Part 7

Mrs. Benedict laughed cheerily. “Dear me, no; they only rush back to be pinned or put to rights, and are off again. As to keeping the faces, much less the names, of their partners in mind, I can’t pretend to do it. Agnes and Margaret, being older, take it with more composure, but Lou flies about as if she were on wings instead of high heels. It was a whim of Agnes and Margaret to come dressed alike in those blue satin gowns with the chiffon ruffles, and I must say they are becoming. I am proud of our dear girls’ looks, aren’t you?”

“I should think so,” said Jack, starting with something of a blush as she repeated this query. He had been straining his gaze over the revolving crowd, in the effort to identify not his sisters, Lou and Margaret--pretty blonde girls of eighteen and twenty--but his cousin Agnes, a tall and rather stately young woman, a year older than Margaret, whom he had his own private reasons for not allowing to get far out of his sight or thoughts.

Agnes, the orphan daughter of a good-for-nothing cousin of Mr. Benedict’s, had a year or two before, after the death of her father, been taken by these kindly people to reside under their roof in New York. When it was Jack had first owned to himself that he loved her he could not exactly say. But her clear, pale beauty, the soft luster of her hazel eyes, her somewhat foreign grace of speech and manner--born of wide wanderings in Continental cities--had begun by captivating his imagination, and ended by exciting his enthusiastic affection. Now he thought no vision of his future was complete without Agnes installed in its penetralia. And as yet she had no idea of it.

Knowing that his parents would disapprove of love-making between the cousins until Jack had at least been long enough out of college to see his way clear to an independence, he had had the rare strength of mind to keep his passion to himself. Not even his mother suspected what a cable had been thrown out to annex her bonny craft to this landing-stage for life!

One person only had shared in his secret, and he a classmate bound to Jack by the most intimate of college ties, the man of all others in the University whom Jack most admired and trusted. This was Hubert Russell, who, coming a stranger to Yale from his birthplace in a far Western town, had remained an enigma to the many, although treasured by the few who had found him out. Russell was known as a brilliant scholar, but had never been called a “grind.” His isolation seemed to be a thing of preference.

To the society of women his objection was apparently insuperable. No threshold in the hospitable town had been crossed by him for social purposes. Jack Benedict, who alone seemed to exercise over him the magnetism that drew him from his shell, had often talked to Russell about his own family, and had striven without success to induce his friend to visit them in the holidays. Russell had listened with a sort of fascinated reserve to Benedict’s happy boyish confidences, but had not responded to them in kind until one evening in junior year over their pipes in Jack’s sitting-room. Then he had blurted out a sad tale of his father’s disgrace and imprisonment and death in the penitentiary, following the embezzlement of trust-funds confided to his keeping. This awful chapter had left upon the boy’s mind an indelible imprint. To remove the effect of it his mother had strained every nerve to send him to an Eastern University. At the beginning of freshman year he had lost his mother, too; and since then the spell of darkness had reassumed its sway over Hubert Russell. Benedict, a wholesome, happy fellow, born to no great inheritance of riches, and having his own way to hew in the world’s wilderness, then set himself to the task of restoring Russell’s tone of mind and of dissipating in him the uncertainty as to his right of place among people of unblemished honor and respectability. Little by little he had succeeded in bringing about this result. In his zeal to win Russell’s full confidence he had poured out his own--had even told him of his love for the radiant cousin, Agnes Benedict, whom Jack hoped one day to win for his wife.

During the past days of gayety Russell had been more miserably shy and reserved than ever. In vain had Jack urged him to call upon or make acquaintance with his family. As a last resort he had gone to Russell’s room that afternoon, and had shot into the letter-slit upon the locked door a note inclosing a ticket for the “Prom,” begging Hubert to look in at the ball, if only for a glance in passing, at Jack’s people in their box. While Jack now stopped to speak to his mother he saw, with curious elation and surprise, Russell standing a little distance away, talking with one of the tutors. Before he had time to beckon his friend, his sister Louisa and their cousin Agnes hurried together into the box, forsaking each the young man who had escorted her, to have some trifling repair to her toilette made by Mrs. Benedict.

“Oh, Jack!” exclaimed his madcap sister, “I am too happy for anything, and Agnes should be, if she is not, for she has evidently captivated the best-looking man in the room--next to you, of course--that tall, dark one over there. He has done nothing but gaze after her in a moony, melancholy way, while _I_ am dying to know him. Do fetch him here _now_, and introduce him, there’s a dear. Only give me half a chance and I can make him forget Agnes, I’ll promise you.”

“That?” said Jack, identifying at last the individual she was trying to point out, and watching for the effect of his revelation upon his family. “I am not surprised that you want to know him. That is my best friend, Hubert Russell.”

“Is _that_ Russell?” said the three women in concert. To them he had long been a household word.

“Yes, and he came here to please me, dear old chap. The trouble is, I don’t know whether he’ll have the courage to follow it up by being presented to you.”

“Lou does not know why he was so interested in Agnes--my Agnes,” he added to himself, striving to repress the exultation of his heart as he looked upon her he loved.

II

Jack did not realize that his friend Russell could have any confusion of mind as to which of the three Misses Benedict was the cousin honored by preference undeclared. The fact was that Hubert had strayed into the whirl of the “Prom” for, indeed, nothing but to please his friend. While making up his mind to take his courage in two hands and seek for an introduction, Russell had espied, standing in a set of lancers, a girl who then and there struck him as his ideal of scarce acknowledged dreams of woman’s loveliness. So swift yet strong was the impression thus received that Russell gasped and wondered what had come over him. The blood of young manhood surging into his temples showed him in a flash that he was to the full as weak as those at whom he had often jeered--Jack Benedict, for example, whose ravings over his pretty cousin had often made Russell smile with superiority and amusement. Whatever had been Russell’s ambitions and hopes for the future, woman had had no part in them. And yet, here in the twinkling of an eye, the waving coils of a maiden’s loosely bound hair, her airy grace, her supple, slender waist and noble shoulders had held him captive. When she turned and he saw that her face was as lovely as her form, Russell had actually started to go away. What evil spell had fallen upon him to lure his steps into this place? He resented Jack’s influence, secretly objurgated Jack’s tiresome lady-love and sisters, vowed he must and would return home--and lingered.

When the set was over, and the girl went off with her partner, Russell, half-ashamed, asked the college official who had accosted him if he knew who was the young lady in pale blue with a small wreath of white roses perched sidewise upon her hair.

“Let me see,” said the flattered tutor, squinting his eyes to take in the receding figure. “Isn’t that--yes, of course it is--a sister of Benedict’s? I met them yesterday at Mrs. Clarkson’s tea. But you ought to know Benedict’s people better than I do, Russell.”

“You know I am a recluse,” said Russell, coloring.

“Then I advise you to repair neglected opportunities and make their acquaintance on the spot. There’s another one--a little, jolly, laughing girl, and a cousin--not so good-looking by a long shot, but nice manners and intelligent. Decidedly, Benedict’s party has lent luster to the week.”

Before Mr. Grampion had finished his chuckling remarks Russell had melted away from him, and stood alone, irresolute. In this attitude he was overhauled by Benedict, who, breathless, laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“Here you are, you old fraud; come along and be presented to my mother. She is all anxiety to meet you. Expects you to have wings and a harp, from my description. And the girls are, luckily, all in the box for a minute’s breathing spell. I call this kind, Russell, for you to turn up here after all, and I’ll not forget it in a hurry.”

Russell, having no alternative, rushed blindly upon his fate. How could he tell Benedict that he had already, without reason, without excuse, fallen in love with Jack’s beautiful sister, and knew that the better part of wisdom was to retire from the fray before matters should get worse. He walked, dream-like, beside his friend, went through the ceremony of introduction to Jack’s mother, received a kind hand-shake from Mrs. Benedict, and scarcely venturing to look up, heard Jack say:

“Mr. Russell, my sisters, my cousin--all Miss Benedicts; so you will have no trouble in knowing how to address them.”

Jack’s voice thrilled with affection for his friend. Russell’s fingers clasped in succession three gloved right hands. He knew by intuition when he touched those of the girl whose charm had enthralled him and, looking her full in the eyes, met in return a glance of gentle approbation.

“Jack has cried me in their market better than I knew,” he thought, gratefully. By the immediate departure of the other two young ladies in answer to the inspiriting strains of the “Washington Post,” set to a two-step, together with Jack’s flight in search of his own partner, Russell found himself for a moment alone with the Miss Benedict he most admired.

“I am not detaining you?” he asked, nervously.

“Not at all. In fact, I am stranded upon your hands. My idea is that the man I promised this dance to is fainting somewhere on the outskirts of the crowd. When I saw him last he was already pumped, and supper not yet served,” she answered, laughing.

“I hope they will not revive him,” said Russell, yielding for once to the temptation of the hour.

Back of the committee box was a little room set apart for wraps and _tête-à-têtes_, into which he had the hardihood to invite his companion to retire, hoping thus to seclude her from the observation of her tardy dancer.

“Yes, do go; I shan’t tell,” said Mrs. Benedict, smiling approval. “The little rest will do you good, and I know Jack will think well of your change of comrades.”

Thus everything conspired to bring closer around poor Russell the net he had not sought to weave. Sitting back among the cloaks and hats, with the music floating in to them in softened cadence, he could feast his eyes upon the beauty that had ensnared him. Her talk, bright, friendly, unaffected, girlish, was exactly calculated to win him from his habitual attitude of reserve. He found himself pouring out upon her ear the stream of strong original thought and language which had first made Jack Benedict his ardent admirer. She, in turn, felt a sense of pleasure and bedazzlement in this man’s society that she had never known before. All Jack had said of Hubert Russell was more than confirmed by her talk with him; and before the brief period of their isolation was ended, something of the same everyday marvel worked upon him by her was accomplished in her gentle breast by him. A tremor of admiration, of preference for his society, ran through her veins. She asked herself timorously what _should_ she do if she never met him again; why fate had been so long in granting to her this experience of delight!

An invasion of young men (the missing partner, full of apologies for the accident of his detention, and the man to whom the next intermission was promised) broke up their _tête-à-tête_. Russell hardly believed his good fortune when she said, in a vexed aside:

“There, now, they have spoiled the best of the evening for me. I am sure we shall have no other chance to talk.”

“You are going to-morrow?” he murmured, trying to seem indifferent.

“Yes, at eleven. I am so sorry,” she answered in the same vein of restrained feeling.

“I _must_ see you once more,” he said, briefly--then drew within himself, frightened at his own audacity.

After that he watched her from afar, not being able to bring himself to join the throng of chatterers who surrounded her in the intervals of dancing or at supper time. Once only, Jack, running upon him, paused under the weight of official cares to say, brightly:

“You took to them, then? My people, I mean.”

“I should say I did. They are all delightful, and your sister, Jack, is--well--”

“Which sister?” interrogated his friend, merrily.

“I actually do not know,” said Russell, shame-facedly. “But she wears blue and has a wreath of white roses.”

“That’s my sister Margaret. Do you know I always had an idea that you would hit it off with Margaret. She doesn’t let herself out to everybody by any means. But, Hubert, you might say one word for my own particular goddess--Agnes--who is the chief woman in the world for me, though I daren’t tell her so till I’m farther ahead in fortune.”

“Agnes? Which is she?” answered Russell, confusedly, conscious that he had given thought only to the companion of his talk in the committee-room.

“Stupid!” laughed Jack, pulled this way and that by people asking him questions. “There’s but one Agnes, as I said, and she--er--she wears blue.”

He was torn away by an imperative demand for the floor manager, and Russell felt relieved.

“I should not like to have confessed to him that neither of the others made the least impression upon my sensibility. I saw, of course, that there were two young females of pleasing but conventional exterior--that was all. Only the blindness of a brother could overlook the fact that Margaret is far and away the most distinguished, individual, high-bred, graceful, gracious, of the three. A man who has once spoken to Margaret would seek conversation with the other two only when he had absolutely no chance with Margaret.”

Russell stayed till daylight, looking in at the armory windows, drove the last dancers to withdraw. Poor Mrs. Benedict, yawning dismally behind the ostrich-feather fan, had to confess herself beaten by sheer fatigue. Walking stiffly out upon the arm of her son, she soon fell into the corner of her carriage, thanking heaven that Jack could by no possibility be again the floor manager of a Junior “Prom.” All around her limp figures were seen slinking into retreat. The most indefatigable of the dancers among the men revealed foreheads streaked with matted hair, staring eyes, shirt-fronts and collars flaccid for want of starch, buttonhole bouquets like crushed vegetables. Upon that stage of the annual festivity it were well to let fall a veil!

When Russell appeared at the carriage door to aid Jack in putting his family into their vehicle, a faint blush came into the clear pale cheeks of his companion in the talk of a few hours before.

“Might I--would you take a little stroll with me before you leave?” he ventured, with throbbing heart, to ask her.

“To-morrow? I mean, to-day?” she queried, a little confused.

“Yes; you see it is my only chance.”

“I will be waiting in the little reception-room of the hotel at ten,” she said, rapidly. It seemed to her that they were in a boat being borne onward by the current.

Jack and Russell walked together back to their dormitory building, where each man occupied with a room-mate a suite of two bedrooms and a sitting-room. As the gray of the sky warmed with rose color, Jack yawned mightily between two puffs at a cigar.

“I’d give a kingdom for a solid eight hours’ sleep,” he said, stretching his arms out. “But alas! I’ve got to be up betimes at the station, on duty, putting ‘them’ in the train, you know, or I think I’d take ‘cuts’ enough to tide me over a half a day in bed.”

“That is one of those things I can’t do for you, or I would,” said Russell. “I mean putting the ladies in the train.”

“Why, man, are you made of iron and whale-bone that you show not a sign of somnolence?” asked Jack.

“Not in the least. I never so heartily wished that I were constructed after that model as since this evening’s experience. But remember that you have danced many miles, while I’ve merely hung around on the outskirts.”

“You sound gay as a lark. What’s come over you? I’d advise a ball a week at this rate. Perhaps you are going to come out as a ‘fusser’--a regular squire of dames--in your old age.”

“No such good luck. I have seen but one dame I should care to squire, and she--well--” and Russell sighed genuinely.

“A confession?” exclaimed Jack, gleefully. “But it’s never too late to mend, so go ahead.”

“I have no story. I am simply the victim of overwhelming circumstances. Love came unsought, unsent, and it will probably expire when I do. So no more at present from yours idiotically.”

“I know you too well to press queries. You will, as usual, just shut your jaw and glare in silence if you don’t care to hold forth on any topic. I, too, am ready for silence, though for a grosser reason.”

They kept pace together without speaking, until they reached the landing where Jack turned in at his door, Russell ascending higher.

“Good night! Good day!” said Jack as they parted. “By the way, I forgot to mention that my mother tells me it was Agnes--my Agnes, you know--and not my sister Margaret, with whom you had that chat in the committee-room. Now, I did suppose that even a churlish old bach like you could tell the difference between those two. Margaret’s a nice girl--a dear girl--but Agnes--well, you know what I think of Agnes!”

“Agnes?” repeated Russell, almost in a whisper.

“Yes, my bride-to-be, when I get money enough to claim her. My mother said she as evidently took to you as you did to her. That’s as it should be, old chap. When I’m awake we’ll have a jolly long talk over her perfections. Meantime, you evidently need sleep as much as I do. I never saw such a pale face as you’ve got on you suddenly. Brace up, and good-by till we meet again.”

“Agnes,” repeated Russell, mechanically, as he crept up his flight of stairs and went into his room.

Down fell his card-castle! The havoc wrought on him by that one short talk must be borne in silence and lived down. It was Jack’s lady-love that he had coveted. To follow up the advantage he could not but feel that what he had gained with her would mean treachery to Jack. Rather than betray his friend he would so cancel his engagement to meet her at ten o’clock that she, considering him a boor, would not choose to hold speech with him again. He would simply fail to go to her hotel; and, cost him what it might, this course were better than undermining Jack.

III

As the hour of her appointment with Hubert Russell passed without sign or token from him, a blush of shame dyed the cheek of Agnes Benedict. She wondered at herself for making this engagement to meet Jack’s friend, and for feeling ashamed to speak of it to her family. But with a sort of desperate faith in him she waited in the little reception-room at the foot of the hotel stairs where she had promised to be found. When she could wait no longer she went into her room and burst into tears. Mortified by her want of self-control, she promised herself that Russell would yet explain satisfactorily the slight to her. At the station, where Jack finally appeared--arriving at a gallop in a cab just as the train was about to start--she experienced a new pang of disappointment. Not only was Hubert Russell nowhere to be seen, but he had sent no message. Agnes came to the swift, maidenly conclusion that it was because she had cheapened herself by making an appointment to see him alone after but a half-hour’s acquaintance. She would bear her punishment in silence, and tell nobody--Jack, least of all.

As the days wore on, Agnes felt that something had gone out of her life--something not quite warranted by the briefness of that interlude at the ball. Try as she might, she could not forget Russell and the emotion he had caused in and had seemed to feel for her. Jack’s letters home spoke of him as winning new honors in the college course. When June came the family went up again to Yale to hear the speaking for the “De Forest” medal, for which both Jack and Russell were to be competitors. It was known that popular opinion inclined to select Jack Benedict as the prize-winner, but that Russell was considered a close second. In their zeal for their own hero the Benedicts were beginning to look a little frigidly upon Jack’s opponent. And it is safe to say that all of them, save Agnes, hoped and prayed that Russell might not win.

Agnes, who would have given anything for an excuse to stay away, found none. The appointed day saw her one of an audience assembled within the walls of the old college chapel, whose prim Puritan interior made even this gala occasion seem a little less cheerful than a funeral elsewhere. She had been standing with her cousins in the corridor as the procession of senior classmen in caps and gowns filed by; and, to her utter discomfiture, a momentary halt in the line had brought her face to face with Hubert Russell. In an instant the blood rushed into her cheeks. Russell, looking her full in the face, saluted her with conventional reserve. In reality he felt more of inward excitement than did she. A moment more and they had parted, she to sit gathering her faculties together in one end of the pew to which the Benedicts had been assigned, and trying to believe that she had not cared a bit.

“Did you see that Mr. Russell?” whispered Louisa in her ear. “A stiff, cross-looking fellow, spite of Jack’s praises. Oh, Agnes, if he and not Jack should win the ‘De Forest’ I could never get over it--never. I almost hate him now, don’t you?”

“No-o,” whispered Agnes, blushing and hesitating.

“You are too angelic. And when any one can see Jack cares more for what you think than for all the rest of us put together! At any rate, you will own that Hubert Russell is very uncivil. He has never taken the least notice of Jack’s family, and considering all Jack has been to him! A man told me it is quite well known there’s a cloud over Russell’s family--something really dreadful, and that Jack has simply brought everybody to forget it and to treat Russell as if it had never been.”

“What Jack has done is grand, and I honor him for it,” said Agnes. “Who dares judge a man for the sins of his father? If ever any one showed a high and noble nature in his countenance it is Hubert Russell.”

“Don’t get excited,” said Lou, teasingly. “The object isn’t worth it, in my opinion. I suppose, though, you and Jack see things with the same eyes nowadays.”

“Lou, you mustn’t. Jack and I are nothing but cousins--_dear_ cousins,” said Agnes, imploringly.

Mrs. Benedict, looking across Margaret, here hushed their whispers. The exercises were already under way.