Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 123, No. 4 — page 191: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE LAST DANCE. 697 Andy missed the companionship, but he could see no way to change conditions. The golf games were part of his other life, just as dancing. His mother was still a devoted pal—to an extent, so was Isobel. But how could he ask Isobel.to be more than a pal —what right had he? Time was when they were always together, and now days elapsed, and he did not see her or hear from her. Then she would call him up, or find an excuse to stop at his home. She was sorry for him. She was being kind to him. Possibly she thought that the old bond must hold—no, not that. He de- cided one dejected afternoon to tell her that she was free. But he lacked. the courage actually to speak. A sudden resolution filled him at the min- ute. Isobel must be free. She must not consider herself tied down to him because she was sorry. They were all sorry, he knew that, and hated them for it. Even their sympathy did not help him from being an outcast—a bit of useless tim- ber broken and cast aside by the storm. He turned from his place near the door, and went swiftly out of the door at the end of the corridor. No one barred his way; no one apparently knew that he was going. He closed the door quietly, and slipped lamely down the steps. A hundred feet across the grass the waters of the lake showed mirrorlike in the cold moonlight. He went to the very edge. His foot touched a stone, he bent down and threw it toward the water. There was a ripple, and then nothing but the path of the moonlight. That was the way it would be—just a ripple, and then—the silver moonlight. It was so very easy—and yet—would it be wrong? -For a short space of time he pondered cn the subject. No—it would not be wrong. Why should he stay? It might frighten them all—it might cause pain to his mother, father, and Isobel, perhaps, but —how could he go on? He stepped closer, it was quite deep there at the edge—deep enough to drown a man who did not struggle. He squared his shoul- ders. A door slammed, and a name sounded. “ Oh, Andy, I’ve been looking for you.” Isobel seemed to float across the moon- lit grass. He turned and faced her. ‘ You wanted me?” he said soberly. ‘‘ Yes—I missed you suddenly—I won- dered where you had gone. You shouldn’t be out here without a coat.” . ‘It’s no matter.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It does matter, you'll catch cold,” she smiled at him, and then, seeing for the first time the strange, almost wild light of his eyes. her hanf went to his shoulder. “ Andy, what is it? What makes you look like that? Are you cross, because I was dancing, Andy?” ‘““ No.” Heshook her from him. It came to him that Isobel would care, after all. ‘You must go now—you must go back—to the dancing. They’ll miss you.” “You're coming with me?” she ques- tioned. | He shook his head. “Why not? Oh, Andy—don’t—” She started to ask him not to be cross, and then it came to her that it was not with her that he was angry. What was it? A minute they stood in silence. Andy sighed. Sud- denly he went down and threw a stone into the lake. <A smile of fascination hovered about his lips as the ripples died away. When the smile vanished, the grimness came back. Isobel’s eyes searched him keenly. “ Andy,” she breathed, ‘ you—you weren’t going to do that, were you?” Her hand went back on his shoulder. When he did not answer, she repeated her question. | _ ‘IT might.” His words were a muffled sob. “Oh!”’ It was a wounded cry. ‘“ That would be so wrong—you mustn’t, now or ever.”’ . “Why notp” he flung the question at her. “Why not? It’s my life. Why shouldn’t PP” . “You know—I don’t have to tell you.” He .would have turned from ther, but she swung him about until he faced her in the moonlight. ‘What have I got to live for?” he de- manded bitterly, and before he was con- scious of what he spoke, the story flooded fi eed ee! Idind (A)