The Portygee Part 36

Albert's conscience troubled him slightly at first when he thought of Helen Kendall. It had been in reality such a short time--although of course it seemed ages and ages--since he had fancied himself in love with her. Only the previous fall--yes, even that very spring, he had asked her to pledge herself to him. Fortunately--oh, how very fortunately!--she had refused, and he had been left free. Now he knew that his fancied love for her had been merely a pa.s.sing whim, a delusion of the moment. This--THIS which he was now experiencing was the grand pa.s.sion of his life. He wrote a poem with the t.i.tle, "The Greater Love"--and sold it, too, to a sensational periodical which circulated largely among sentimental shopgirls. It is but truthful to state that the editor of the magazine to which he first submitted it sent it back with the brief note--"This is a trifle too syrupy for our use. Fear the pages might stick. Why not send us another war verse?" Albert treated the note and the editor with the contempt they deserved. He pitied the latter; poor soul, doubtless HE had never known the greater love.

He and Madeline had agreed that they would tell no one--no one at all--of their betrothal. It should be their own precious secret for the present. So, under the circ.u.mstances, he could not write Helen the news. But ought he to write her at all? That question bothered him not a little. He no longer loved her--in fact, he was now certain that he never had loved her--but he liked her, and he wanted her to keep on liking him. And she wrote to him with regularity. What ought he to do about writing her?

He debated the question with himself and, at last, and with some trepidation, asked Madeline's opinion of his duty in the matter. Her opinion was decisive and promptly given. Of course he must not write Helen again. "How would you like it if I corresponded with another fellow?" she asked. Candor forced him to admit that he should not like it at all. "But I want to behave decently," he said. "She is merely a friend of mine"--oh, how short is memory!--"but we have been friends for a long time and I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings." "No, instead you prefer to hurt mine." "Now, dearest, be reasonable." It was their nearest approach to a quarrel and was a very, very sad affair.

The making-up was sweet, of course, but the question of further correspondence with Helen Kendall remained just where it was at the beginning. And, meanwhile, the correspondence lapsed.

September came far, far too soon--came and ended. And with it ended also the stay of the Fosd.i.c.ks in South Harniss. Albert and Madeline said good-by at their rendezvous by the beach. It was a sad, a tearful, but a very precious farewell. They would write each other every day, they would think of each other every minute of every day, they would live through the winter somehow and look forward to the next spring and their next meeting.

"You will write--oh, ever and ever so many poems, won't you, dear?"

begged Madeline. "You know how I love them. And whenever I see one of your poems in print I shall be so proud of you--of MY poet."

Albert promised to write ever and ever so many. He felt that there would be no difficulty in writing reams of poems--inspired, glorious poems.

The difficulty would be in restraining himself from writing too many of them. With Madeline Fosd.i.c.k as an inspiration, poetizing became as natural as breathing.

Then, which was unusual for them, they spoke of the future, the dim, vague, but so happy future, when Albert was to be the nation's poet laureate and Madeline, as Mrs. Laureate, would share his glory and wear, so to speak, his second-best laurels. The disagreeable problems connected with the future they ignored, or casually dismissed with, "Never mind, dear, it will be all right by and by." Oh, it was a wonderful afternoon, a rosy, cloudy, happy, sorrowful, bitter-sweet afternoon.

And the next morning Albert, peeping beneath Z. Snow and Co.'s office window shade, saw his heart's desire step aboard the train, saw that train puff out of the station, saw for just an instant a small hand waved behind the dingy gla.s.s of the car window. His own hand waved in reply. Then the raucous voice of Mr. Price broke the silence.

"Who was you flappin' your flipper at?" inquired Issachar. "Girl, I'll bet you! Never saw such a critter as you be to chase after the girls.

Which one is it this time?"

Albert made no reply. Between embarra.s.sment and sorrow he was incapable of speech. Issachar, however, was not in that condition; at all times when awake, and sometimes when asleep, Mr. Price could, and usually did, speak.

"Which one is it this time, Al?" demanded Issy. "Eh? Crimus, see him get red! Haw, haw! Labe," to Mr. Keeler, who came into the office from the inner room, "which girl do you cal'late Al here is wavin' by-bye to this mornin'? Who's goin' away on the cars this mornin', Labe?"

Laban, his hands full of the morning mail, absently replied that he didn't know.

"Yes, you do, too," persisted Issy. "You ain't listenin', that's all.

Who's leavin' town on the train just now?"

"Eh? Oh, I don't know. The Small folks are goin' to Boston, I believe.

And George Bartlett's goin' to Ostable on court business, he told me.

Oh, yes, I believe Cap'n Lote said that Fosd.i.c.k woman and her daughter were goin' back to New York. Back to New York--yes--yes--yes."

Mr. Price crowed triumphantly. "Ah, ha!" he crowed. "Ah, ha! That's the answer. That's the one he's shakin' day-days to, that Fosd.i.c.k girl. I've seen you 'round with her at the post office and the ice cream s'loon.

I'm onto you, Al. Haw, haw! What's her name? Adeline? Dandelion?

Madeline?--that's it! Say, how do you think Helen Kendall's goin' to like your throwin' kisses to the Madeline one, eh?"

The a.s.sistant bookkeeper was still silent. The crimson, however, was leaving his face and the said face was paling rapidly. This was an ominous sign had Mr. Price but known it. He did not know it and cackled merrily on,

"Guess I'll have to tell Helen when she comes back home," he announced.

"Cal'late I'll put a flea in her ear. 'Helen,' I'll say, 'don't feel too bad now, don't cry and get your handkerchief all soakin', or nothin'

like that. I just feel it's my duty to tell ye that your little Albert is sparkin' up to somebody else. He's waitin' on a party by the name of Padeline--no, Madeline--Woodtick--no, Fosd.i.c.k--and ...' Here! let go of me! What are you doin'?"

That last question was in the nature of a gurgle. Albert, his face now very white indeed, had strode across the office, seized the speaker by the front of his flannel s.h.i.+rt and backed him against the wall.

"Stop," commanded Albert, between his teeth. "That's enough of that.

Don't you say any more!"

"Eh? Ugh! Ur-gg! Leggo of my s.h.i.+rt."

Albert let go, but he did not step back. He remained where he was, exactly in front of Mr. Price.

"Don't you say any more about--about what you were saying," he repeated.

"Eh? Not say any more? Why not? Who's goin' to stop me, I'd like to know?"

"I am."

"I want to know! What'll you do?"

"I don't know. If you weren't so old, I would--but I'll stop you, anyhow."

Albert felt a hand on his arm and heard Mr. Keeler's voice at his ear.

"Careful, Al, careful," it said. "Don't hit him."

"Of course I shan't hit him," indignantly. "What do you think I am? But he must promise not to mention--er--Miss Fosd.i.c.k's name again."

"Better promise, Is," suggested Laban. Issachar's mouth opened, but no promise came forth.

"Promise be darned!" he yelled furiously. "Mention her name! I'll mention any name I set out to, and no Italyun Portygee is goin' to stop me, neither."

Albert glanced about the office. By the wall stood two br.i.m.m.i.n.g pails of water, brought in by Mr. Price for floor-was.h.i.+ng purposes. He lifted one of the pails.

"If you don't promise I'll duck you," he declared. "Let go of me, Keeler, I mean it."

"Careful, Al, careful," said Mr. Keeler. "Better promise, Is."

"Promise nawthin'! Fosd.i.c.k! What in time do I care for Fosd.i.c.ks, Madelines or Padelines or Dandelions or--"

His sentence stopped just there. The remainder of it was washed back and down his throat by the deluge from the bucket. Overcome by shock and surprise, Mr. Price leaned back against the wall and slid slowly down that wall until he reclined in a sitting posture, upon the floor.

"Crimustee," he gasped, as soon as he could articulate, "I'm--awk--I'm drownded."

Albert put down the empty bucket and picked up the full one.

"Promise," he said again.

Laban Keeler rubbed his chin.

"I'd promise if I was you, Is," he said. "You're some subject to rheumatism, you know."

Issachar, sitting in a spreading puddle, looked damply upward at the remaining bucket. "By crimustee--" he began. Albert drew the bucket backward; the water dripped from its lower brim.

"I--I--darn ye, I promise!" shouted Issachar. Albert put down the bucket and walked back to his desk. Laban watched him curiously, smiling just a little. Then he turned to Mr. Price, who was scrambling to his feet.

"Better get your mop and swab up here, Is," he said. "Cap'n Lote'll be in 'most any minute."