For the first time in that long, long fight the girl weakened. Gropingly she found the extended hand; but even then the voice was steady.

"Good-bye," she said--and that was all.

CHAPTER VIII

CELEBRATION

It had been a gay dinner, a memorable dinner. The mere ostensible occasion of its being in celebration of the publication of Steve Armstrong's first novel, "The Disillusioned," would of itself have been sufficient reason therefor. In addition, the resignation, by a peculiar coincidence to take effect the same day, of the former manager of the Traction Company, Darley Roberts, with a recommendation that was virtually a command for the advancement of his acting a.s.sistant, Harry Randall, to his place, added another reason no less patent. If a cloud existed that evening to mar the happiness of those four long-time friends gathered in commemoration of the dispensation of Providence jointly enjoyed, it most emphatically had not lifted its head above the surface.

Never had Margery Randall bubbled with more spontaneous abandon; or, even in the old university days, had Elice Gleason laughed more easily. And as for Steve Armstrong, the guest of honor, the conquering hero,--it was his hour and in its intoxicating completeness he had enjoyed it to the full; had stretched it on and on that he might enjoy it again. Now, the last course served, the last toast proposed and drunk in inadequate chocolate, and the two girl friends, after the habit of old acquaintances, left to their own private confab, Randall and Armstrong drifted instinctively upstairs to the former's den for their after-dinner smoke. In absolute well-being, too keen almost for words, Armstrong dropped into a big leather chair, facing his host.

"By Jove, Harry," he commented explosively, "I tell you this is something like living. I never enjoyed myself so much before in my life."

Harry Randall, decidedly stouter than the Randall of professor days, smiled appreciatively as he selected a cigar from the convenient humidor.

"Yes, the world does look rather bright to me to-night, I'll admit," he acquiesced.

"Bright!" Armstrong laughed outright in pure animal exuberance. "It's positively dazzling: the more so by comparison." He looked at his companion with the frank understanding of those long and intimately acquainted. "What a change a few short years can make sometimes, can't they? What an incredible change!"

Harry Randall returned the look, but gravely this time.

"Yes, I've been thinking of that all the evening," he said simply.

"So have I." Armstrong laughed shortly; "that is, when I haven't been too irresponsibly happy to think at all. Just to get my bearings I tried to fancy myself back where I was once when I came to tell my troubles to you; and went to pieces at the end of the narrative." He gestured eloquently. "What a fool I was and what a liar to swear I'd never do any more literary work, or permit a book of mine to be published in any circ.u.mstances, ever!" Once more the gesture, ending in an all-comprehensive shrug. "Bah! I don't like to think of it. The whole thing's a nightmare, neither more nor less!"

Again Harry Randall did not smile.

"Yes; the past was a little that way," he echoed again.

For perhaps half a minute Armstrong smoked in reminiscent gravity; swiftly as the shadow had intruded it pa.s.sed.

"Let's forget it," he proposed, "forget it absolutely and never speak of it again. By the way, do you own this place now?"

"No; Roberts still holds it. I made him an offer before he went away last Summer, but he wouldn't even consider it then. I'll try again when he returns. Margery wants it badly."

"When he returns? Is he coming back soon?"

"I judge so, although I've had no word. There were a number of letters and telegrams came for him yesterday, and a batch of them to-day. I suspect that he intended being here to-night and is delayed for some reason." Randall removed his gla.s.ses and polished them with unnecessary diligence. "I wired him when I heard what he'd done for me, but I haven't had any answer yet. I'd have given anything to have had him here to-night. It was the one thing lacking."

For a moment there was silence.

"He has done a lot for you, Harry, that's a fact," commented Armstrong, judicially. "Your new place at six thousand dollars a year is a pretty good thing even for these days."

"A lot? Everything! He pulled me out of h.e.l.l and gave me a chance when I'd never have made one myself. I owe him everything; and I've never been able to do him one blessed service in return."

Armstrong squirmed uncomfortably. The usually reticent Harry Randall like this was a novelty.

"For that matter, he's done a lot for both of us," admitted Armstrong, perfunctorily. "I appreciate it too, thoroughly."

Randall looked up swiftly; in remembrance equally swift he turned away.

"Yes; he's done miracles for both of us, more than we can possibly realize," he said softly. "More--"

"Harry," interrupted Margery Randall's voice from the stairway, "I'm sorry to hasten you men, but Elice thinks she must go. Her father isn't well, you know, and is at home alone."

"I'll wait, Elice. It's early yet. See how your father is and come down when you can." Armstrong looked at her meaningly, with all but an appeal.

"This is my night, you know. You really can't refuse to let me see you to-night."

The girl busied herself with the lights and the gas in the grate.

"I know, Steve; but really I'd rather not see any one longer to-night."

She took off her coat almost hurriedly. "It's a busy time for me now before the holidays; and with father as he is--That's why I came away so early, you know. Not to-night, please, Steve."

Armstrong silently paced the length of the little library, pitifully bare in comparison with the home they had just left. He halted.

"Do you realize that you've invariably prevented, by one excuse or another, my talking with you alone in months now?" he asked abruptly.

"Don't you mean ever to give me a chance again? You know what it is I wish to speak about, Elice."

The girl was standing--quite still now.

"Yes, I know what it is you wish," she corroborated.

Armstrong fingered the gloves in his hand nervously. "Aren't you going to listen then? I won't attempt to make any apologies for the past. I can't.

But I'd hoped you'd forgotten, or at least forgiven, by this time. I've tried to make good, honestly, Elice; and to-night particularly--don't stand me in the corner any longer, please. I've been punished enough."

"Punished!" The girl wheeled. "I wonder--" She checked herself suddenly.

"Very well," she digressed swiftly,--"wait. I'll be back soon," and she was gone.

Alone Armstrong threw hat and topcoat into a chair almost irritably; walking over to the grate, he stood gazing down into the blaze absently.

For some reason it called to mind another grate and another occasion when he had looked absently therein; and almost unconsciously he caught himself glancing at the shelf above, half expecting to catch the play of light from a red decanter thereon. With the shrug of one who banishes an unpleasant memory he turned away. He was still standing, however, when the girl returned.

"Is there any way I can a.s.sist, with your father?" he asked perfunctorily.

"No, thank you. He's asleep. It's mental, the trouble with him, more than anything else." She sat down and indicated a place opposite. "I'm so glad Harry Randall escaped in time."

"And I as well?"

"Yes, and you, a.s.suredly."

Armstrong waited; but she said no more, and with an odd diffidence he cleared his throat unnecessarily.

"It's sacrilege, though, for us to talk commonplaces to-night," he antic.i.p.ated hastily. "There's too much else to discuss, and to-day has meant too much. Do you realize what this day really means for both of us, Elice?"

The long fingers lay in the girl's lap, quite still.