New Friends and Old (Chisholm)

By A. M. Chisholm

HE flirts disgracefully,” said Florrie.

“I thought she did it rather well,” said I, incautiously.

A coal fire blazed merrily. Tiny white spurts of smoke flung outward from the grate, and jets of gas, burned blue as the flame, lapped them. It was very comfortable in Florrie's sitting-room, after a struggle with a car service badly demoralized by the first severe storm of the Winter. Back of the low-lying circle of light thrown by the shaded lamp were well-filled book-cases, draped with some soft material pendent from brass rods shining in the firelight. A piano occupied one corner, and a writing-desk, broad and flat, which also served the purpose of a work-table, had its place near the white-curtained window. A cozy-corner, heaped with soft, well-used cushions, was to the right of the fireplace. A banjo, photographs and pictures adorned the walls, and the mantelpiece was covered with small, fragile articles of pottery and statuary, whose names I had often vainly tried to remember. The room was thoroughly feminine, but the big easy-chairs were masculine and full of comfort. Also, permission to smoke might be had by good behavior.

Into this pleasant haven crept dissension. My last remark was ill-considered, and immediately led me into difficulties.

“Perhaps you have had opportunities for observation?” suggested Florrie, in a dangerously gentle way.

I disclaimed, hastily. “Not at all. I have only met her once or twice. If I remember correctly, I was introduced to her one night last Summer at the boat club.”

“You danced with her,” Florrie asserted.

“I did not,” said I, virtuously.

“Then you sat out with her.”

“Not exactly.”

“What did you do?” demanded Florrie, browbeating the witness.

“Well,” I admitted, reluctantly, “it was fairly simmering under that gravel roof, so, just to get cool, we took a canoe and paddled out a little way. The music sounds much nicer from the water.”

Florrie nodded her blond head in severe comprehension. She possesses a cultivated taste in musical and other matters. The case for the defense, however, suffered thereby.

“What did you do then?”

“Then? Oh,nothing! She dabbled her hands in the water, and I smoked.”

“Was it moonlight?” pursued Florrie, relentlessly.

“Let me see. Yes, there was a moon.”

“Ah! And, of course, you paddled around the bay to the river.”

Florrie would have made a great success as a cross-examiner.

“Yes, we went that far,” I admitted.

“Didn't you go up the river?”

“I think we did—a little way.”

“Up the right bank, where the trees droop over?” suggested counsel, insinuatingly.

“There is less current by the right bank,” I explained, endeavoring to make the admission as little damaging as possible.

“And there is more shadow. Did she call it heavenly?”

“I believe she liked the scenery.”

“I have no doubt of it. Did you tell her you found an added beauty in it that night?”

Counsel, now convinced of the reluctance of the witness, was pressing the question. Also, counsel's technical knowledge was beyond dispute.

“I said I liked the place; so I do.”

“When she 'dabbled her hands,' as you call it, did she roll up her sleeves?”

“She couldn't very well let them get wet.”

“Then she did roll them up. Did you say anything about moonlight-and white arms?”

“Well, they were white.”

“Did you take her hand?”

“How could I? I was paddling,” said I, in excuse. “You know how it is in a canoe—so tottlish. You can't do what”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” interrupted Florrie, with severity. “She was flirting shamelessly, and you were worse, if anything. I do not want to hear any more. If you must flirt with every girl who is silly enough to listen to you, at least don't tell me about it.”

“Why, you asked me what happened.”

“IT did not think so much happened.”

“Absolutely nothing happened,” said I, regretfully. “Circumstances beyond my control made it necessary to go back. She said she couldn't stay away from her aunt any longer, and certainly the old lady looked relieved when we got in safely from what she called 'that treacherous canoe.'”

“I should think she would,” said Florrie, unkindly.

I looked at her, reflectively.

“Then,” said I, “I went to look for you.”

“That was very good of you,” observed Florrie, with sarcasm.

“I couldn't find you,” I proceeded. “Carson told me you and some chap had strolled down toward the cliff beach.” I surprised a somewhat thoughtful expression in Florrie's eyes. “So I followed, to say that Mrs. Digby was looking for you. When I got down under the bluff, I saw a lady and gentleman seated there, apparently much interested in each other.”

Florrie became slightly red.

“Of course,” said I, “I came away at once.”

Florrie looked relieved.

“Because,” I went on, “I heard him say, 'We can neither of us forget those days, can we, dear?'”

Florrie grew scarlet, opened her lips and shut them again.

“It seemed a pity that they should,” I continued. “They were evidently pleasant days, and memories of them would be light burdens to carry through life. He was holding her hand, I believe.”

“They may have been old friends,” said Florrie, in a very small voice. “Perhaps they had not seen each other for a long time.”

“It seemed as if there might be arrears.”

“And perhaps they would not see each other again for years to come; it may have been good-bye between them forever.”

“Partings of old friends are always painful, but I thought the chances were”

“She may have thought she was fond of him when a very young girl, and may have found out her mistake.”

“Oh, well, we are all entitled to our youthful fancies, of course!”

Florrie did not immediately reply. She looked pensively into the heart of the cannel fire, and her foot began to tap nervously on the hide of a polar bear that formed the hearth-rug. Her interlaced fingers twisted against each other unconsciously, from which indications I inferred that I was to hear more, and I patiently awaited developments.

“It must have been,” said Florrie, at length, “quite five years since I saw him, Jack.”

“So long as that?”

Florrie withdrew her gaze from the fire. She rested her cheek on her hand, and looked up into my face confidingly. I preserved, I hope, an appearance of interested attention, but, as a matter of fact, I was almost entirely engrossed in watching the play of the firelight in her eyes and on her hair.

“Quite five years,” she repeated, firmly. “We were great friends at one time—that was before I knew you, Jack—and there was a time when I thought that—that”

“Yes, you thought that—?” I remarked, encouragingly. Certainly the curve of her cheek was perfect.

“That I liked him well enough, you know; and, that night by the cliff, we talked over old times.”

“That was nice.”

“Well, it was, in a way, but rather sad. We have both changed greatly in those five years, | suppose. He has been in the West most of the time, prospecting and-mining, and somehow he is quite different. I suppose it is the life. How lonely it must be, Jack, with nobody but Indians to talk to for weeks at a time!”

“I suppose he often thought of you and your old friendship when he was in the wilderness?” I ventured.

“Yes, he said he did.”

“No wonder. When a man shuts the door on civilization for a time, his thoughts almost invariably go back to it, and to the people he knew best, who helped to make his life what it was. What a gap there is between an evening spent before the fire with you, in this cozily furnished room, and one by a lonely camp-fire, or in a noisy little hotel in a mining town. That old friendship and your memory would help him to resist many temptations.”

“How did you know that?”

“It is human nature, I suppose—the constant striving of good against evil. The influence of pure, good associations clings to us when we are removed from them. Yes, he would often think of you at night, and your face might come to him in dreams.”

“He said he used to dream of me, and wonder if I wasted a stray thought on him.”

I nodded, sympathetically. Evidently, Florrie's old friend had played the game strictly according to rule. I mentally put myself in his place, and thought out the next move.

“Yes, I can understand. He would wonder, too, if, after all these years you could not pick up the broken strands and join them together in a strong cord of love.”

“He—he wanted to begin where we left off.”

“Of course, that was when he took your hand,” I remarked, approvingly. I was curious to hear if the procedure varied in the West.

“Ye-es; I was so sorry for him.”

“Naturally. What did you say?”

“I told him that it was impossible; that I liked him very much, but that—that”

“It hurt him, I have no doubt.”

“He said it was what he had feared; but he had hoped, and—and he almost broke down, Jack.”

I became satisfied that the procedure did not vary in the West; it is stereotyped, the world over. I lost interest, but followed matters out to their logical conclusion.

“How a good woman may twine herself around a man's heart! He will always carry your memory as something holy in his breast, and at the end—well, it is too bad, Florrie.”

“He said he would, Jack, and it was so sad—and I cried.”

“And then he kissed you good-bye—a brother's kiss!”

“He did not!” cried Florrie, indignantly. “I wouldn't, of course!”

Evidently there had been a mistake somewhere; I was disappointed in the West.

“Not even on the forehead?” I asked, in surprise. “It seems to me he might have. You wouldn't stand for it, you say?”

“Certainly not!” exclaimed Florrie, turning very red. “How can you say such a thing?”

“I would, if I had been in his place,” said I, reflectively. “He led up to it very well, too.”

“Jack!”

“The resisting temptation and all that was apparently well done. He must have bungled it, somehow.”

“Are you trying to make me angry?” demanded Florrie, with a strong effort at self-control.

“Not at all,” said I. “I am merely reviewing the possibilities of the situation. My own opinion is that your friend did not make the most of his opportunities. He was not in a canoe, and there was not that excuse.”

“It is quite time you went home,” interrupted Florrie, with dignity. “I do not wish to hear of any more of your flirtations.”

“This, of yours, resembles one slightly,” I suggested, mildly.

“It was not a flirtation; it was a good-bye,” said Florrie,, with due sadness.

“And mine,” said I, “was not even a good-bye; it was only an introduction.”

I got up to go.

“I hope you may never have to say good-bye to a dear friend,” said Florrie, reproachfully.

“At any rate,” said I, taking my hat, “it cannot be said of me that I bungle my good-byes.”

But the details, going to prove that statement, are quite immaterial.