You write with a sure hand now, it seems to me.And your view is so much broader.""I hope I'm not the narrow, conceited little rooster I used to be.
I told you, Helen, that the war handed me an awful jolt.Well, it did.I think it, or my sickness or the whole business together, knocked most of that self-confidence of mine galley-west.For so much I'm thankful.""I don't know that I am, altogether.I don't want you to lose confidence in yourself.You should be confident now because you deserve to be.And you write with confidence, or it reads as if you did.Don't you feel that you do, yourself? Truly, don't you?""Well, perhaps, a little.I have been at it for some time now.Iought to show some progress.Perhaps I don't make as many mistakes.""I can't see that you have made any."
"I have made one...a damnable one."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing.I didn't mean to say that....Helen, do you know it is awfully good of you to take all this interest in me--in my work, I mean.Why do you do it?""Why?"
"Yes, why?"
"Why, because-- Why shouldn't I? Haven't we always talked about your writings together, almost since we first knew each other?
Aren't we old friends?"
There it was again--friends.It was like a splash of cold water in the face, at once awakening and chilling.Albert walked on in silence for a few moments and then began speaking of some trivial subject entirely disconnected with himself or his work or her.
When they reached the parsonage door he said good night at once and strode off toward home.
Back in his room, however, he gave himself another mental picking to pieces.He was realizing most distinctly that this sort of thing would not do.It was easy to say that his attitude toward Helen Kendall was to be that of a friend and nothing more, but it was growing harder and harder to maintain that attitude.He had come within a breath that very night of saying what was in his heart.
Well, if he had said it, if he did say it--what then? After all, was there any real reason why he should not say it? It was true that he had loved, or fancied that he loved, Madeline, that he had been betrothed to her--but again, what of it? Broken engagements were common enough, and there was nothing disgraceful in this one.
Why not go to Helen and tell her that his fancied love for Madeline had been the damnable mistake he had confessed ******.Why not tell her that since the moment when he saw her standing in the doorway of the parsonage on the morning following his return from New York he had known that she was the only woman in the world for him, that it was her image he had seen in his dreams, in the delirium of fever, that it was she, and not that other, who--But there, all this was foolishness, and he knew it.He did not dare say it.Not for one instant had she, by speech or look or action, given him the slightest encouragement to think her feeling for him was anything but friendship.And that friendship was far too precious to risk.He must not risk it.He must keep still, he must hide his thoughts, she must never guess.Some day, perhaps, after a year or two, after his position in his profession was more assured, then he might speak.But even then there would be that risk.And the idea of waiting was not pleasant.What had Rachel told him concerning the hosts of doctors and officers and generals who had been "shining up" to her.Some risk there, also.
Well, never mind.He would try to keep on as he had been going for the present.He would try not to see her as frequently.If the strain became unbearable he might go away somewhere--for a time.
He did not go away, but he made it a point not to see her as frequently.However, they met often even as it was.And he was conscious always that the ice beneath his feet was very, very thin.
One wonderful August evening he was in his room upstairs.He was not writing.He had come up there early because he wished to think, to consider.A proposition had been made to him that afternoon, a surprising proposition--to him it had come as a complete surprise--and before mentioning it even to his grandparents he wished to think it over very carefully.
About ten o'clock his grandfather called to him from the foot of the stairs and asked him to come down.
"Mr.Kendall's on the phone," said Captain Zelotes."He's worried about Helen.She's up to West Harniss sittin' up along of Lurany Howes, who's been sick so long.She ain't come home, and the old gentleman's frettin' about her walkin' down from there alone so late.I told him I cal'lated you'd just as soon harness Jess and drive up and get her.You talk with him yourself, Al."Albert did and, after assuring the nervous clergyman that he would see that his daughter reached home safely, put on his hat and went out to the barn.Jessamine was asleep in her stall.As he was about to lead her out he suddenly remembered that one of the traces had broken that morning and Captain Zelotes had left it at the harness-maker's to be mended.It was there yet.The captain had forgotten the fact, and so had he.That settled the idea of using Jessamine and the buggy.Never mind, it was a beautiful night and the walk was but little over a mile.
When he reached the tiny story-and-a-half Howes cottage, sitting back from the road upon the knoll amid the tangle of silverleaf sprouts, it was Helen herself who opened the door.She was surprised to see him, and when he explained his errand she was a little vexed.
