The thought helped him through the meal astonishingly. Unselfishness is a great stimulus. Once he saw that he could do something definite toward the happiness of those he loved best, he seemed, rather to his own surprise, perfectly willing and able to do it, at no matter what sacrifice to himself. His righteousness supported him not only through the meal, but well through that part of the afternoon that he spent in the house—up, indeed, to the very moment of parting.
James' plan was to take a five-o'clock train to New York, whence he would take a night train to Chicago and arrive in Minneapolis early Tuesday morning, having missed only three working days at the office. It was still raining at four o'clock and a cab was telephoned for. As it was plodding up the slushy drive, James, overcoated and hatted, stood on the porch ready to get into it. Harry, who was to go to the station with him, was "having a word" with Aunt Selina—or, more exactly, being had a word with by her—in the hall. Beatrice, by some fiendish chance, determined to do the same by James.
"James," she said, "I want you to know how perfectly splendid I think it was of you—all this about Harry, I mean. You may say it was no more than your duty, and all that; but it was fine of you, nevertheless. Thank you, James, and good-by."
It really was rather awful. It amounted to his being rewarded and dismissed like a faithful servant. And her tacit, unconscious assumption of her right to thank people for favors conferred upon Harry—that was turning the knife in the wound. Of course she could have no idea of the pain she was giving, and James shook her hand and said good-by trying to give no sign of the pain he felt. All the comfortable stability of his logic faded from him as she spoke those words. All the way to the station, sitting by Harry's side in the smelly cab, he found himself crying inwardly, like a child, for what he could not have; wondering if, by the exercise of tact and patience, Beatrice could possibly be brought to love him; overcome at moments by an insane desire to throw himself on Harry's neck and beg him to let him have her—for surely, surely Harry could not be as fond of her as he! Oh, was it going to be as hard as this right along?...
"James," said Harry suddenly as the two paced the dreary platform in silence, waiting for the train to pull in; "it's sometimes awfully hard to say what you want without talking mawkish rot, but there's something I've simply got to say, rot or no rot, or drop dead on the asphalt.—I'm pretty young, of course, and haven't seen much of anything of life; but a person doesn't have to live long to get the general idea that it's rather a chaotic mess. Well, occasionally out of it there emerges a thing that appears to bring out all that's best in your nature and gives a certain coherence to the other things...."
"Yes?" said James, wondering what was to follow.
"Well, it seems to me that one of those things is—you and me. Since last night, I mean ... James, I don't know how you feel about it, but since then I've had a sense of nearness to you, such as I've never begun to have with any other human being—such as doesn't occur often in one lifetime, I imagine ... I really think very highly of you, James!" He broke off here with a smile, half embarrassed at his brother's slowness of response, ready to retreat into the everyday and the trivial if the response did not come.
But he need not have worried; James was merely choosing his words; every nerve in him was thrilling in answer to Harry's advance. He returned the smile, but replied, in full seriousness: "You've hit it exactly; I should even say it couldn't be duplicated in one lifetime.... You're unique, Harry!"
"That's it—unique," said Harry, joining in with his mood. "You've mastered the art of uniquity, James."
"And what's more," went on the other, "it always has been that way—really. Even during these last few years. With me, I mean."