“Why, what have I done?” said Larry.
“For one thing,” said Jane, in a low, hurried voice, moving close to him, “you have not given me a chance to congratulate you on your medal. Where have you been all day?”
The reproach in her eyes and voice stirred Larry to quick defence. “I have been awfully busy, Jane,” he said, “getting ready to go off to-morrow. I got a telegram calling me to Chicago.”
“To Chicago? To-morrow?” said Jane, her eyes wide open with surprise. “And you never came to tell me—to tell us? Why, we may never see you again at all. But you don't care a bit, Larry,” she added.
The bitterness in her voice was so unusual with Jane that Larry in his astonishment found himself without reply.
“Excuse me, Ethel,” she said, “I must see Ann a minute.”
As she hurried from the room Larry thought he caught a glint of tears in her eyes. He was immediately conscience-stricken and acutely aware that he had not treated Jane with the consideration that their long and unique friendship demanded. True, he had been busy, but he could have found time for a few minutes with her. Jane was no ordinary friend. He had not considered her and this had deeply wounded her. And to-morrow he was going away, and going away not to return. He was surprised at the quick stab of pain that came with the thought that his days in Winnipeg were over. In all likelihood his life's work would take him to Alberta. This meant that when he left Winnipeg tomorrow there would be an end to all that delightful comradeship with Jane which during the years of his long and broken college course had formed so large a part of his life, and which during the past winter had been closer and dearer than ever. Their lives would necessarily drift apart. Other friends would come in and preoccupy her mind and heart. Jane had the art of making friends and of “binding her friends to her with hooks of steel.” He had been indulging the opinion that of all her friends he stood first with her. Even if he were right, he could not expect that this would continue. And now on their last evening together, through his selfish stupidity, he had hurt her as never in all the years they had been friends together. But Jane was a sensible girl. He would make that right at once. She was the one girl he knew that he could treat with perfect frankness. Most girls were afraid, either that you were about to fall in love with them, or that you would not. Neither one fear nor the other disturbed the serenity of Jane's soul.
As Jane re-entered the room, Larry sprang to meet her. “Jane,” he said in a low, eager tone, “I am going to take you to the party.”
But Jane was her own serene self again, and made answer, “There is no need, Larry. Mr. MacLean will see us safely there, and after the meeting you will come. We must go now, Ethel.” There was no bitterness in her voice. Instead, there was about her an air of gentle self-mastery, remote alike from pain and passion, that gave Larry the feeling that the comfort he had thought to bring was so completely unnecessary as to seem an impertinence. Jane walked across to where Frank Smart was standing and engaged him in an animated conversation.
As Larry watched her, it gave him a quick sharp pang to remember that Frank Smart was a friend of older standing than he, that Smart was a rising young lawyer with a brilliant future before him. He was a constant visitor at this house. Why was it? Like a flash the thing stood revealed to him. Without a doubt Smart was in love with Jane. His own heart went cold at the thought. But why? he impatiently asked himself. He was not in love with Jane. Of that he was quite certain. Why, then, this dog-in-the-manger feeling? A satisfactory answer to this was beyond him. One thing only stood out before his mind with startling clarity, if Jane should give herself to Frank Smart, or, indeed, to any other, then for him life would be emptied of one of its greatest joys. He threw down the music book whose leaves he had been idly turning and, looking at his watch, called out, “Do you know it is after eight o'clock, people?”