There was one place, however, where the scenes of that day were never forgotten and among the girls of Miss Gregory's school the incidents were told and retold with romantic variations and speculations. To Lida mention of the day's events were becoming seemingly distasteful for she would never speak of them; but away from her studies and in her room, alone, the pictures of that scene ever recurred and with the picture came the image of her hero of the occasion.
She wondered what had become of him; whether he had died of his wounds, whether he had recovered; who he was and why she had never met him again to thank him in person. Often she pictured to herself scenes in which they met and she had thanked him for his bravery. At such times a crimson flush tinted her cheeks and suffused her neck clear to the shoulders as she shyly thought of actions her heart told her she might be led to perform in her gratitude. Constant picturing of these scenes had created in her a shy distrust of herself and a constant conflicting struggle for and against such a meeting. If they ever did meet again she hoped it would be by accident and she would be taken unawares for otherwise she felt she would run from the meeting.
As thoughts of his condition came to her she would be filled with pity at the memory of his wounds. This pity more and more often awakened tender thoughts and she wished she might have been near to nurse him, to care for his wounds and to show by nursing how she appreciated his unselfish efforts to rescue them.
When pity awakens tender thoughts love is just over the fence within easy call. So when these moments of pitying came Bennet loomed to her as an unknown hero and she treasured the thoughts in her heart as a girlish romance too sacred to be disclosed. Hence it was that all reference to the events of that day became outwardly distasteful to her; so seemingly distasteful that her schoolmates ceased to attempt to discuss them with her.
To all the girls of the school the events of that day were sources of wonderful romances. Each treasured the stories told in her heart and pictured herself enviously as the heroine of the occasion. While Lida refused to allow herself to be drawn out and to expose the inward dreams of her heart for general discussion, not so Louise Comstock. Though she confessed she was too excited and distracted to see who it was who rescued them she knew he was big and strong and dark and foreign looking and that was enough for her. She was frank in her expressions of love for him and delighted in picturing meetings with this unknown hero. Also she felt a growing conviction that she knew him.
Each night at the hour for retirement a group of girls would gather in one of their rooms, and in the darkness or under the moonlight which they allowed to shimmer through their curtained windows they would build romance upon romance with themselves as heroines and the unknown rescuer as hero.
"When I marry him," Louise Comstock announced one night as the girls were gathered in her room and were romancing, "I'll not let one of you girls come to the wedding. I'd be afraid of you all. I'd be jealous."
"Why, Louise!" several exclaimed at once.
"Yes, I'm too ravenously in love with him to let you girls have a look at him."
That was as much as she had opportunity to announce for all the girls pounced on her with sofa pillows, sheets, cushions and whatever soft thing they could battle with and soon Louise was being smothered beneath an avalanche of feathers while all the girls were screaming and laughing with the fun. So furious was the battle that Miss Gregory was called from her suite by the noise to subdue them.
Lida, who had been soundly sleeping, wandering amid pleasant dreams was awakened by the noise and commotion. As she roused the moon from a bright October sky flooded the room with its silver sheen that was almost a dreamlike day. The great pale disk, round and bright as only a harvest moon can be, was almost over head, causing the still clinging autumn leaves of the elms whose branches spread from sidewalk to sidewalk to make a dark fairy bower beneath them on the street. Through these falling leaves, now thinning with the accumulations of frost there danced and sparkled on the street little bright silver patches between the dark.
When the girls had been quieted Lida tried again to close her eyes and sleep but the brightness of the moon, the clearness of the sky showing through the treetops, and the quietness of the street all seemed to cast a dream spell over her that she could not overcome. Casting a robe about her and gathering some cushions about her feet she drew a chair and sat by the window looking out on the dew-sprinkled lawn and the street along which it ran till her gaze trailed itself out into the distant sky where only a few stars twinkled; and out where her thoughts could roam at will.
There was an entrancing stillness about the night with all the earth in slumber, the whole scene spreading out like some fairy garden over which some witching spell had been cast. As she sat, there came over her a loneliness, a dreaminess, that caused her to sigh aloud. Her heart seemed especially filled with tenderness and pity tonight as she sat, her elbows on the sill, her hands cupped and her chin resting in them, a lone teardrop hanging like pearls at the corner of each eye. A breeze, gentle and almost warm rustled the light silken sleeves of her gown and the lacy trimmings at her throat. Almost unconsciously her voice gave sound to the thoughts running through her mind.
"I wonder," she sighed, "if we'll ever meet?—I'd just like to tell him how much I thank him—He's the hero of my heart—and always will be.—Oh, I wonder if he's dead—Poor man." At this thought she bowed her head and wept silently. As she bowed her head in tears a figure at the base of the great elm near her window stirred as if to move. It was not the intention of the figure to play eavesdropper on a girl. As the figure moved the girl raised her head again. The figure hid behind the trunk of the tree again. To move would have been cruel to the girl as well as to have disclosed himself in a despicable act. One impulse prompted him to bolt and run while the delicate sense of honor and sympathy also cautioned him that to move would have been to disclose to the girl that she had been overheard and to have caused her shame. He decided to remain hidden and to preserve the secret of her anguish.
"I am so lonely." Lida sighed. "So lonely without love. Without his love. I love him. I do love him. I wonder if he lives. I'd give the world to know if he ever thinks of me—if he's dead. He can't be dead though, for some sense would have told me."
It is the first impulse of human beings when they have been religiously taught, when in the midst of great emotions; in the face of great difficulties and in the face of great crises in their lives, if never before, to pray. The first prompting of Lida's heart in her mood was to pray and she lifted her face to the sky as she uttered the words:
"Oh God, Thou knowest my heart; Thou hast given me love; give me the one I love."
The first impulse of Truman Bennet, for it was he who stood beneath her window, was to disclose himself. He realized, however, that he was in the presence of too deep a sentiment, too sincere an emotion and too reverent an occasion to spoil it all by disclosing himself, however much his heart leaped with gladness at the discovery that the feelings that prompted him were also so deeply moving the girl on whom his heart had set itself. He longed to make himself known yet felt the impropriety of intrusion on such a sacred hour in the girl's life and on such a sacred event. He resolved to treasure this maiden's secret, however, and never to take advantage of the knowledge he had gained that he was loved by her.
"I shall prove ever worthy of that love, though I never attain it, so help me God" he solemnly swore.
As if her prayer was answered there stole over Lida a calmness and serenity that was like the night itself. Her soul seemed Satisfied and after drinking in the blissfulness of the night scene a few moments longer she sighed audibly then slowly closed the shutters and retired, to peaceful slumber.
Truman Bennet when he was able to leave the hospital had lived, dreamed and hoped for nothing so much as to meet the girl he had rescued and become acquainted with her. Having learned from Doctor Tansey's conversation that she was a pupil at Miss Gregory's school he had ended his evenings by strolling by the great school and its high stone walls hoping for another glimpse of the face that haunted him, or for a chance meeting that would make them acquaintances. It was on one such errand as this that brought him alone and lonesome by the school this night when the girls were at their pranks and Lida had awakened. As the figure stirred and the shutters opened to the night he was so self-conscious of his errand that he thought it must be known to someone in the school and that this person had opened the window to tell him to move along and mind his own business; also not to be lurking about the school like a thief in the night. This was the thought that prompted him to step behind the trunk of the friendly elm and hide himself from view. Having hidden himself when he discovered the girl in her musings he realized what a shameful though unintentional predicament it was in which he was placed and the embarrassment of the girl should he disclose himself, so when the panic of his soul subsided he reasoned that it were better to remain hidden than to be the cause of any discomfiture to the girl.
As he realized the state of the girl's heart toward him the last vestige of youth in him vanished and in its stead came manhood. So do events shape and reshape our beings; so do we rise or fall to meet circumstances. Those who have the character measure up to events that confront them, and those who lack that character to measure up, shrivel and dwindle. It is by such as this that we succeed or fail.
Truman Bennet walked on air as he returned to his room that night. Yet the seriousness of realizing that he had the heart of a girl in his keeping even though unpledged and undisclosed sobered his happiness and caused him to sit by his window long hours before he retired for sleep. He debated with himself what his course under the circumstances should be.
"Shall I?" he asked himself, "go to this girl whom I love and confess my love then ask for hers, or shall I keep silent? What would I have done had I met her. What a fool I was to go near that school. What a fool I am any way! How can I love or let myself love when I have my way to make. To confess that I was within hearing of her voice would be to lose me whatever chance I might have. She would consider me a cad and rightly. No, I could never do that. She would have nothing to do with me then. No, the only thing I can do is to trust to chance. I love her, though. Love her with all the being in me.
"I wonder if she would understand? I doubt it. She seems a timid thing; and yet no, she is not timid. What shall I do? I don't know. Yet they say, 'faint heart ne'er won fair lady.'—I guess I'll let circumstances guide me. No, that's shirking. Ah, I have it. I shall pass her window again each night and some night when she's awake I'll begin to talk as if to myself and tell her who I am and that I love her. Perhaps she'll understand then and if she really meant what she said tonight I'll know then I can act. If she really loves me, boy, oh boy, the world is mine!"
That weighty question settled to the satisfaction of youth Bennet was soon abed and asleep. He awoke several hours later refreshed and with a song in his heart. Youth always sings in the morning hours. It seems appropriate. Youth is morning and morning the youth of the day—so youth, song and morning go hand in hand. With Bennet's first waking hour came the picture of the scene witnessed the evening previous. The memory filled him with happy dreams again and as he pictured the form at the window, leaning out into the dewy night while the soft wind was causing Lida's long loosely combed hair to wave back and forth about her neck and throat the vow he had overheard so filled him with joy that his eyes filled with tears of pain. He looked from the window of his room into which the sun was shining but saw only the silver moonlight of the night before and the image at the window.
"Oh, God, how I love her!" He exclaimed fervently while tears filled his eyes. "What a wonder girl." His thoughts became seriously sobered again as he added, "God help me to prove a man to her. May I never fail her!"
Truman Bennet's injuries had been so serious that his services were practically lost to the team for the season and by the time he was in condition to play the season was over. His mental state, also was such as to cause Dr. Tansey to deny permission for him to enter into any of the contests. With nothing to do but study and dream of Lida, Bennet found himself each night strolling by the window from which the girl's confession had been made, hoping for another glimpse of her yet fearing to be seen lest he be recognized.
There was no chance for a meeting since he knew none of the girls at Miss Gregory's school and had no chance for an introduction. His soul was agonized alternately with despair and hope. Fortune smiled on Bennet, however, most unexpectedly.