NEW YEAR'S EVE.
The street lights in New York were barely distinguishable because of the
storm which raged for many miles north and south along the Atlantic
coast.
There were few pedestrians out, although it was still early evening, and
but a scattering of closed vehicles. In one of these sat Helen Beavers,
Marianne Carnot and Gene. The French girl shivered and drew her costly
grey furs closer about her.
"So this is your winter," she said. "I would like it better in the south
where it is always summer." She shrugged her slim shoulders and tried to
peer out of the small, rain-drenched window.
The skidding car was turning into a fashionable side street. Soon they
were gliding up the drive of a private residence. They stopped under a
wide, sheltering portico and when the door was flung aside Gene leaped to
the pavement to help the girls alight.
Brights lights burned within a handsome grey stone house, and a moment
later the door was opened to admit them into a festive scene where there
was youth and music, laughter and joy.
It was the home of Faith Morley's Aunt Louise, and this was one of the
parties to attend which the girls had begged Gene to return to the big
city.
An hour later when he had danced, first with Faith, his hostess, and then
with Helen and Gladys Goodsell, he went in search of Marianne, whom he
found talking with a tall, lank youth in military uniform. The proud girl
paid scant attention to the newcomer. Gene, knowing that it was his duty,
if not his pleasure, to ask each of his sister's friends to dance with
him, waited until there was a pause in their conversation before making
the request. The French girl thanked him effusively, of course, but
declined, saying that she did not dance the old-fashioned American waltz.
Then she turned back to the young cadet, who, if the truth were known,
was boring her exceedingly. Gene excused himself and, seemingly
unnoticed, walked away.
The slow, dreamy waltz music was being played by the palm-hidden
orchestra and as it was the only dance for which Gene cared, he sought
his sister, but was just in time to see her glide away with his pal,
David Davison. He did not care to dance with anyone else. He felt too
weary to be entertaining and so he slipped across the hall into the dimly
lighted library, where a log was burning on the wide hearth, casting its
warm glow over the low bookshelves and the statues and beautiful
paintings.
He was glad no one was there. He wanted to be alone, to rest, he assured
himself. But what he really wished was to remember.
He sank down into the big, comfortable chair in front of the fire which
had recently been deserted by Mr. Morley. An open book and a magazine lay
nearby.
How good it seemed to be away from the noise, if laughter and chatter and
music could be called by a name so plebian.
Then he listened to the other sounds as he sank deeper into the soft
depths of the chair and relaxed, stretching out before the warmth of the
blaze.
How the storm whistled and moaned about the house and down the chimney.
Closing his eyes, he tried to picture what the storm would be like about
Tunkett. He glanced at the small clock over the mantle. Ten-thirty. The
house adjoining the tower would be in darkness, but the great lamp would
be swinging. Perhaps the blizzard was keeping Muriel awake, and he
wondered what she might be thinking about.
Just then he happened to recall what his sister had said to him that
morning, and, knowing Helen, he also knew that she had meant it kindly.
Putting her hands on his shoulders, she had looked into his eyes, saying:
"Dear brother, you wouldn't allow yourself to care for someone of whom
your mother could not be proud. This friend of yours, Muriel Storm, is a
fine girl, I am sure, but she could not associate with your friends, and
our mother's heart would be broken if you really cared for her."
Of course he and Muriel did not care for each other in the way to which
Helen had referred. They were just jolly good comrades.' Why were people
always romancing? He was glad that Muriel did not fit into the scene that
was being enacted in the brilliantly lighted room across the hall. He
liked her best as she was.
At midnight his sister found him and her glance was reproachful at first,
but when she saw how truly weary he looked she rebuked herself for having
kept him up late so soon after his illness.
She remembered how solicitous Muriel had been that he should not
overwork. Was she, Helen, less considerate as a sister than this island
girl as a friend?
When they were again in the closed car, Marianne retired into the depth
of her furs and ignored their existence, pretending that she was too
weary for conversation, but Helen understood.
Marianne, she knew, wished all boys to think her the most charming girl
they had ever met, and though Gene was polite, he had not been devoted.
"Poor brother," Helen thought, as she glanced at his face, pale in spite
of its recent tanning. Aloud she said: "Gene, this is the last night that
I am going to drag you around to a dance. I know that you ought to just
rest, if you are to go back to college next month."
Gene said nothing, but reached for his sister's hand and held it in a
loving clasp.