It was well on toward sunset when Claymore reached the mountain village
where Celia was staying with a party of friends. All the hours of his
ride in the cars he had been reviewing his relations toward her. With
his imaginative temperament he was sure to exaggerate the gravity of the
situation, and he was firmly convinced that by the destruction of the
portrait he had virtually renounced his betrothed. He recalled jealously
the many signs Celia had given of her interest in her cousin, and he
settled himself in the theory that only Ralph's boyishness and apparent
want of character had prevented her cousin from winning her love.
Looking back over the summer and recalling how Thatcher had advanced
in manliness, how his character had developed, and Celia's constant
appreciation of his progress, Claymore could not but conclude, with an
inward groan, that although she was pledged to him, her affection was
really given to his rival.
Whether Celia was aware of the true state of her feelings, Tom could not
determine. Her silence of the last fortnight had perplexed and tormented
him; and he felt sure that in this time she could not have failed to
reflect deeply upon the situation. He believed, however whimsical such a
theory might seem, that his only chance of holding her was by bringing
home to her the dark side of Ralph's character, as he was convinced he
had been the means of showing her the best traits of her cousin. The
effect of the portraits had become to him a very real and a very
important factor in the case, and although he was at heart too good to
regret that he had destroyed the second picture, he was not without a
feeling of self-pity that fate had forced upon him the destruction of
his own hopes. The logical reflection that, if his ideas were true, he
had himself chosen to take up the weapon by which he was in the end
wounded, did not occur to him, and would probably have afforded him
small consolation if it had.
A servant directed him down a wood-path which led to a small cascade,
where he was told he should find Miss Sathman. As he came within sound
of the falling water, he heard voices, and pressing on, he was suddenly
brought to an abrupt halt by recognizing the tones of Ralph Thatcher.
What the young man was saying Tom did not catch, but the reply of Celia
came to his ears with cutting distinctness.
"And does it seem to you honorable, Ralph," she said, "to follow me here
and talk to me in this way, when you know I am engaged to another man,
and he your friend?"
"No man is my friend that takes you away from me!" Thatcher returned
hotly. "And besides, I happen to know you have quarrelled with him. You
have n't written to him since you came here."
"I have not quarrelled with him," Celia answered. "Oh, Ralph, I have
always believed you were so honorable."
"Honorable! honorable!" repeated the other angrily. "Shall I let you go
for a whimsical fancy that it is not honorable to speak to you? I have
loved you ever since we were children, and you--"
"And I," Miss Sathman interrupted, "have never loved anybody in that way
but Tom."
The woodland swam before Claymore's eyes. Instinctively, and hardly
conscious what he was doing, he drew himself aside out of the path into
the thicket. What more was said, he did not know. He was only aware that
a moment or two later Ralph went alone by the place where he lay hidden,
and then he rose and went slowly toward the cascade and Celia.
She was sitting with her back toward him, but as she turned at the sound
of his footsteps, the look of pain in her eyes changed suddenly into a
great joy.