A Modern John Alden

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXX, Issue XV, 11 April 1903, Page 1043

A Modern John Alden

“Stub” Van Alan’s rotund visage loomed dimly through a cloud of tobacco smoke, for all the world like the sun lost in a fog. This was not an unusual phenomenon, certainly, but the fact that my generally irrepressible friend had been in my room ten minutes and had neithersmiled nor attempted any of the atrocious puns for which he was justly infamous, was a hitherto unknown state of things. “What’s the matter with you, old man?” I queried. The cloud of smoke became denser, threatening total eclipse. “Nothing,” came forth presently from the blueness, “at least nothing you would care to hear about.” “I like that,” I replied, a little touched at his manlier. “Since when have I been in the habit of ‘passing by on the other side,’ like what’s-his-name in the parable, and you in trouble?” “Can’t say you ever did,” said Stub, removing his pipe, “but it isn’t —er— ordinary trouble; I suppose I may as well tell you, though—l’m in love.” “In love?” I echoed, beginning to laugh. “Is that all? I imagined from your looks that you were about to be hanged. Was there ever a time you were not in love—with some one? Who is it this time?” “You needn’t laugh ” said Mr Van Alan, indignantly. “This isn’t a joke. I’m in dead earnest.” “Who is it?” I demanded, seriously. “Helen Lorrington,” said Stub, darting a queer glance at me. If he had suddenly hurled a ehair at my head it would have dumfounded me less. I became interested all at once in looking out of the window I wasn’t anxious for Stub to see my face. It was no joke, as he had said —to me, at all events. I had been in love wit i Miss Lorrington for two years, madly, hopelessly;' fluttering about her beautiful, stately presence, as the proverbial moth about the candle flame, and wit i about the same result. I have never bee i accused, even by ’my enemies, of lacking nerve; but somehow, under the spell of Miss Lorrington’s grey eyes, I could never screw up my courage to the sticking point and put my fate to the touch. I had fancied at times that Helen was not altogether indifferent. There had

been a memorable day on the links that she—however, at other times I was miserably certain that I had no chance. “Of course” —Stub was speaking—“l know she’s much too good for me; she’s better, nobler than ”

“Have you said anything to her?” I managed to say. I knew how perfect the lady of my heart was, without Samuel Peyton Van Alan’s telling me. “No,” he said, ruefully; “I—l can’t. Whenever I’m with her I feel like an overgrown boy and nearly make an idiot of myself; she has a way of looking into a fellow’s soul, with those big eyes of hers, that makes him think of his sins.” I made no comment; I understood perfectly.

“Look here, Ken,” said Stub, as if suddenly struck with a bright idea. “You and Hel—Miss Lorrington—are great friends, aren’t you? I remember hearing her say once that Kenneth Sears was one of the nicest men she knew. Why can’t you—er —er —sort of say a word for me? Tell ner how it is with me. and that I am not really such a blockhead a. I appear in her society. Tell her I—l love her—just as if it was yourself, you know; maybe if she thought 1 cared for her she might

“Do you take me for a matrimonial agent?” I asked, sternly. “Do your own proposing. Eo you suppose a girl like Helen Lorrington would think twice of a man who was lacking in courage?”

“I don’t know,” said Stub, “that’s what you are going to find out.” “I’m not,” said I. “Don’t be a chump,” remarked my friend in contemptuous tones. “Promise you’ll speak to her to-night, if you get a chance, at Mrs Applebee’s dance.” Stub and I had been friends since college. I would do more for him than for any man alive, and . Well, I arrived at Mrs Applebee’s that night with a

heart like lead, bound to plead my friend’s cause with the girl I loved myself.

“What did you wish to tell me, Mi' Sears?” Miss Lorrington asked, after I found her a seat under a tall palm in the deserted conservatory. I swallowed a lump that had suddenly risen in my throat, and began. “And who is this fair lady that your friend loves so devotedly?” she inquired, when I had finished.

“You!” I said, turning away my eyes lest they betray my own secret. “Me!” she said, incredulously. “Sammy Van Alan in love with me? Impossible!”

“Why impossible?” I cried, impulsively. “How can he do otherwise? How can any man? But you are so far above other women —so unapproachably ado - ; able—that all a fellow can do is to worship—in silence.” I had forgotten Sam uel Pevton Van Alan.

Miss Lorrington made no reply. She was looking intently under a bench of potted geraniums, a little, far away smile on her lips. I followed her gaze, and as I discovered its object, hot prickly waves began to chase up my spine to the roots of my hair. It was only an empty wooden box at which she was looking, but pasted on one end of it was a highly coloured lithograph, advertising Priscilla nasturtium seeds—and the picture was of John Alden, pleading the cause of Miles Standish. Something in the droop of Miss Lorrington’s regal head gave me sudden courage. I bent down until my eyes met hers and in them I re: d, as plainly as love could say it, the i nn.ortal

rebuke of Priscilla to her faint-hearted lover: “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”

And Stub? Well, I may as well confess it. I had been made the victim of a diabolical ruse. Mr Van Alan had dis covered the state of my feelings—got the idea from a chance remark of Helen’s that it was only my cowardice that stood in the way of making me the happiest man alive, and forthwith essayed the role of match-maker. He was my best man six months later.