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.
When it was Jack’s turn to step upon the platform, and after a
courteous bow in his student’s gown to the president and judges,
to begin his oration, all hearts in the audience warmed toward the
manly and graceful and straight-forward young fellow. His essay,
well-written, carefully polished, was delivered with excellent
judgment, and when he had ended and stepped down amid tremendous
applause from his friends and classmen, the general verdict was that
it would win the prize. Last upon the list of speakers came Hubert
Russell. The rather measured applause bestowed on him as he appeared
was warmed up by the individual hand-clapping of his friend and
predecessor, Jack. Hardly a smile lighted Russell’s dark and handsome
face as he began. His manner, never prepossessing, seemed now under
some spell or chill of indifference.
By hazard the pew in which the Benedicts were placed was well to the
front, upon the left-hand side of the speaker. As Russell finally
approached his peroration, his glance chanced for a moment to rest
upon the glowing, inspiring, appealing countenance of a girl who
leaned forward to gaze on him with her whole soul in her eyes. The
effect of this was immediate. Casting aside his embarrassment, his
indifference, he burst into a fervor of natural eloquence the like of
which had not been heard in that spot that day, or for many a day.
To Russell was given the persuasiveness of speech, the music of the
voice, the flow of language, the flexibility of countenance, that
combined may give interest to material of less value than was his.
When he had finished the brief essay there was no question among his
hearers as to who had spoken best; they yielded him the spontaneous
applause that no favor to the individual can simulate. Louder and
longer than any other present applauded honest Jack Benedict, who
knew himself outdone.
“Why, mother, that is not like you,” said Jack that evening, when he
went to take supper with his family at their hotel.
Mrs. Benedict, who had been delivering herself of a few rather bitter
criticisms upon the winner of the “De Forest” (news of the award to
Hubert Russell had just been communicated to them by Jack), tried to
smile deprecatingly, and ended by dropping a few tears.
“I know it, Jack darling. But it’s because you are so much more to us
than any Mr. Russell.”
“Oh, mother dear, that’s the fortune of war. Russell did it a
thousand times better than ever I could have done. When you think
he has no one--absolutely no human being to whom to telegraph his
success, and I have all of you--you will see that what I have is more
than a balance for Hubert’s luck to-day.”
“Poor fellow! I wish he had come here with you. I wish we could
say something nice to him,” said the good lady, her little fit of
ill-temper dissipated by native kindness of heart.
“He can’t be captured, I’m afraid. He is more queer than ever
regarding women since the Prom. About that time he let me think he
was or had been hopelessly in love, and was ashamed of himself for
being so. Had he confided in me, I should keep my lips sealed. But
no! Hubert Russell lives and must always live, I fear, severely
within himself.”
A secret love for some one that must govern all his life! Agnes,
listening, felt her heart sink in very shame. Since she had heard
Russell speak, her fancy for him, that had but lain dormant, had
sprung up in full growth and vigor. And now she was told that he
whom she loved in secret cared nothing at all for her. That meeting
on going into chapel but confirmed her in this conviction. She
little knew that a glimpse of her face it was which had inspired his
brilliant effort of oratory. She little knew--
After supper, in the cool, soft evening air of June, they walked over
to the town green, and while Mrs. Benedict and Margaret sat together
on a bench talking, Lou strolled in one direction, accompanied by
a certain young man who had of late begun to arrest her butterfly
attention, while Agnes and Jack took another path.
The latter pair talked long and easily together, of the interests
shared by them through relationship and intimacy of habit. It was
only when Jack began insensibly to glide into the tone of tenderness
she had noticed often of late with some alarm that his cousin drew
back a little in her friendly attitude.
“Don’t Jack; there’s a dear boy,” she said, coaxingly. “If you only
knew how nice you can be when you are sensible.”
Jack’s reply was a burst of long repressed devotion, to which Agnes
listened in dismay. She had no idea matters had gone so far, and was
shocked at this evidence of deep feeling.
Very gently, very tenderly, she pleaded with him to give up the idea,
and after a long and painful talk brought herself to the point of
avowing that her love was not hers to give. Jack, who knew most of
her acquaintances, could not conceive of a rival among them. But the
double blow of losing in one day the cherished hopes of two such
prizes was more than the poor fellow could meet with equanimity. In
their absorption, as they walked to and fro, neither observed that
Russell, straying out to be alone beneath the starlight with his own
swelling emotions, had encountered them; had made an irrepressible
movement toward Agnes, then, seeing the expression of Jack’s face,
had hurried on with a bitterness of jealousy in his heart that robbed
success of all its charms.
[Illustration: “AND WITH GLOOM IN HIS HEART HE WENT BACK TO HIS
LONELY ROOM AND LIFE.”]
“Then you care for some one else?” Jack was saying in a fierce
undertone.
“Jack--don’t, please!” murmured she, tears welling into her eyes.
“But I must know,” he went on, hardly aware of his own insistence.
“Yes,” she said at last, never so faintly. “But he does not care for
me.”
All of Jack’s manhood answered to this pitiful confession. He spoke
to her gently, soothingly, laid her hand in his arm, and told her he
would always watch over her like a brother. And Agnes, reassured,
looked up in his face with loving gratitude.
At this point, Russell, on the return, again passed them. A single
glance at the couple convinced him that Jack had won a prize dearer
far than the one his friend had that day wrested from him.
“It was a miserable delusion of my vanity,” Russell said within
himself, “that made me answer to the inspiration of her gaze. It is
Jack, the fortunate, the pet of Destiny, who is to claim her. Here
endeth the chapter of my folly.”
And with gloom in his heart he went back into his lonely room and
life.