THE FAITHFULNESS OF A FRIEND
The friendship between Jack Neligage and Dick Fairfield was close and sincere. For a man to say that the friendships of men are more true and sure than those of women would savor of cynicism, and might be objected to on the ground that no man is in a position to judge on both sides of the matter. It might on the other hand be remarked that even women themselves give the impression of regarding masculine comradeship as a finer product of humanity than feminine, but comparisons of this sort have little value. It is surely enough to keep in mind how gracious a gift of the gods is a genuine affection between two right-hearted men. The man who has one fellow whom he loves, of whose love he is assured; one to whom he may talk as freely as he would think, one who understands not only what is said but the things which are intended; a friend with whom it is possible to be silent without offense or coldness, against whom there need be no safeguards, and to whom one may turn alike in trouble and in joy—the man who has found a friend like this has a gift only to be outweighed by the love of her whose price is far above rubies and whose works praise her in the gates. Such a friendship is all but the most precious gift of the gods.
To evoke and to share such a friendship, moreover, marks the possession of possibilities ethically fine. A man may love a woman in pure selfishness; but really to love his male friend he must possess capabilities of self-sacrifice and of manliness. It is one of the charms of comradeship that it frankly accepts and frankly gives without weighing or accounting. In the garden of such a friendship may walk the soul of man as his body went in Eden before the Fall, "naked and not ashamed." He cannot be willing to show himself as he is if his true self have not its moral beauties. It may be set down to the credit both of Dick and of Jack that between them there existed a friendship so close and so trustful.
Even in the closest friendships, however, there may be times of suspension. Perhaps in a perfect comradeship there would be no room for the faintest cloud; but since men are human and there is nothing perfect in human relations, even friendship may sometimes seem to suffer. For some days after the announcement of Jack's engagement there was a marked shade between the friends. Jack, indeed, was the same as ever, jolly, careless, indolent, and apparently without a trouble in the world. Dick, on the other hand, was at times absent, constrained, or confused. To have his friend walk in and coolly announce an engagement with the girl whose correspondence had fired Dick's heart was naturally trying and astonishing. Dick might have written a bitter chapter about the way in which women spoiled the friendships of men; and certain cynical remarks which appeared in his next novel may be conceived of as having been set down at this time.
More than a week went by without striking developments. The engagement had not been announced, nor had it, after the first evening, been mentioned between the two friends. That there should be a subject upon which both must of necessity reflect much, yet of which they did not speak, was in itself a sufficient reason for a change in the mental atmosphere of their bachelor quarters, which from being the cheeriest possible were fast becoming the most gloomy.
One morning as Dick sat writing at his desk, Jack, who since breakfast had been engaged in his own chamber, came strolling in, in leisurely fashion, smoking the usual cigarette.
"I hope I don't disturb you, old man," he said, "but there's something I'd like to ask you, if you don't mind."
Dick, whose back was toward the other, did not turn. He merely held his pen suspended, and said coldly:—
"Well?"
Jack composed himself in a comfortable position by leaning against the mantel, an attitude he much affected, and regarded his cigarette as if it had some close connection with the thing he wished to say.
"You remember perhaps that letter that I gave you from May?"
Dick laid his pen down suddenly, and sat up, but he did not turn.
"Well?" he said again.
"And the other letters before it?"
"Well?"
"It has occurred to me that perhaps I ought to ask for them,—demand them, don't you know, the way they do on the stage."
Dick said nothing. By keeping his back to his chum he missed sight of a face full of fun and mischief.
"Of course I don't want to seem too bumptious, but now I'm engaged to Miss Calthorpe—"
He paused as if to give Fairfield an opportunity of speaking; but still Dick remained silent.
"Well," observed Jack after a moment, "why the dickens don't you say something? I can't be expected to carry on this conversation all alone."
"What do you want me to say?" Fairfield asked, in a tone so solemn that it was no wonder his friend grinned more than ever.
"Oh, nothing, if that's the way you take it."
"You knew about those letters when I got them," Fairfield went on. "I read them to you before I knew where they came from."
"Oh, my dear fellow, hold on. You never read me any but the first one."
"At any rate," rejoined Dick, obviously disturbed by this thrust, "I told you about them."
"Oh, you did? You told me very little about the second, and nothing about the third. I didn't even know how many you had."
Fairfield rose from his seat, thrust his hands into his pockets, and began to pace up and down the room. Jack smoked and watched.
"Look here, Jack," Dick said, "we've been fencing round this thing for a week, and it's got to be talked out."
"All right; heave ahead, old man."
Fairfield stopped in his walk and confronted his friend.
"Are you really fond of Miss Calthorpe, Jack?"
"Oh, I don't object to her; but of course the marriage is for purely business reasons."
"You're not in love with her?"
"Not the least in the world, old man," Jack responded cheerfully, blowing a ring of smoke and watching it intently as it sailed toward the ceiling. "But then she doesn't love me, so there's no bother of pretending on either side."
The color mounted in Dick's cheeks.
"Do you think it's the square thing to marry a young girl like that, and tie her up for life when she doesn't know what she's doing?"
"Oh, girls never know what they are doing. How should they know about marriage in any case? The man has to think for both, of course."
"But suppose she shouldn't be happy."
"Oh, I'll be good to any girl I marry. I'm awfully easy to live with. You ought to know that."
"But suppose," Dick urged again, "suppose she—"
"Suppose she what?"
"Why, suppose she—suppose she—she liked somebody else?"
Jack looked shrewdly at Dick's confused face, and burst into a laugh.
"I guessed those letters were pretty fair," he burst out, "but they must have been much worse than I even suspected!"
"What do you mean?" stammered Dick.
"Mean? Oh, nothing,—nothing in the world. By the way, as the matter relates to my fiancée, I hope you won't mind my asking if she's written to you since our engagement."
"Why—"
"Then she has written," pronounced Jack, smiling more than ever at the confusion of his friend. "You haven't the cheek to bluff a baby, Dick. I should hate to see you try to run a kelter through."
"She only wrote to say that she was glad the Count didn't write 'Love in a Cloud,' and a few things, you know, that she wanted to say."
Jack flung the end of his cigarette away and stepped swiftly forward to catch his chum by the shoulders behind. He whirled Dick about like a teetotum.
"Oh, Dick, you old fool," he cried, "what an ass you are! Do you suppose I'm such a cad as really to propose to marry May when she's fond of you and you're fond of her? It doesn't speak very well of your opinion of me."
Dick stared at him in half-stupefied amazement for an instant; then the blood came rushing into his cheeks.
"You don't mean to marry her?" he cried amazedly.
"Never did for a minute," responded Jack cheerfully. "Don't you know, old man, that I've sold my polo ponies, and taken a place in the bank?"
"Taken a place in the bank!" exclaimed Dick, evidently more and more bewildered. "Then what did you pretend to be engaged to her for?"
"Confound your impudence!" laughed Jack, "I was engaged to her, you beast! I am engaged to her now, and if you're n't civil I'll keep on being. You can't be engaged to her till I break my engagement!"
"But, Jack, I don't understand what in the deuce you mean."
"Mean? I don't know that I meant anything. I was engaged to her without asking to be, and when a lady says she is engaged to you you really can't say you're not. Besides, I thought it might help you."
"Help me?"
"Of course, my boy. There is nothing to set a girl in the way of wishing to be engaged to the right man like getting engaged to the wrong one."
Dick wrung his friend's hand.
"Jack," he said, "I beg your pardon. You're a trump!"
"Oh, I knew that all the time," responded Jack. "It may comfort you a little to know that it hasn't been much of an engagement. I've been shamefully neglectful of my position. Now of course an engaged man is supposed to show his ardor, to take little liberties, and be generally loving, you know."
Dick grew fiery red, and shrank back. Jack laughed explosively.
"Jealous, old man?" he demanded provokingly. "Well, I won't tease you any more. I haven't so much as kissed her hand."
Dick's rather combative look changed instantly into shamefacedness, and he shook hands again. He turned away quickly, but as quickly turned back again once more to grasp the hand of his chum.
"Jack Neligage," he declared, "you're worth more than a dozen of my best heroes, and a novelist can't say more than that!"
"Gad! You'd better put me in a novel then," was Jack's response. "They won't believe I'm real though; I'm too infernally virtuous."
A knock at the door interrupted them, and proved to be the summons of the janitor, who announced that a lady wished to see Mr. Fairfield.
"Don't let her stay long," Jack said, retreating to his room. "I can't get out till she is gone, and I want to go down town. I've got to order the horses to take my fiancée out for a last ride. It's to break my engagement, so you ought to want it to come off."