The Summer is passing so quickly. In another month college will re-open.
I have had a delightful time, thanks to Mr. Elliott. I knew you would
tease me about him. Why can’t you be sensible, Mary? I assure you we are
nothing more than the best of friends.
We had a tiff last week. I felt annoyed because I felt sure he was
trying to get up a flirtation with that odious Emma Hawley. But I
suppose my imagination ran away with me. We are all right again now. I
shall be very sorry when he goes. He has only another fortnight here. He
is very clever and I am sure will succeed in life. I hope he will.
Mr. Dallas is as cynical as ever. I imagined he is a little piqued that
Mr. Elliott and I have held our point so well.
[Extract Number Seven. From Mr. Dallas’ notebook.]
I can generally see through a grindstone when there is a hole in it! But
some people in this establishment cannot.
The little Platonic comedy still goes on. Miss Chester is serenely
confident that she has proved her point and is gloating over my
anticipated downfall.
Yet one day, when her co-theorist walked home from the shore with Miss
Hawley—blonde, soft-eyed, brainless, different stamp from Miss Chester
altogether—my lady grows very pale and dignified, adopts the “cool and
severely classical” air, wears my daisies and throws Elliott’s bluebells
spitefully into the brook. Purely Platonic, of course! But I fancy
Elliott had to work his way back into favor and he fidgetted a good deal
under the process. Yet he, too, is blind. “What fools these mortals be!”
[Extract Number Eight. From Madge Chester’s journal.]
Mr. Elliott goes away next week and I shall miss him very much. We have
had such a pleasant Summer. He has seemed very quiet lately. I wonder if
he will ask me to write to him. It will be lonely here when he goes—but
I shall not be here much longer myself. I long now to get back to
college and to my work.
I have a dreadful headache—I wonder what is the matter with me these
days. I feel rather blue to-night. No sooner does one make a good, true
friend whom one really values than one loses him again.
[Extract Number Nine. From Howard Elliott’s journal.]
I go to-morrow. I cannot understand why I should feel so depressed about
it.
I shall heartily regret to part with Miss Chester. Our friendship has
been so pleasant. I shall ask her to correspond with me.
I do not want to drop out of her life altogether.
I had a letter from the editor of the _Caterer_ to-day. He wants me to
write an article on Platonic friendship for his magazine but I don’t
think I will—I have lost active interest in the subject. Of course, I
believe in it just as firmly as ever but it is getting stale. Besides,
nothing can be really proved. What is true for one person might not be
for another.
* * * * *
Madge Chester was standing under the maples at sunset, looking steadily
and unseeingly at the masses of scarlet poppies before her. Howard
Elliott came jauntily across the lawn and said with overdone
carelessness.
“Shall we go for a walk in the dyke meadows, Miss Chester—our last one?
A pleasant finale to a pleasant vacation. Afterwards we must interview
Mr. Dallas. The hour of our triumph is approaching. It is a comfort to
think he will have to own himself in the wrong, isn’t it?”
He did not explain why comfort should be needed nor did she ask. They
walked silently across the lawn, between the ranks of flaunting poppies.
Dallas, swinging in a hammock, watched them amusedly as they passed on
to the dyke meadows, blossom-sown and sunset-lit. Neither spoke until
they came to a low, straggling fence, half-buried in golden-rod and
faint purple asters. In the cool air the dusk was struggling with early
moonrise. Over the meadows, sweet and faraway, came the refrain of a
song sung by some gay boaters on the harbor.
Elliott laid his hand over the girl’s as it rested, white and small, on
a mossy rail.
“I suppose we shall not see each other again for some time,” he said
with studied composure. “I am sorry. This has been a—I have been—our
experience has been a pleasant one. I think.”
“Oh, yes,” said Madge hurriedly. She turned away that he might not see
the quiver of her lips.
“You must not forget me altogether, Madge,” he went on nervously. “We
will correspond, will we not? I shall want to hear how you are getting
along at college and I promise to write the most interesting letters
about my work that I possibly can. Perhaps we will meet again next
Summer.”
“It is not likely,” answered Madge faintly. “I expect to travel abroad
next Summer.”
There was another long silence. At last Madge turned with a little
shiver.
“It is chilly here. I think I had better go in. You can tell Mr. Dallas
yourself. I don’t care about meeting him—my head aches.”
Elliott held out his hand.
“Good-by,” he said.
“Good-by,” said the girl, with a little choke in her voice. Two
irrepressible tears fell over her burning cheeks.
Elliott reached out wildly for her other hand.
“Oh, I will say it. I love you—I love you! I don’t care what Dallas or
anyone says—only what you say. Don’t say that you can’t care for me.”
[Extract Tenth and last. From Mr. Dallas’ note book.]
The pretty little comedy has had its inevitable ending. The two Platonic
friends went off for a long stroll to-night, looking as if they were
going to be hanged, and came back radiant and shamefaced. I let them
down easy and spared them the necessity of owning up.
“Bless you, my children,” I remarked, paternally.
Miss Chester pouted and looked pretty. She is an independent little puss
that, and could, I fancy, make it hot for Elliott if he ever tries
Platonics with anybody else. I don’t think he will, however. I imagine
he is cured of that for good and all. Platonics, indeed! Stuff and
nonsense!
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.
[The end of _A Platonic Experiment_ by L. M. (Lucy Maud) Montgomery]
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