A Private Chivalry by Francis Lynde

IN the course of a somewhat diversified experience Brant had been constrained to fight his way through a few measurably perilous passages, and in such crises those who liked him least were fain to concede his courage. None the less, when the day of liberation darkened to its evening he went leaden-footed to the interview with Dorothy's mother.

Now Hobart, in the goodness of his heart, had caused it to be whispered about that Brant would probably make his farewell call that evening, and for this reason it was Dorothy, and no hireling, who answered the bell.

Whatever may be said of Brant (and his most loyal apologist is fain to admit that his shortcomings were many and variegated), he was no laggard in love; and when he made sure of the identity of his unexpected welcomer, Dorothy had no cause to doubt the warmth of his passion. Nevertheless, she blushed and struggled a little -- as what modest young woman, however affectionate, would not in a well-lighted reception hall which was a thoroughfare for the entire household? And so, mutely protesting, she drew him quickly into the library.

"Only a moment with you, my love," he said tenderly; "just long enough to hear you say it again. Are you quite sure you love me?"

She hid her face on his arm -- she was not tall enough to reach his shoulder. "I -- I'd be ashamed to tell you how long I have been sure of it," she confessed with sweet _naïveté_.

Whereat he kissed the parting of her hair.

"Thank you for that word, my darling. It would hold a worse man than I ever dared to be true to his purpose. Now there is but one thing more: we must have your mother's consent and approval. Will you go and send her to me?"

But Dorothy hesitated, as well she might.

"If you are sure you must speak to her now," she ventured to say. "But, oh, I am afraid -- -- "

At that he drew her closer, and for some ecstatic moment the hard thing that remained became as naught. "The day of fear and trembling is past, little one, and whatever befalls, whatever your mother may say, we shall still belong to each other. And I will wait and serve for you, my love, as Jacob served for Rachel, if need be. Now kiss me good-bye, dear, and go -- before the love of you unmans me."

She lifted tear-brimmed eyes to his and said: "Oh, no; it must not be good-bye."

"Only for a little while, sweetheart. I'll join you with the others when I have done what I must do."

"With the others? But how shall I know what she has said?"

He smiled and once more kissed the parting of her hair. "You'll know without the telling, my beloved. And if you are the first to welcome me, I'll know you know. Now go, and let me have it over with."

She went obediently at that, and when she was gone, Brant began to walk the floor and to call up all his reserves of fortitude and courage, being well assured that he would presently need them.

While he was yet planning the assault, and before the flanking regiments were properly wheeled into line, the door opened behind him and he turned to confront not Mrs. Langford, as he had anticipated, but her son. The "unlicked cub" came in, swaggering a little as was his wont; but when he had closed the door and so shut himself in with his redoubtable preserver, he had an attack of embarrassment which quickly put to flight the offhand greeting he had meant to offer. Whereupon, instead of carrying it off with the easy nonchalance of a man of the world, he stammered like any schoolboy and Brant had to come to the rescue.

"How are you, Will? I am glad to see you," he said, truthfully enough.

The unchastised one felt that some acknowledgment of his immense obligation to Brant ought properly to precede any mere desultory talk, but to save his life he could not twist his tongue to anything like the adequate speech. So he spoke of Brant's plans rather than of the obligation.

"Heard you were off to the San Juan; Harry told us, you know. Jolly good layout, too, isn't it? By gad, don't you know I envy you? -- no, that isn't what I meant to say. Fact is, Mr. Brant, you see I've been hanging 'round the door so long waiting for Dorothy to come out that it's got me rattled. What I wanted to ask was if you wouldn't take me along. I reckon I don't know enough about engineering to hurt me any -- nothing much but what I learned at school -- and folks say I'm too dead tough to breathe, but I'd like to learn, and -- well, I don't know, but I reckon I'll never be any account till I get to work, and if anybody can brace me up, it's you, and -- -- "

Brant was generous enough to break in and so supply the period the boy was so helplessly pursuing; and he did it the more readily since he felt the sudden and urgent prompting of a new and imperative duty.