Albert's conscience troubled him slightly at first when he thought of Helen Kendall. It had been in reality such a short time—although of course it seemed ages and ages—since he had fancied himself in love with her. Only the previous fall—yes, even that very spring, he had asked her to pledge herself to him. Fortunately—oh, how very fortunately!—she had refused, and he had been left free. Now he knew that his fancied love for her had been merely a passing whim, a delusion of the moment. This—THIS which he was now experiencing was the grand passion of his life. He wrote a poem with the title, “The Greater Love”—and sold it, too, to a sensational periodical which circulated largely among sentimental shopgirls. It is but truthful to state that the editor of the magazine to which he first submitted it sent it back with the brief note—“This is a trifle too syrupy for our use. Fear the pages might stick. Why not send us another war verse?” Albert treated the note and the editor with the contempt they deserved. He pitied the latter; poor soul, doubtless HE had never known the greater love.
He and Madeline had agreed that they would tell no one—no one at all—of their betrothal. It should be their own precious secret for the present. So, under the circumstances, he could not write Helen the news. But ought he to write her at all? That question bothered him not a little. He no longer loved her—in fact, he was now certain that he never had loved her—but he liked her, and he wanted her to keep on liking him. And she wrote to him with regularity. What ought he to do about writing her?
He debated the question with himself and, at last, and with some trepidation, asked Madeline's opinion of his duty in the matter. Her opinion was decisive and promptly given. Of course he must not write Helen again. “How would you like it if I corresponded with another fellow?” she asked. Candor forced him to admit that he should not like it at all. “But I want to behave decently,” he said. “She is merely a friend of mine”—oh, how short is memory!—“but we have been friends for a long time and I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings.” “No, instead you prefer to hurt mine.” “Now, dearest, be reasonable.” It was their nearest approach to a quarrel and was a very, very sad affair. The making-up was sweet, of course, but the question of further correspondence with Helen Kendall remained just where it was at the beginning. And, meanwhile, the correspondence lapsed.
September came far, far too soon—came and ended. And with it ended also the stay of the Fosdicks in South Harniss. Albert and Madeline said good-by at their rendezvous by the beach. It was a sad, a tearful, but a very precious farewell. They would write each other every day, they would think of each other every minute of every day, they would live through the winter somehow and look forward to the next spring and their next meeting.
“You will write—oh, ever and ever so many poems, won't you, dear?” begged Madeline. “You know how I love them. And whenever I see one of your poems in print I shall be so proud of you—of MY poet.”
Albert promised to write ever and ever so many. He felt that there would be no difficulty in writing reams of poems—inspired, glorious poems. The difficulty would be in restraining himself from writing too many of them. With Madeline Fosdick as an inspiration, poetizing became as natural as breathing.
Then, which was unusual for them, they spoke of the future, the dim, vague, but so happy future, when Albert was to be the nation's poet laureate and Madeline, as Mrs. Laureate, would share his glory and wear, so to speak, his second-best laurels. The disagreeable problems connected with the future they ignored, or casually dismissed with, “Never mind, dear, it will be all right by and by.” Oh, it was a wonderful afternoon, a rosy, cloudy, happy, sorrowful, bitter-sweet afternoon.
And the next morning Albert, peeping beneath Z. Snow and Co.'s office window shade, saw his heart's desire step aboard the train, saw that train puff out of the station, saw for just an instant a small hand waved behind the dingy glass of the car window. His own hand waved in reply. Then the raucous voice of Mr. Price broke the silence.
“Who was you flappin' your flipper at?” inquired Issachar. “Girl, I'll bet you! Never saw such a critter as you be to chase after the girls. Which one is it this time?”
Albert made no reply. Between embarrassment and sorrow he was incapable of speech. Issachar, however, was not in that condition; at all times when awake, and sometimes when asleep, Mr. Price could, and usually did, speak.