went forward with the surging multitude that was staying on land. He walked as in a daze, his heart dumb with sorrow. The touch of Barbara’s lips had been light as a butterfly’s wing, just brushing his. The thrill of that kiss remained, and yet he was conscious at once that there was a quality of aloofness about it. It was just a casual good-bye kiss, with nothing to distinguish it from the farewell she had given the rest of her friends who had come down to see her off. Perhaps her own girlishness had demanded that it should be so, he told himself as he stepped from the gangplank to the dock, trying to defend her even as he felt the pain of his conviction. Yet there was to him about that kiss something so final, in spite of the merry words she had spoken about her return, that his heart could not accept any hope. She did not know how she would find him when she came back. She did not know that he would be no longer in her pleasant circle of friends, that he might even be gone from the hometown. But there had been no room in her light planning of the future for any such possibility. She had said the words so lightly, as if all things would go right on just as they had been when she was at home, and she would come home to find them as ever on her return. As if there was plenty of time to settle great questions and eternal friendships. As if it didn’t matter any more to her than that. She was off for a good time, and of course he would be just as devoted when she returned, and shewell, she was not even showing any special tenderness for him, her oldest, most intimate friend. Just that light acceptance of his devotion as a matter of course.
He did not resent it, but it hurt. Somehow as he stepped back in the crowd where he could get a good view of her as she stood smiling on that upper deck where he had left her, it hurt inexpressibly that she had not sensed that he was passing through seas of trouble and had not given him at least a look, a tenderer smile than just what she was handing out to every one of her friends.
There would perhaps come times later when he could reason this out more clearly and see that she was excited and did not realize what she was saying or doing; when he could feel that perhaps beneath all her joviality she was feeling the separation from him even as much as he did himself. Oh, he knew he would try to make himself think that in the lonely days ahead of him. But just now the hurt was too deep and keen for any alleviation.
He found himself a position at the back of the home crowd who were all standing together in a bunch, the fellows with their arms across one another’s shoulders, calling out unheard last messages, throwing now and again a snarl of bright paper ribbons to strike the deck rail before her and unfold in fluttering tribute down the side of the ship, chanting some giddy doggerel of a song familiar to the crowd.
Thurlow stood behind them, grave, sad, his eyes on the girl’s bright face, and could not be sure that any of her signals or smiles were for him.
She held his gift in her hands, and once she held it up and wafted with her fingertips a kiss toward the land as if she might be saying another thanks for just him alone, but then he saw that the kiss went wide with her lovely gesture, and all the others were flinging back merry kisses. The air was full of them. He turned from it all half sickened, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath. For an instant, he felt as if the earth was reeling under his feet. Then quickly he opened his eyes, looking steadily toward that ship again as a siren sent up its terrifying farewell. Fool that he was! He must not take this to heart so. He was here to see this thing through, and he was a man!
He managed a grave smile and a wave of the hand at the last as the ship moved out from shore. Then he stood with lifted hat and watched her lovely figure standing there, moving away from him, out, out! What a terrible thing a ship’s sailing was! The sea separating people who had been a part of one another’s lives for long, happy years!
He turned away while her face was still visible as she stood there smiling back to shore and waving joyfully. Somehow he could not bear to see it fade to nothing. He had a feeling that she did not see him, was not differentiating between himself and the others, so that it would not matter to her. He would go with that bright vision of her face stamped upon his memory. And if he never had anything else, he would still have that memory. Not just a wide sea with a vanishing ship in the distance.
He elbowed his way through the crowd, and nobody noticed his going unless it was the girl on the ship. There was great bitterness in his heart. He told himself he was sorry he had come. Yet he knew he would not have done otherwise.
Once he thought he heard his name shouted by one of the fellows, but he did not turn his head. He did not want to see that ship afar with a great ocean between.
He had an errand to do for his mother, but he hastened with it and caught an early train back home. He tried to read a paper on the way, but the letters blurred before his eyes, and finally he gave up all pretense and sat there sternly lecturing himself, trying to get a bearable attitude of mind before he got home and his mother read his face and suffered with him. His mother was like that. She always knew when he was suffering.
He told himself it was a good thing Barbara had gone before she knew anything about his troubles. At least he would not have that mortification to worry about. She had gone respecting him, maybe caring more for him than she was willing to let him see, and that was just as it should be. Time would turn her heart to other interests, and she would perhaps never have to know how his circumstances had put him into a place in life where he could never hope to have the assurance to try to win her. And he wanted her not to be hurt as he was being hurt. She would not have to know or understand the attitude he would feel obliged to take toward her, for his pride’s sake. Because he loved her, he hopedyes, he told himself he really hopedthat she never cared, would never have to feel what he was feeling now. Well, he ought to be glad that her kiss had been light and there was nothing for either of them to regret in it! He ought to be glad that he could remember her happy, carefree face! Perhaps some day he would come to the place where he could be glad about it, but now there was only an ache in his heart. An ache that seemed unbearable when he thought of it as something he might have to carry all his life.
It was late when he reached home. The train was late. There had been a freight accident ahead of the New York train, which delayed them, and he missed one train out to their suburb on the edge of the city, but he saw by the light downstairs that his mother had waited up for him. Mother always would. So as he neared the house, he adjusted a monotonous whistle on his lips and went in trying to simulate cheerful indifference.
But his mother saw through it. She came over and kissed him and looked deep into his eyes, and though he tried to smile naturally and evade her glance, he knew she was not deceived.
“Yes, they got off on time,” he answered readily, too readily. “It was quite a merry send-off. I’m glad I went,” he said, trying to sound quite easy and natural.
“Of course!” said his mother, but her eyes searched him and read further than his words. And then, like a wise mother, instead of pursuing the subject further, she gave him something else to think about.
“The lawyer was here again this evening,” she said with a sigh, as if it wasn’t of much interest. “He said over again all the things he said the last time and a few more. He wanted me to sign the papers right away. He said he had to go west on a business trip, and he’d like to get this settled before he leaves tomorrow night. He said he’d give us fifty dollars toward our moving if we’d settle at once.”
Her son looked at her startled.
“Fifty dollars!” he said with a puzzled look. “He must want it a lot to let go even that much! He must have a purchaser for it, or else he knows his game is crooked and he wants to get away with it quickly before he gets found out. You didn’t give him an answer, did you, Mother?”
“No, I told him I would have to talk it over with you. But he wants his answer before twelve o’clock tomorrow.”
“Well,
