be so large. He glanced at her. Her eyes were glowing with a soft radiance that seemed to overflow from some inner spring.
“Jane,” he cried with a sudden impulse, “you are lovely, you are perfectly lovely.”
A shy, startled, eager look leaped into her eyes. Then her face grew pale. She waited, expectant, tremulous. But at that instant a noisy group passed into the library.
“Larry,” whispered Jane, turning swiftly to him and laying her hand upon his arm, “you will take me home to-night.”
“All right, Jane, of course,” said Larry.
As they passed out from the library Helen Brookes met them. “Larry, come here,” she said in a voice of suppressed excitement. “Larry, don't you want to do something for me? Scuddy wants to take me home tonight, and I don't want him to.”
“But why not, Helen? You ought to be good to Scuddy, poor chap. He's a splendid fellow, and I won't have him abused.”
“Not to-night, Larry; I can't have him to-night. You will take me home, won't you? I am going very soon.”
“You are, eh? Well, if you can go within ten minutes, I shall be ready.”
“Say fifteen,” said Helen, turning to meet Lloyd Rushbrook, the Beau Brummel of the college, who came claiming a dance.
Larry at once went in search of Jane to tell her of his engagement with Helen Brookes, but could find her nowhere, and after some time spent in a vain search, he left a message for her with his hostess. At the head of the stairs he found Helen waiting.
“Oh, hurry, Larry,” she cried in a fever of excitement. “Let's get away quickly.”
“Two minutes will do me,” said Larry, rushing into the dressing room.
There he found Scudamore pacing up and down in fierce, gloomy silence.
“You are taking her home, Larry?” he said.
“Who?” said Larry. Then glancing at his face, he added, “Yes, Scuddy, I am taking Helen home. She is apparently in a great hurry.”
“She need not be; I shall not bother her any more,” said Scuddy bitterly, “and you can tell her that for me, if you like.”
“No, I won't tell her that, Scuddy,” said Larry, “and, Scuddy,” he added, imparting a bit of worldly wisdom, “campaigns are not won in a single battle, and, Scuddy, remember too that the whistling fisherman catches the fish. So cheer up, old boy.” But Scuddy only glowered at him.
Larry found Helen awaiting him, and quietly they slipped out together. “This is splendid of you, Larry,” she said, taking his arm and giving him a little squeeze.
“I don't know about that, Helen. I left Scuddy raging upstairs there. You girls are the very devil for cruelty sometimes. You get men serious with you, then you flirt and flutter about till the unhappy wretches don't know where they are at. Here's our car.”
“Car!” exclaimed Helen. “With this moonlight, Larry? And you going away to-morrow? Not if I know it.”
“It is fearfully unromantic, Helen, I know. But I must hurry. I have to take Jane home.”
“Oh, Jane! It's always Jane, Jane!”
“Well, why not?” said Larry. “For years Jane has been my greatest pal, my best friend.”
“Nothing more?” said Helen earnestly. “Cross your heart, Larry.”
“Nothing more, cross my heart and all the rest of it,” replied Larry. “Why! here's another car, Helen.”
“Oh, Larry, you are horrid, perfectly heartless! We may never walk together again. Here I am throwing myself at you and you only think of getting away back.” Under her chaffing words there sounded a deeper note.
“So I see,” said Larry, laughing and refusing to hear the deeper undertone. “But I see something else as well.”
“What?” challenged Helen.
“I see Scuddy leading out from Trinity some day the loveliest girl in Winnipeg.”
“Oh, I won't talk about Scuddy,” said Helen impatiently. “I want to talk about you. Tell me about this Chicago business.”
For the rest of the way home she led Larry to talk of his plans for the future. At her door Helen held out her hand. “You won't come in, Larry, I know, so we will say good-bye here.” Her voice was gentle and earnest. The gay, proud, saucy air which she had ever worn and which had been one of her chief charms, was gone. The moonlight revealed a lovely wistful face from which misty eyes looked into his. “This is the end of our good times together, Larry. And we have had good times. You are going to be a great man some day. I wish you all the best in life.”
“Thank you, Helen,” said Larry, touched by the tones of her voice and the look in her eyes. “We have been good friends. We shall never be anything else. With my heart I wish you—oh, just everything that is good, Helen dear. Good-bye,” he said, leaning toward her. “How lovely you are!” he murmured.
“Good-bye, dear Larry,” she whispered, lifting up her face.
“Good-bye, you dear girl,” he said, and kissed her.
“Now go,” she said, pushing him away from her.
“Be good to Scuddy,” he replied as he turned from her and hurried away.
He broke into a run, fearing to be late, and by the time he arrived at the Allens' door he had forgotten all about Helen Brookes and was thinking only of Jane and of what he wanted to say to her. At the inner door he met Macleod and Ethel coming out.
“Jane's gone,” said Ethel, “some time ago.”
“Gone?” said Larry.
“Yes, Scuddy took her home.”
“Are they all gone?” inquired Larry.
“Yes, for the most part.”
“Oh, all right then; I think I shall not go in. Good-night,” he said, turned abruptly about and set off for Dr. Brown's. He looked again at his watch. He was surprised to find it was not so very late. Why had Jane not waited for him? Had he hurt her again? He was sorely disappointed. Surely she had no reason to be offended, and this was his last night. As he thought the matter over he came to the conclusion that now it was he that had a grievance. Arrived at Dr. Brown's house the only light to be seen was in Jane's room upstairs. Should he go in or should he go home and wait till to-morrow. He was too miserable to think of going home without seeing her. He determined that he must see her at all cost to-night. He took a pebble and flung it up against her window, and another and another. The window opened and Jane appeared.
“Oh, Larry,” she whispered. “Is it you? Wait, I shall be down.”
She opened the door for him and stood waiting for him to speak. “Why didn't you wait?” he asked, passing into the hall. “I was not very long.”
“Why should I wait, Larry?” she said quietly. “Scuddy told me you had gone home with Helen.”
“But didn't I promise that I would take you home?”
“You did, and then went away.”
“Well, all I have to say, Jane, is that this is not a bit like you. I am sorry I brought you down, and I won't keep you any longer. Good-night. I shall see you tomorrow.”
But Jane got between him and the door and stood with her back to it. “No, Larry, you are not going away like that. Go into the study.” Larry looked at her in astonishment. This was indeed a new Jane to him. Wrathful, imperious, she stood waving him toward the study door. In spite of his irritation he was conscious of a new admiration for her. Feeling a little like a boy about to receive his punishment, he passed into the study.
“Didn't Mrs. Allen give you my message?” he said.
“Your message, Larry?” cried Jane, a light breaking upon her face. “Did you leave a message for me?”
“I did. I told Mrs. Allen to tell you where I had gone—Helen was so anxious to go—and that I would be right back.” Larry's voice was full of reproach.
“Oh, Larry, I am so glad,” said Jane, her tone indicating the greatness of her relief. “I knew it was all right—that something had prevented. I am so glad you came in. You must have thought me queer.”
“No,” said Larry, appeased, “I knew all the time there must be some explanation, only I was feeling so miserable.”
“And I was miserable, too, Larry,” she said gently. “It seemed a pity that this should happen on our last night.” All her wrath was gone. She was once more the Jane that Larry had always known, gentle, sweet, straightforward, and on her face the old transfiguring smile. Before this change of mood all his irritation vanished. Humbled, penitent, and with a rush of warm affection filling his heart, he said,
“I should have known you were not to blame, but you are always right. Never once in all these years have you failed me. You always understand a fellow. Do you know I am wondering how I shall ever do without you? Have you thought, Jane, that to-morrow this old life of ours together will end?”
“Yes, Larry.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper, and in her eyes an eager light shone.
“It just breaks my heart, Jane. We have been—we are such good friends. If we had only fallen in love with each other.—But that would have spoiled it all. We are not like other people; we have been such chums, Jane.”
“Yes, Larry,” she said again, but the eager light had faded from her eyes.
“Let's sit a bit, Larry,” she said. “I am tired, and you are tired, too,” she added quickly, “after your hard day.”
For a little time they sat in silence together, both shrinking from the parting that they knew was so near. Larry gazed at her, wondering to himself that he had ever thought her plain. Tonight she seemed beautiful and very dear to him. Next to his mother, was her place in his heart. Was this that he felt for her what they called love? With all his soul he wished he could take her in his arms and say, “Jane, I love you.” But still he knew that his words would not ring true. More than that, Jane would know it too. Besides, might not her feeling for him be of the same quality? What could he say in this hour which he recognised to be a crisis in their lives? Sick at heart and oppressed with his feeling of loneliness and impotence, he could only look at her in speechless misery. Then he thought she, too, was suffering, the same misery was filling her heart. She looked utterly spent and weary.
“Jane,” he said desperately. She started. She, too, had been thinking. “Scuddy is in love with Helen, Macleod is in love with Ethel. I wish to God I had fallen in love with you and you with me. Then we would have something to look forward to. Do you know, Jane, I am like a boy leaving home? We are going to drift apart. Others will come between us.”
“No, Larry,” cried Jane with quick vehemence. “Not that. You won't let that come.”
“Can we help it, Jane?” Then her weariness appealed to him. “It is a shame to keep you up. I have given you a hard day, Jane.” She shook her head. “And there is no use waiting. We can only say good-bye.” He rose from his chair. Should he kiss her, he asked himself. He had had no hesitation in kissing Helen an hour ago. That seemed a light thing to him, but somehow he shrank from offering to kiss Jane. If he could only say sincerely, “Jane, I love you,” then he could kiss her, but this he could not say truly. Anything but perfect sincerity he knew she would detect; and she would be outraged by it. Yet as he stood looking down upon her pale face, her wavering smile, her quivering lips, he was conscious of a rush of pity and of tenderness almost uncontrollable.
“Good-bye, Jane; God keep you always, dear, dear Jane.” He held her hands, looking into the deep blue eyes that looked back at him so bravely. He felt that he was fast losing his grip upon himself, and he must hurry away.
“Good-bye, Larry,” she said simply.
“Good-bye,” he said again in a husky voice. Abruptly he turned and left her and passed out through the door.
Sore, sick at heart, he stumbled down the steps. “My God,” he cried, “what a fool I am! Why didn't I kiss her? I might have done that at least.”
He stood looking at the closed door, struggling against an almost irresistible impulse to return and take her in his arms. Did he not love her? What other was this that filled his heart? Could he honestly say, “Jane, I want you for my wife”? He could not. Miserable and cursing himself he went his way.
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