"Hush, or I shall begin to think you are ashamed because you liked me--or thought you did.""But I do like you.Next to Madeline there is no one I like so much.But, but, you see, it is different.""Of course it is.And it ought to be.Does her mother--do her people know of the engagement?"He hesitated momentarily."No-o," he admitted, "they don't yet.
She and I have decided to keep it a secret from any one for the present.I want to get on a little further with my writing, you know.She is like you in that, Helen--she's awfully fond of poetry and literature.""Especially yours, I'm sure.Tell me about your writing.How are you getting on?"So he told her and, until they stood together at the parsonage gate, Madeline's name was not again mentioned.Then Helen put out her hand.
"Good morning, Albert," she said."I'm glad we have had this talk, ever so glad.""By George, so am I! You're a corking friend, Helen.The chap who does marry you will be awfully lucky."She smiled slightly."Perhaps there won't be any such chap," she said."I shall always be a schoolmarm, I imagine.""Indeed you won't," indignantly."I have too high an opinion of men for that."She smiled again, seemed about to speak, and then to change her mind.An instant later she said, "I must go in now.But I shall hope to see you again before I go back to the city.And, after your secret is out and the engagement is announced, I want to write Madeline, may I?""Of course you may.And she'll like you as much as I do.""Will she?...Well, perhaps; we'll hope so.""Certainly she will.And you won't let my treating you as--as Ihave make any difference in our friendship?""No.We shall always be friends, I hope.Good-by."She went into the house.He waited a moment, hoping she might turn again before entering, but she did not.He walked home, pondering deeply, his thoughts a curious jumble of relief and dissatisfaction.
He was glad Helen had seen her duty and given him over to Madeline, but he felt a trifle piqued to think she had done it with such apparent willingness.If she had wept or scolded it would have been unpleasant but much more gratifying to his self-importance.
He could not help realizing, however, that her attitude toward him was exceptionally fine.He knew well that he, if in her place, would not have behaved as she had done.No spite, no sarcasm, no taunts, no unpleasant reminders of things said only a few months before.And with all her forgiveness and forbearance and understanding there had been always that sense of greater age and wisdom; she had treated him as she might have treated a boy, younger brother, perhaps.
"She IS older than I am," he thought, "even if she really isn't.
It's funny, but it's a fact."
December came and Christmas, and then January and the new year, the year 1917.In January, Z.Snow and Co.took its yearly account of stock, and Captain Lote and Laban and Albert and Issachar were truly busy during the days of stock-taking week and tired when evening came.Laban worked the hardest of the quartette, but Issy made the most fuss about it.Labe, who had chosen the holiday season to go on one of his periodical vacations, as rather white and shaky and even more silent than usual.Mr.Price, however, talked with his customary fluency and continuity, so there was no lack of conversation.Captain Zelotes was moved to comment.
"Issy," he suggested gravely, looking up from a long column of figures, "did you ever play 'Door'?"Issachar stared at him.
"Play 'Door'?" he repeated."What's that?""It's a game.Didn't you ever play it?"
"No, don't know's I ever did."
"Then you'd better begin right this minute.The first thing to do is to shut up and the next is to stay that way.You play 'Door'
until I tell you to do somethin' else; d'you hear?"At home the week between Christmas and the New Year was rather dismal.Mr.Keeler's holiday vacation had brought on one of his fiancee's "sympathetic attacks," and she tied up her head and hung crape upon her soul, as usual.During these attacks the Snow household walked on tiptoe, as if the housekeeper were an invalid in reality.Even consoling speeches from Albert, who with Laban when the latter was sober, enjoyed in her mind the distinction of being the reincarnation of "Robert Penfold," brought no relief to the suffering Rachel.Nothing but the news brought by the milkman, that "Labe was taperin' off," and would probably return to his desk in a few days, eased her pain.
One forenoon about the middle of the month Captain Zelotes himself stopped in at the post office for the morning mail.When he returned to the lumber company's building he entered quietly and walked to his own desk with a preoccupied air.For the half hour before dinner time he sat there, smoking his pipe, and speaking to no one unless spoken to.The office force noticed his preoccupation and commented upon it.
"What ails the old man, Al?" whispered Issachar, peering in around the corner of the door at the silent figure tilted back in the revolving chair, its feet upon the corner of the desk."Ain't said so much as 'Boo' for up'ards of twenty minutes, has he? I was in there just now fillin' up his ink-stand and, by crimus, I let a great big gob of ink come down ker-souse right in the middle of the nice, clean blottin' paper in front of him.I held my breath, cal'latin' to catch what Stephen Peter used to say he caught when he went fishin' Sundays.Stevey said he generally caught cold when he went and always caught the Old Harry when he got back.Ical'lated to catch the Old Harry part sure, 'cause Captain Lote is always neat and fussy 'bout his desk.But no, the old man never said a word.I don't believe he knew the ink was spilled at all.
What's on his mind, Al; do you know?"
Albert did not know, so he asked Laban.Laban shook his head.
