The Little Moment of Happiness

by Clarence Budington Kelland

“Serves you right,” said Ken. “You were so darn sure—you with your understandings.... Three weeks were too much for her, and she’s passed you up for somebody who isn’t always telling her she’s just a temporary arrangement.”

“Go chase yourself,” said Bert. “It makes no difference in my young life.”

But Ken noticed that every minute or so Bert strolled with elaborate nonchalance to the window and looked down the street. Ken smiled. Bert’s manner was not that of a man whose heart suffers, but who has taken an injury to his pride....

“Here comes Andree,” said Bert.

Ken did not go to look, as he usually did. It was not that he did not want to see Andree, but her arrival brought his affairs to the acute stage. He had put off and put off the struggle to reach a decision; had occupied his mind with other matters, crowding out as much as was possible any thoughts of Andree and of what he was going to do about her. True, the thing had been with him always, lurking in the background and ready to step out at the least encouragement. But he had not approached it directly. It had been a sort of dull ache that he was always conscious of, but which he had been able to stifle. Now she was coming, was almost at the door. It would be a matter of minutes only before he would have to tell her that he was going away.... Even now he did not admit to himself that he had reached a partial decision, indeed that he had not required to make a decision upon one point. That was taking her with him. He had told himself that it would be possible to marry her and to take her on the transport that carried him, but it was self-deception, and he knew it was self-deception. In his heart he knew now, as he had known, that to-night he would say good-by to Andree and go to America without her.... He might come back for her, might even marry her before he went away, to have her follow him on another vessel. But there would be a parting, temporary or permanent....

He had never asked himself if Andree would marry him. The idea that she would not do so had never entered his head, which was significant. It was that which made his decision doubly difficult, for she was wholly in his hands, had given herself to him to do with as he pleased, and her life was his to break if he wished to do so.... He persuaded himself that his hesitation was more on her account than his own, that it would be impossible for her to be happy in the conditions which would be found in America, or that perhaps it would be impossible. He believed that he was trying to decide what would be best for her—or almost believed it. It may be that he was not wholly selfish, not thinking solely of himself and of the effects of his marriage with Andree upon himself. At any rate, his anxiety for her was very real and very disturbing.

She was coming up the stairs utterly unconscious of what awaited her, confident in a future with him which would not be disturbed for so long a time that it need not now be considered. An event that is a year distant is very far away to a young girl. If Andree had known she would lose Kendall in a year she would not have thought about it now ... nor until the year was drawing to a close. It is the ability to hope that makes this possible. Something might turn up within the year.... But now she was stepping into the event! In a few minutes she would hear his voice telling her that he was going away to-morrow—not in a year, not in a month, but to-morrow!... When he told her that he must tell her more. A mere announcement of his departure would not suffice; he must supplement it by telling her if their good-bys were forever, or for a few days or months....

The bell rang and he went to the door and opened it. She stood there very demure and self-contained and grave—dressed in white as he had seen her first. She lifted her eyes to his and smiled and then became grave and wistful again, for she saw that he was not happy.... He held out his arms to her and drew her in, realizing that it was the last time he should ever draw her slender daintiness through that door, the last time she would ever enter that apartment. It was the beginning of the end of that phase in their lives, of the untrammeled romance, the quaint mystery, the adventurous sweetness.

“You are triste,” she said, anxiously. “Is it that you have worked too hard?”

He shook his head.