Recognition
For years Danvers had shunned women. Yet he had not spent his life in
melancholy over Eva's defection; known to many, but understood by few,
his real nature withdrew from the light. His intuitive attitude toward
strangers of either sex was a negative indifference that gave him time
to estimate their character or their motives--a habit desirable enough
in business, but unsatisfactory in social life.
The growth of his regard for Winifred had been so gradual that he had
not thought it might prove to be love. Her unaffected interest in the
only life he had enjoyed--the old days at Fort Macleod--had roused him
from apathy, and her comprehension of his motives and activities
exhilarated him. He delighted in her intelligent comradeship when
discussing the real world.
One subject, only, did she avoid, and that but recently. State politics
were never mentioned after her brother became the keystone to the
situation. Though she had no proof that Charlie's vote was the one vote
necessary to Burroughs' election, she had no doubt that it was a fact.
When this shadow of another's crime crept over the brightness of their
friendship, Danvers was bewildered--repulsed by her unusual reserve. The
doctor's explanation gave him somewhat of courage, and he had the fine
perseverance that conquers.
A few days after he had talked with the doctor Danvers saw Miss Blair
crossing the street just ahead of him. He hastened to overtake her--he
would put an end to her coldness and her repulses. As he dodged a car,
he noted in her walk the pride and courage that had recently been added
to her bearing. He thought he understood her attitude toward him--toward
the whole world; and a flood of loving pity swept over him. Reaching the
other side of the street, he found that she had disappeared. He looked
up and down in the dusk, but caught no further sight of the elusive Miss
Blair; and after lingering on the street for a half hour, he returned to
the hotel.
As he ascended the stairs to the first floor he caught a glimpse of
Charlie Blair, just entering the Latimers' apartments. His vexation at
Winifred's avoidance was a small matter to the anger that now flamed
within. Small wonder that Miss Blair wished to meet no one while this
folly was unchecked! Yet he felt that he must share her trouble, and
resolved to make one more attempt to see her that evening.
She opened the door in response to his firm knock after dinner,
hesitating perceptibly when she saw him. But Philip would not be denied,
and entered with a determined resolution.
The girl's heart rose high--fluttered, and almost ceased to beat. He was
going to speak; she must not allow it.
"Where did you go to-night?" he asked, as he put his hat and stick on
the table. "I saw you on Warren street and tried to overtake you, but
you disappeared. I prowled around hoping to find you again; and I had my
new shoes on, too, and they hurt me."
The whimsical gaiety of the complaint took away Winifred's reserve, and
without attempting to explain her disappearance, she smiled a welcome,
though she soon fell silent under the burden of her heart.
Philip had called with a set purpose, yet he found no words as he sat
before the smouldering fire. He had time, waiting for the moment of
speech, to note the pathetic droop of her shoulders and the weariness of
her beautiful eyes. Evidently the courage and strength of the day had
been exhausted.
She played idly with a book, but laid it aside while she roused the
half-burned wood into a shower of sparks.
Philip reached and took up the book abstractedly, and carelessly turned
the leaves, wondering how he should say what was in his heart. A loose
paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up. It was the newspaper
cutting that Winifred had saved, but had forgotten to copy, in the
stress of her anxieties.
Danvers was about to replace it when something familiar made him scan it
eagerly. Radiant with joy, he glanced at his companion, but Winifred
stood at the mantel with averted face. He took out his note-book, found
a little, old, yellow scrap, and held both slips in his hand as he rose.
He drew the girl to him, startled, resisting.
"Haven't we found each other?" he asked, simply, showing her the twin
copies of the legend, old, yet ever new. "This little clipping has been
close to my heart for years--waiting for you, dear. Won't you take its
place?"
Winifred was silent. She had guarded against all ordinary appeals, but
this--how could she answer him? To refuse this tender sympathy, this
yearning love, when she most needed it--the thought was bitterness!
Still silent she drew away from him, and lifted a face so drawn with
suffering that Danvers was startled at the change.
"You do not love me?" he questioned, more to himself than to the
shrinking woman. "You do not understand?"
He stood before her struggling with his disappointment--that she should
fail to understand--she who had always felt his thought so subtly; it
was this, almost as much as her lack of response to his love, that hurt
him.
They stood before each other, separated by a thing which the woman would
not put into words, and the man dared not question.
"Mr. Danvers--Philip," said the girl, gently, "I am sorry----" She
hesitated at the trite words, her voice faltering as she looked up into
his sad face; it had grown thin and tired these last days. She longed to
go to him, to tell him that he should find rest at last. "No," she went
on, finally, "I am not sorry that you found the clipping," she altered
her words; "why should I not be honest with myself--and you?"
She spoke so simply, so easily, that Danvers almost believed that she
did not care.
"You saved my life once, dear friend," she said, "and that makes me
dare to ask you to be generous now. Do not judge me! Wait a little.
Forget this evening, and let us go back to the old days. Will you?"
She smiled into his face, so sad a little smile in its evident effort at
bravery, that he responded to her mood, eager to help her keep the
mastery over her heart, that she might fight her battle in her own proud
way. Almost, he was reconciled to her woman's judgment; and he sat down
and talked of Fort Benton days.
For that hour Winifred was grateful to Danvers all her life; and when he
rose to say good-night she was quite herself again.
"You will understand if I tell you that I must go now?" inquired
Danvers. "Judge Latimer was to come in on Number Four, and I must see
him to-night."
Winifred met his look with comprehension, and gave him her hand.
A faint sound reached them from the Latimer's apartment across the way
as Danvers opened the door. He listened, then ran across the hall.
"What's that?" cried Winifred, startled.
[Illustration]